-105 AC. Essos. Lys-
Lys was burning.
The bombardment from the Achaemedia fleet had shattered the city's final defenses, inflicting grievous losses upon the defenders. Flames curled through the marble streets and silken estates, swallowing beauty and blood alike. As an island city, Lys had always been a challenge to besiege—but the Achaemedia Empire did not fight wars as men in Westeros or Essos did.
Their solution was simple: rain fire and steel until nothing remained standing.
The city's walls buckled beneath ceaseless bombardment, and while the defenders struggled to hold, the invaders came ashore—not in a reckless charge, but with grim precision. Fortress by fortress, trench by trench, they carved their presence into the coastline, building a ring of fortifications encircling the city.
To the Westerosi and Essosi way of war, it was a strange method. Theirs was a way of camps and catapults, a slow siege, starvation and sword. The Empire had other means. Their engines of war moved not with oxen but with automatons; their builders worked spells and stone in equal measure. The Achaemedia army was forged not merely for conquest, but for the construction of it. They were killers and crafters both.
Now, all of it had been turned loose upon Lys.
From the deck of his command vessel, Cyrus watched as fire took the city. The light danced in his golden eyes, reflecting the chaos as marble towers cracked and smoke bled into the sky. Lys, the jewel of the Summer Sea, was being unmade.
Beneath him, the siege ring tightened—wood and stone laid in precise formation, creating battlements from which Achaemedia's forces rained fire on every bastion that dared to resist. The great siege engines—backed by spells, flame, and thunder—had done most of the killing. The ships behind him still smoldered from the magic discharged through their steel mouths.
By the end of the first day, the enemy's outer defenses were dust. Reinforcements, whether by sea or land, had been denied. By the second, the city had been breached.
"Warmaster," a voice called behind him.
Cyrus did not turn. "Report."
"We hold the majority of the city," the general answered. "Only the palace remains."
At last, the prince turned, his expression unreadable beneath the shadows of dusk.
"See that the palace is not sacked," he said, voice low but clear. "Damage must be minimal. This city will serve us well—better as a prize than a ruin."
He stepped toward the strategy table. There, a map of the city had been unfurled, pins and markers noting points of resistance, fire, and captured ground.
"And the scribe house?" Cyrus asked, his fingers lingering near a mark on the map. His voice was calm, but something cold glimmered behind his tone.
"We've secured it," the general said, his voice low, almost reluctant. "But half the scribe house was lost. Fire, during the resistance."
"Unfortunate indeed," Cyrus murmured.
His gaze drifted back to the palace, where the smoke thinned into the sky like a silk veil. Beneath that stately dome of marble and excess, the true work of Lys awaited. Hydra's whispers had revealed the truth: that the magisters had carved secret tunnels beneath the palace long ago.
Cyrus had ordered them sealed. The palace must not be allowed to empty before its time.
Turning, he descended the deck steps without another word.
"General," he called. "I will be down there."
The general bowed his head in response. "By your will, my prince."
Cyrus strode toward the captain's chamber, trailed by his attendants. The heavy ironwood doors opened to reveal the room prepared for what was to come. Upon its dais stood his war regalia—not the black armor he favored on campaign, but the armor of office. The garb of a Caesar Despotes.
The servants moved in silence. With reverence, they unveiled the suit: massive, ominous, ornate.
Jewels and sigils shimmered across plates of Dwemer-forged gold, each one etched with runes no Westerosi maester could decipher. The chest bore the head of a rearing black dragon, carved and polished into the shape of fire frozen in time. Beneath the armor's layered surface lay metals not known in this world—adamantium and aetherium, the latter glimmering with a faint, otherworldly hue.
Aetherium. The fabled metal, said to be drawn from the blood of creation itself. Entombed in stone and silence for millennia. It was not merely forged—it was awakened. It did not bend to hammer and fire, but to song and will.
With it, miracles became method.
The armor was more than protection; it was a machine. It breathed with arcane rhythm. An automaton sculpted for flesh and blood. To wear it was to command forces few could name, fewer still wield.
And it was not unique.
This was what gave the Achaemedia legions their unmatched terror. Not numbers. Not fear. But power drawn from the bones of gods.
Half a dozen servants moved about him in precise rhythm, aided by a technomancer who calibrated the armor's internal array. Clicks echoed through the chamber. Hissing jets of pressure exhaled from its seams. The aetherium veins lit, pulsing with quiet energy.
As each plate was fixed, the armor awakened further.
Power stirred behind its seals.
When at last the final clasp was fastened and the helm lowered upon his brow, the suit came alive—quietly, steadily, like an old god rising from deep slumber. Arcane strength hummed beneath its shell. Energy flowed through every seam.
The transformation was complete.
"Have the mages open a portal—directly to the siege line at the palace," Cyrus commanded. "And inform the Custodians. I march for war. The sooner Lys falls, the sooner Tyrosh and Myr will bleed."
He took up his helm—blackened steel with crimson visors—into his right hand. In his left, he grasped the mace. Not a ceremonial thing, but a weapon of brutal geometry and unbending weight.
The servants bowed low and moved quickly to carry out his orders.
When Cyrus stepped from his quarters, five Custodians stood waiting, golden armor gleaming beneath the war banners. Beside them stood two mages draped in yellow cloaks, the color of charged ether and imperial sorcery.
"Caesar," one of the Custodians spoke, hesitant. "Are you certain?"
"Our presence will break their will," Cyrus replied. "The more of Lys that survives this conquest, the more we may use it."
He placed the helm upon his head. With a sharp hiss and hum, the seals closed. The red visors lit, casting a faint glow as the voice enchanter activated.
"If you will it," the Custodians said in unison.
"Open the portal," Cyrus ordered.
His voice cracked like thunder, iron-bound and terrible. The enchanter gave each word a weight that seemed to bend the air around it.
The mages raised their hands. Fingers curled like talons, lips moving in an ancient tongue. The world around them began to warp. Air twisted. Light bent. Space was drawn into a single trembling point until a dark, shifting aperture widened in its place.
Beyond it: fire. Shield walls. The flash of steel and magic. The front line.
Without pause, Cyrus stepped through, his Custodians close behind.
On the other side, the soldiers of the Empire turned at once. They knew the red helm, the golden guard, and the dark mace. Across the line, hands struck chests in salute. Heads bowed.
"My lord," the commander greeted, raising his fist to his heart.
Cyrus returned the gesture with a slight nod.
"Your latest progress?"
His voice echoed, distorting faintly through the helm's enchantment—more force than speech, heavy as prophecy.
"We've called for an automaton cannon. It will be here within minutes," the commander answered.
"And the defenders?"
"It's the Unsullied," the commander reported grimly. "From Slaver's Bay. With only our heavy infantry, breaking through will cost us dearly. Even with mages, the narrow intersections of the palace are too tight. Magic there will collapse the whole structure."
Cyrus said nothing yet. But the weight in his gaze was evident.
Then came the sound—distant at first, like the grinding of ancient stone, then rising to a steady mechanical thunder. Something stirred beyond the portal.
Out of the haze walked an automaton—four-legged, each limb ending in claws of reinforced adamantium. It bore a long yellow cannon of Dwemer steel, its core bound by shimmering runes. Behind it: a rotating cylinder drum with sockets for iron slugs the size of small barrels.
"Clear the line!" the commander shouted.
The technomancer beside the beast lifted a rune-etched scepter, manipulating it with precision. A hum of energy surged from the device to the cannon. Then—
"Fire!"
The automaton answered. Its core pulsed, and with a deafening roar, the cannon unleashed its fury. A metal shell screamed through the air, struck the stone arch ahead, and disintegrated the corridor in an explosion of light and thunder. The way forward opened—blackened, scorched, and deadly.
"Commander," Cyrus said, stepping forward, mace in hand, "We take the front. We are the ram. Your men will sweep behind us and secure what remains."
The commander bowed without hesitation. "As you command, my lord."
He raised the bone flute that hung around his neck, sealed one hole with his thumb, and blew. The signal carried like the cry of a hawk. In an instant, the men moved—shields raised, spears drawn, advancing in a column with mechanical precision.
Then came the storm.
Cyrus stepped through the breach, black helm gleaming, crimson visor aglow. His Custodians followed, gold-armored giants with halberds in hand. Inside the charred corridor stood the Unsullied—stoic, shielded, spears ready. They did not flinch at the sight of gods in metal.
Closer. Closer.
Then the Unsullied struck—lines of spears stabbing forward in trained unison. Yet not one found purchase.
Cyrus raised his mace.
With a single swing, he shattered shield and flesh alike. One man vanished into red mist. Another crumpled with his chest imploded. His Custodians surged forward, their halberds dancing with unnatural speed, cleaving flesh, steel, and bone. Men died screaming. Others without a sound.
The Unsullied fought with discipline, with purpose—but it mattered little. Their blades could not pierce Achaemedian armor. Their ranks were broken by the sheer force of alchemical strength and arcane metallurgy.
A few survived the first clash, only to be brought low by the Auxilia. The light infantry moved quickly, blades flashing like silver in torchlight. Precision kills. Clean. Cold.
Step by step, the Warmaster's host pressed onward, deeper into the palace, each footfall squelching through blood. The marble beneath their boots was slick with gore.
At last, they reached the central dome.
Above them, balconies lined the second and third levels. There, more Unsullied stood, bows drawn—arrows already loosed. The lower halls braced for a final defense. A massed phalanx at the far end of the chamber. Last stand.
"Form shields!" barked a voice among the Auxilia.
Without hesitation, they moved—front ranks packed shoulder to shoulder, shields locked. Behind them, a second line raised their shields overhead, overlapping in a tight canopy.
Cyrus pulled a small cube from a hidden compartment within his armor. Without a word, he tossed it upon the blood-slicked stone. It struck the ground with a dull clink—then erupted in a flash of white light.
From the light, a spider-like automaton emerged—its polished shell gleaming like bronze in torchlight. The limbs clicked as it moved, legs bending with inhuman precision. The creature halted, then split open along its back. From within, a crossbow-like contraption unfolded, sleek and deadly. A breath later, it fired.
Bolts of metal sang through the air, raining upon the Unsullied clustered along the upper balconies. One after another, the eunuch warriors fell—cut down by machine precision.
At that moment, the commander raised his whistle once more. This time, the sound it produced was sharper, deeper—a signal unlike the one before.
Cyrus and his Custodians took several paces to the side just before the signal echoed fully. The soldiers at the rear began to move. A column of Auxilia advanced swiftly through the opened gap—men unlike any seen in Westeros or even Essos. They bore weapons shaped like cannons, yet sized to be wielded by human hands. Grim-faced, they moved with discipline, taking formation just as the automatons ceased their volley.
The Auxilia raised their weapons.
A single pull of a trigger—and the thunder began.
Bolts of steel laced with arcane craft flew from the barrels. Where they landed, devastation followed. One exploded in a burst of blue lightning, another ignited a storm of flame. A third embedded itself in a soldier's gut, only for ice to erupt from within, freezing his corpse mid-scream.
"Bring me your leaders!" Cyrus called out.
His voice was resolute, amplified by his helm. It boomed like a warhorn across the dome, and with it came a weight, a dread, that settled in the hearts of the defenders. Not fear—no, the Unsullied knew no fear. They had been bred to die without flinching, without question.
But even the most obedient servant remembers his master.
"Fire again," Cyrus commanded.
The commander obeyed at once, his whistle slicing through the din. The gunline shifted—soldiers rotating like clockwork, the front rank stepping aside, the next taking their place. Again the weapons roared. Again the Unsullied fell, their ranks thinning under fire and blade alike.
Those who attempted to push forward were met by the Custodians.
Like golden reapers, they carved paths through the press of men. Their halberds sang a song of death, precise and merciless. Behind them, Cyrus marched, mace in hand, striking with the power of a god cloaked in steel. The Auxilia tightened their formation, shields locking along the flanks to repel any sudden surge.
It was a slow, methodical slaughter.
When the gunmen's weapons ran hot and empty, they withdrew behind the formation. In their place came the heavy infantry—clad in reinforced plate, wielding spears and tower shields. With silent discipline, they filled the gaps left behind.
The Achaemedian phalanx advanced.
By the time the first floor had been claimed, it became a battle for the stairwells. The enemy used the high ground, but it did not matter. Against the Achaemedian armor—infused with Aetherium, bolstered by rune, steel, and spell—their spears glanced off like sticks on stone.
t took them mere minutes to annihilate the last of the defenders, leaving the once-proud magisters of Lys at the mercy of the invaders. The palace, long considered unbreachable, now lay drenched in blood. Marble stained red, the air choked with the stench of death and smoke.
Cyrus stood before a towering set of ornate doors—massive, gilded, sealed not just by lock, but by pride. His black armor was soaked in gore, bits of flesh clinging to the crevices of his pauldrons, streaks of blood drying across the Aetherium veins of his plate. He raised his mace, and with a sound like thunder, he brought it down.
The doors shattered.
With brutal precision, his soldiers stormed through the splinters, blades raised, shields locked in unison as they surrounded the trembling Lyseni.
Before him stood the ruling magisters of the city—cloaked in silks and trembling with the realization of their defeat. Their guards were slain, their walls reduced to rubble, their ships to ashes. Now, there was nowhere left to run.
"Honored magisters," Cyrus said, his voice echoing through the chamber like a tolling bell. "Your city is fallen. Lys burns. No army remains to protect you. I demand your surrender. Kneel."
His helm distorted his voice—deep, metallic, and without mercy. A few among them collapsed outright, overcome by dread. Others clutched their robes, hands trembling, lips muttering prayers to gods who would not answer.
One man stepped forward, desperation flaring in his eyes.
"We... we are descendants of Old Valyria!" he cried. "You have no right to— We demand equal—!"
His words died with him.
Cyrus swung his mace before the man could finish. The strike landed with bone-shattering force, crumpling his torso, crushing ribs, organs, and spine into ruin. He collapsed in a heap—half his body turned to pulp upon the polished floor.
"You struck first. And now you ask for equal terms?" Cyrus growled. "Arrogance will not save you."
He turned once more to the assembly. "Kneel."
This time, they obeyed.
One by one, the magisters fell to their knees. Some whispered oaths. Others wept. But all submitted.
"Soldiers," Cyrus called without looking back, "secure them."
As his men advanced to bind the magisters, the Warmaster strode past them, black cape trailing behind him, crimson-tipped. He approached his commander, nodding toward the shattered remains of the defiant magister.
"Someone take note of that one's bravery," he said, flatly.
The commander bowed his head in silent understanding.
Cyrus left the great hall and made his way through the palace interior, walking toward a set of double doors unlike any other—taller than two men, crafted from the rarest woods of Yi Ti, etched with runes only the learned would dare decipher. Doors fit for kings.
He entered without hesitation.
The chamber beyond was a marvel of artistry—walls of veined marble, floors of obsidian tile, and rows upon rows of carved wooden shelves lined with scrolls, tomes, and relics of forgotten ages. This was no throne room. It was a treasury of knowledge.
His eyes scanned the shelves, methodical and unhurried. At last, he found what he sought: a worn volume, its leather cover cracked by centuries of use. It was written in the pure tongue of Valyria—not the bastardized dialect spoken in the Free Cities.
Cyrus took the book in both hands. His helm hummed faintly as its enchantments translated the ancient script for his eyes alone.
He stood there, silent, the world burning behind him, as he read the words of the dead.
______________________________________
The battle for Lys had ended.
The Achaemedian banners now flew above her scorched walls, and the scent of conquest still lingered in the salt air. Smoke still drifted from the blackened ruins, but beneath the haze, the first stones of the new order were already being laid.
Cyrus, Caesar Despotes of the Empire, had wasted no time. In the days that followed the city's fall, he oversaw the full arrangement of its logistical transformation. Before the invasion, he had consulted directly with the Administratum and secured a staggering five million gold Crowns to fund both the arming of garrisons and the extensive rebuilding of the conquered territories. The budget also included the cost of resettlement, reconstruction, and the cultural integration of the conquered people.
The Empire of Achaemedia was not a conqueror of ashes alone. It was a weaver of civilizations.
Since its founding, Achaemedia had perfected the art not only of warfare and innovation, but of the slow, methodical binding of peoples into a single, coherent whole. Technology and steel were its swords, but culture and faith were its chains. The wise Emperors understood this—none more than Odrin I, seven centuries past.
In the days of Odrin, it was said that the Empire stood on the brink of distress—not from rebellion, but from incoherence. Too many peoples. Too many tongues. So the Emperor called forth all the minds of his realm—philosophers, builders, priests, scribes, sages, and bureaucrats—and asked them a simple question: How does one build not merely an empire, but a civilization that endures?
Ten years of discourse followed. Ten years of war of dialogue, compromise and refinement. From that crucible emerged a doctrine—the Codex of Odrin, built upon the Golden Mandate and the divine foundation of Nevirian Exceptionalism.
This Codex would give rise to a more refined form of Lex Administratum. Through it, the Administratum held the power to issue another mandates directly to the Concilium Status, which in turn established new ministerial bodies to carry out Imperial policy. Chief among these was the aptly named Ministry of Development and Culture.
It was under this framework that the syncretic vision of Cyrus I, once ambitious and uncertain, was sharpened into doctrine. What began as the cautious adoption of shared customs—symbols, rites, or values—became something far more deliberate. A legal bridge would be built between civilizations: a temporary body tasked with managing coexistence, slowly replaced as the local society was woven into the Achaemedian whole.
In time, their gods would speak the Empire's tongue, their laws would mirror its codes, and their identity would be absorbed—not erased, but remade.
Cyrus had long prepared for this. In accordance with the mandate of the Empire, he had brought not only armies and machines of war, but also architects, bureaucrats, philosophers, priests, and the tools of reconstruction. With them came materials, directives, and the quiet weight of civilization. Among the arriving settlers were families—handpicked to remain in Lys, tasked with embedding Imperial interests into the city's bones.
The path ahead was clear. The shattered city would be rebuilt, not in imitation of what it had been, but in the style and spirit of Achaemedia. The remnants of Lys's political class would be replaced by Imperial magistrates. Unmarried members of settler households would be wed into Lyseni bloodlines, binding lineage and loyalty alike.
The priests and philosophers were given further charge—to study Lys's culture and religion with careful reverence. In particular, the Empire's clergy were tasked with uncovering the roots of the Weeping Lady, the city's patron goddess. In time, her image would be folded into the Universal Doctrine, her myths aligned with those of Achaemedia's celestial order. Scholars and thinkers would chronicle the city's social currents while gently weaving Imperial values through them.
This was how empires endured—not by annihilation, but by absorption.
Soon, Lys would not merely be conquered—it would belong.
Cyrus leaned back, sorting through the final stack of reports, exhaustion pulling at his shoulders. The work begun here would not end in Lys alone, but sweep across the Triarchy like fire through dry field. He raised his goblet and drank deep of the Red Tears, savoring its sharp, familiar warmth.