-Westeros. King's Landing. Red Keep-
War now engulfs the eastern reaches of Essos, while Westeros watches from across the Narrow Sea in cautious silence. Tales of weapons beyond comprehension spread like wildfire—stories of ships vast as islands, of sorcery reborn, and of a giant in blackened armor who moves like a god of war.
These whispers, carried by traders and sailors, soon reached the ears of the Iron Throne. And with them, interest from the dragonlords was piqued.
In time, Princess Dalia of Achaemedia became the crown's sole conduit of truth amidst the rumors.
The destruction of the Triarchy's fleet stirred the greatest awe. The overwhelming might of Achaemedia's navy granted it mastery not only of the sea but of speed—moving men, arms, and supplies with unmatched efficiency. Then came the fall of Lys, and with it, a shudder across the Seven Kingdoms.
Five days. That was all it took for the jewel of the Free Cities to fall.
Not since the zenith of the Valyrian Freehold had such a feat been known.
Now, the Achaemedian auxilia have divided. One host—thirty-two thousand strong, with half the fleet in tow—marches upon Tyrosh. The rest push inland, sweeping toward the Triarchy's command bastion, with the siege of Myr left as the final phase in their conquest of the Three Daughters.
Within the quiet of her chambers, Princess Dalia read her brother's latest missive, her eyes sharp with calculation. By her estimation, the war would be over within a month—at worst. And yet, she feared the strategy her brother employed.
To burn the lands along the Triarchy's coast might win the war, but it would sow unrest among the people. Desperation births rebellion, and with the whispers of Hydra lurking beneath, it could yet prove disastrous if fail to maintain.
Dalia stood by the window as the sun dipped low into the western sky, bathing the stone walls in hues of dying gold. With a final glance at the letter in her hand, she brought it to the flame. The parchment curled, blackened, and vanished into ash.
A decision had been made.
She left her chambers soon after, the soft clinking of her steps echoed by the silent tread of the ever-watchful Custodians who followed in her wake. As she passed through one of the marble halls, she spotted him.
The Rogue Prince.
"Prince Daemon," Dalia greeted, dipping into a graceful bow.
"Princess," Daemon replied, the smirk on his lips unmistakable—playful, but never without an edge.
Dalia's eyes narrowed slightly. The hallway he stood in led to but one destination: her chambers. That alone spoke volumes.
"May I ask why you are here, my prince?" she inquired, her tone courteous, but laced with the sharp composure only an imperial heir could wield.
"I simply wished to speak with you," he said, unbothered. "About your Empire."
His gaze lingered, probing, but Dalia—being of dragon's blood herself—remained unmoved. Fire did not tremble before fire.
"Very well," she replied coolly, the faintest glint in her eyes like the edge of a blade. "Where would you like to talk, my prince?"
"That depends," he said with a shrug. "But I do expect a certain degree of... hospitality."
"Then may we speak in my chambers?" Dalia asked, her voice as smooth as polished obsidian.
"That will do nicely."
They walked together in silence, the weight of unsaid things hanging between them. The Custodians followed closely, though their attention never strayed from the infamous prince. His name alone had carved unease into every corner of the realm. Dalia understood their tension—Daemon Targaryen was chaos made flesh, the antithesis of their calculated discipline.
He was the Rogue Prince, after all.
"Would you care for a drink, my prince?" Dalia offered as they entered the room, her tone soft, yet measured.
"I've always wondered about the exotic tastes of your Empire," Daemon said, settling himself into a seat near the hearth, his eyes dancing in the firelight.
"Then I hope your tongue tolerates bitterness," she replied with a faint smile.
She walked to a peculiar, tube-like device, retrieving a small metallic box from the drawer below it. When she opened it, Daemon leaned forward slightly. Inside, he glimpsed fine brown powder—strange and unfamiliar. His curiosity deepened.
His attention was now wholly hers.
Dalia took a few spoonfuls of the fine brown powder, carefully measuring it into a small compartment of the strange contraption. Before she turned it on, she retrieved a silver pot and a pair of goblets from a nearby shelf.
"Would you care for milk, my prince?" she asked with a small, knowing smile.
Daemon scoffed, as expected. "Don't take me lightly, Princess."
"No offense meant, my prince. The milk simply adds a richer, creamier flavour to the drink," she answered, her tone light, her smile unwavering.
Daemon grunted, leaning back as if granting her the right to proceed. Dalia chuckled softly under her breath. She poured milk into one of the goblets and held it beneath a thin metal pipe protruding from the machine. A soft hiss sounded, and a stream of steam flowed over the milk. With a flick of a switch and the pulling of a lever, the contraption released a thick, dark brown liquid into the cups she had prepared. Once both cups were filled, she poured the steamed milk in, letting the white swirl and mix with the darker brew, finishing it with a practiced flick of her wrist.
When it was done, she served both cups before the prince, placing his within easy reach.
Daemon studied the contents curiously. The drink was dark and rich in hue, laced with a touch of white that spiraled gently at the surface.
"Drink, my prince," Dalia offered, lifting her own cup with grace and taking a slow, appreciative sip.
Daemon watched her for a moment. Her expression was serene, pleased, almost indulgent. Something about it irked him—and intrigued him.
With a raised brow, he finally reached for his cup. As it neared his face, a powerful aroma hit him like a charge. It seized his senses with its intensity, bitter and earthy, yet inviting. He paused, visibly taken aback—but not in distaste.
Satisfied it was worth his time, he took a sip.
The flavor struck him immediately. Rich, bitter, and deep. It surged across his tongue, commanding his attention. Daemon paused, blinking once. The taste lingered—strong, but not unpleasant. It was bold. Alive.
"What a drink, Princess," Daemon said at last. His voice was low, roughened by surprise, yet laced with an edge of admiration.
"My people call it Kaffa, my prince." Dalia took another sip, the steam curling around her pale face. "Its worth was first revealed to the world when the Founder conquered the Kingdom of Daurya. Since then, we've refined both the brew and the device you see before you—to extract its fullest essence."
Daemon leaned back, swirling the liquid in his cup. "Your empire conquers everything in its path. I've heard tales—you brought down Lorensia, a kingdom some likened to old Valyria. That sounds like horse shit to me, Princess."
Dalia chuckled softly, unbothered. "Believe me or not, my prince. Lorensia was indeed mighty. But even it was not the greatest of our foes."
Her tone was light, but Daemon caught something beneath it. He raised a brow. "And who was, then? Enlighten me, Princess."
She smiled, all silver and shadow. "The most hated and the most feared enemy of Achaemedia was the Phoenician League. It took half of twenty legions to bring them to heel."
Daemon blinked. The number struck him as absurd. "And what, pray, did this Phoenician realm do to earn your wrath? What made them worse than any other who stood against your Empire?"
Dalia's cup paused near her lips. Her eyes darkened slightly. "We lost millions. Not just soldiers—innocents. Families. Villages wiped clean."
The air between them cooled.
"One night," she continued, her voice low, her words deliberate, "they gave us their ultimatum—not in a letter, but in death. A plague they conjured or bred. It swept through our western border like fire. Cities depopulated. Villages vanished. Entire provinces left in mourning."
Daemon said nothing, his cup frozen at his lips.
"We responded." Her tone was flat now, iron beneath silk. "Ten legions. Seven hundred thousand men, with auxiliaries. We marched. They were smaller than us. Fewer in number, poorer in land, but... we lost almost all."
She met his gaze without flinching.
"They were not a people," she finished, "they were a curse."
The numbers alone made Daemon pause.
He was no fool. He had heard enough of the Empire's reach and might to understand what those numbers meant. Alduin, the Dragon of the Prince, stood not only as a beast of war, but as a symbol—of dominance, of royalty, of the unshakable will behind Achaemedia. Cyrus, despite being younger than him, carried a presence that needed no crown nor throne to command.
And then, there were the stories of Lorensia. Cities turned to ash. Palaces torn down stone by stone.
"Numbers can lie, Princess," Daemon said at last, his tone sharp.
"But ruins and bones cannot, my prince," Dalia returned, unwavering.
Daemon said nothing. For once, he found no retort. Princess Dalia sat tall, her bearing regally still, her voice untouched by pride or doubt.
"The Achaemedia Empire was built with blood, bone, and steel," she said, her words slow and deliberate. "But it has been nurtured with passion, compassion, and wisdom. A warrior builds a realm. A sage keeps it. But an orator reforms it. House Alargon lacks none of these."
Daemon studied her carefully. She did not boast. She did not seek approval. She spoke as one born of empire, steeped in power, with the same ease another might speak of weather or wine.
He leaned back, folding one leg over the other. "I heard my niece is to be shipped off to your Empire. I thought it wise to learn more about the house she's marrying into."
"She will be Empress-consort, of course," Dalia answered without hesitation. "She will be treated with full dignity. She will lead the Imperial Harem and hold the authority to influence the Lex Administratum, the Concilium Status, and the Imperial Tribune."
"I think I am unfamiliar with such a term," Daemon said slowly, placing his cup down with care.
"Lex Administratum, Concilium Status, and Imperial Tribune are the three primary governing bodies of the Empire," Dalia began, her voice level, refined. "To put it simply, the Lex Administratum is our legislative assembly. They draft the laws, approve major treaties, and oversee administrative procedures across the Empire's territories. The Concilium Status executes these laws and manages the Empire's civil infrastructure—governors, guild leagues, and crisis responses all fall under its command."
She let that settle before continuing.
"Lastly, the Imperial Tribune acts as our judiciary. It serves as judge and executor, settling disputes, ensuring law is upheld, and punishing infractions."
Daemon grunted, leaning back slightly in his chair. His brow furrowed, and he pinched the bridge of his nose with irritation. "Sounds like a headache wrapped in gold."
"It is effective," Dalia said, sipping calmly.
Daemon gave her a sidelong look. "And that harem stuff?"
At that, Dalia paused.
Her smile came slow, deliberate, her lips curving with restraint. "It is a concubinage system, yes—but not one born of pleasure alone. Our Empire spans continents, filled with peoples of differing tongues, faiths, and bloodlines. To bind these into unity, we host examinations across the Empire. Girls of talent, grace, or intellect are selected. If they pass, they are brought to the Imperial Court. There, they are trained—in politics, diplomacy, the arts, and in the arts of pleasing the Emperor."
Daemon's face shifted with each word—curiosity, amusement, brief discomfort, and finally, an amused smirk.
"And the Empress manages this... array?"
"She is its architect and its governor. She selects, coordinates, and holds authority over the hierarchy within the harem. She ensures order and succession. Her station is not decorative—it is political," Dalia answered, voice steady, eyes sharp.
Daemon leaned forward, smirking. "Then she holds real power."
"You could say that," Dalia murmured, draining the last of her cup. "There is also the Imperial Aderia."
"The what?"
"A closed and sacred position—bound by bloodline, sacred to House Alargon. It preserves the knowledge and power of royal magic blood, overseeing our spiritual doctrine. She must be born of our family, and marriages within are... restricted to blood. She holds the greatest power in the Empire's succession. If the Empress holds legal power, Aderita holds the spiritual power."
At that, Daemon's eyes gleamed with sudden interest.
"Like the old Valyrian custom," he said with quiet amusement. "Tell me, Princess. How alike is your realm to our ancient homeland?"
Dalia gave a cool, elegant smile. "If you exclude slavery, then we are kin in more ways than one. Men and women of merit rise. We ride dragons. We wield magic. But unlike Valyria, our foundation does not rest on a single pillar. We are many things—science, steel, faith, and fire. We do not fear the loss of one because we have nurtured all."
Daemon's smirk returned, though fainter this time. "Interesting."
He let the word hang in the air like smoke. Then he stood.
"I should like to see your homeland with my own eyes, Princess."
"I can arrange that, my prince," Dalia said with a light chuckle, her poise never faltering. "The Empire would be honoured to host a Targaryen."
"I'm the one supposed to feel honoured," he replied with a flash of teeth. Then, almost as an afterthought: "Also, Princess... I want to buy that machine of yours—and the powder."
Dalia's smile deepened. "I'm glad you enjoyed our product, my prince."