-Westeros. King's Landing. Outksirt-
Prince Cyrus observed the Targaryen household and their court from afar.
Black and crimson dominated the gathering. Nobles stood with bowed heads and solemn expressions, their voices reduced to murmurs beneath the gray sky. Even the wind seemed reluctant to disturb the occasion, carrying only the faint crackle of the funeral pyre awaiting its purpose.
Upon it lay the late Queen Aemma and her infant son, their bodies wrapped in pristine white cloth. The fabric concealed death's cruelty, granting them a final dignity before dragonfire returned them to ash.
"It is unfortunate we did not bring more medicae with us," Cyrus remarked quietly. His voice remained neutral, though his eyes lingered upon the shrouded figures.
"No one can predict death, brother. Not even our greatest forefathers."
Dalia's response was as dry as ever.
"Oh, really?" Cyrus cast her a sidelong glance, amusement flickering across his features. "Your predictions rarely fail, sister."
The Princess slowly turned toward him.
"Be respectful."
The sharpness in her gaze struck harder than any reprimand.
Cyrus immediately abandoned his teasing demeanor, replacing it with the composed mask expected of a prince and statesman. The transition was so swift that it only deepened Dalia's irritation.
For all his intelligence, he still found opportunities to be insufferable.
A brief silence settled between them as the funeral preparations continued.
"Sooner or later, Rhaenyra will be formally acknowledged as heir," Cyrus said at last. "I have already informed our father."
Dalia released a measured sigh.
"The nobility here are remarkably conservative," she observed. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the assembled lords and ladies. "Their greed is obvious enough, but their traditions run deeper than I initially anticipated."
Below them, banners stirred gently in the wind. Men who had schemed against one another only days before now stood united in mourning.
"They will not welcome our proposal," Dalia continued. "The notion of sending Princess Rhaenyra across the sea to become our father's ward challenges everything they consider proper."
"Our customs are different." Cyrus spoke quietly, his gaze fixed upon the funeral pyre. The flames had not yet risen, but already the scent of smoke lingered upon the sea wind. "I have received reports of disputes between our traders, our bishops, and the local populace. Small quarrels for now. In a few years, such differences may become far greater problems."
His eyes never left Princess Rhaenyra.
"That is without considering the possibility of the king taking another wife."
"I know."
The words hung between them.
Both had read the reports sent by the Hydra. Beneath the pageantry of court life, currents moved unseen. The Faith, the order of maesters, and certain powerful houses worked with patience measured in generations rather than years. Their efforts were subtle—encouraging Andal customs, promoting new traditions, and slowly diminishing the remnants of Old Valyria that still lingered within House Targaryen.
A slow erosion rather than an assault.
"It is unfortunate," Dalia murmured, her violet eyes narrowing as she watched the mourners gather below. "Such an ancient culture reduced piece by piece."
A sentiment her brother shared.
"It is." Cyrus folded his hands behind his back. "But we know our father will not allow such a thing to happen."
The sea crashed softly against the rocks beneath the bluff. Above, dark clouds drifted across a pale sky, casting long shadows over the assembled court. Lords and ladies stood in solemn silence, their black garments stirring in the wind.
Then came Rhaenyra's voice.
Harsh. Raw.
Broken.
"Dracarys!"
The command rang across the shore.
A heartbeat later, dragonfire erupted from the young princess's mount. Brilliant orange flame engulfed the pyre in an instant, swallowing white cloth, wood, and flesh alike. Heat rolled across the gathered mourners. Smoke billowed upward into the grey heavens while sparks and cinders scattered upon the wind.
Queen Aemma and her newborn son vanished within the inferno.
The fire roared higher still, carrying ashes toward the horizon, where sea and sky became one.
"I will have a conversation with Rhaenyra." Cyrus said suddenly, making his sister raise her brow.
"I see... Very well, brother. I will take the father, then." Dalia chimed. "If it is in Versepolis, I would have kissed you." He chuckled before making his way to the funeral procession, leaving his sister in a blushing condition.
______________________________________________________________________________
-Several Hours Later-
Rhaenyra had locked herself within her chambers, her eyes swollen and red from tears. Grief weighed heavily upon her chest, making every breath feel laborious. Her mother was gone. Reduced to ashes upon a funeral pyre alongside the little brother she had never truly known. The thought hollowed her from within.
She remembered Aemma's gentle hands brushing through her silver-gold hair, the quiet smiles, the reassuring words spoken during long evenings when the burdens of court seemed too much to bear. Those memories had once been warm. Now they felt painfully distant, like fragments of a dream fading with the dawn.
A knock echoed through the room, pulling her from the depths of her sorrow.
"Can you... just leave me alone?" she asked weakly. Her voice came out hoarse and strained from hours of crying.
A brief silence followed.
"It's me, Cyrus. May I come in?"
Hearing his voice, Rhaenyra closed her eyes. Part of her wanted to refuse. She wanted to be alone with her grief, hidden from the world and its expectations. Yet despite the heaviness in her heart, she found the strength to move.
After taking a shaky breath, she crossed the chamber and opened the door.
Prince Cyrus stood before her.
Not with the imposing bearing of a conqueror or the confidence of an imperial heir, but almost like a servant attending his lady. In his hands rested a polished silver tray bearing a silver kettle and two finely crafted ceramic cups adorned with delicate blue ornamentation. Thin wisps of steam rose from the kettle, carrying a faint, pleasant fragrance.
For a moment, the sight caught her off guard.
"Princess," Cyrus greeted with a respectful inclination of his head.
"Caesar..." Rhaenyra returned softly. Her eyes remained downcast, refusing to meet his directly. Shadows lingered beneath them, and her cheeks were still damp from tears.
"Just call me Cyrus. There is no need for formalities between a future husband and wife." His voice was gentle, carrying none of the authority expected from an imperial heir.
"Very well..." Rhaenyra relented. A faint smile appeared upon her lips despite the grief weighing heavily upon her heart. "Come in."
She stepped aside and allowed him entry. The two settled inside her chambers, taking seats beside one another near the hearth. Cyrus carefully placed the silver tray upon a small table between them. A rich aroma drifted from the kettle, stirring something deep within Rhaenyra's chest. It was warm and unfamiliar, reminding her of gentler days before sorrow had settled over the Red Keep.
"What is this, Cyrus?" she asked quietly.
"Kokoa." A small smile touched his lips as he poured the dark brown liquid into her cup. Steam rose in delicate wisps. "Our scholars claim it has a remarkable talent for mending broken hearts."
"Thank you."
Her gratitude was genuine, though sadness still lingered within her violet eyes.
For a time, neither spoke. Cyrus filled his own cup before taking a measured sip. The faint smile upon his face gradually disappeared, replaced by something more somber. More understanding.
"I know what it feels like to lose a mother," he said at last.
Rhaenyra raised her eyes toward him.
"My mother died bringing my sister into the world."
"Dalia..." Understanding dawned upon her face.
Cyrus nodded. "She never knew our mother, and I remember very little of her. Demaspasia Alargon." He exhaled quietly. "Sometimes I struggle to remember the sound of her voice. Yet I remember her smile. I remember how she carried herself in her final years."
"My condolences, Cyrus." The words came softly. Hearing him speak of his own loss only deepened the ache in her chest.
"I believe every mother wishes for her children to surpass them," he continued. "They endure suffering because they hope their children will stand taller than they ever could."
Rhaenyra's fingers tightened around her cup.
"My mother died because of my father's obsession with having a son."
The words burst from her before she could stop them. Anguish filled her voice.
"She was powerless, lying there with barely enough strength left to breathe while they cut her open." Her eyes glistened with fresh tears. "I watched it happen, Cyrus. I watched her die."
Silence followed.
Outside, the wind rattled faintly against the windows.
"And now everyone expects me to be strong." Her voice trembled. "Everyone expects me to move on as though nothing happened."
She lowered her gaze, staring into the dark surface of the drink he had poured for her.
"I am afraid."
The confession escaped as little more than a whisper. Not fear of dragons, nor of war, nor of the responsibilities awaiting her. It was the fear of becoming trapped by the same fate that had claimed her mother.
Rhaenyra's outburst did not surprise Cyrus. Instead, he smiled faintly, though there was little amusement in it. "Indeed, it was unfair. The day my mother died, I wanted to change it as well. I spent countless nights wondering how my sister's life would have been if our mother had survived. But that is impossible." He lowered his gaze to the dark drink in his cup. "The dead do not return. All we can do is become strong enough to continue walking despite their absence."
Rhaenyra lowered her eyes, staring into the steaming kokoa as though answers might be hidden within its depths.
"My duty awaits me as heir," she said quietly. "But here, in Westeros, my fate may be no different from my mother's. Powerless. Bound by duty and by the ambitions of noblemen."
"You want power," Cyrus observed.
"If I possessed it, I would not have to fear." Her fingers tightened around the cup. "My father may give me the Seven Kingdoms, but who will secure them for me? In this... Arkheias." The foreign word rolled from her tongue with surprising confidence. "It is only a matter of time before my mother's memory is replaced."
That earned a slight rise of Cyrus's brow. Dalia's influence had clearly sunk deeper than he had realized.
"I see." A knowing smile touched his lips. "Arkheias. A concept older than Achaemedia itself, studied for thousands of years. It concerns the nature of mankind—the desire to rule, to dominate, and to shape the world according to one's will. Yet when properly guided, it can also create order. Entire schools of philosophy were born from that single idea." His golden eyes rested upon her. "A mind such as yours would be wasted if left caged by fear, Princess."
"Take me with you."
The words cut through the room with startling sharpness.
For a moment, Cyrus simply studied her. Behind the grief, behind the tears, there was steel.
"Of course," he said at last. "But you understand the risks?"
"Perhaps." Her voice trembled, though her gaze did not waver. "Yet before absolute power, men bend the knee. They always have. My ancestor Aegon proved that."
A faint chuckle escaped Cyrus. "Then I suppose I shall need another conversation with your father. The game is changing far faster than anyone anticipated." His expression softened. "But for now, let me keep you company."
Slowly, he placed a hand over hers. The gesture was simple, yet warm. Beyond the windows, the wind whispered against the stones of the Red Keep, while the memory of dragons and funeral fires still lingered over King's Landing. Yet for the first time since her mother's death, Rhaenyra felt the crushing weight upon her chest ease, if only by a little.
The white-haired princess's lips curved into a faint smile. The warmth of her fiancé's presence settled over her like a heavy woolen cloak against winter's chill. For the first time since the funeral pyre had consumed her mother, the storm within her heart eased, if only for a fleeting moment. Gathering herself, Rhaenyra finally lifted the ceramic cup to her lips.
The drink was unlike any wine or tea she had ever tasted. Bitterness greeted her first, followed by a gentle sweetness that lingered upon her tongue before giving way to a pleasant warmth, almost spicy, that spread slowly through her chest. It was strange, foreign, yet oddly comforting. She closed her eyes for a brief instant, savoring every sip.
"How many marvels are there in your Empire, Cyrus?" she asked softly, wonder plain in her voice.
Cyrus allowed his gaze to wander across her chambers. Every visit revealed something new, another fragment of Achaemedia that had quietly found its place within the walls of the Red Keep.
His eyes lingered upon a marble statue carved with astonishing realism, depicting an ancient goddess whose flowing robes seemed ready to sway with the wind. Beside a window rested a Dwemer-crafted gyroscope, its polished brass rings suspended in perfect balance. Upon a nearby table sat a dormant spider automaton, its metallic legs folded neatly beneath its body as though merely sleeping. Shelves groaned beneath finely bound volumes printed upon Achaemedian presses, while an intricate globe portrayed not Westeros or Essos alone, but the continents and oceans of his homeland. Hanging above it was a delicate mechanical model of the heavens, its tiny spheres revolving around a radiant golden sun with silent precision.
Each object spoke of a civilization that measured the world differently.
Each visit, he noticed another.
"You have grown rather fond of our culture, Rhaenyra," Cyrus observed, a quiet warmth entering his voice.
"Why should I not?" she replied, tracing the rim of her cup with a finger. "It belongs to an empire capable of forcing even the legacy of Old Valyria to bow its head. How could I not wish to witness such a place with my own eyes?"
A faint smile touched Cyrus's lips.
"Soon, my dear." His voice was little more than a whisper. "Soon."
Before either could speak again, a measured knock echoed through the chamber, its sound cutting gently through the silence.
"You may enter," Rhaenyra called.
The heavy oak door opened, admitting a man clad in the black-and-red livery of House Targaryen. He stepped inside with practiced discipline before bowing deeply to both prince and princess.
"My Prince. My Princess." He lowered his head respectfully. "His Grace, King Viserys, requests the presence of you both."
"That was sooner than I expected," Cyrus remarked with a faint grin.
Without further delay, he and Rhaenyra made their way through the winding corridors of the Red Keep toward the King's solar. The guards standing before the carved oak doors stepped aside at once, allowing the prince and princess to enter.
Inside, the atmosphere was heavy enough to weigh upon the lungs.
King Viserys sat upon his chair, while Princess Dalia occupied the seat opposite him. Whatever discussion had taken place before their arrival had clearly been an unpleasant one. The king's brow was creased with exhaustion, and Dalia's composed expression carried an unmistakable edge. The conversation ceased the instant the newcomers crossed the threshold.
"Your Grace," Cyrus and Rhaenyra greeted in unison, bowing with practiced courtesy.
Viserys answered with a weary nod. "Please... sit."
His voice was hoarse, strained by grief and sleepless nights.
Cyrus settled into the chair beside his sister. To Viserys's quiet satisfaction, Rhaenyra chose the seat at Cyrus's side rather than her father's. It was a small gesture, but one neither ruler failed to notice.
For a long moment, silence ruled the chamber.
Viserys straightened himself, squaring his shoulders as though donning invisible armor. The weary father receded, leaving only the king. When he finally raised his eyes, they had regained much of their former sharpness.
"Prince Cyrus... my daughter." His voice remained calm, though sorrow lingered beneath every word. "In light of my wife's passing, and that of my son, I wish to revisit the agreement concerning Princess Rhaenyra's betrothal."
Cyrus inclined his head respectfully.
"As you wish, Your Grace." His tone remained measured and diplomatic. "May I ask what changes you seek?"
Viserys folded his hands together.
"My daughter's wardship." He paused before continuing. "Eight years beneath your father's care... I can no longer accept such terms."
Rhaenyra stiffened.
Eight years.
Until that moment, no one had ever spoken the number aloud before her. The realization struck like cold steel. She turned toward her father in disbelief, anger quietly kindling behind her violet eyes.
Cyrus, however, remained composed.
"Your concern is understandable, Your Grace." His voice carried neither offense nor disappointment. "What alternative do you propose?"
"The realm stands upon uncertain ground." Viserys spoke carefully, choosing each word as though walking across thin ice. "Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms watches for weakness. They question my succession, and now my heir. I need Rhaenyra here. Her presence is essential to strengthen her claim."
The chamber fell silent once more.
Cyrus leaned forward slightly, resting his clasped hands upon one knee.
"And yet," he replied evenly, "reducing her time in Achaemedia would weaken her standing among my people. She is to become their future empress as much as your future queen. They must know her, and she must know them."
His golden eyes met Viserys's without yielding.
"We have already discussed this, Prince Cyrus," Viserys said, his voice low but resolute. "The circumstances have changed. Matters are far more dire than before."
"They have," Cyrus agreed without hesitation. "Yet my authority as Caesar Despotes and Co-Emperor, vast though it may be, is not without limits." He folded his hands upon his lap, every movement measured. "Your daughter is not merely to become my wife. She is to become an Empress of Achaemedia. Such a decision rests solely with my father, Imperator Augustus. His word is absolute throughout our institutions, and I possess neither the authority nor the desire to overturn it."
The explanation drew a surprised glance from Rhaenyra. Until now, she had never truly considered that even Cyrus, with all his power and prestige, remained subordinate to another will. Beside him, Dalia remained silent, though a faint crease appeared between her brows.
Viserys exhaled slowly.
"I hope there remains some middle ground between us, Prince."
"There may yet be one." Cyrus leaned forward slightly. "I shall attempt to persuade my father. Five years remains my final offer, Your Grace." His gaze hardened. "However, if this alliance is to endure under such altered terms, I must request something in return."
Viserys watched him carefully.
"I ask that Prince Daemon Targaryen be sent to Achaemedia as your ambassador."
The king blinked.
"Daemon?" Surprise broke through his composure, mirrored instantly upon Rhaenyra's face. "Why him?"
Before Cyrus could answer, Dalia spoke with her customary calm.
"Prince Daemon is the King's brother and one of the most prominent members of House Targaryen. His presence would demonstrate Westeros's commitment to the alliance while granting our Imperial Court a representative whose authority cannot easily be questioned."
Viserys's expression darkened.
"You ask me to send both my heir and my brother across the world?" His voice rose. "That is absurd."
The room's warmth seemed to vanish.
Cyrus stood.
"So I ask again, Your Grace." His voice remained level, yet it carried the weight of command that had broken cities and humbled kingdoms. "Do you desire this alliance?"
The sudden shift stole the breath from the room.
Rhaenyra had seen Cyrus gentle, thoughtful, even playful.
This was none of those men.
Before her stood Caesar Despotes.
"I shall also send word to Lorensia," he continued. "Additional Lorensian nobles will accompany the Imperial delegation, together with their dragons. Westeros should understand that dragons are not relics of a forgotten age."
Viserys instinctively rose to meet him.
For a heartbeat, neither ruler spoke.
The king found himself staring into eyes like polished topaz, bright with conviction and utterly devoid of hesitation. There was fire there—not the reckless fury of youth, but the steady blaze of a sovereign accustomed to command. It reminded Viserys painfully of the dragons his own House had once mastered.
Silence stretched between them.
At last, Dalia broke it.
"Brother."
Her voice was quiet, yet sharp enough to cut through steel.
"Restrain yourself."
The command was enough.
The fire faded from Cyrus's gaze. He inclined his head respectfully.
"My apologies, King Viserys." His voice regained its earlier diplomacy. "I allowed my temper to overstep its bounds."
Viserys released a slow breath before easing himself back into his chair.
"No... there is nothing to forgive." Weariness returned to his features, replacing the brief flash of royal defiance. "Five years." He paused. "With the Lorensian nobles and their dragons present, I may persuade my council that such an arrangement serves as a sufficient safeguard."
Cyrus considered the offer for a long moment before giving a single nod.
Before either ruler could continue, Rhaenyra spoke.
"May I make a request, Caesar Cyrus?"
Every eye in the chamber turned toward the princess.
"For what purpose, Princess?" Cyrus asked, genuine curiosity coloring his voice.
Rhaenyra hesitated for only a heartbeat before answering. "I shall be leaving everything I have ever known behind. I... would like someone familiar beside me. My own lady-in-waiting, if Your Grace permits."
"Alicent?" Dalia guessed, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips.
The chamber grew quiet.
Both Alargon siblings turned toward King Viserys, waiting for his answer. The king rubbed a weary hand across his brow before letting out a long sigh, as though yet another burden had been placed upon already aching shoulders.
"I shall speak with Otto," he said at last. "Whether he agrees is another matter entirely."
Relief washed across Rhaenyra's face, softening the grief that had lingered there since the funeral.
"Thank you, Father," she said with a warm smile.
______________________________________________________________
Otto carefully recounted every piece of information his brother had gathered from Oldtown. The more he listened, the more he realized that Achaemedia's influence reached far deeper than he had first imagined. It did not conquer with dragons and steel alone.
It conquered with families.
Across Oldtown, merchants, craftsmen, lesser nobles, and even prosperous smallfolk who had traded with the Achaemedians constantly—and who had proven themselves trustworthy—were quietly being offered marriages into Achaemedian households. The arrangements were not forced, but neither were they ordinary unions. Every marriage came with privileges so generous that refusing them seemed almost foolish. Most astonishing of all was the promise that any foreigner who wed an Achaemedian would receive favorable treatment, while their children would be granted full Achaemedian citizenship.
Citizenship.
The word lingered in Otto's thoughts like a stubborn ghost.
He had searched every chronicle, every dusty manuscript, and every legal volume the Citadel possessed, yet none truly matched the meaning carried by that single term. The Free Cities spoke of citizenship, certainly, but theirs was little more than a political privilege reserved for wealthy families or ancient bloodlines. Even at its broadest, it merely granted influence within a single city.
Achaemedian citizenship was something altogether different.
It extended to every citizen of the Empire, regardless of birth. It promised legal protection beneath Imperial law, guaranteed access to food, medical care, and housing, all maintained by the Crown itself. Even more unbelievable, it declared that any citizen, provided they possessed the necessary merit, could rise into the army, the civil administration, the scholarly orders, the merchant guilds, or even the Imperial Court itself.
Birth was no guarantee.
Nor was it an obstacle.
What truly unsettled Otto was another clause buried within the reports. The Empire did not merely wait for its people to seek employment or purpose. Instead, it actively searched for those without work and drew them into its institutions, ensuring that every able citizen became another cog within the Imperial machine. None were meant to remain idle. None were left entirely abandoned.
Every man, woman, and child stood beneath the protection of Imperial law.
Otto lowered the parchment and rubbed his temples.
Reading the reports alone left him with a pounding headache, as though his very understanding of lordship had been turned upon its head. Every attempt to unravel the machinery of Achaemedia's bureaucracy only deepened his bewilderment.
Merit was demanded of all.
Yet every citizen, from peasant to prince, was expected to begin somewhere near the bottom before climbing through proven ability. Noble birth still carried prestige, but it did not exempt one from service, examination, or scrutiny.
An empire where bureaucrats rivaled lords.
Where scholars advised kings.
Where merchants shaped policy.
Where commoners could, through talent alone, stand beside ancient bloodlines.
Otto Hightower found the notion almost heretical.
Stuck in his thoughts, Otto is unaware of the footsteps coming his way.
Lord Otto, King Viserys summons you."
The servant's voice broke through Otto's tangled thoughts, pulling him back from the maze of parchments and troubling revelations.
"I see..." Otto answered after a measured pause, his mouth suddenly dry. "Tell His Grace I shall come at once."
The corridors of the Red Keep felt unusually silent as he made his way toward the royal apartments. Torchlight flickered across the ancient stone walls, throwing restless shadows that stretched with every step. By the time he entered the king's solar, Viserys sat alone beneath the dim glow of candles, slumped upon his chair as though the weight of the Iron Throne rested entirely upon his shoulders.
"Otto... my friend," Viserys greeted weakly, managing only a tired smile.
Otto bowed before approaching. "What may I do for you, Your Grace?"
The king exhaled heavily before speaking. "You already know Rhaenyra is to become the Achaemedian Emperor's ward as part of our agreement. After Aemma's passing, I sought to shorten her stay. Prince Cyrus accepted... but not without conditions."
Otto remained silent, sensing there was more.
"They ask that Daemon represent me in the Achaemedian court while Rhaenyra resides there." Viserys hesitated before adding another burden. "And Rhaenyra herself has requested Lady Alicent to accompany her as her lady-in-waiting."
The words settled heavily between them.
On the surface, it was an honor. To be chosen by the princess herself spoke of trust and affection. Yet Otto could not separate the invitation from the empire that had extended it. Every gesture from Achaemedia carried purpose. Every favor demanded careful scrutiny.
"Prince Daemon," Otto said at last, choosing his words with care. "If I may speak freely, Your Grace... I do not believe he is the wisest choice for such a responsibility. His temperament has never been suited for delicate diplomacy."
"I know," Viserys admitted with a weary sigh. "But it was their request. They entrusted us with both their Crown Prince and Princess. It is only fitting that we answer with members of our own royal house."
He leaned forward, fatigue giving way to quiet urgency.
"And there is more. They intend to send additional Lorensian nobles to King's Landing."
The sentence struck Otto harder than he expected.
"You know what is at stake now, Otto."
For the first time in many years, genuine unease gripped the Hand of the King. He kept his face composed through long practice, yet he felt his heartbeat quicken beneath his robes. His fingers tightened imperceptibly behind his back.
Dragons.
For centuries they had been the unquestioned symbol of House Targaryen—of Valyria itself. Their very existence separated kings from ordinary men. Yet now another empire, one that seemed to surpass ancient Valyria in wealth, learning, and ambition, would bring dragonriders of its own to Westeros.
"Many of the southern lords would find this revolting, Your Grace," Otto said carefully, measuring every word.
"Perhaps." Viserys did not deny it. Instead, a faint smile crossed his tired features. "But this alliance will elevate House Targaryen's prestige beyond even what it was in Old Valyria, Otto. A stronger House Targaryen means a stronger realm."
The king spoke with a conviction Otto had not heard since before Queen Aemma's death. For a fleeting moment, the weary man vanished, replaced by the dragon king who still dreamed of securing his dynasty for generations yet unborn.
Otto inclined his head in acknowledgment, though unease settled deeper within him.
"...About Alicent, Your Grace."
The words caught in his throat.
He wanted his daughter close, especially now that the queen was gone and the Red Keep had become a nest of uncertainty. Sending her across the Narrow Sea into the heart of an empire whose customs, faith, and ambitions defied everything the Andals held sacred was no small matter.
"I would speak with my brother first," Otto continued. "This decision concerns House Hightower as much as it does my own family."
"Very well." Viserys rubbed at his brow, exhaustion plain upon his face. "But do not delay, Otto. I must have your answer soon. Now, I need to meet with Prince Cyrus."
The king rose slowly, every movement burdened by grief and duty alike. Without another word, he departed, leaving Otto alone in the dim chamber.
Silence settled over the room.
Should Princess Rhaenyra depart for Achaemedia, the balance of power within King's Landing would inevitably shift. If Prince Daemon accompanied her as well, the court would lose two dragons at once. Doors long barred might finally open.
Yet another obstacle loomed across the sea.
The Lorensian nobles.
Dragonlords in their own right, arriving beneath the banners of a foreign empire, they would not merely serve as honored guests. They would observe, influence, and establish roots. Every alliance they forged would strengthen Achaemedia's foothold in Westeros.
"Fetch me Alicent."
Otto clasped his hands behind his back as he gazed through the window toward the dark waters of Blackwater Bay. Tonight would be a long night. The more he learned of Achaemedia—its strange faith, its boundless bureaucracy, its seductive prosperity, and its unsettling customs—the more convinced he became that it posed a threat unlike any Westeros had ever faced.
Not simply to the Iron Throne.
But to the Faith of the Seven, to Andal tradition, and to the very order upon which the realm had stood for centuries.
If left unchecked, such ideas would spread as swiftly as fire through dry grass.