-A few months later. Narrow Sea-
Princess Dalia Alargon, the third daughter of the Emperor and fifth in line to the throne, had been given a task by her father: to establish proper contact with the so-called Seven Kingdoms. It amused her that the realm bore such a name, for only six of the seven kingdoms had bent the knee. Yet, names mattered little to her. What mattered was the opportunity before her.
In the privacy of her chambers, Dalia pored over dozens of reports from the Hydra, her eyes scanning the parchment with unwavering focus. The entirety of Westeros lay bare before her, its strengths and weaknesses laid out like pieces on a cyvasse board. Crafting a grand scheme to outmaneuver them all came easily to her. Years of study under the Empire's finest scholars had honed her mind in politics, philosophy, mathematics, and the arts. She knew the game well.
It was widely acknowledged, both by scholars and common folk alike, that the Alargon bloodline produced individuals of extraordinary talent and striking, almost magical appearances. To preserve this legacy, the Alargons had long practiced the careful selection of spouses—either from other powerful bloodlines or, when necessary, from within their own family. Dalia found it curious, almost amusing, that the Targaryens of Westeros followed a similar tradition. Some of her ancestors had wed nobles of Old Lorensia, and their descendants now carried the dormant power of that ancient empire's magic.
This was the unique strength of the Alargon bloodline: the ability to inherit the latent powers of the families they married into. It was this trait that had allowed House Alargon to establish dozens of cadet branches across strategic lands and fill more than a quarter of the Lex Administratum with their kin. Their blood was their power, and their power was their legacy.
Dalia's interest was particularly piqued by the Targaryens. According to the Hydra's reports, the Valyrians had wielded blood magic not unlike that of Old Lorensia, capable of creating monstrous and magical creatures. The thought intrigued her.
"Interesting," Dalia murmured, twirling a strand of her long, snow-white hair between her fingers. If House Alargon could forge ties with the Targaryens—perhaps even secure their favor—they might gain access to the remnants of Valyrian magic. Such a connection could prove invaluable, not only in understanding the arcane but in securing influence in Westeros.
"My princess." A voice called to her from beyond the door, pulling Dalia from her thoughts.
"A moment, Lord Constantine," she replied, fastening her red cloak over her black dress before opening the door. There stood the man himself, clad in ornate golden armor, a crimson cloak draped over his broad shoulders. His voice was deep and resonant, carrying the weight of his many years.
"My princess, we approach Blackwater Bay," he announced.
Dalia nodded and stepped out onto the deck, the sea breeze brushing against her skin. The scent of the Narrow Sea filled her nostrils, but it was not the crisp, invigorating air she was accustomed to. It felt... lifeless.
"It's dying," Dalia muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Indeed, Princess," Constantine said, standing beside her. "This land is barren of magic."
Dalia had spent her entire life surrounded by the hum of magic and the marvels of technology born from the extraction of the world's magical veins. To stand now in a place so devoid of it was unsettling, almost alien. It sent a shiver down her spine, a strange and unfamiliar feeling.
Her gaze swept across her entourage and the grandeur of her ship, The Crown's Pride. It was one of the Empire's royal vessels, a galleon of unparalleled beauty and strength. Its hull, adorned with gold and steel, gleamed in the sunlight, while its defenses—both magical and physical—were the pinnacle of Psijic and Dwemer craftsmanship. Even if ambushed by a fleet, The Crown's Pride would emerge victorious.
And yet, she was not alone. Fifty galleons sailed in her escort, their sails billowing in the wind, their hulls cutting through the waves like blades. Together, they formed an armada that could rival any fleet in the known world.
It took them an hour to finally reach the bay. The sight of fifty-one colossal ships, their decks gleaming with gold and steel, sent a ripple of alarm through King's Landing. The city's bells rang out, and the people gathered along the docks, their eyes wide with awe and fear. The bay was soon filled with nobles, knights, and even the royal family of the Seven Kingdoms, all dressed in their finest attire to greet the foreign princess. The image of Achaemedia had been carefully crafted by the tales of merchants and the exotic goods they brought to Westeros. Stories of their might, their magic, and their grandeur had spread like wildfire, painting the Empire as a civilization beyond compare.
Dalia observed the crowd with a graceful smile, her expression serene, her motives hidden behind a mask of diplomacy. As her ship docked and the gangplank was lowered, her Custodes descended first, their master crafted golden armor gleaming in the sunlight. They moved with precision, forming a protective line before the banners of House Alargon were unfurled—a black field emblazoned with a golden dragon, its eyes burning with an otherworldly light.
"Presenting Princess Dalia of House Alargon, Princess of the Hearthstone and Counselor of Londor," announced one of the golden-armored guards, his voice amplified by a device within his armor. The words carried across the bay, reaching every ear in the crowd.
"I, King Viserys of House Targaryen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Protector of the Realm, warmly welcome you, Princess Dalia of House Alargon," Viserys declared, his chest puffed out with regal pride. Yet, the sight of the white-haired princess and her golden, almost luminous eyes sent a flicker of unease through him. There was something otherworldly about her, something that did not belong in this land.
"May peace be upon you, King Viserys," Dalia replied, her voice soft yet carrying, her smile graceful and practiced. The phrase was foreign to Westerosi ears, a greeting steeped in the culture of the lands she ruled. It hung in the air, a subtle reminder of the vast gulf between their worlds.
"May we speak inside the Red Keep, Princess?" Viserys asked, quickly moving past his confusion. "We have prepared a feast in your honor."
"I would be delighted, King Viserys," Dalia said, her tone warm and welcoming. She stepped forward, her movements elegant and deliberate, her presence commanding yet disarming. The crowd parted before her, their whispers trailing in her wake like the rustle of leaves in a storm.
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The feast was a spectacle of music and merriment, the air thick with the rich aromas of roasted meats, spiced wines, and sweet pastries. Dalia found the food to her liking, though the sharp, bitter tang of the Westerosi wine was not to her taste. She sipped it sparingly, her golden eyes scanning the room with quiet amusement.
Her entourage, composed of the Custodes and a handful of lords from her homeland, stood out amidst the Westerosi nobility. Their attire, their demeanor, even the way they carried themselves spoke of a culture far removed from the Seven Kingdoms. Dalia could see the political machinations unfolding around her, the subtle alliances and rivalries playing out in whispered conversations and sidelong glances. Yet, to her, it all seemed quaint—almost laughable. These lords and ladies, so consumed by their petty schemes, were blind to the greater game she and Achaemedia's nobles had long mastered.
"I must say, Princess Dalia," Corlys Velaryon began, his voice brimming with enthusiasm, "your Empire sounds truly wondrous, from what I've heard of your people."
"You are too kind, Lord Corlys," Dalia replied, her smile warm and gracious. "The Empire of Achaemedia is indeed a land of marvels. Perhaps, if our realms foster good relations, we might arrange for some of Westeros's lords to visit us. I am certain they would find much to admire."
"I would gladly sail beyond the seas to see such wonders," Corlys said, his eyes alight with the fire of a man half his age. The thought of new horizons seemed to stir something deep within him.
"Princess," King Viserys interjected, his tone polite but curious. "I have heard tales that you ride a dragon. I would be honored to hear more of this."
Dalia's smile did not waver, though her mind raced. It seemed the merchant lord had been more forthcoming than she had anticipated. "Indeed, Your Grace," she said smoothly. "I am a dragon rider, as is my brother, Crown Prince Cyrus Alargon. My mount is named Odahviing, the Red."
"He must be a magnificent creature," Rhaenyra said, her interest piqued. Her violet eyes gleamed with a mixture of admiration and curiosity.
"He is," Dalia replied, taking a measured sip of her wine. "Though he is... different from the dragons you know."
Her words hung in the air, drawing the attention of the entire table. Even the music seemed to fade into the background as the Targaryens and their kin leaned in, their expressions a mix of intrigue and disbelief.
"Different?" Daemon asked sharply, his voice cutting through the silence. His tone was edged with skepticism, but there was no mistaking the curiosity in his eyes.
"Odahviing has lived for a thousand years," Dalia said, her voice calm and deliberate. She let the words settle, watching as the implications dawned on her audience.
The reaction was immediate. The Targaryens, proud riders of dragons themselves, were visibly stunned. Dragons were creatures that never ceased to grow, their strength and ferocity increasing with age. The thought of a dragon that had lived for a millennium was almost beyond comprehension. If Dalia's claim was true, then Odahviing was not merely a dragon—he was a force of nature, a being of unimaginable power.
"Yet... even Odahviing pales in comparison to my brother's mount," Dalia continued, a faint trace of melancholy coloring her words. "Cyrus rides Alduin, the Black Eater. He was forged in the fires of Lorensia's fall, created in a desperate bid to defend against Tyber's legions. He has lived since those dark days, a relic of a bygone age." Her voice softened, but the weight of her words was not lost on those who listened.
The lords and ladies at the table exchanged uneasy glances. They had heard the tales of the Fall of Lorensia, a cataclysm that had occurred two thousand years ago. If Dalia's account was true, then Alduin was no mere dragon—he was a living weapon, a creature of unimaginable age and power, far surpassing even Odahviing.
"I think we would all be honored to see the dragons of your land, Princess," Viserys said, his tone diplomatic as he cut off his brother Daemon, who had opened his mouth to press further. The king's smile was warm, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease.
"Time will tell, Your Grace," Dalia replied, her smile enigmatic. "Time will tell."
The feast resumed, though the air was thick with tension. Dalia, for her part, found the undercurrent of unease amusing. She sipped her wine, her golden eyes scanning the room with quiet satisfaction. The Westerosi lords and ladies might play their games of intrigue, but they were children in the shadow of the Empire's grandeur. And Dalia, ever the diplomat, reveled in the subtle dance of power and perception.
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Dalia stood in the guest chamber, the Custodes stationed silently outside the door. She gazed out at the night sky, her expression a mixture of weariness and contemplation. The day had left her drained, though she would never admit it aloud.
"Those primitive nobles... They are more exhausting than a full session of the Lex Administratum," she muttered to herself, raising a goblet of wine to her lips. The wine from the Empire was far superior—its sweetness perfectly balanced with a subtle tang of sourness. Though she had spent only a day in the Red Keep, Dalia already longed for the comforts of home. This place, with its cramped halls and modest grandeur, felt stifling. Even her family's summer palace, a place of leisure, was twice as large and far more opulent.
Yet, upon closer reflection, she found that the Red Keep held a certain charm. It was not in its size or its splendor, but in the Targaryens themselves. They possessed something that intrigued her deeply. It was not their dragons—though those were impressive—but their dreams. Even the most powerful mages in the Empire struggled to glimpse a single unchangeable destiny, yet the Targaryens seemed to carry visions of an ideal future within their blood. It was a rare and fascinating magic, one she could sense pulsing faintly beneath their skin.
Speaking of blood, she felt a pang of pity for the queen.
"She smiles like dirt," Dalia murmured, her voice low and contemplative. Turning away from the window, she seated herself at a small desk and began to write in her journal. The Targaryens' dream magic was of immense value, and the North—with its ancient ice-blooded Starks—might prove to be another promising subject for study. She wrote for nearly an hour, her quill scratching across the parchment as she outlined her thoughts and plans.
Finally, she set down her pen and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes to ease her mind.
"The red dragon and the black and golden dragon," she whispered, recalling her father's words on the eve of her departure.
"The Pax Imperialis shall expand," he had said, his eyes dark and unreadable. It was almost laughable to think that her grandfather had been the architect of the Doom that plunged the world into a century of war, and now her father sought to open the Empire's borders. The irony was not lost on her.
As she reflected, a realization dawned on her. The fifty galleons that had accompanied her were not merely for show. They carried dozens of Hydra agents and countless goods previously forbidden from trade in Westeros, now sanctioned by the Emperor himself. It was an unequal exchange, but her father had compensated the merchant companies with gold from the imperial treasury.
"Dear ancestors," she muttered, her voice tinged with exasperation. "What is my father planning now?" If the Empire truly wished to conquer Westeros and Essos, a single legion would suffice to bring both continents to heel. Yet, it seemed her father's ambitions extended beyond mere conquest. There was something deeper at play, something she could not yet grasp.
"I wish Cyrus were here," she said softly. Her older brother had always been at the forefront of the Empire's politics, his mind sharp and his insights invaluable. He had always indulged her thirst for knowledge, guiding her through the labyrinth of imperial intrigue. But she wondered if he would remain the same after ascending the throne. The Monarch's Throne had a way of changing those who sat upon it, reshaping them in ways no one could predict.
With a sigh, Dalia pricked her finger, letting a drop of blood fall onto the parchment. She retrieved a small root from a box on her desk, burning it until its ashes mingled with her blood. Then, she cast the note into the fire, watching as the flames consumed it. Her dress, woven with enchantments, healed the tiny wound on her finger almost instantly.
With her secrets safely destroyed, Dalia finally allowed herself to rest.