-Westeros. King's Landing. 105 AC-
Dalia sat in her chambers, the flickering light of a candle casting shadows across the room as she read through reports from the mainland and the Hydra agents stationed in Westeros and Essos. The documents provided a clear picture of how the Empire was weaving its influence into the fabric of the New World. It would take time—years, perhaps—to fully entrench themselves, but the groundwork was being laid. Yet, what amused her most was the petty scheming within the Small Council.
Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, had begun his machinations to elevate House Hightower to royal standing. His moves were transparent, almost laughably so. A closer examination of Queen Aemma's condition revealed a grim truth: her womb was ill-suited to carry the child she now bore. It was a tragic fate for a woman as kind as the queen, but in the grand game of thrones, such sacrifices were inevitable.
It had been a year since their first contact and several moons since her brother, Cyrus, had returned to the Empire with the proposed pact. Still, there had been no formal response. Dalia noted the growing impatience in King Viserys, though she understood the council's reservations. Marrying Rhaenyra to House Alargon would open the Iron Throne to foreign influence—a valid concern for any politician. Yet, the king seemed blinded by the allure of her family's power.
Dalia's thoughts turned to recent events, particularly the bloody actions of Daemon Targaryen in King's Landing. His ruthlessness reminded her of Emperor Tyber's early reign, the so-called Blood Years, when thousands had been purged, cults eradicated, and records destroyed. It had been a time of terror, but it had also laid the foundation for Nariman Alargon's reforms. The Empire had been reforged in blood, but the result was a golden age of prosperity.
In contrast, Viserys seemed weak, his rule marked by indecision and a lack of control. He was a good man, Dalia thought, but a poor king—unfit to lead in this fragile golden age of Westeros.
The door creaked open, revealing a Custodian clad in golden armor. "Princess Dalia, Princess Rhaenyra requests an audience."
"Give her a moment," Dalia replied, swiftly hiding the papers on her desk. Moments later, the white-haired Targaryen entered the room.
"Greetings, Princess," Rhaenyra said, offering a slight bow.
"Greetings, Rhaenyra. Please, sit," Dalia gestured to the chair across from her.
Rhaenyra took her seat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her expression was troubled, and Dalia could easily guess the reason for her visit.
"Has your brother received an answer?" Rhaenyra asked softly, her voice tinged with hope and anxiety.
"I'm afraid not," Dalia replied sympathetically. Over the past year, she had grown close to Rhaenyra and her friend Alicent, sharing stories of Westeros and the Empire over evening tea. "But do not worry. My father and brother are men of reason and wisdom. They will see the benefits of this alliance."
Rhaenyra offered a thin smile, though her unease was evident. "I've heard so many wonders about your realm, Princess Dalia. But there's something that troubles me."
"Rhaenyra, we are friends, are we not?" Dalia said warmly, pouring wine for them both.
"Of course," Rhaenyra replied, her smile softening. "I suppose my father's lessons still weigh heavily on me." She paused, then continued, "I wanted to ask you about Emperor Cyrus the Builder."
"The Builder?" Dalia raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What would you like to know?"
"He was the one who solidified the Empire's power," Rhaenyra began, her voice thoughtful. "From what I've read, he was an extraordinary ruler. He introduced new ways to generate wealth, created unimaginable contraptions for construction, and perfected the government his predecessor designed. Yet, despite his brilliance, he was described as distant and cold—almost inhuman in his calculations."
Rhaenyra's voice grew quieter, a hint of dread creeping in. "And then I read about the other Emperors who bore his name. They all seemed to inherit his traits. It... frightens me, Dalia."
Dalia understood her fear. The Throne changed those who sat upon it. Every member of the royal family knew this, yet it was also the source of their power. Unlike countless other kingdoms that had risen and fallen, the Achaemedia had only grown stronger over two millennia. Each Emperor had elevated the Empire, expanding its economy and institutions far beyond what Tyber the Conqueror could have imagined.
When a new monarch ascended the Throne, the man they had been died, and a new one was born. It was a truth her uncle had often spoken of. And though Dalia loved her brother, she, too, feared what he might become once he took the Throne.
"Don't worry," Dalia said gently, reaching across the table to place a reassuring hand on Rhaenyra's. "I will ensure he remains the brother I know. He listens to reason, after all."
"Thank you, Dalia," Rhaenyra said, her smile weak but genuine.
"Anything for a friend, Rhaenyra," Dalia replied, her own smile warm and sincere.
_____________________________________________________________
-Achaemedia Empire. Imperial Palace-
The Imperial Palace of the Achaemedian Empire was a marvel unto itself.
It sprawled across the landscape, a labyrinth of towering spires and formidable fortifications. Crafted from the finest materials the realm could offer and shaped by the most skilled hands and brilliant minds of the Empire's myriad races, the palace was a testament to the Empire's grandeur. Its sheer size rivaled that of the largest cities, with towers that seemed to pierce the heavens. Two immense walls separated the outer and inner palaces. The outer palace resembled a city fortress, bustling with activity and guarded with military precision, while the inner palace was a masterpiece of art, protection, and terrifying power.
Magic suffused every stone and corridor of the palace, its mechanisms so advanced they bordered on the arcane.
Within the highest tower, amidst countless chambers, the ruler of the Empire attended to his duties.
Odrin II Alargon, Emperor of the Achaemedian Empire, was a man of near-legendary stature. He had fathered five children with his Lorensian noble wife and had ruled the Empire for over a century. The Emperors of Achaemedia were blessed with both brilliance and longevity, and Odrin was no exception. His reign had been marked by prosperity and innovation, yet the weight of his crown was heavy.
As he reviewed reports from his Hydra agents, Odrin's sharp mind dissected the political landscape of Westeros. The Iron Throne was strong, but vultures circled the king, each seeking to carve out their own piece of power. Odrin could appreciate the cunning of Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, though the man's ambitions were shortsighted. Otto was blind to the larger game being played, manipulated by forces in the shadows—his own brother and the Maester Order.
Otto was but a pawn in a much grander scheme, one that Odrin could exploit. If the Hand succeeded in usurping the royal family and placing his own bloodline on the throne, the Empire would reap the benefits. It was a scenario Odrin had already begun to prepare for.
The Emperor's gaze shifted to his son, Cyrus, who sat nearby, engrossed in his own stack of papers.
Cyrus was the brightest of Odrin's children, a shining star in the grand design of the Empire. Like his ancestor, Cyrus the Builder, he possessed a mind of unparalleled brilliance. As a child, Cyrus had been sweet and full of life, cherishing every moment with an unbridled passion. But now, he was distant, an island adrift in a vast sea. His smile remained, though it had grown colder with time, a faint echo of the boy he once was.
"Cyrus," Odrin called, his voice carrying the weight of years and wisdom. "Come here, my son."
The prince obeyed, rising from his seat and approaching his father's table.
"Father," he said, offering a small smile.
"The alliance you propose... I cannot shake the unease it stirs within me, child," Odrin said, his voice tinged with weariness. "It risks breaking the Pax Imperialis, a peace we have maintained for centuries."
Cyrus studied his father with a curious intensity, his golden eyes piercing the old man's soul. Odrin was no stranger to deception; he had seen countless schemes and ploys in his long reign. Yet, his son's intentions were the most elusive of all, hidden beneath layers of charm and calculation.
Fire flickered in Cyrus's gaze as he spoke. "I do not seek to break the Pax Imperialis, Father. I seek to expand it."
"At what cost?" Odrin countered, his tone stern. "Since the death of King Viserys's grandparents, Westeros has been a fractured realm. If the Hightowers seize power as predicted, civil war will be inevitable. We cannot afford to be drawn into their chaos."
Cyrus remained unmoved, his expression stoic. "Do you recall the concept of the pre-emptive strike, Father?" he asked, his voice low and deliberate.
The pre-emptive strike was a strategy devised by Emperor Aedris I five hundred years ago. When the southern barbarians gathered their forces, Aedris had struck first with the might of the IV Legion, crushing the threat before it could fully form. The campaign had not only expanded the Empire's borders but also driven dozens of tribes into retreat.
"I will not allow any legions to march beyond our borders," Odrin said firmly, his eyes narrowing.
"The Auxilia would suffice," Cyrus replied without hesitation.
Odrin leaned back, his gaze calculating. "Where would you strike, my son?"
Cyrus turned to the map spread across the table, his finger tracing the outlines of Essos and Westeros. He pointed to a specific location.
"The Triarchy?" Odrin said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Indeed," Cyrus replied, a small grin playing on his lips. "According to the Hydra, the Triarchy plans to raid ships in the Stepstones. The Velaryons rely heavily on that route for their trade. By striking first, we can secure the Stepstones and weaken the Triarchy in one move."
"Killing two birds with one stone," Odrin mused, a rare smile crossing his face. "A remarkable plan, my son." He rose from his chair and moved to the shelves lining the room. "A weakened Triarchy would allow our trading companies to flood their markets with our goods."
"And it would make it easier to infiltrate their ranks," Cyrus added, his pride evident.
"Very well," Odrin said, pulling an empty scroll from the shelf and handing it to his son. "Draft the proposal and present it at the next meeting of the Lex Administratum. Make it convincing."
Cyrus took the scroll, his grin widening. "The world shall know our presence, Father. No Fear, for All is Dust."
"Indeed," Odrin replied, his voice steady. "No Fear, for All is Dust."