A Song of Black and Golden Dragon

-King's Landing. Red Keep. King Viserys's Chamber-

"I assume you are proposing an alliance, Your Grace," Cyrus said, his tone calm and measured. Though the king did not speak, the look in his eyes was answer enough. "There are several ways to forge such a bond. Unlike your civilization, we in the Empire often form alliances and agreements without the need for marriage. But, by your customs, such an arrangement would be... unacceptable, am I correct?"

"Aye, Prince Cyrus," Viserys replied, his voice hoarse with the weight of his thoughts.

"Still, I wonder who you would offer to us," Cyrus mused, his gaze flicking to the wine bottle on the table. "May I?" he asked, gesturing toward it.

The king nodded, and Cyrus poured wine for them both. Viserys sat in silence, his mind racing as the burden of the realm pressed heavily upon him. He knew the consequences of this decision would ripple far beyond his lifetime.

"Rhaenyra," he said at last, his voice firm. "I would offer my daughter. But I need your opinion, Prince Cyrus."

"The Emperor has five children," Cyrus replied casually, leaning back in his chair. "Three of them are already married. Only Dalia and I remain unwed."

Viserys froze, his goblet halfway to his lips. The idea of a crown prince remaining unmarried was not unheard of in Westeros, but the fact that Cyrus's siblings had already secured marriages suggested a different approach to succession—one that intrigued him.

"I must ask," Viserys said softly, setting his goblet down, "why have you not taken a wife, Prince Cyrus?"

"I've found no suitable match," Cyrus replied, his tone light but his golden eyes sharp. "Moreover, my brothers and sister have already secured our family's influence within the Lex."

"The Lex... the Lex Administratum?" Viserys asked, taking a sip of his wine.

"The very same," Cyrus said with a faint smile. "We hold more than half of its power."

Viserys recalled Princess Dalia's explanation of the Empire's bureaucracy. The Lex Administratum was a vast political entity, overseen by the Emperor but governed by three central bodies and countless sub-bodies. It was a machine of lawmaking, administration, and enforcement, with thousands of officials working to maintain and advance the Empire's Golden Mandate. Every five years, the Lex convened to chart the Empire's course. If the House of Alargon controlled more than half of its power, their grip on the Empire was unshakable.

"However," Cyrus added, drawing the king's full attention, "I believe we can reach a compromise."

"What do you propose?" Viserys asked, his tone grave.

"A bond between the Iron Throne and Achaemedia would benefit us both," Cyrus explained, setting his empty goblet aside. "We would gain a foothold here, and your House would gain access to some of our wonders. But you have only a daughter to offer."

"My succession will be secured," Viserys said, his voice low and his eyes narrowing. "I will have a son."

Then, if that does not come to pass?" At that question, Viserys felt himself sink to his lowest.

"Do you threaten me, Prince Cyrus?" His voice was cold as ice, his glare sharp as a dagger.

"What if I only speak, Your Grace?" The young man pressed on, unwavering. "A ruler's first duty is to his realm. Any shadow that looms over it is an enemy to be dealt with."

"And what is it you suggest?"

"Have the marriage contracts for Princess Rhaenyra properly drafted. Then we may negotiate which of her children will inherit the Iron Throne—one bound to my House. How does that sound, Your Grace?"

Viserys hesitated, the weight of the words settling upon him. If they secured the Empire's favor, the implications could be... advantageous.

"Very well," he murmured, drawing in a slow breath.

"And to whom would she be wed?"

"That is for the Emperor to decide," Cyrus said, his tone steady. "But I can assure you, the match will remain within my House."

"Very well... I will see it done." The king let out a weary sigh, sinking back into his chair.

"A wise choice," the prince replied.

__________________________________________________________

-Morning-

Rhaenyra watched the foreign prince from afar, his charm weaving through the crowd of nobles like a serpent through grass. He laughed and jested, his words smooth as honey, yet his eyes betrayed a sharp, calculating edge. He answered every question with precision, his replies crafted to keep the lords at ease while never revealing too much. There was a danger in him, she thought, a quiet, coiled tension beneath his polished exterior.

She had heard the tales of Prince Cyrus. Even in his early years, he had been hailed as a prodigy, his mind as keen as a Valyrian blade. At ten name days old, he had drafted a law to address the welfare of the smallfolk, a feat unheard of in Westeros. The Empire's rapid expansion had left its people struggling to keep pace, but Cyrus had devised a system to restructure the government, ensuring that no one—highborn or low—was left behind.

The thought lingered in Rhaenyra's mind, a spark of curiosity. Here was a realm across the sea that valued its people, no matter their station. It was a notion both foreign and fascinating.

Steeling herself, Rhaenyra approached the prince as he conversed with a group of lords.

"Prince Cyrus," she greeted, her voice carrying the weight of her station.

The prince turned, his expression unreadable. "I believe we can continue this discussion later, my lords," he said, dismissing the nobles with a polite nod. They bowed and scattered, leaving him alone with the princess. His gaze settled on her, cool and appraising. "How may I assist you, Princess?"

"Would you care to speak with me, my prince?" Rhaenyra asked, her smile practiced but not without warmth.

Cyrus's brows lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before his mask of composure returned. "Of course," he said smoothly. "Lead the way."

As they made their way to the balcony, Rhaenyra caught a glimpse of Princess Dalia watching them, her expression inscrutable. The air was cooler outside, the sprawling chaos of King's Landing stretching out before them like a patchwork quilt of stone and smoke.

Rhaenyra broke the silence first, her tone light but probing. "I've heard tales of your Imperial Palace. They say it dwarfs even King's Landing in size."

Cyrus smiled faintly, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. "If you speak of the Palace Proper, then yes, it is larger. But the entirety of the Imperial Palace complex is roughly comparable to this city. The outermost ring is the royal district, home to the highest officials and members of the royal family. Beyond that lies the Palace itself." He paused, his gaze drifting to the horizon as if he could see the towering spires of his homeland. "Harrenhal, the largest castle in Westeros, would seem a modest keep by comparison. Our towers rise over a thousand feet, and there are dozens of them. Three generations of emperors poured their will into its construction, forging it with the most powerful artifacts in the Empire's vaults. The magic of the Psijic Order, the machines of the Dwemer, the lore of the Lorensia—all were harnessed to create a fortress without equal. Thus was the Imperial Palace born."

His voice carried a quiet reverence, the kind reserved for legends and gods. Rhaenyra listened, her curiosity deepening.

"The palace holds thousands of rooms," Cyrus continued, his voice carrying the weight of reverence. "Endless corridors wind through its depths, and countless contraptions guard its heart. Marble, blackstone, and gold shape its halls, blending color and form into something both grand and imposing. The great hallway is vast enough for a hundred men to march abreast, its walls adorned with treasures gathered from every corner of the Empire. Three concentric walls encircle the Palace, each six hundred feet high—monuments to both artistry and war. Every stone was laid with magic, every inch armed with machines of sorcery and steam."

He paused, his gaze distant, as if he could see the palace rising before him. "It is built into the mountain we call the World's Throat—a peak at the very heart of our continent. Some say it is the core of the world's magic, the richest source of precious metals ever known. And they are not wrong. Deep beneath the palace lie mines of gold and enchanted ore, veins we have drawn from for thousands of years. And yet, the gold never runs dry."

Rhaenyra blinked, her disbelief plain. "You cannot be serious, my lord."

Cyrus's smile was faint but unwavering. "I assure you, I am not. The gold and gemstones heal over time, as though the mountain itself lives and breathes."

She stared at him, stunned into silence. She had heard Lord Remond and other Achaemedian nobles speak of the Imperial Palace before, but to hear it described by one who had walked its halls was another matter entirely.

"I should like to see such a place with my own eyes," she murmured, her voice tinged with awe.

"That can be arranged," Cyrus replied without hesitation.

"Truly?" Her eyes lit with sudden excitement, the weight of her station momentarily forgotten.

"You need only speak to your father," he said, his tone calm but firm.

Rhaenyra hesitated, the glow of her enthusiasm dimming. "Do you think he would allow it?"

"Your father is a good man, and a good king," Cyrus said, his voice carrying a quiet certainty. "He would not deny his daughter the chance to find joy in her life."

A small, wistful smile touched her lips. "Then I shall look forward to that day, my prince."

"As shall I, Princess," Cyrus replied, his gaze steady. "It would be my honor to guide you through my homeland."

Rhaenyra flushed, the warmth in his words catching her off guard. Cyrus noticed, of course. His lips curved into the faintest smirk. "Is something the matter, my lady?"

"N-nothing, my lord," she stammered, quickly masking her embarrassment with a polite cough. "I will speak with my father."

"Shall I accompany you?" His tone was unreadable, but there was a teasing edge to his words, a challenge hidden beneath their surface.

She hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "I would be delighted, my prince

_______________________________________________________________

-That Afternoon-

Dalia sat in her chambers, savoring the warmth of her tea and the delicate flavors of the baked treats laid out before her. Her brother, Cyrus, sat across from her, his enigmatic smile playing on his lips as he stared into his cup. The sight earned a sigh from his sister.

"Pleased with yourself, brother?" Dalia asked, arching a brow.

"You could say that," Cyrus replied, taking a measured sip of his tea. "The tea is delightful."

"The tea or the princess?" Dalia pressed, her smirk widening.

"Both, I suppose," he answered bluntly, eliciting a soft chuckle from his sister.

"Direct as always, brother. But are you certain? There are dozens of ladies vying for your attention," Dalia teased, her gaze sharp and unyielding.

"Indeed," Cyrus said, his tone neutral as he drained his cup and refilled it. "And I cannot deny their importance. But we can compromise."

"Compromise?" Dalia's voice was laced with amusement. "Do you truly believe you can strike a compromise with House Valerion?"

"I will invoke the Forty-Fifth Law," he replied simply, his words cutting through the air like a blade.

Dalia blinked, caught off guard. "I did not expect that."

"Perhaps none of us do," Cyrus said, his voice carrying a weight that silenced her teasing.

"The Empire will change, brother, sooner or later. And as heir, it is my duty to ensure its survival for millennia to come."

Dalia chuckled softly. "If Cyrus the Builder were still alive, I doubt even you could outshine him."

"I'll take that as a compliment, sister," Cyrus said, though his golden eyes dimmed as he stared into the depths of his cup. "The Monarch's Throne… Every one of our ancestors changed when they sat upon it. I wonder if I, too, will become someone else—someone far removed from the Cyrus Alargon I know."

Dalia's expression soured, mirroring the bitterness in her voice. "That throne is a mystery. No one truly understands it, save for Tyber the Founder. He alone knew its secrets, for he was the one who forged it."

But then her tone softened, a flicker of hope breaking through. "Still, I believe you can remain true to yourself, brother. You are stronger than you know."

"I hope so, sister," Cyrus said, his voice somber yet defiant. "I hope so."

The weight of the moment hung heavy in the air, and Dalia sought to lighten it. "I wonder, though, how you plan to win over the Targaryen princess."

Cyrus's charming smile returned, his earlier melancholy replaced by a glint of mischief. "She's already intrigued. A dragon ride or two should suffice."

"And thus, you forge a lasting alliance," Dalia said, her smirk returning.

"Don't blame me for that. It was Father's doing," Cyrus defended, his brows furrowing.

"Because you were so hopeless, Father had to intervene," Dalia shot back, her laughter ringing out as Cyrus rolled his eyes.

"When your time comes, sister, I won't be so merciful," he said, his tone carrying a dangerous edge.

Dalia met his gaze with a smirk of her own. "I'll be more formidable than you, brother. I am not you."

"I'd wager on that," Cyrus replied, a challenge in his voice.

"Of course you would," Dalia said, her tone light but her eyes gleaming with determination.