Cyrus lay reclined on his stomach before the feast spread out before him. The celebration had been arranged in the heart of Myr, where even the common folk were free to gather and partake. He had ordered a grand bazaar erected beside it, open to all who wished to join. It had been two weeks since his conquest, and a week since order had been restored. With automata looming over the streets and disciplined soldiers at every corner, no soul dared challenge his rule.
Much of Achaemedia's wealth was on display: spices, textiles, metalworks, ornaments, and curiosities unseen in the Free Cities. Some items were given freely; others—particularly the luxuries—had to be bought at a fair price. Cyrus knew well enough that merchants were greedy creatures, and this spectacle would stir a storm across the regional markets. The manufacturing might of Achaemedia made many of these intricate marvels cheap and easily reproduced, even if, to outsiders, they seemed impossibly complex.
A blow like this would shatter local monopolies and reshape the flow of trade. In time, it would make it far easier for him to seize control of the region's markets.
When the cylinders were distributed across the land and their contents proclaimed aloud, Cyrus knew the effect would be inevitable: the people would begin to share a collective belief—not only in the Achaemedian system, but in him personally, as a new steward of divine mandate upon the earth.The Red Priests, however, took poorly to this notion. Even after several meetings and offered compromises, nothing of substance had been gained.
Tonight's feast was meant to charm the restless—one last attempt to soften the hearts of those still resisting Achaemedian rule and its manifest destiny.
"Toast to our benevolent ruler!" a noble cried out, lifting a golden goblet from his couch.
A roar answered him in unison as the others raised their cups. Smiles greeted Cyrus from every side—smiles bright and eager, yet each masking its own tangle of fear, ambition, and calculation.
Cyrus lifted his crystal goblet, triumph tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth, and drank. The crowd drank with him until every cup ran dry.
"Take your feast as you will, my people," Cyrus called, his voice carrying far despite his relaxed posture. "For today is ours!"
A thunder of celebration swept through the square. Servants hurried to bring out more food, while humanoid automata stepped forward with practiced precision. Their strange, gleaming forms drew gasps of awe and delight from the onlookers, their presence as mesmerizing as the feast itself.
With a great fire roaring in the center of the square—a pillar of gold and orange that breathed upward like some ancient spirit—Cyrus watched his celebration unfold with perfect clarity. The flames reflected in his eyes as he studied the crowd. His new subjects filled the plaza, pressing shoulder to shoulder, their faces awash in light. They feasted, laughed, and raised their cups in his name.
Some praised him with genuine devotion, their voices warm, almost trembling with newfound hope. Others joined the chorus only because the moment demanded it—their smiles a touch too wide, their cheers too quick to die on their tongues. It was to be expected. People bent to power as reeds bent to the wind. Yet Cyrus could not help but find it strange how swiftly these Free City folk threw themselves toward a new ruler, eager to appear loyal, eager to please, eager to be seen.
Even the most primitive tribes of Achaemedia—those he had once called barbarians—had never shown such feverish enthusiasm.
"Bring the entertainment!" Cyrus declared, his voice bright and cutting through the din like a silver blade.
At once the music swelled, rising in triumphant harmony. Wind instruments trilled like larks over the fields, while bowed instruments groaned low and rich, weaving melancholy through the jubilant air. Plucked strings chimed sharply, dancing atop percussion beats that rumbled like distant thunder. The musicians played with practiced precision, yet there was wildness in the melody too—an untamed joy born from victory, firelight, and wine.
At the edge of the square, several mages stepped forward. With subtle gestures and murmured invocations, they bent the great fire to their will. Flames twisted and unfurled into shapes—ribbons, spirals, towering plumes that shifted from emerald to sapphire to crimson in the span of a heartbeat. Light scattered across the sky in a sweeping canopy of colors, dissolving and reforming in a kaleidoscope that made even hardened soldiers gape upward in wonder.
Then the dancers emerged.
They swirled into the firelight like living embers—women draped in flowing red silks that clung to their bodies and snapped in the wind. Jewels adorned their arms, ankles, and necks, catching the flame's glow until each performer seemed carved from living gold. Their movements were fluid, deliberate, and impossibly graceful. They embodied the wealth, power, and unshakable pride of the Achaemedian Empire—untouchable, radiant, and utterly confident in their dominion.
Cyrus reached for the decanter at his side, filled with Red Tear, its hue rich as spilt rubies. He poured steadily until his crystal goblet brimmed. The firelight caught the surface of the wine, turning it into liquid blood. Cyrus filled his goblet with another Red Tear until it was full.
"Caesar."
A voice called from behind him—steady, formal, yet tinged with the exhaustion of long travel. Cyrus turned to see the Remembrancer he had dispatched to Westeros several days prior. The man stood with dust on his cloak, the faint salt-smell of the Narrow Sea still clinging to him. He bowed deeply.
"You have returned," Cyrus said, leaning back with measured calm. "Now tell me—how did King Viserys and his court react to the efforts I have shown them?"
The Remembrancer inhaled slowly, as though steadying himself before recounting the spectacle."Well, Caesar… it was nothing short of an uproar. Once every chest had been opened—once Princess Dalia had explained each item and revealed their meaning—the court erupted. Lords, maesters, even the king himself began flooding her with requests, proposals, and offers of alliance."
He spoke with deliberate slowness, recalling each moment as though replaying it behind his eyelids.
Cyrus's eyes sharpened, never leaving the man."Peculiar. And what did you find most interesting among their requests?"
"Otto Hightower," the Remembrancer began, and a faint note of contempt crept into his voice, "immediately requested a direct trade charter with Oldtown. He wishes to secure exclusive rights for several of our goods—metals, mechanisms, even minor enchantments—should we be willing to part with them."
Cyrus hummed thoughtfully.
"The Lannisters expressed interest in our silks and textile work. House Velaryon requested a formal audience with representatives from our merchant guilds—apparently, they seek to negotiate long-term contracts for naval supplies and enchanted materials."
The Remembrancer's lips tightened, betraying a flicker of disdain he could not fully hide.
"Is there something more?" Cyrus asked quietly, tone edged with curiosity.
"Yes," the Remembrancer replied. "The rest of the councilmen followed like eager hounds, each with a 'similar' request—trade, favors, exclusive access, or negotiations."
He paused, fingers touching his chin as his gaze drifted momentarily to the floor.
"Although," he continued, "I found Princess Dalia's private conversation with King Viserys to be… the most intriguing development of all."
Cyrus lifted an eyebrow, interest piqued. "Oh? And what did they say?"
"I heard about some arrangement with Imperator Augustus himself. My apologies, Caesar. I did not catch anything further—once they entered the adjoining chamber, their voices were lost to me." The Remembrancer bowed his head, shoulders tight as if bracing for rebuke, avoiding Cyrus's eyes with studied caution.
"You have done nothing wrong, my loyal servant." Cyrus's voice softened, a controlled warmth layered over his usual imperial composure. He extended his right hand toward the expanse of revelers before them. "Now go—enjoy the celebration. This abundance is given so that all may partake in it. Take whatever you wish."
"Yes, Caesar." The Remembrancer bowed once more, relief evident in the loosened lines of his posture, before slipping away into the sea of bodies and color.
When Cyrus returned his gaze to the festivities, the emperor's expression settled back into something carved from stone—stoic, unreadable, but intensely observant. His people swarmed around the great fire at the center of the hall, and in them he witnessed a kaleidoscope of human emotion. Joy radiated the strongest: genuine gratitude in the eyes of some, while others wore smiles as sharp and insincere as cut glass. Yet all played their part beneath the glow of his generosity.
He saw men already pulling women aside, whispering temptations into their ears, their intentions as clear as the wine in their cups. He saw others drinking themselves into a blissful haze, abandoning restraint beneath the swell of music and heat. Further off, children clustered around several humanoid automata—sleek constructs of goldwork and arcane craftsmanship—marveling at the way their articulated fingers waved back with gentle precision. The machines responded with soft whirs and warm, chiming voices, programmed to soothe, amuse, and inspire awe.
Nearby, groups of women laughed in delight as servants carried out trays heavy with dishes rich in Achaemedian spices—their aromatic warmth drifting through the hall. What was commonplace in Cyrus's homeland was a treasure here; each bite seemed to transport the diners somewhere distant and exotic, and their pleasure was unrestrained.
With a subtle lift of his chin, Cyrus caught the eye of one particular courtier stationed near the musicians. A barely perceptible nod passed between them—an unspoken command, smooth and absolute. Instantly, the man moved to set the next spectacle in motion, the gears of Cyrus's carefully crafted evening shifting seamlessly into their next brilliant display.
The courtier dipped his head in acknowledgment before raising both hands. The dwemer-forged metal of his gloves hummed to life, fine etchings along the plates glowing as arcane circuits activated. Sparks crackled between his fingertips—thin threads of electricity weaving themselves into intricate patterns. One by one, others like him stepped forward, forming a loose ring around the great fire.
They were animomancers, disciples of the vanished Dwemer race, trained in the ancient discipline of channeling magical impulses into mechanical vessels. Where others bent the elements or shaped raw aether, these mages commanded metal, gears, and soul-echoing cores. At their silent cue, the automatons scattered throughout the field shuddered, their runic joints clicking into new configurations. Slowly, deliberately, each construct raised both hands toward the darkening sky.
A heartbeat later, their palms burst open.
From within their metal hands, projectiles shot upward like silver comets. They ascended before erupting in midair—each detonation birthing an explosion of shimmering color. Blues bled into crimsons, gold wove through viridian, and all of it merged seamlessly with the swirling hues conjured earlier by the elemental magicians. Color upon color layered itself across the night, spiraling together until the entire sky became a single, vast tapestry of light.
The spectacle resembled an artificial aurora, but one no natural sky had ever dared to produce—an impossible dance of shades crashing, melding, and refracting into brilliance. Even the stars seemed muted beside it.
"Mother, look!""
This is heaven!"
"Long live Prince Cyrus!"
"Gods, they command nature itself!"
Voices rose from every corner—children shouting in awe, adults cheering with drunken ecstasy, elders whispering prayers to whatever deity might be listening. The flood of adoration washed over Cyrus like warm wind, drawing a quiet, satisfied smile to his lips.
"Once, they were slaves," he murmured to himself, tone soft and almost mournful. "Once, beggars starving for a crust of bread. Once, abandoned children lost among the alleys."
He picked up a grilled chicken thigh from a nearby platter, taking a slow, contemplative bite as his gaze drifted across the jubilant masses. The flavors were rich, yet his mind was elsewhere.
His father—aged, weary, fighting the slow decay of his own body—stood at the edge of Cyrus's thoughts. The old warrior's strength was waning, his temper thinning, his resolve flickering like an exhausted flame. And Cyrus's own marriage to Rhaenyra, though politically potent, cut both ways: a blessing for legitimacy, a curse for factional ambition.
Meanwhile, Achaemedia itself was changing. Rapidly. The spread of wealth, knowledge, and technological marvels had given rise to new political currents—factions more organized and ideologically fortified than any before them. No longer could power rest solely in the hands of warriors or nobles; the common folk, empowered and educated, now shaped the tides of governance.
Thus, his father's most ambitious reform had become inevitable: a unifying ruling faction, binding every interest under a single banner. A new congressional body—modernized, systematic, built on the bureaucratic foundations laid by generations before—was being forged. And it would reshape the empire as profoundly as any war or conquest.
Cyrus chewed thoughtfully, the revelry roaring around him, the artificial aurora blazing overhead—yet his mind lingered on the shifting world beneath his feet.
"Two years until the next Five-Year Plan meeting…"
Cyrus exhaled the words under his breath, the syllables barely audible beneath the jubilant roar of the festival. His mind churned, calculating possibilities, dissecting scenarios with the cold precision of a strategist.
Originally, he had intended to send his father an extensive proposal—one meant to consolidate additional authority into House Alargon, to shape the bureaucracy and cement its role in the empire's future structure. But the sudden discovery of Westeros and Essos had thrown the empire into a frenzy of opportunity. Every scholar, every merchant, every minister was consumed by this new frontier. In such an atmosphere, there would be no time, no attention to spare for political restructuring.
So the proposal would have to wait.
Tonight, however, tonight was a moment to let the world breathe. To let the celebration run hot and wild. Midnight was when he would step forward, declare his new charter, and formalize the first cylinder—a proclamation that would ripple across continents.
For now, he bit into the grilled chicken again, savoring the juices. Yet somewhere behind this rich flavor, he longed for the familiar spiced flour of the chicken from his homeland. A small ache of nostalgia slipped into him.
His gaze drifted to the dancers, their bodies flowing with the firelit air. Silks swirled in waves of scarlet and gold, jewels glimmering against warm skin. One dancer in particular drew his eye—the lead performer. Her movements were mesmerizing, a blend of discipline and freedom, grace and quiet fire. Her figure curved and spun like a living calligraphy stroke across the night.
Cyrus inhaled sharply.
A small, private ache welled in his chest.
Warmth.
Touch.
He had forgotten those simple things. Or perhaps he had sacrificed them so long ago that the memory itself had become ghostlike.
With a quick swallow, he emptied his goblet again. The wine pounded behind his temples, a heavy throb nudging at his clarity. He reached into the inner pocket of his robe, pulled out a slender vial of blue-glass, and uncorked it with practiced ease.
He drank.The effect was immediate. Like a curtain lifted from his mind, the fog dissolved. The world sharpened with crisp edges and bright contrasts.
"Well. That's better," he murmured, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off invisible weight. He gestured to a nearby servant.
The man hurried forward with a respectful bow. "Yes, Caesar?"
"That girl," Cyrus said, nodding toward the lead dancer. "Find her name, her background, her documents. I want everything prepared and sent to me later. And inform her." His tone, though calm, carried a certain unmistakable authority.
"As you command, Caesar."
The servant bowed deeply, almost folding in half, before hurrying into the crowd.
Cyrus allowed himself to sink into the moment, surrendering to its rhythm and warmth. Hours passed in a gentle blur of music, laughter, and swirling lights until, at last, the deep velvet of midnight draped itself across the city of Myr. One by one, the revelries quieted. The fanfare faded, the dancers withdrew, and a hush fell across the great square—thousands of eyes turning toward the lone figure ascending the podium.
Caesar Despotes stood elevated above them, illuminated by the glow of braziers and the soft shimmer of automaton lanterns. He studied the sea of faces. Many looked up at him with a mixture of hope, gratitude, and awe. Others—too deep in their cups—lay slumped against tables or sprawled under the warm night air, snoring loudly or babbling incoherently.
"You should begin this after the ceremony," Averys muttered beside him, voice dry as desert dust.
"You might be right," Cyrus replied, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. "But people's hearts are always more open—more easily stirred—when they're drunk on richness and revelry."
Averys groaned, rubbing his temples. "Fine. But don't complain when they're drooling on their own shoes."
"Please, my friend. Tonight, there is nothing here worth worrying over," Cyrus waved him off, earning a long-suffering, unimpressed stare. Cyrus's answer was nothing more than a soft chuckle that died warmly in his throat.
A servant approached them then, bowing so low his forehead nearly brushed the ground."Your voice enhancer is ready, my Prince."
Cyrus nodded as the device was wheeled closer—a long golden pipe with a circular disc atop it, humming faintly as automata connected it to hidden conduits running through the square. The machinery pulsed with soft runic light. Cyrus inhaled deeply, centering himself, then allowed his gaze to move across the faces of his newly conquered people—now his subjects.
He stepped forward.
When he spoke, the enhancer caught his voice and carried it across the entire field like a rolling tide.
"My people. Some of you might recognize me as your conqueror. Some will see me as a tyrant who usurped the power of the masters. However, that richness before you cannot exist if I had not laid my hand upon this land and liberated it. In my homeland, we have A Golden Mandate. This Mandate is a royal responsibility by heaven to take care of my people, making them rich and empowering them. Starting from basic needs, they shall eventually rise in the Imperial ladders. Thus, they shall gain any gold and power in it. You can become anything, as you are the master of your own fate.
I have given you all my Cylinder and cemented it with a holy ceremony. That is my promise. If any of those promises are left unfinished, each one of you can report it to the guilds. I am here at your service, by heaven's will, I shall oblige to answer."
His voice thundered across the square, reshaped and magnified by the automatons that translated his words into a polished, melodic form of High Valyrian laced with Achaemedian inflections. The sound carried with an almost divine clarity—each syllable falling like a decree from the heavens themselves.
They understood him.
Every word.
Every promise.
Every implication woven beneath the oratory.
Most of those gathered before him had once been slaves, shackled to misery and treated as little more than chattel. Others were lowborn laborers or castaways of society, fated to toil endlessly for scraps. Yet tonight, under the glow of enchanted firelight and mechanical brilliance, they stood tall—draped in fine fabrics, eating food they had never dreamed of tasting, and handling luxuries that once belonged only to the powerful.
Their former masters—the merchant princes, the magistrates, the petty tyrants—were gone. Some had fled. Others had knelt. Many had seen their stolen wealth seized and redistributed. The old order had died screaming.
From the edges of the crowd, a voice pierced the silence.
"Ave Caesar!"
It was shouted in broken Nevirian—a crude echo of a foreign tongue—but it was loud, fierce, and filled with unfiltered devotion.
Another followed, stronger.
"Ave Caesar!"
Then a woman, her voice trembling with emotion.
"Ave Caesar!"
And finally, a child—small, shrill, but bright with hope.
"Long live!"
The dam broke.
A wave of voices surged across the square, each one rising to meet the next until the night was swallowed whole by a single roaring chant:
"Ave Caesar!""Ave Caesar!""Ave Caesar!"
Cyrus felt the sound strike him like a physical force, swelling in his chest—a warmth of pride, triumph, and something dangerously close to affection. His lips curved into a small smile, but behind his eyes flickered a sharper gleam: purpose.
He raised his hand.
The crowd fell silent almost instantly.
"Tonight," Cyrus declared, his voice rolling like distant thunder, "I proclaim this land under the blessings of Achaemedia."
A ripple moved through the crowd—anticipation, curiosity, awe.
"Those who seek the privileges of my civilization," he continued, "may come to the guilds. Choose the discipline that calls to you. Train. Learn. Rise."
His gaze swept over them—slaves, freedmen, commoners, all standing beneath fire and stars.
"Together, we shall thrive."
A pause.
Then, with the force of a hammer striking iron:
"In gold… and in glory."
___________________________________________________________________
-A few hours later-
Cyrus sat on the balcony, draped in a robe of deep red satin that shimmered faintly beneath the moonlight. A warm night breeze flowed from the city, carrying scents of spiced wine, roasting meats, and the lingering traces of festival smoke. He rested one elbow against the carved stone rail, his gaze fixed intently on the vast sprawl of Myr below.
From this height, the city unfolded like an intricate map—alleys twisting like veins, plazas glowing with torchlight, and rooftops stacked atop one another in uneven layers. To Cyrus, it was not just a conquered territory. It was a living machine.
People, in his eyes, were but one set of gears—essential yet exchangeable. Beyond them lay broader cogs that shaped the soul of a realm: culture, language, religion. Above these, the towering macrostructures of identity. Below them, the invisible lattice of his true obsession: infrastructure.
His ancestor—Emperor Cyrus Alargon, the First—theorized long ago that stone and steel could mold abstract ideas, and that abstractions could, in turn, shape brick and mortar. Cities influenced belief; temples guided behavior; roads reshaped economies. It was the foundation of wealth, obedience, and empire.
Centuries later, that thesis had evolved into a doctrine—codified, revised, perfected. It gave birth to a ministry devoted to nothing but societal engineering. And now, that vision found itself reaching across the Narrow Sea into lands that had never dreamed such a thing possible.
Westeros and Essos had no comprehension of planned development, no sense of gradual societal refinement. Here, roads were built reactively, not strategically. Cities sprawled because they had to, not because they should. Religion shifted with politics, and politics shifted with whim. To mold them into even a crude reflection of Achaemedia would take decades—perhaps his entire lifetime.
His gaze drifted back inside his room, where half-finished projects from the capital lay scattered across the table—scrolls filled with diagrams, drafts of civic codes, enchanted lenses, and metallic components awaiting assembly. The flicker of candlelight gave everything a strangely incomplete glow, as though the future remained half-formed.
Slowly, his eyes returned to the city. Then downward, toward his own hands. He flexed his fingers, feeling a faint tension in his knuckles.
"Am I truly changing so much?" he murmured to himself. Dalia's words echoed in his mind—her worried remark that he had become colder, more distant, his intellect cutting sharper than any blade. Some had even whispered that his presence alone felt… terrifying.
A soft creak broke his thoughts.
The door opened.
A servant stepped inside, bowing his head. "Caesar, the woman you requested has arrived."
"Let her in," Cyrus said, voice calm but without warmth.
Moments later, she entered.
Wrapped entirely in silk from the imperial weavers—fabric dyed in soft pastels and embroidered with threads of shimmering gold—she looked more like someone who belonged in the Imperial harem of Versepolis than in the subdued chambers of a foreign palace. Her posture was hesitant, almost fragile, as though unsure whether to bow or stand still.
Cyrus regarded her for a moment, studying her with an unreadable expression.
"What is your name?" he asked at last, his voice measured, steady.
"Drossia, my lord," she answered in her soft tone.
"Essosi name, huh," he remarked, a faint smile curving his lips.
"I was born in Pentos. I moved here six years ago." Her eyes gleamed subtly as they lingered on Caesar.
"Silk of such tapestry is reserved for women in the Imperial Palace," Cyrus said, voice calm but deliberate. "Especially in the royal harem."
Drossia stiffened, visibly startled by the implication."Your Highness… I—"
"It doesn't matter."
Cyrus stepped toward her and, with a slow and deliberate motion, slipped the silk cloak from her shoulders.
Beneath it, she wore red dancer's attire that left her midriff bare—gold and bronze earrings adorning her upper wrap and hips. Her golden skin glimmered faintly under the lamplight, revealed entirely to his gaze.
"Would you dance for me here?" he asked, stepping back and retrieving his bottle and goblet.
"Of course, my lord."
She bowed her head lightly and moved a few paces away. Then, with practiced grace, she began to dance—her motions fluid, elegant, rippling like water. A blend of Pentoshi softness and Myrish precision shaped every turn of her hips and movement of her hands, the sea's legacy in every sway.
Cyrus drank her in with his eyes, the wine forgotten. For a brief moment, the shadows of war and ruin receded.
Tonight, he would allow himself this indulgence.
"At least it gives me some recollection of becoming human," Cyrus murmured. He set his goblet on the table and stepped forward, reaching out to halt her dance.
"May I kiss you?" he asked quietly.
"As you wish, Your Highness."Drossia leaned in, her lips meeting his—slow, tentative, and soft.
After countless years of indoctrination and rigid mental discipline, Cyrus allowed a long-buried part of himself to surface. He let desire occupy the front of his mind, let it shape his expression and loosen the edges of his restraint. His hands moved across her body with deliberate reverence, seeking every place where she welcomed his touch.
"I won't allow you to sleep tonight," he murmured against her skin, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Because tomorrow—and every day after—you will be part of the Achaemedian court."
Drossia flushed, breath catching for a moment.
And so, that night, Cyrus surrendered to sensation. He allowed himself to indulge fully, letting this rediscovered fragment of humanity carve itself deeper into his psyche—an anchor against the coldness that had ruled him for so long.