-King's Landing, Tourney Ground-
Cyrus Alargon listened as the roar of the crowd rolled across the tourney grounds. Drums thundered while flower petals drifted through the warm air, cast by laughing maidens from the wooden galleries above.
The structure itself was grand by Westerosi standards, raised from polished timber and sturdy oak. Yet to Cyrus, it seemed modest. Across Achaemedia stood amphitheaters carved from marble and basalt, vast enough to swallow cities within their walls. Still, for a civilization such as Westeros, the effort impressed him. They possessed little of the Empire's scale, but they understood spectacle well enough.
Tournaments. Such customs existed only upon the western fringes of Achaemedia, where imperial influence bled into older warrior traditions. Beyond those distant provinces, the culture never truly spread. The heartlands of the Empire favored other entertainments entirely. Chariot races that shook entire districts. Mock naval battles flooding colossal arenas. Ball games played before tens of thousands. Gladiatorial combats. Olympic festivals honoring gods older than memory.
Compared to those, a line of armored knights charging with lances felt quaint.
"People of Westeros!" the master of ceremonies cried, his voice carrying across the grounds. The noise slowly quieted. "On this joyous day, we celebrate His Grace, King Viserys Targaryen, and Queen Aemma, who shall soon bless the realm with an heir! And today, we also honor our distinguished guests from the east—Prince Cyrus Alargon and Princess Dalia Alargon of the Achaemenian Empire!"
The crowd erupted once more.
Cyrus raised a hand in measured acknowledgment, his smile restrained but courteous. Beside him, Dalia answered with far greater enthusiasm, waving brightly to the masses below. The Westerosi adored her already.
He nearly snorted at the performance of it all.
Behind the cheers and celebration, Cyrus noticed them easily enough. Achaemenian agents scattered among the crowd, hidden beneath wool cloaks and Westerosi colors. Some posed as merchants, others as wandering retainers. To foreign eyes they were indistinguishable from the locals.
His father's reach stretched farther than most kingdoms realized.
"Enjoying the festivities, Prince Cyrus?" King Viserys asked beside him, amusement lingering beneath his tired smile.
"Of course, Your Grace," Cyrus replied smoothly. "The Seven Kingdoms possess a certain charm."
Viserys laughed warmly. "I hope your riders shall provide us with greater entertainment before the day is done."
At that, Cyrus allowed the faintest curl of amusement to touch his lips.
"Our methods are rather exotic compared to those of Westerosi knights," he said. "But you shall see soon enough, Your Grace."
He ended the exchange with a polite incline of his head before returning his gaze to the field below, where armored riders prepared themselves beneath snapping banners and the thunder of drums.
"We have also been graced by the valor of Achaemedia!" the herald proclaimed. "Today, riders of the eastern Empire shall take part in our celebration!"
The tourney grounds erupted into thunderous applause.
From the opposing gates emerged the Westerosi knights first, proud beneath streaming banners and painted shields. Stags, lions, roses, falcons, and krakens rode beneath the afternoon sun. Each knight saluted the royal box as they passed, lowering lances and blades before their king.
Then came the foreign trumpet.
The sound tore through the arena like a storm horn from the deep. It came from a towering instrument of bronze and brass, crowned with the head of a snarling dragon. Its cry was alien to Westerosi ears—longer, harsher, heavier.
A second procession entered the lists.
Unlike the knights of Westeros, these riders bore no personal heraldry. No sigils of houses or bloodlines adorned their armor. Only the twin-headed dragon of House Alargon fluttered above them in crimson and gold.
Murmurs spread through the crowd.
"Look at those armors…"
"Their horses are armored."
Cyrus allowed himself a faint smile. Pride stirred quietly within him as the riders advanced across the field.
There were four of them.
Each horseman was encased in layered plate and chain, gilded in dark gold beneath the sunlight. The armor was immense—thick around the shoulders and chest, broad enough to make the men appear less human than forged statues of war. Their masks were fashioned into expressionless steel faces, cold and unfeeling.
Even their mounts were monstrous things. Massive destriers clad head-to-hoof in segmented steel barding, snorting beneath the weight of iron and gold. The ground trembled faintly beneath every step they took.
They did not resemble knights.
They resembled engines of conquest.
The foremost rider guided his armored horse forward before the royal platform. He struck a fist against his breastplate.
"Caesar Despotes Cyrus Alargon and King Viserys Targaryen," the rider declared, his voice booming across the arena, "we, the Cataphractarii Brigades of Achaemedia, shall honor this tourney with our prowess. Witness it well."
The reactions came swiftly. Awe from some. Unease from others. A few Westerosi knights sneered openly at the foreigners' arrogance.
"Your men seem rather confident, Prince Cyrus," King Viserys remarked with mild amusement.
"They are Cataphractarii," Cyrus answered evenly. "Or cataphracts, as your scholars might name them." His gaze remained upon the riders below. "They were born in our eastern heart provinces. Heavy cavalry bred for one purpose alone—to break infantry and horsemen alike."
Pride lingered beneath his calm voice, restrained only by years of royal discipline.
Viserys studied him carefully after that.
For a fleeting moment, the king chose silence instead of another jest. There was something unsettling behind the young prince's composure. Cyrus spoke of his empire not merely with affection, but with absolute certainty.
It reminded Viserys of his grandsire, the late King Jaehaerys.
That same calculating stillness. That same quiet certainty of power.
Behind the Caesar Despotes' easy smile lingered something colder—an unreadable gaze that carried the weight of conquest and empire. Most men in the arena failed to notice it.
Viserys did not.
"I shall place my wager upon the cataphract," Cyrus declared calmly. He gestured toward one of his attendants. "Three solidi."
At once, the servant stepped forward and produced a heavy leather pouch.
The bookmaker nearly stumbled when it landed in his hands. The sheer weight of it drew startled murmurs from nearby lords and retainers alike.
Viserys blinked several times, his attention lingering upon the foreign coins. He had seen tribute from across the Narrow Sea, yet never currency such as this. In Westeros, the golden dragon and crown stood as symbols of wealth. Compared to these eastern coins, however, they suddenly felt… modest.
"Solidi, my prince?" Otto Hightower asked carefully.
"Our highest gold standard," Cyrus answered with effortless ease. "Reserved primarily for the upper functions of imperial taxation and state administration." He leaned back slightly in his seat. "Each coin is forged from near-pure gold, weighing close to two hundred grams. Their circulation is tightly controlled by the Crown to maintain monetary stability throughout the Empire."
Several members of the court exchanged uneasy glances at that.
Beside him, Dalia exhaled a long, weary sigh.
"Perhaps you should not speak so casually about imperial finances, brother," she muttered, pressing a hand against her temple.
"Perhaps," Cyrus admitted with a smirk. Then he chuckled softly. "But this is a celebration, after all."
Dalia merely closed her eyes for a brief moment, already imagining the endless questions they would endure from merchants and maesters alike.
Rhaenyra, meanwhile, seemed delighted by the exchange. A faint smile tugged at her lips as she watched the siblings speak.
Her father did not share her amusement.
Viserys's expression had grown more thoughtful than before. Otto noticed it immediately. The implications disturbed them both. A coin of such weight and purity could disrupt entire markets if allowed to circulate freely within Westeros.
Before the silence could deepen further, the herald's voice thundered across the arena.
"Let the matches begin!"
The first joust commenced at once.
Westerosi knights thundered across the lists beneath snapping banners and roaring crowds. Lances shattered into splinters. Shields cracked beneath brutal impacts. Horses screamed as armored men crashed into the dirt.
One by one, noble riders entered the field in glory and left it bloodied—or did not leave at all.
The crowd adored every moment of it.
Ladies gasped in terror while drunken lords roared with savage delight. Gold changed hands endlessly as wagers rose and fell beside the lists. Bookmakers shouted over one another while servants dragged injured men from the churned mud.
Blood stained the ground dark red beneath the afternoon sun.
"Well," Cyrus remarked with an approving nod, "this is bloodier than I expected."
Dalia glanced toward him, faint amusement crossing her features. "You seem to be enjoying yourself far more than I anticipated, brother."
"Men are creatures of chaos," Cyrus replied as he lifted a goblet of wine. "Violence is merely one of the many colors within them." He took a slow sip before continuing. "If a ruler wishes to control such instincts, he must guide them toward proper outlets."
His gaze drifted back toward the lists below.
"In this case," he said evenly, "jousting serves the purpose well enough."
"I am pleased to know you have enjoyed our festivities, Prince Cyrus," Rhaenyra said warmly, her smile carrying that effortless charm the court so adored. Wherever she stood, attention seemed to follow naturally.
"It has been a worthy celebration," Cyrus replied. "And when my Triumph is held in Achaemedia, I shall honor your family in return, princess."
He offered her a measured smile, calm and assured.
Rhaenyra found herself holding his gaze a moment longer than intended.
"It seems your rider's match is about to begin," King Viserys remarked, leaning forward with visible curiosity.
Cyrus merely nodded before settling deeper into his seat, his attention returning to the lists below.
The cataphractarii rode differently from Westerosi knights. They carried no shields upon their arms, leaving the left side of their bodies seemingly exposed save for overlapping layers of scaled armor. To Westerosi eyes, it appeared reckless. Knights of the Seven Kingdoms trusted shield walls, heraldry, and the strength of their lance arm.
The easterners trusted something else entirely.
Preparation. Discipline. Weight.
Among the Achaemedians, victory was not surrendered to fate alone. The divine favored those who forged superiority through method and design.
The trumpets sounded.
Both riders lowered their lances.
The horses surged forward like unleashed thunder.
The Westerosi knight struck first. His lance crashed against the cataphract's scaled cuirass with enough force to splinter the shaft apart. Yet the eastern rider barely shifted in his saddle. The immense weight of his armored horse absorbed the impact while layers of refined steel protected the man beneath.
Then came the return strike.
The cataphract's spear tore through the opposing shield entirely, splitting wood and iron apart in a violent burst. The force carried onward into the knight's breastplate, denting the armor inward before hurling the man from his horse.
The crowd exploded into stunned cries.
Viserys stared openly at the field below. "What manner of armor do your people forge, Prince Cyrus?" he asked, fascination plain within his voice.
"A trade secret, Your Grace," Cyrus answered smoothly.
Then he allowed himself the faintest smirk.
"But I shall offer one word."
His eyes remained upon the victorious rider below.
"Carbon."
The foreign term lingered in the air, strange and meaningless to nearly everyone present.
Several lords frowned in confusion. Maesters exchanged uncertain glances.
Beside her brother, Dalia simply sighed into her wine, already exhausted by the realization that Cyrus had no intention whatsoever of explaining further.
_________________________________________________________________
The tourney reached its height when Prince Daemon Targaryen entered the lists.
A roar swept across the arena at once.
Daemon rode beneath banners of black and red, clad in dark armor chased with crimson patterns that shimmered beneath the afternoon sun like dragonfire trapped in steel. Even from afar, the prince carried himself with unmistakable arrogance. A smirk lingered behind his helm as he spread his arms wide before the crowd, basking in their adoration.
"People of Westeros and honored guests of Achaemedia!" the master of ceremonies cried. "We now arrive at the zenith of this grand tourney! Prince Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the City, shall choose his opponent for the final tilt!"
Drums thundered through the arena while nobles and commoners alike shouted Daemon's name.
Cyrus observed the Targaryen prince carefully.
Then Daemon looked directly at him.
A challenge passed between them without a single word spoken.
Daemon smirked first.
Cyrus returned it calmly.
That alone seemed enough to irritate the Rogue Prince. The Targaryen's smile sharpened slightly, though the Caesar Despotes remained perfectly at ease within his seat.
"The prince may choose between two worthy challengers!" the herald continued. "First—Posthumus Cornelius, rider of the Achaemenian Empire and warrior of the Cataphractarii Brigades!"
The armored cataphract guided his horse forward before lowering his head toward the royal platform.
"And second—Ser Criston Cole! A knight of humble birth who has proven his valor upon this very field!"
The dark-haired knight bowed in turn beneath the roaring applause of the crowd.
Cyrus applauded lightly, pride clear within his expression. Across the field, Posthumus answered by striking a fist against his armored chest in salute toward his Caesar.
Daemon watched the exchange carefully.
Then, without hesitation, the prince lowered his lance toward the cataphract.
A cruel grin crossed his face.
"The prince has chosen!" the herald bellowed. "Prince Daemon Targaryen shall face Posthumus Cornelius of the Achaemenian Empire!"
The arena erupted.
Westerosi lords leaned forward eagerly while the eastern envoys remained composed behind measured expressions. Even so, anticipation hung heavily in the air. This no longer felt like sport alone.
It felt political.
Beside the king, Cyrus clapped slowly, satisfaction evident upon his face.
At the lists below, both riders took position.
Daemon spun Dark Sister once before handing the Valyrian blade away. Posthumus remained utterly still atop his armored mount, silent as a statue of bronze and steel.
The trumpets blared.
Then both men charged.
Horseflesh thundered across the field. Spears lowered. Armor shook beneath the force of momentum.
When they collided, the sound rang through the arena like cracking stone. Splinters exploded through the air as both lances shattered upon impact.
And for the first time that day, the crowd witnessed the full brutality of two elite warriors meeting without restraint.
"Your Grace," Cyrus said suddenly, drawing Viserys's attention away from the lists below. "When your child is born, may I request permission to attend the queen's chambers?"
The question was unusual enough to silence several nearby conversations at once.
Rhaenyra turned toward him immediately, curiosity flickering across her face. Otto Hightower narrowed his eyes in suspicion, while Dalia glanced sideways at her brother as though already anticipating complications.
Viserys, however, seemed merely surprised.
"You wish to see my child?" the king asked with a warm smile. "You honor my House, Prince Cyrus. You shall be welcome."
Before another word could be spoken, the arena suddenly exploded into thunderous uproar.
Prince Daemon had fallen.
The Rogue Prince crashed violently into the dirt while his opponent remained mounted atop the armored warhorse, towering above the field like a bronze statue brought to life.
"Ha!" Cyrus laughed openly, genuine triumph flashing across his features for the first time that day.
Below, the victorious cataphract raised his spear high.
"Caesar!" Posthumus shouted across the arena. "I deliver this victory in your name!"
"You have served well," Cyrus answered, his voice carrying with imperial authority despite the chaos surrounding them.
The crowd slowly quieted as the foreign prince rose from his seat.
"Posthumus Cornelius," Cyrus declared, "by the authority of the Crown, I bestow upon you the cognomen Equitius. From this day forth, your name shall be Posthumus Cornelius Equitius."
Even the Westerosi nobles sensed the weight behind the proclamation.
"Present yourself before my scribes after the tourney, soldier," Cyrus continued. "Your record shall be amended accordingly."
Silence followed for half a heartbeat.
Then the Achaemenian delegation erupted into visible shock. Several envoys exchanged stunned glances while officers bowed their heads immediately in acknowledgment of the decree.
Beside him, Dalia stared at her brother in disbelief.
"Panem et circenses," she muttered beneath her breath. "Here of all places?"
Cyrus merely smiled faintly, entirely unapologetic.
"It shall be the greatest honor of my life, my Caesar!" Posthumus cried before guiding his armored horse from the field in triumph.
Only Daemon remained behind.
The Targaryen prince slowly rose from the dirt, fury burning plainly within his violet eyes. His gaze locked onto Cyrus with naked hostility.
The Caesar Despotes met it calmly.
"Did you just rename your vassal?" Rhaenyra asked, fascination evident in her voice.
"In a sense," Dalia answered before Cyrus could speak. Though her tone remained composed, lingering exasperation still touched her expression. "Within the Empire, the imperial court may grant an individual an additional name in recognition of exceptional achievement."
She folded her arms lightly.
"A cognomen is not merely ceremonial. Such recognition immediately affects one's standing within the imperial administration and military hierarchy. Merit carries… tangible rewards in Achaemedia."
The explanation only deepened the intrigue among the Westerosi nobles nearby.
In Westeros, honor came through bloodlines.
In Achaemedia, it seemed a man could forge it personally beneath the gaze of the Crown.
"I have read of such things," Rhaenyra said thoughtfully. "Merit. Your nobility does not seem entirely bound to land or blood."
There was no condemnation in her voice. Only fascination.
"Blood still matters within the Empire," Dalia replied calmly. "But governance is entrusted primarily to those who prove themselves capable."
She folded her hands neatly atop her lap.
"Our officials rise through academies, examinations, and administrative service. A noble birth may open doors more easily, but incompetence closes them just as quickly."
Otto Hightower's eyes narrowed slightly at that.
"I have studied the texts your Empire granted to the Crown," the Hand remarked in his usual measured tone. "If I understand correctly, many of your highest officials began from rather humble origins before ascending to imperial office."
Though his face remained stoic, Dalia noticed the uncertainty hidden beneath his words.
"That is correct," she answered. "The most gifted students within our academies are invited into what we call the Merit League. There, they undergo further education for several years before being assigned to local administrative elections."
Even the nearby lords had begun listening now.
"A successful candidate is often appointed to a village or lesser township first," Dalia continued. "After five years, their achievements are reviewed by provincial authorities. If they govern well, they advance. If they fail, they are demoted—or removed entirely."
Several Westerosi nobles exchanged uneasy glances.
"Repeated often enough," Cyrus added smoothly, his attention still lingering upon the tourney grounds below, "competence becomes the foundation for higher authority."
A faint smirk touched his lips.
"And eventually," he continued, "the exceptional may rise into service beneath one of the Three Crown Bodies."
"Surely the Crown alone does not decide such demotions," Corlys Velaryon observed, his voice calm but probing.
Cyrus finally turned toward him.
"Sharp as ever, Lord Corlys."
The amusement faded from the Caesar's expression.
"I shall offer a recent example. Two years ago, a county governor named Petrus increased the tariffs and harbor taxes of Fallkarth without approval from the central administration."
The nearby nobles listened carefully now.
"The merchants protested first," Cyrus said. "Then the commoners joined them. Petitions flooded the provincial consulate. By the time the matter reached the provincial assembly, the governor was stripped of office entirely."
Silence settled around the royal platform.
Every lord and lady present understood the implication immediately.
Danger.
Otto Hightower understood it most clearly of all. Raised beneath the influence of maesters and governance, he recognized the threat hidden beneath the Empire's efficiency.
An educated populace was dangerous enough.
An educated populace encouraged to challenge local authority through institutional means was something else entirely.
The Achaemedians did not merely tolerate capable commoners. They cultivated them. Rewarded them. Elevated them.
It stood in direct opposition to the very foundation of Westerosi order, where power flowed downward from noble blood and the smallfolk remained dependent upon their lords for guidance, protection, and justice.
And worse still, the easterners were growing wealthier from every passing season.
Trade reports arriving in King's Landing painted an increasingly troubling picture. Gold flowed steadily eastward while Achaemenian goods flooded Westerosi markets—silks, steel, medicines, glassworks, instruments, and luxuries unlike anything crafted within the Seven Kingdoms. Noble houses adored them. Merchants competed desperately for them.
Yet little of that gold returned.
The imbalance could not continue forever.
Even selling those exotic goods posed risks. Too much foreign wealth entering local circulation too quickly could destabilize entire regional economies.
Otto understood that as well.
Before the heavy silence could deepen further, the herald's booming voice swept across the arena once more.
"Now—Ser Criston Cole shall face the rider of Achaemedia in the final tilt!"
The crowd erupted again.
"May the finest warrior claim victory this day!"
__________________________________________________________
Ser Criston Cole tightened his grip around the tourney lance as his horse shifted beneath him.
His opponent was no ordinary rider.
The cataphract fought like a veteran of true battlefields, not merely tourney grounds. Every movement carried the discipline of drilled warfare. His armored mount alone was terrifying—a monstrous beast clad in steel heavy enough to break lesser horses upon impact.
Yet Criston saw the weakness hidden beneath that strength.
Weight.
Heavy armor granted power, but it also demanded commitment. Once momentum carried the cataphract forward, changing direction became slower. Less fluid.
Criston inhaled slowly behind his visor.
Then the trumpets sounded.
Both riders charged.
The earth thundered beneath galloping hooves as the distance between them vanished in seconds. Lances lowered. Steel gleamed beneath the sun.
Their spears collided with bone-shaking force.
Wood exploded into splinters as both men lurched violently in their saddles. The crowd roared while fragments of shattered lance scattered across the lists.
Neither rider fell.
At once they wheeled their horses around, servants rushing forward with fresh weapons.
Again they charged.
This time, Criston moved first.
Instead of meeting strength against strength, he guided his horse sharply aside at the final moment. The maneuver was swift—far swifter than the heavier eastern rider could fully answer.
Then Criston struck.
His lance slammed beneath Posthumus's shoulder where the plates overlapped weakest. The impact twisted the cataphract violently sideways before tearing him from the saddle altogether.
The armored giant crashed into the dirt with a deafening roar of steel.
For half a heartbeat, silence consumed the arena.
Then the crowd erupted.
Criston's ribs burned beneath his armor from the earlier impacts, but he forced himself upright regardless. Raising the broken remains of his lance high into the air, he accepted the deafening applause washing over him from every side.
Victory.
Yet when he lifted his gaze toward the royal platform, his triumph faltered slightly.
Prince Cyrus Alargon was watching him.
Not with anger. Not with humiliation.
Interest.
The eastern prince's expression remained calm and unreadable, but something about his gaze unsettled Criston deeply. It was the look of a man measuring another man's worth.
Then Cyrus smiled.
It was genuine enough to seem warm.
But behind it lingered the cold calculation of a marble statue brought briefly to life.
The sight sent an involuntary chill crawling along Criston's spine.
He watched as the prince leaned toward King Viserys, speaking quietly into the monarch's ear. Viserys frowned slightly in confusion before responding. Moments later, Princess Rhaenyra joined the discussion, her expression thoughtful as the exchange grew more serious.
Criston could not hear the words.
Only the atmosphere shifting around them.
Then King Viserys rose from his seat.
"Ser Criston Cole," the king proclaimed, his voice carrying across the arena, "you have won this tourney. By my authority, I grant you the favor of the Crown, and—"
A maester suddenly rushed toward the royal platform.
The old man leaned hurriedly into the king's ear and whispered something unseen by the crowd below.
Viserys's face changed instantly.
The warmth vanished from his expression.
Without another word, the king stepped away from the platform entirely.
Confused murmurs spread through the arena like wildfire. Nobles exchanged uneasy glances while servants hurried anxiously through the stands.
Criston lowered his broken lance slowly. Even from the lists below, he could feel it. Something terrible had just happened.