Chapter 1: The First Contact

"Long ago, we believed the world to be vast yet finite, a place where the edges of the map were marked by the unknown. But that notion was shattered the day a ship sailed into Blackwater Bay, bearing a people unlike any we had ever seen. They called themselves the Naevirians, emissaries of the Achamaedia Empire, a realm said to lie beyond the Sunset Sea. Little is known of this empire, save for the tales told by its own citizens and the few lords who have ventured there. They speak of a civilization that surpass even the height of Valyria, of armies vast beyond counting, and riches so abundant they could drown Westeros in gold and jewels. At first, I laughed at such claims, dismissing them as the boasts of men drunk on their own grandeur. But when I saw their land with my own eyes, I took back every word. Truly, it is a land of endless possibilities."

-Personal note of Maester Ardryn 160 AC

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-104 AC. Westeros. King's Landing-

Viserys Targaryen stood by the window, his gaze fixed upon the dark waters of Blackwater Bay. A goblet of wine rested in his hand, its contents swirling as he absently turned it. The weight of his crown felt heavier of late, and the burden of his lineage pressed upon him like a stone. He had longed for a son, an heir to secure the future of House Targaryen and the Iron Throne. Yet, despite his efforts, the gods had seen fit to deny him. Rhaenyra, his firstborn, remained his only child. The realm demanded a man to lead it, and Viserys could not silence the whispers that followed him like shadows.

Now, Aemma was with child once more. The maesters had confirmed it, though it was too early to tell whether the babe would be a boy or a girl. Viserys dared not hope too fiercely, for hope had burned him before. He closed his eyes, the weight of his thoughts pressing down upon him.

"Gods be good," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

He raised the goblet to his lips and drank deeply, the taste of Arbor gold doing little to ease his troubled mind. The wind from the Narrow Sea swept through the open window, carrying with it the salt-kissed scent of the waves. It brushed against his skin, cool and soothing, and for a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased. His muscles relaxed, and he allowed himself a rare moment of peace.

But peace, like all things, was fleeting. Viserys opened his eyes and turned his gaze to the horizon, where the sun was beginning to rise. The sky blushed with hues of pink and gold, and the sight brought a faint smile to his lips. The beauty of the world never failed to remind him of the gods' hand in its creation. It was a balm to his weary soul.

Yet, as his eyes scanned the bay, something unusual caught his attention. He leaned forward, squinting against the morning light. A shape loomed in the distance, vast and unfamiliar. At first, he thought it a trick of the light, but as the sun climbed higher, the silhouette grew clearer. It was a ship, larger than any he had ever seen. If it was visible from such a distance, it could only mean one thing.

"That ship is... enormous," Viserys muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief.

The sound of the chamber door opening broke his reverie. He turned to see Otto Hightower, his Hand, striding into the room. The man's face was grave, his usual composure frayed at the edges.

"Your Grace," Otto began, his tone heavy with unease, "a ship has been sighted approaching from the Narrow Sea."

Viserys' brow furrowed. "The Free Cities? Have they grown bold enough to send an envoy unannounced?"

Otto shook his head. "No, Your Grace. The ship bears no banners of the Free Cities. Instead, it flies a sigil—a black and gold dragon."

"A dragon?" Viserys' interest was piqued, his voice sharpening. "Whose sigil is this?"

"That, Your Grace, we do not know," Otto replied, his words laced with a faint dread. "The ship itself is... peculiar. Like nothing we've seen before."

Viserys' mind raced. A dragon sigil, black and gold, on a ship of unknown origin. It was a mystery, and mysteries in his experience rarely boded well. Still, he was a king, and kings did not cower before the unknown.

"Hail them," he commanded, his voice firm. "But only if they show no sign of hostility."

"At once, Your Grace," Otto said, bowing his head 

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To call the ship "huge" would have been an insult to its grandeur. It was a towering behemoth, three layers high, its hull a marriage of wood and steel. Strange metal contraptions lined the deck, their gears whirring and clicking as if alive. Dozens of vault doors dotted each layer, their iron frames hinting at marvels hidden within. The vessel was a thing of wonder, a floating fortress that defied comprehension.

The passengers aboard the ship were no less extraordinary. They wore garments of silk and cotton, rich in color yet simple in design. To the untrained eye, they might have been mistaken for servants, but no common folk in Westeros could afford such luxury. The sight of them was baffling, a reminder that this was no ordinary envoy.

Then, a man stepped forward. He was clad in a robe of red silk, its edges adorned with intricate gold weaves that shimmered in the sunlight. Gold rings set with precious gems adorned every finger, and his black leather pants were crafted with such precision that they seemed to defy the skill of any Westerosi tailor. Beneath the red silk lay layers of clothing, each a different hue, yet the cut and weave spoke of practicality as much as opulence.

He was, without doubt, a wealthy merchant. Yet the black and gold dragon emblazoned on his chest suggested something far greater.

"Greetings, my lords," the man said, his voice warm and confident. "I am Remond of House Steelgard, Lord of the Durendal, Counselor of the Highland Seat, and Member of the Crown Trading Company." He offered a wide smile, his demeanor both gracious and commanding.

Viserys stepped forward, his crown glinting in the sunlight. "I am Viserys of House Targaryen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Protector of the Realm. I bid you welcome to my realm, Lord Remond. May I offer you the traditional guest right of bread and salt?"

At his gesture, a servant approached, bearing a silver tray with a loaf of bread and a small dish of salt. Remond regarded the offering with curiosity.

"I assume this is your custom, Your Majesty?" he asked, his tone respectful.

"Indeed, my lord," Viserys replied with a smile. "With this, no harm shall come to you under my roof."

The term Your Majesty lingered in the air, unfamiliar to the ears of those gathered. Yet Viserys found it amusing, a curious deviation from the usual Your Grace. Remond took the bread, dipped it into the salt, and ate it with a nod of acknowledgment.

"Your Majesty," Viserys began, his curiosity piqued, "is that how the monarch of your land is addressed?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Remond replied with a bow. "It is the custom of the Empire to address our sovereign thus."

Viserys gestured toward the Red Keep, his expression inviting. "Then let us speak further, Lord Remond. I would know more of your land and how you came to Westeros."

"Of course, Your Majesty," Remond said, falling into step beside the king.

They moved to a more private spot, the Westerosi guards taking their positions outside. As the door closed behind them, Viserys settled into his seat, his eyes fixed on the merchant. "Tell me, Lord Remond, of your origins and the journey that brought you to my shores."

Remond began his tale, speaking of a vast continent far to the south-east of Westeros, a land so immense it dwarfed both Westeros and Essos combined. To lend credence to his words, he called for a map. His servants unrolled it before the assembled lords, revealing a sprawling empire that stretched across the entirety of the continent. At the top of the map, written in bold script, was the name: Achamaedia Empire.

The map was a marvel in itself, dotted with dozens of cities, each marked with varying sizes. Remond explained that even the smallest of these cities housed no fewer than a hundred thousand souls. The largest, the capital Versepolis, was home to more than five million people—a number so vast it seemed almost mythical to the Westerosi listeners.

As Remond described Versepolis in vivid detail, Viserys and his councilors could not help but compare it to the cities they knew. Corlys Velaryon, who had sailed as far as Yi Ti and seen its wonders, listened intently. He understood the true scale of what Remond was describing. Versepolis was a city of unimaginable size, its walls large enough to contain Qarth, King's Landing, Volantis, and half of Yin combined. And that was just the city itself. The imperial palace, perched on a mountain beside Versepolis, was said to dwarf King's Landing entirely. Yet, according to Remond, much of it lay empty, a testament to the empire's grandeur rather than its practicality.

Remond spoke of the empire's regions, each filled with wonders that seemed plucked from the pages of a bard's tale. He described magic capable of reshaping the world, metal contraptions that moved as if alive, and dragons.

"Dragons?" Viserys interrupted, his brow furrowed. "Do you mean to tell me your empire has dragon riders, Lord Remond?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Remond replied, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "The Achamaedia Empire has fielded dragon riders since the Unification War two thousand years ago. Today, we boast thousands of dragons in our ranks."

"Thousands?" Otto Hightower's voice was sharp, his eyes narrowing. "You expect us to believe such a claim?"

Remond smiled, unperturbed. "I have no reason to jest, my lord. The dragons are as real as the steel we forge with their fire. Speaking of which..." He gestured to his servants, who brought forward three chests of varying sizes. The smallest was reinforced with thick metal, its sturdiness suggesting it held something of great value.

"In Westeros, you call it Valyrian Steel," Remond said, his tone brimming with pride. "In the Achamaedia Empire, we know it as Baskat Steel. It is forged using dragonfire and ancient magic, much like your own Valyrian Steel, though our methods are far more refined."

The servants opened the largest chest, revealing a dozen gleaming ingots. The sight drew gasps from the assembled lords. Corlys Velaryon leaned forward, his eyes alight with awe. "Valyrian Steel," he murmured, his voice tinged with reverence.

"We offer this chest for twenty thousand gold dragons," Remond declared.

The pace erupted in murmurs of disbelief. Viserys, his gaze fixed on the ingots, raised a hand to silence the crowd. "That is... remarkably cheap for Valyrian Steel, Lord Remond."

"In your lands, it is a priceless rarity, Your Majesty," Remond replied. "But in the Achamaedia Empire, it is a high-end metal, primarily used for military purposes. Our mastery of magic and metallurgy makes its production feasible, though still costly."

Viserys's eyes gleamed with fascination. His obsession with the glory of ancient Valyria was well-known, and the mention of Valyrian Steel—or Baskat Steel, as Remond called it—had captured his full attention. "And the other chests?" he asked, his voice eager. "What do they contain?"

"These two chests contain Dwemer Ingots and Adamantium Ingots," Remond announced as the servants opened the remaining chests. The first revealed golden ingots that shimmered faintly in the light, while the second held ingots of a deep, peerless black that seemed to absorb the very air around them.

"Dwemer Steel," Remond began, his voice brimming with pride, "is crafted by the Dwemer people, loyal subjects of the Empire from its northern reaches. It is lighter and more durable than Baskat Steel, and it possesses an unparalleled affinity for channeling magic." He paused, allowing his words to sink in before continuing. "As for Adamantium, it is the most durable metal known to man. A blade forged from Adamantium can cut through Baskat Steel and Dwemer Steel as though they were parchment."

Otto Hightower leaned forward, his skepticism evident in the sharpness of his tone. "And what, pray tell, is the price of these... remarkable metals?"

Remond's smile did not waver. "For Dwemer Steel, the price is fifty thousand gold dragons. For Adamantium... one hundred thousand gold dragons." He spoke the numbers with the ease of a man accustomed to dealing in sums that would make even the wealthiest lords of Westeros blanch.

The lords exchanged glances, their faces carefully schooled into masks of neutrality. Years of courtly intrigue had taught them the value of a well-maintained poker face. Yet, beneath their composed exteriors, their minds raced. Viserys, however, allowed himself a small, knowing smirk.

"Your goods are indeed extraordinary, Lord Remond," the king said, his voice smooth and measured. "But I must ask—do you have the means to forge these metals into usable forms? Or are we to purchase ingots with no way to shape them?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," Remond replied, his tone as polished as the metals he peddled. "We intend to remain in Westeros until our goods are sold or our purpose here is fulfilled. Our smiths are among the finest in the world, and they are at your disposal for commissions."

Viserys nodded, his expression one of quiet satisfaction. "Very well. We shall discuss the terms of your contract and the rights to sell these goods in my realm."

"That would be most agreeable, Your Majesty," Remond said, bowing his head with a flourish. The merchant's confidence was unshaken, his demeanor that of a man who knew he held the upper hand.

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By evening, Remond retreated to his chamber aboard the ship, his carefully crafted persona crumbling the moment the door closed behind him. The weight of his journey pressed heavily upon his shoulders. He poured himself a cup of wine and slumped into a chair, his exhaustion laid bare. The voyage from the Achamaedia Empire to the Summer Isles, and then to Westeros, had drained him. The skirmish with pirates in the Narrow Sea had only added to his weariness. Though the ship's mighty cannons had decimated half the pirate fleet, the encounter had left him wary. The survivors would either fear the Seahorse or redouble their efforts to plunder its treasures.

The door creaked open, and a robed figure entered. The man wore a pendant bearing the sigil of an eye, its gaze piercing and unyielding. Remond's heart sank at the sight of him.

"Inquisitor," he said, his voice tinged with dread.

"Your reputation precedes you, Lord Remond," the Inquisitor replied, his voice a whisper that carried the weight of authority. "The Emperor speaks highly of your... capabilities."

Remond straightened in his chair, though his weariness remained. "My family and I have always served the Emperor faithfully, my lord."

The Inquisitor moved past him, his gaze fixed on the bay beyond the window. "As the Emperor decreed, you have two months before the official delegation arrives. Your task is to lay the groundwork, to win the favor of these Westerosi. Revealing the lost art of Valyrian Steel was a masterstroke, Lord Remond. It has piqued their interest and sown the seeds of curiosity."

"You honor me, my lord," Remond said, though his tone was cautious. "But if I may ask... why must we accomplish this before the officials arrive? Surely their presence would lend greater weight to our efforts."

The Inquisitor turned, his expression unreadable. "The Emperor sees what we cannot, Lord Remond. His Holy Majesty has given us our orders, and it is our duty to obey. The isolationist policies of the Empire are being lifted, slowly but surely. The Hydra spreads its influence across the known world, and Westeros is but one piece of the puzzle."

"The Hydra..." Remond whispered, the realization dawning on him. "His Majesty wishes us to plant the seeds so that when the officials arrive, they need only nurture what we have begun."

"Precisely," the Inquisitor replied, moving to the table to pour himself a cup of wine. "Though the Hydra have infiltrated long before us, this first contact opens the door for the Hydra's influence to take root."

Remond raised his cup, his weariness momentarily forgotten. "To the glory of the Empire, then."

"Glory to the Empire," the Inquisitor echoed, and they drank together.

As the wine warmed his veins, Remond ventured another question. "Who will lead the official delegation, my lord?"

The Inquisitor's lips curved into a faint smile. "Princess Dalia."

The name struck Remond like a thunderclap. His cup froze midway to his lips, and his eyes widened in shock. "Princess Dalia? The Emperor's third daughter?"

"The very same," the Inquisitor confirmed, his tone laced with satisfaction.