99 AC / 54 HA
Baelon Targaryen
The resonant tolling of the midday bells was still fading across the capital when Commander Maximus led us from the guest wing. We marched through the sweeping, vaulted corridors of the Imperial Palace, our boots striking the polished marble in a steady, unified rhythm. Daemon walked closely beside me, his usual Valyrian swagger entirely absent, replaced by a rigid, terrified tension that made my own chest tighten.
The architecture of Ctesiphon was explicitly designed to make men feel incredibly small, and as we approached the entrance to the Imperial Throne Room, that oppressive scale reached its zenith.
Looming before us was a set of colossal stone gates. Their dark surfaces were deeply etched with magnificent, intricate carvings of what I believe were celestial alignments, and ancient languages along with runes I knew not. Maximus offered a sharp nod to the dozen Praetorians stationed around the entrance. With a coordinated, physical heave, the guards hauled the massive stone doors inward, the heavy masonry grinding loudly against the floor.
I stepped over the threshold, and the breath entirely left my lungs.
The throne hall was a cavernous, breathtaking expanse, vast enough to swallow the Great Hall of the Red Keep whole. Towering marble pillars reached for a vaulted ceiling lost in the shadows, their pristine white surfaces meticulously inscribed with ancient, flowing runes. The air within the chamber was frigid and sterile, yet it carried a suffocating, physical weight that instantly pressed against my shoulders. Beside me, I heard Vaegon let out a strangled gasp, his stubbornness shattering against the difference that existed within this hall and without. I feared to give word to my suspicions but this aura we felt could most certainly have its origins in magic.
Yet, it was the far end of the hall that commanded absolute awe.
Atop a grand ring of seven stone stairs sat a massive marble chair, its back seemingly fused directly into the bedrock of the wall. Violently jutting from the stone behind the seat were colossal emerald crystals, forming a blazing, jagged crown around the throne. The immense gems pulsed with a deep, internal light, glowing in the rhythmic cadence of a beating heart. With every pulse, the brilliant green luminosity flared, bathing the entire hall in an ethereal glow before dimming back into creeping shadows. The crystals emitted a low, continuous thrum that I could physically feel vibrating in my teeth.
Standing rigidly at the base of the dais steps were two figures.
One was a sharply dressed man with piercing green eyes, his posture radiating calculated authority. Beside him stood a striking young woman with Valyrian features, clad in the elegant but entirely functional attire of a warrior. I felt Daemon flinch slightly as his pale purple eyes locked onto her. This was the Imperial Princess, Liliana.
I forced my gaze upward, past the children, to the entity seated upon the emerald throne.
My father's warnings had not done the man justice. The Emperor of Rome sat comfortably amidst the jagged crystals, draped in a midnight-black tunic and heavy velvet coat. His features were impeccably structured, devoid of the ravages of time as they should have been considering his age. He looked no older than myself, yet the profound, terrifying weight behind his glowing emerald eyes belonged to a being that had witnessed twice my lifetime. He did not merely sit upon the throne; he anchored the unrelenting aura of the entire room.
Commander Maximus stepped forward, his boots ringing sharply against the marble, and struck his fist against his breastplate in a flawless salute.
"Crown Prince Baelon Targaryen, Archmaester Vaegon Targaryen, and Prince Daemon Targaryen," Maximus announced, his voice booming effortlessly through the cavernous hall. He then turned his piercing blue eyes toward us, gesturing respectfully to the dais.
"You stand before Imperator Aeternus Figulus Hadrianus, Lord of the Romans, Son of the One, and Restorer of the World."
The titles were just as audacious as the man himself. For a fleeting moment, I entirely forgot royal etiquette, my gaze locked upon the piercing eyes of the Emperor. He looked down upon me exactly as my father used to when I was but a green boy.
Vaegon was the first to break the heavy trance, offering a stiff, formal bow. Daemon and I quickly followed suit.
Maximus saluted and departed the way we had come. It genuinely surprised me that we were permitted to carry our weapons into the chamber, especially considering the Emperor kept no visible guards within the hall. Yet, the rational part of my mind—the part that comprehended the terrifying scale of the being before us—understood perfectly well that a man like him required no mortal protection.
The sharply dressed man standing at the base of the steps stepped forward. "Prince Baelon. Archmaester. Prince Daemon. Please, sit."
As he spoke, a slender wooden stick materialized in his hand. With a casual flick of his wrist, the solid marble floor violently heaved upward, smoothly transfiguring into a wide, polished table flanked by heavy chairs.
I heard Vaegon gasp sharply, his eyes darting toward me. I too struggled to process the sheer impossibility of reality being casually rewritten before my very eyes.
"My name is Octavian, and this is my sister, whom I am sure you are already familiar with—Liliana. I shall be representing Rome in these negotiations," he announced, taking a seat at the newly formed table. His sister mirrored his movements, settling into the chair beside him.
Still thoroughly awestruck, the three of us took our seats. Vaegon immediately ran his hands along the polished edge of the table, desperately testing the physical veracity of the transfiguration. The Imperial Prince offered not another word during this display, merely maintaining a calm, faintly reassuring smile as he watched us settle. The Princess was equally reluctant to speak, though her underlying concern for Daemon was glaringly obvious; her green eyes continuously darted toward my son.
There truly was a palpable connection between the two. Daemon had been honest in his desperate confessions.
Vaegon finally discarded all diplomatic pretence, his academic hunger overriding his caution. "Has magic truly returned to the world? How were you able to wield it so masterfully? Can this discipline be learned by us as well?" he babbled, his voice tight with fervour.
Octavian's smile remained fixed. "I am afraid it is not nearly as simple as I may have led you to believe, Archmaester. Magic, as you understood it in the days of Old Valyria, is dead. What remains in this world is a volatile, sporadic, and profoundly crude force. It is incredibly difficult to learn and harder still to control. My siblings and I can shape it due to our innate, blood-bound connection to the art, but you would be hard-pressed to find others who share such an affinity. However," his tone abruptly lost all its previous warmth, hardening into drawn steel, "that is not why we are gathered here today."