The nobles and officials descended first, draped in flowing kaftans of the richest brocade, their high collars stiff with elaborate embroidery. Velvet cloaks lined with sable and fox fur cascaded over their shoulders, fastened with ornate golden clasps set with rubies and sapphires. Tall, fur-trimmed hats, adorned with pearls and precious stones, crowned their heads, marking their rank as surely as their steps did.

After them, the soldiers marched, their polished plate armor gleaming under the torchlight. Their breastplates bore intricate engravings, while capes of fine wool and fur fell in perfect symmetry. Even the hilts of their swords were masterpieces—wrapped in gilded leathers, edged with delicate filigree. The boys swallowed. Even Aemond vaguely thought, if there was no dragon, he would get himself one of those swords.

Viserys found himself rising from his seat, drawn by the spectacle, and others soon followed.

Among the Valeikovites, one caught their eyes the most. She was impossibly tall, made even taller by the elaborate headwear resting upon her head. Draped in deep red, she stood apart from the sea of cool tones, her garments opulent yet worn with an ease that suggested such splendor was merely her daily wear. Jewels and ropes of gems adorned the fine fabrics of her clothes. Precious stones were even sewn to the hems, albeit small. At her waist, an ornate belt of finely wrought gold held an unsheathed sickle, which seemed to have been altered for warfare. Its blade gleaming under the sunlight. The woman, they guessed, was the Duchess.

Daemon squinted at the weapon as he helped Viserys down the docks. It was the first thing that actually piqued his interest. That blade had been sharpened, well-maintained. Used. His fingers twitched slightly at his side.

To his left, Rhaenyra tilted her head, studying the Duchess with quiet intensity. "A sickle," she murmured, her voice just low enough for Jacaerys and Lucerys beside her to hear.

Lucerys frowned. "For battle?"

"It's a farmer tool," Jacaerys' brows furrowed, "not a weapon."

"I suppose," Rhaenyra replied, "if it works well in her hands, she would not care if it's a farmer tool."

From the other side, Aegon let out an exaggerated sigh, to which Aemond gave an embarrassed look. "Gods, it's just a farming tool. You'd think they brought a dragon the way everyone's gawking."

The Duchess' voice carried over the dock, crisp and commanding. The words were foreign to Westerosi ears, though they could hear the lingering soul of High Valyrian. "Vzvody dokladyvayut komandiru vzvoda material'no-tekhnicheskogo obespecheniya o svoyey chislennosti!"

The soldiers moved, the clinking of armor and the quiet murmur of final headcounts underscoring the order. When they were done, they formed into four divisions, standing rigid yet poised, awaiting her next command. Though their swords remained pointed downward in a gesture of goodwill, their grips were firm, their bodies taut as if prepared to move at a moment's notice.

The Duchess then raised her head, her voice a low, rolling thunder, "Salyut Semi Korolevstvam!"

Then, as one, her soldiers brought their fists to their chests and bowed, the sound of gauntlets striking armor ringing through the air like the toll of a great bell.

For a long, uncertain beat, the gathered knights and guards of the Seven Kingdoms—men accustomed to their rigid traditions of formality—stood stiffly, unsure whether to return the gesture, unwilling to risk misstepping before their king. It was rather understandable, considering they never saw such a custom and such a... way of showing respects. Others were simply caught off guard by the sheer command in the foreign woman's voice, by the seamless execution of her troops. It was Criston Cole who moved first. He inclined his head and raised his hand in return, a measured acknowledgment of respect. The Westerosi soldiers looked at him hesitantly, then one another, then their King. Finally, other Kingsguards followed, lifting their hands in their own form of greeting. Then, like a wave rolling through the ranks, Westerosi knights and gold cloaks followed suit, their movements still a little unsure.

From the docks, Viserys exhaled slowly before turning to the Duchess, his smile calm but keen. He stepped forward, his voice warm, even a bit cheerful. "You honor the Seven Kingdoms with your discipline and presence. Valeikova is most welcome in Westeros."

It was at that moment that Viserys and his courtiers saw the Duchess up close. Their eyes widened, if only subtly. Rhaenyra's gaze sharpened, tracing each detail with careful scrutiny. Daemon's smirk faded into something more thoughtful, his arms folding as if to contain his intrigue. Alicent, ever watchful, studied her with an unreadable expression, though her fingers twitched slightly against the fabric of her sleeves.

The Duchess was a vision of foreign majesty. Her hair was hidden beneath a veil of white silk, embroidered with such care that every stitch shimmered like frost on jade. Atop her head sat a piece of headwear unlike any in Westeros—later, they would come to know it as a 'kokoshnik'. It was so regal and luxurious in its craftsmanship, that had two other ladies behind her not worn the same, they might have mistaken it for a crown.

Her features were cut from something finer, sharper, than mere mortals—godlike, but not in the ethereal, gentle way of the Maiden or the Mother. No, hers was the presence of the Father in judgment, of the Warrior before battle. Her piercing sapphire eyes, so cold and unyielding, carried something unnatural—something ancient: the glacial stillness of a god weighing the worth of those before them.

And then, there was the scar, cutting across her left eyelid like a cruel signature.

Daemon exhaled through his nose, tilting his head ever so slightly. "A scar like that, brother," he murmured, just low enough for Viserys to hear, "is never earned easily."

Viserys remained quiet, straightening his back.

Yevgeniya hummed, obviously aware of Westeros' meaningful gazes. She was tall, even taller than Daemon (and in his opinion, that was a feat in itself). "On behalf of His Majesty, King Pyotr the First of Valeikova, and those sworn to his banner," she said, bowing to Viserys as her retinue followed suit, "I, Duchess Yevgeniya of House Moroz—his Minister of Warfare, his Plenipotentiary Envoy—bring his respects and goodwill. He wishes for the Gods to guide your soul, for Mother Nature to keep you fed, and for Virtues to fill your heart." Her voice carried a thick accent, and her Common Tongue was not flawless, yet it commanded respect all the same.

The Westerosi court was silent for a beat, not entirely out of solemnity, but rather curiosity.

Then, with a warm chuckle, Viserys stepped forward. "It is rare to be greeted with such blessings. I thank you, Duchess Yevgeniya, for your kind words and for making such a long journey to our shores."

Yevgeniya dipped her head respectfully.

From where she stood beside her father, Rhaenyra found herself tilting her head. "Mother Nature? It seems Valeikova reveres different Gods than us."

"I would not say 'Gods'," Yevgeniya hummed thoughtfully. "We do worship Her, yes. But she is no God. She is visible. She gives and takes, shelters us and teaches us." Her explanation was brief, yet clear. With a few simple words, Rhaenyra could already understand the sentiment.

Daemon let out a low hum of interest, his gaze flicking to the sickle gleaming on her waist, "And does she teach you to wield sickles in battle?"

Yevgeniya smiled, not an amusing but gentle one. Yet, the gentleness made him feel a bit weirded out, "She teaches us 'What is sown must be reaped' doesn't just apply to grains."
Otto Hightower observed the Duchess from just behind the King's shoulder. His expression remained composed, but the sharpness in his gaze betrayed his thoughts.

A woman as an envoy. A woman as a Minister of Warfare. A woman wielding authority in the name of her king. It was an unnatural arrangement—one that could unsettle certain lords, especially those already uneasy about Rhaenyra's inheritance. If Valeikova thrived under such leadership, if their military respected her command, it set a dangerous precedent.

"Curious," he murmured, just loud enough for Viserys to hear. "That a King would send a woman in his stead."

Daemon let out a short snort. "A woman who outranks half this court. If she's their Minister of Warfare, I'd wager she's seen more battle than most men here."

Otto's fingers tapped idly against the folds of his sleeves. Westeros was still unsteady with the idea of a ruling queen. If Valeikova flourished under a woman's command, it would only embolden those who already whispered of Rhaenyra's strength. He could not afford to let Viserys see this as proof that a woman could lead without challenge.

Yevgeniya's lips curled at the remark, though she remained silent. From the corner of his eye, Otto saw the other Valeikovites exchanging glances—assessing, weighing.

Damn them. They had expected this reaction. Planned for it.

And yet, there was no fury in their eyes, no insult taken. Only patience. Amusement, even. As if they had seen men like him before.

Before the atmosphere could become more serious, Yevgeniya stepped forward, and with a sweep of her hand, her soldiers moved, presenting treasures meant to honor kings. The Valeikovites were considerate in their diplomacy—each gift betraying praise and threats alike.

"From my sovereign to Your Grace," Yevgeniya began, the words flowing like she spoke from her heart (because truthfully, she was reciting the descriptions), "we bring these tokens of our respect, chosen with care to honor your house and symbolise what is hopefully the start of an unshakeable alliance."

She motioned to the first, a longsword wrapped in leather, its hilt gleaming. "A blade of unmatched craftsmanship, its steel folded over a thousand times in the forge of my homeland, its hilt kissed by gold. It does not compare to Valyrian steel, but I assure you: it bears the artistry of our smiths, who tempered their weapons with techniques long guarded by their forgemasters."

Next came a chest, unlocked with great reverence to reveal bolts of silk and velvets, shimmering like a river at dawn. "Silks so fine they whisper at a touch, their dyes drawn from the rarest of flowers and insects, each hue richer than the last." The fabric caught the breeze, whispering against itself, so light it could slip through a ring. Rhaenyra, ever the lover of fine garments, found her fingers twitching at the sight of the shimmering cloth.

A second chest followed, this one filled with dark, fragrant spices—clove, nutmeg, and saffron among them. "Spices rare as moonlight, known to warm even the coldest of winters and bring depth to every meal." The scent alone was intoxicating, and Alicent found herself unconsciously leaning forward, drawn in.

Then came something more alive—perched on the thick, gloved hand of a Valeikovit falconer was a bird of striking white and silver. "A gyrfalcon, swift as the wind, trained for the hunt and loyal to its master. In Valeikova, they are the companions of kings." The falcon tilted its head, golden eyes sharp as it studied the gathered nobility.

A large tome, its cover of deep blue leather embossed with silver lettering, was next. "A manuscript of wisdom, filled with the teachings of scholars, its pages illuminated with gold." She ran a hand over the binding with evident reverence before passing it forward. "May it offer knowledge as boundless as the skies."

A tapestry was unfurled, revealing a masterwork of embroidery—a great dragon soaring over snow-capped mountains, flames swirling into the threads of fate. "A tapestry woven with the threads of legend, to hang in the halls of history." The detailing was exquisite, down to the iridescent thread used for the dragon's scales, making them shimmer in the shifting light.

Lastly, a slender glass vial, its contents amber-gold, was presented with care. "Ambergris, its scent lingering like an undying promise, captured in oil to perfume the air as if the sea itself blessed it."

The gathered nobles murmured their approval, some exchanging glances, others whispering about the sheer opulence of the offerings. The air hung heavy with the scent of spices and the shimmer of gold, yet it was not the gifts themselves that truly stirred the court—it was the meaning behind them. The craftsmanship, the precision, the sheer artistry of every piece spoke of a nation that took pride in creation, in the shaping of beauty and power alike.

Viserys ran his fingers along the gifts. His lips curled up into a smile, and he murmured, glancing toward the Duchess. "Your people are true artisans."

Yevgeniya inclined her head with a small, modest smile, "Their craft is their soul, Your Majesty."

Daemon's attention, meanwhile, had drifted to the sickle at Yevgeniya's hip, then to the falcon shifting restlessly on the gloved hand of its keeper.

The falcon, for all its regal stillness, was watched just as intently as the sword. Lord Corlys studied the bird with admiration. Princess Rhaenys, though quieter in her regard, showed equal interest, her eyes taking in the curve of its beak, the power in its talons.

"She's beautiful," Corlys finally said approvingly..

"'He'," Yevgeniya corrected, "though I would not fault you, my lord. The silver and white markings are rare. He was trained in the northern plains of Valeikova. Few creatures hunt as he does."

Jacaerys shifted closer, his eyes gleaming with fascination. "May I hold him?"

Yevgeniya arched her eyebrows. She studied the young prince for a beat, then made a gesture to the falconer. He carefully let the gyrfalcon take flight, and the creature landed straight on Yevgeniya's gloved hand. Jacaerys' face lit up with delight as Yevgeniya gently transferred the falcon to his forearm, its sharp talons pressed against the fabrics, its golden eyes locking onto his own.

Jacaerys proudly presented the bird to his siblings and uncles, and Lord Corlys, too, stepped closer, completely drawn by the creature. He had seen many hawks and birds used for the hunt, but this one was different—its silvery feathers, its sharp golden eyes. A true hunter, not just a decoration for a noble's wrist.

"He's a beauty," he commented, his appreciation clear. "What does he hunt?"

Yevgeniya turned slightly toward him, nodding slightly, "So far only hares and squirrels, my lord. He is but a babe."

Corlys' brows lifted, and he snorted, not in mockery. "A babe? Your Grace, you must take us for fools!" He knew the value of a well-trained beast, the time and patience it took to master one. This was not some mere offering for show.

The falcon fluffed its feathers, eyeing the Lord of Driftmark with almost humane pride.

Laenor, standing nearby, tilted his head as he observed the bird. "Father, do you think we could train one to scout from the skies over the Narrow Sea?"

Corlys hummed. "If this one is as clever as he seems, he may already have the eyes to see farther than most men."

Helaena, in particular, had drifted toward the tapestry, her fingertips barely grazing the threads as if they might whisper secrets to her. She hummed softly, a distant sound, eyes lost in the shimmer of embroidered dragons soaring through woven storms. "The threads," she murmured, almost to herself. "They move when you look away."

Yevgeniya tilted her head slightly, her gaze flicking between Helaena and the tapestry, but she said nothing.

Grand Maester Mellos was caught on something else entirely. "Your manuscript," he said with slow, chary High Valyrian. "What does it contain?"

Marquis Soldat answered, "History. Philosophy. The musings of our greatest minds. It is... how you say, a conversation with the past." His words were proud, but they could tell he was speaking the truth.

That intrigued Viserys greatly, as he was appreciative of knowledge himself. Books, or knowledge to be exact, were gifts not often valued among courts, yet here it was, presented as something just as worthy as gold and jewels. He also knew that scholars could be very protective of their wisdom, so to give it away was a heartfelt act.

The King, warmed by both the offerings and the moment, let out a hearty chuckle. "Such gifts, Duchess, are more than generous. You honor us greatly."

"The silks and tapestry I spun, weaved, dyed, embroidered myself, and the blade I designed, forged, tempered," Yevgeniya nodded. "Our arts tell you who we are, our weapons—given, not raised against you—tell you who we hope you to be. I hope they made their intended statements."

Daemon, arms crossed, let out a slow exhale, "Well, that certainly tells me who you are."

Viserys' smile was so bright that they could practically see the joy bubbling inside him. "To weave, to forge, to dye—such mastery in one's own hands is a rare and precious thing." He turned the blade slightly in his hands, watching how the firelight danced along its edge. "A King should recognize the value in such dedication."

Lord Beesbury gingerly adjusted his robes and leaned forward slightly. "A most impressive display of skill. I mean, such embroidery, such forging—I would very much like to know the methods used. The history of such techniques must be extensive!"

Alicent, on the other hand, reached out to touch the silk once more, her fingers ghosting over the embroidered patterns. "It is... exquisite work," she admitted, though there was a hesitance in her voice. Perhaps she was wary of a ruler who made her own offerings instead of simply ordering them to be made.

At Yevgeniya's words, Rhaenyra's eyes focused on her with something that was no longer just curiosity, but recognition. She stepped closer, tilting her head slightly. "I should like to see the blade unsheathed," she said, her voice light, though the challenge in it was unmistakable.

Daemon chuckled. "A fine request, Princess," he drawled, arms crossed over his chest. "Not every day we see a lady bold enough to hammer steel."

Yevgeniya did not utter a word. She simply stepped forward, unsheathing the sword. The sword gleamed with an eerie luster, its surface rippling with layered steel, as if the blade itself breathed. The hilt was inlaid with jade as smooth as flowing water, yet shaped with uncanny precision, its color shifting between emerald and dusky shadow as the light touched it.

It did not compare to Valyrian steel, yes, but one would be a fool to diminish the sword.

Even Viserys, himself no warrior, recognized and respected the craftsmanship. "A remarkable piece." He nodded approvingly.

Daemon's eyes traced the shifting veins in the metal, the way the jade hilt gleamed as though breathing in the light. "That is no ordinary steel," he breathed out, thoroughly intrigued, his fingers twitching at his side, itching to test its weight. His lips curled slightly. "I wonder how it sings in battle."

Rhaenyra hummed, her brows slightly furrowed, "Which material did you use, Duchess?"

Yevgeniya paused for just a second, "My forgemasters are protective of their ways, but I believe the blade will tell you itself in time."

Baela and Rhaena watched with fascination, though it was Baela who edged closer, trying to get a better look. "Do you think it has a name?" she whispered to her sister.

Rhaena swallowed. "It looks like it should."

A gust of wind from the harbor tugged at cloaks and banners, but the sword remained unnervingly still, unyielding even to the elements. The atmosphere had lightened before, but now something unspoken lingered in the air—respect, curiosity, perhaps even the first notes of something greater.

Viserys, let out a breath and leaned back, restraining his smile. "Valeikova does not send simple gifts, it seems." He looked to Yevgeniya. "You say you forged this under your watch—what name does it bear?"

"This sword was forged especially to honor House Targaryen," Yevgeniya nodded respectfully. "I do hope you will decide the fate of its name, Your Grace."

The King's smile faltered for a moment—not in displeasure, but in the weight of the offer. A sword, fine beyond reckoning, placed in his hands to name as he saw fit. It was a gift, yes, but one that carried expectation.

Viserys glanced at the blade again, its eerie luster shifting under the sunlight, then let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. "You honor House Targaryen greatly. A weapon such as this... deserves a name worthy of its craft."

"The dragonlords of old named their swords after fire and fury," Rhaenyra's eyes never ceased examining the weapon. "This one came in peace, and..." She trailed off, uncertain. It did not blaze like fire. It whispered like ice.

Baela and Rhaena had crept closer, their youthful awe unconcealed. "What about Ghostfire?" Baela whispered to her sister.

"It doesn't look fiery," Rhaena pouted. "I think it should sound... colder."

"Well, we usually give our swords dragon-related names, no?" Baela reasoned, then frowned. "But it doesn't look like a dragon's sword."

Alicent, quiet until now, watched the scene unfold with careful eyes. She did not care much for the blade itself, but she noted the way Rhaenyra stood so comfortably near it, the way the others leaned into her words. And, most of all, she noted Otto's discomfort.

She knew what he thought: Another sign of favor for Rhaenyra. Another gift meant to strengthen her claim.

Viserys exhaled, "A fine gift, indeed. A blade such as this... well, we shall see if it earns its name."

Yevgeniya inclined her head slightly in satisfaction, "Where should our soldiers bring these gifts to, Your Grace? I imagine it is not wise to keep these out for long."

Alicent offered a polite yet guarded smile, "Oh, of course, Duchess." She gestured toward one of the stewards. "Ser Cole, see to it that the gifts are brought to the Red Keep with care."

He stepped forward with a nod, his usual easy confidence in place. "It shall be done, Your Grace." He signaled to several attendants, who immediately moved to collect the chests and crates.

At that, Viserys clapped his hands together, "Come, our guests have traveled far. Let us not keep them standing on the docks." He gestured toward the castle. "A feast awaits you all in the Red Keep. Those who remain with your ships shall be given proper accommodations."

Yevgeniya nodded; and thus, Westeros' court began their ascent toward the Red Keep, their steps steady but their thoughts still lingering on the gifts presented. Behind them, the Valeikovit delegation followed in silence, their vibrant silhouettes a striking contrast against the stone of King's Landing. The banners they carried barely stirred in the evening breeze, and though their faces were composed, their eyes did not stop moving—taking in the fortress, the people, the land they called kin yet felt so foreign.

The heavy doors of the Red Keep swung open, and the foreign delegation stepped inside. The two courts had set aside all their doubts and excitements, but the weight of their presence remained, lingering like the scent of ambergris in the air.