Kalarossi cleared her throat and added, quickly, placatingly, still in High Valyrian, "What she meant is, per the respect Valeikova holds for the Seven Kingdoms, we would only send the best to converse with you."

The words were well-meant, but Valarossi's comment still lingered like frost in spring.

Not too many people present understood the full sentences ; but then again, the Valeikovites only needed some to understand, and they did.

Daemon's words were unhurried, but he spat them out slowly, clearly, "That sounded very much like a threat, my 'Ladies'."

"I think," Alicent swallowed, grasping at whatever High Valyrian she could remember at that moment, "that they meant it as reassurance."

"How very reassuring, then," Daemon snarled sarcastically. "What do they do with the second-best? Burn them?"

"Or send them to build roads," Rhaenyra said dryly.

Alicent gave her a sharp glance, "We shouldn't tolerate arrogance in children."

"She's not your daughter," Rhaenyra replied with a bit of venom. "You do not get to scold her."

Viserys raised a hand lightly, both to silence and to cool the table. "Enough. They speak with pride, not arrogance. Just as we do. And it seems they speak our tongue well enough."

"Aye," Lord Corlys added. His smile seemed to suggest a jest, "Those girls speak better Valyrian than half the dragons in this room."

Yevgeniya watched it all play out apathetically. She, in fact, did not even lift her eyelids. Rhaenys saw and recognised the look on her face. It was not provocation, but rather, it seemed like a well-used bait. She exchanged a look with Corlys, but no words were said.

Seeing as Valarossi's words had had their desired effect, Yevgeniya waved her hand offhandedly, "As for other personnel, such as our soldiers and servants, we have prepared a detailed collection of their identification, should you find it necessary."

A Valeikovit Knight came up and knelt before Viserys, holding out a small book in two hands, which was handled by a Kingsguard. The King took the book without comment, though his fingers ran over the edge for a minute too long before flipping through the pages. He arched his eyebrows: full names, parentage, occupation, from height and weight to moles and scars. He did not know what to feel about the meticulousness.

"How thorough," Alicent peered over. It seems they did not choose to conceal."

"Oh, I wonder if it is from insecurity or pretension." Daemon snorted coldly, clearly still miffed. "You'd think we were preparing for war, not hosting emissaries."

"Sometimes, there is little difference," Rhaenyra replied, her eyes not leaving the book in Viserys' hands.

Viserys read the dossier quietly for a while. He looked like he had wanted to say something, but then decided against it. He closed it gently, like one might close a prayer book.

"Let us proceed," he sighed (and it was hard to tell whether it was from weariness or relief), lifting his gaze. "We still have much to discuss."

The clink of cutlery sang softly through the Great Hall. Torches along the stone walls cast warm halos over goblets and bowls of delicacies, their scent weaving into the roasted meats and herb-salted breads spread across the tables. Music played faintly, just enough to remind everyone this was, in fact, still a feast.

Viserys nodded at his Council.

As if that was all he was waiting for, Lord Beesbury immediately leaned forward, cheeks pleasantly flushed from his second goblet of wine. "Forgive an old man's indulgence, but I must confess myself most curious: What shape does governance take in your land? Not all kingdoms tally coin and measure grain the same, after all."

"Indeed," added Tyland Lannister, swirling his cup. "Based on your many titles, I suspect your... structure is a touch more intricate than our Small Council. Though I'd wager not half as loud."

A few chuckles fluttered down the table. Viserys, easing into his third slice of honeyed pheasant, gave no rebuke. The crown sat a little askew on his head.

"Your customs must differ greatly from ours," Alicent said thoughtfully, nodding towards the richly dressed envoys. "But surely you must have some equivalent of a Hand, or is your sovereign the direct head of governance?"

"Or a Queen who is both," Daemon muttered, raising his cup in mock toast.

The comment earned a subtle glare from Otto Hightower, though the mood remained unshaken:  light, amused, almost theatrical.

"Of course, Your Graces. Only, I suspect this may make you yawn," Yevgeniya said with a laugh, glancing at her barely touched plate.

"At the top sits the King or Queen, holding supreme authority. Supporting the sovereign, aside from the nobility, are government officials, or, statesmen. Our equivalent of your Hand of the King is the Grand Chancellor. There is also the Grand Tutor, who oversees education, especially the national examinations and the education of royal children. In cases where the monarch is particularly young and without a suitable royal regent, a Grand Treasurer is appointed to be his supervisor and direct advisor. Below them, our administration is organised into six primary Ministries: Rites, Revenue, Warfare, Public Works, Personnel, and Justice. Each Ministry respectively oversees these aspects of governance: cultural and diplomatic affairs, coins and tribute, arms and soldiery, roads and craft, personnel assignment, and lastly, the keeping of law and judgment. There are also smaller, more specialised offices, such as the Censorate, the Forbidden Guards, or research institutes. The Grand Chancellor, Grand Tutor, Grand Treasurer, the six Ministries, and other selected, close advisors of the King form the Cabinet, much like your Small Council. In times of need or great conflict, a Grand Council of one hundred and twenty statesmen and nobles are scouted to advise the King."

"As for the land, it is divided into provinces, then districts, counties, and villages. Each level is overseen by appointed officials often called governors. They are responsible for taxes, law enforcement, and other civil affairs. Most officials are chosen through learned examinations, though it would be dishonest to say blood and name never tilt the scale. Nobles who are granted fiefs serve as their governors, whilst places of great import are oft placed into the hands of royal kin."

"Six Ministries," Tyland hummed, lifting his brows. "I should quite like to see how your Ministry of Revenue balances the purse."

"'Balances the purse,' he said. Those pikers would rather die than loosen their purse strings, let alone talk of  'balance.'" Ilariy Frovolo murmured to Alexandr, earning them both a glare from Marquis Soldat.

"It sounds... neat," Rhaenyra said, fingers tapping her goblet. "Too neat for here, I think."

"That's because half of the Small Council wouldn't have the patience to face the amount of paperwork needed for such 'neatness,'" Daemon whistled, earning an eye-roll from Corlys and a long-suffering sigh from Viserys.

Princess Rhaenys smiled faintly, "And the Grand Tutor, do you rule in the Royal Nursery, then?"

"More power than you'd think," Viserys added lightly.

"As the Grand Tutor," Yevgeniya said, the corner of her lips twitching. She put down the goblet of pressed berry drink (she did receive some weird looks when she asked to have her wine replaced with that, yes), which had not managed to reach her dry lips. "I have many responsibilities, in and outside the Royal Nursery. Putting aside overseeing national education, as you do not seem particularly interested in that, I teach the heirs all the knowledge I possess and how to gain even more for themselves. Of course, I am not the only teacher they have."

Rhaenyra tilted her head, intrigued. "To teach princes and princesses yourself is quite the responsibility. I imagine it takes more than quills and scrolls to shape a royal mind."

Tyland added, "Do your pupils take to lessons easily? Or are they... cleverer, more aware of their titles?"

Viserys gave a low, wry hum. "The great challenge of teaching royalty, I suppose, is that no one dares to tell them they are wrong."

That gained a few hums and murmurs of agreement, though none were from Rhaenyra and Alicent.

Tyland rested his elbows on the edge of the table, his fingers drumming with interest. "And what do you teach? History? Numbers? Or how not to insult a foreign envoy at dinner?"

Someone behind Kalarossi snorted at the irony.

"Well, their curriculum is rather lengthy. I would not want to bore you with it." Yevgeniya's eyelids lowered, her mind briefly drifting back to the gold lumps* waiting for her at home (though she was sure they wanted their nightmare tutor to be on leave for as long as possible). "Besides, they are young. The oldest is only three-and-ten. Most of their lessons rest upon ink and parchment as of now."

*gold lump: An endearment used to call the Valerions, mostly used by the Morozs.

"But to give you a sense of it," Yevgeniya said, absentmindedly tapping her goblet, "I'll tell you of one... task I set for them, not long past."

It took the Duchess more than a minute to translate the words in her head. "Princess Lyara the First made war with Skasgrad in the 78th year After Arrival–so we name the years since the Valerions set their foot on Valeikova. She failed. Prince Rhaegar the First attempted the same in the year 141, and won little more than a pact of trade. Queen Valaerys the Great succeeded in the annexation in 198 AA. Examine and state the differences in the people, the armies, the finances, or any other factor that you think made the three attempts different in their outcome. Do you think Princess Lyara's and Prince Rhaegar's failures were inevitable? Why and why not?"

She let out a subtle pant and cleared her throat, "Each of them is assigned a mentor to guide and supervise the research. Their work is due ere I return from this mission abroad."

The hall went quiet for a beat, until Tyland gave a low whistle.

"That's... quite a prompt." Rhaenys leaned forward. Her voice held no jest now.

Yevgeniya smiled softly. Westeros' reactions amused her. "That is why they have months to finish tasks like this. And that is what only I teach. Their other mentors give them less... daunting lessons."

Lord Beesbury's eyes went just wide enough to be noticeable. "That's–I... did not expect that level of discourse."

"What, do they expect to rule by fifteen?"  Tyland asked, half-joking–but only half.

Daemon exhaled through his nose, setting his goblet down. "Three-and-ten, you said? I was still being caned for skipping my sums at that age."

That would have coaxed a fond chuckle out of Viserys in any other situation, but now the King just leaned back in his chair, regarding the candlelight flickering on the utensils.

"It's... thorough," he said at last, a furrow between his eyebrows. "I wonder how much of it is about knowledge, and how much is... something else."

"Control?" Alicent asked quietly.

"No," he said, then shook his head. "Well, perhaps. Or just a very long shadow being cast early."

There was a pause, just long enough for the weight of the conversation to settle. Then, from further down the table, a small voice piped up.

"I think Princess Lyara was too angry."

All eyes turned. Helaena, her lips smudged with honeyed apple and her fingers curled neatly around the cutlery, stared dreamily ahead.

Alicent blinked. "Sweetling... what was that?"

Helaena didn't seem to notice the attention. "The maesters say it's hard to win a war if you're too angry. Maybe she tried to fight too soon. Before people liked her."

The girl fidgeted with the butterfly charm which fell from her left earring. She added, almost as an afterthought, "I wouldn't want to conquer anyone. I'd rather be a beetle."

Yevgeniya arched her eyebrows. One look at Arseniy confirmed he had the same thoughts she did. That was one of, if not the most interesting thing she had heard today. Princess Lyara did wage war on Skasgrad in a fit of anger. No one had said that aloud, and surely the Targaryens hadn't yet combed through the thick scrolls and heavy volumes that had just arrived with the Valeikovites.

Rhaenyra's eyes lingered on Helaena for a moment, then flicked towards her mother. "Perhaps our children should be writing essays too."

Alicent gave a tight, quiet smile.

Yevgeniya's voice was gentle, holding an indulgent kind of curiosity. "Who told you that, Princess Helaena?"

Helaena's eyes, wide and bright, drifted to the ceiling as though the answer might be hovering above her like tapestries and chandeliers. "No one," she said dreamily. "I just thought so. When you said her name, it felt... sharp. Like when dragons don't like being touched."

She tilted her head, squinting slightly. "She must have been very angry. The kind of angry that rattles your ribs."

Aegon groaned, dramatically slumping against the back of his chair. "She talks like this all the time," he muttered. "Don't listen to gibberish."

"Her gibberish is cleverer than your sober words," Lucerys said at once, indignant.

"I didn't ask you, boy," Aegon drawled out the 'boy'.

"Enough," Alicent said sharply, not too loud, but with the edge only a mother's voice could have.

The children quieted, but the adults did not immediately resume speaking. Instead, they look at Helaena again, some with amusement, some with unease.

Beesbury cleared his throat, "Children do have a way of... picking up what we don't know we are giving."

Yevgeniya hummed, her eyes sweeping across the royal children, "Oh, they do."

Rhaenyra said nothing, but her hand grasped Lucerys' own protectively, steady and warm.

"The task you gave," Alicent started once more, not wanting the attention to rest on her daughter, "it's no mere history question. You are asking them to understand outcomes. Patterns. To judge failures."

Viserys nodded. "And to weigh the past against its context: resources, alliances, temperament. That's no memorisation. That's statecraft."

Daemon commented to Viserys, but he wanted the whole hall to hear it, "They are asking children to challenge the legacy of their ancestors."

"Do they ever refuse? Say it's not their place to question queens?" Rhaenys glanced across the table with a faint smile. "Or do they answer more freely because they're taught not to worship the past?"

"Neither," Yevgeniya replied, her eyes calmer than her voice. "They are taught that their forebears, whether through failure or triumph, strove for the best future their children could inherit. Failure gives them ground to stand and learn. Victory gives them pride, and a higher ground still, from which to reach further. We do not raise our children to rest upon legacy. We raise them to become it."

Daemon narrowed his eyes. Confident much?

"It sounds... noble," Lyman said, cautious, "but heavy."

"An inheritance of duty," Tyland mused, sharper now. "Do they ever get to be children?"

Alicent glanced towards her own children. Aegon was trying to make a dagger out of a big fish bone and to poke Jacaerys with it. Helaena had ripped off another butterfly charm from her right earring, probably because she decided that the one from the left needed company. Aemond was sitting, all poised and composed, but his thumping foot and intense gaze suggested that if given the chance, he would immediately leave his seat and go off to stalk the Valeikovites.

Alicent's expression softened, but didn't lighten. "What happens if your pupils fail? The task and... in general?"

"It is not that easy to 'fail'. What I ask of my students is simple," Yevgeniya replied. "That they grow up seeking happiness for themselves, and for others. That shouldn't be too difficult, should it? What I want from them is the strength to protect themselves and those entrusted to them. And Lord Tyland, they do get to be children. As of now, our Crown Prince is still paying the servants to announce one of his sisters 'the Princess of Duck Ponds'. In retaliation, she hides live ducks in his bathchamber."

"It's just that they know this: Neither I nor their parents can protect them forever."

A warm ripple of laughter passed along the table, and Lyman chuckled, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin, "Well, now we know for a fact that their mischief has style."

Rhaenyra laughed fondly, "Princess of Duck Ponds... I'd wear that crown. So would Joffrey, even."

The little boy was quick to defend himself, but his words were muffled as he hid himself in his father's sleeves.

"I find it comforting," Alicent said softly, "that your children, however grand their upbringing, still chase one another through corridors and conspire in corners."

Tyland leaned back in his chair, defeated but smiling. "Fine, I concede. They're still children. Just... terrifyingly well-read."

Viserys' eyes, meanwhile, landed on his goblet yet unfocused. He murmured to himself, his words drowning in the feast's music and chatter, "Legacy not as throne, but as ladder."

The King breathed out and opened his eyes, changing the subject, not-so-subtly, and actively this time, "I must admit, I am curious about the ministries you mentioned earlier—six, was it? How exactly do they divide power? Is there one that presides over the others?"

"The Six Ministries each oversee their own domains, Your Grace." Arseniy answered this time. "We stand on equal footing. After the results of the national examinations are represented, the King will appoint important posts, the Six Ministers included. Smaller posts are arranged by the Ministry of Personnel per the King's  instructions."

Tyland gave a short, knowing huff, "Appointed by the King is never quite so simple. Every throne has voices whispering behind it."

"And every test of ability is designed by someone with an interest in the outcome." Corlys voiced his thoughts, his tone mild but pointed.

Yevgeniya sighed and smiled.

Rhaenys gave a faint, amused hum. "Still... equal footing is ambitious. Most councils, in truth, tilt around one or two heavy voices."

"Usually the one with the best friends," Daemon muttered.

Rhaenyra cut in, "And do these Ministers ever oppose each other? If the Minister of Revenue withholds funds from the Minister of  Warfare, who decides? The King?"

"That's what I wonder," Viserys mused aloud. "Is the monarch a judge between equals, or the hand that tips the scale?"

There was something quietly envious in his voice—an admiration for a system that seemed, at least on the surface, less tangled than his own.

"I fear it's impossible to find a court without conflicts," Yevgeniya chuckled. "If the Ministries encounter matters they cannot resolve, they bring them before the King. But only the Ministers themselves may present such cases. It would be... questionable, to say the least, if entire Ministries, staffed within tested men, were to trouble the Crown with personal grievances and trifles. The Ministers are expected to resolve or at least filter such matters before speaking to His Majesty."

"Though it is the King's duty to care for his people, we do encourage the people to care for him in return. Unfortunately, of course, not every man can tell a state affair from a family squabble."

She offered a small, dry smile with the last line: a modest attempt at humour.

Viserys laughed, along with others, but his fingers drummed absently against the table. "It's a fair principle," he murmured. "To spare the Crown what the realm should settle for itself."

Alicent nodded, though her brows were slightly drawn, "It assumes, though, that those beneath the Crown are wise—and selfless—enough to act for more than their own ambition."

Which they rarely are, she thought, and Rhaenyra thought, though none of them said it aloud.

Daemon leaned forward. "And what happens if a Minister does act out of ambition? Say, use their office to weaken another, or to gather power?" He tilted his head, curious, "What happens if one forgets to care for the King?"

Yevgeniya narrowed her eyes. This was just getting sadder and sadder. A glance at her delegation, and there were but hints of nods.

"All of our offices, especially the Ministries, are intimately bound to one another," she said at last. "To harm another is to harm oneself. To permit harm is to invite it upon your own house."

The words were clear enough, yet also vague enough.

"Spoken like a spider's web," Rhaenys murmured, swirling the last of her wine. "Tense and delicate. But strong, if all strands hold."

Daemon smirked. "That sounds well in theory... until someone decides they'd rather be the spider."

Alicent, however, studied Yevgeniya with renewed interest (or renewed caution, she couldn't tell at that moment). "It sounds as if... your system punishes ambition indirectly? Not by law, but by consequence."

Yevgeniya laughed, quietly, humourlessly, as her eyes lingered on Alicent. But her words weren't only for her.

"You have a strange definition of ambition."

Across the table, Otto's fingers stopped drumming. His gaze sharpened, not at Yevgeniya, but at the room. He cleared his throat, breaking the moment. "A system that punishes ambition quietly," he said, voice smooth but cold, "can be just as dangerous as one that rewards it blindly. Order, after all, can be a very fine disguise for fear."

Rhaenyra scoffed, and Daemon rolled his eyes.

The Valeikovites looked at Yevgeniya, then at Viserys with a bewildered look, obviously unimpressed.

"You truly have a funny definition of ambition." The Duchess repeated, almost bored, even if her posture remained poised and proper. Her eyes made it known that the conversation would end there.

She smiled at the King and Queen. This time, she was speaking as Pyotr.

Viserys returned the smile after a beat, unsure whether he had just been dismissed or honoured.

Aliyent pressed her fingers together, her knuckles pale. She knew that tone. It was not rudeness, nor reprimand. It was removal. The kind of subtle authority that said: This discussion is no longer fit to continue in your presence.

And yet, no one challenged it. No one challenged the fact that the Queen had just been put aside.

Otto sat still, his expression unreadable. In truth, he hated moments like this–when sharpress cloaked itself in politeness, and power moved in silence rather than decree.

He could feel the tides shifting, just barely.

This woman's presence had, from the moment she set foot in the Red Keep, unravelled carefully knotted threads. Her bearing, her sheer confidence in structure, in hierarchy, in power without apology, was threatening. Not to the Crown, not yet.

To the vision of Westeros he had so meticulously nurtured.

A vision in which strength came from tradition. Where women ruled softly, through motherhood or marriage, not by title or will. She made Rhaenyra's claim seem... less implausible. More imaginable. And that was dangerous enough.

She didn't raise Rhaenyra's cause with words.

She made it look familiar.

Alicant, for her part, wore a diplomatic smile, but there was a tightness to it, like a ribbon pulled too taut. She knew that look in her husband's eyes. Knew that his mind was wandering towards something he wouldn't say aloud yet. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and glanced at Aegon, who was now poking holes in the meat on his plate with a butter knife.

He was not ready. Gods, he was not even close.

And further down, Rhaenys quietly leaned towards Rhaenyra. "That woman may have just done more for your claim with eight words than all your father's declarations combined."

Rhaenyra didn't answer. She didn't need to, for her silence was that of something that had just begun to win.

Amongst them, only Daemon seemed relaxed. He lounged, almost theatrically, but his eyes were sharp. He hadn't missed the moment when Yevgeniya shifted tones, when her voice spoke not for herself, but for her King. There was power in that, and Daemon respected power, especially when it didn't need to roar to be felt.

Beebury cleared his throat, too loudly, the sound almost jarring. "Well," he said, grasping for levity. "I suppose not even the Seven can always agree on what ambition looks like."

The Valeikovites let out some suspiciously hearty laughs.

The Duchess let out a subtle sigh. She looked at Marquis Soldat, and he nodded, agreeing to take over for the day.

This was going to be a long banquet, and irritation was beginning to cloud her senses.
____________________________
The feast had long since ended, and the grand hall was now empty, its torches sputtering low with melted wax and tired flame. The Valeikovites had been escorted to their temporary quarters with all the coultery expected of royal hosts. Still, silence lingered in the stone halls like perfume–dense, clinging, uneasy.

The torchlights in Queen Alicent's solar flickered softly against the polished wood panels. She sat stiffly at her vanity, her fingers all pruned up in the basin. Otto stood a few paces behind her, nursing a goblet of wine. He was already muttering–strategies, implications, risks. All of it spun too fast for her.

"They revere a woman who commands both sword and council. They follow her. Follow her. She is their blade and quill. And if Viserys starts to entertain this as an example–"

"Must we," Alicent snapped, her voice tired, "go straight to worrying about what my husband might imagine from it?"

Otto paused. His gaze, sharp and dry, turned towards her. "It's not your husband's imagination that concerns me. It's what he may allow. That–that creature is dangerous, Alicent. Her mere presence is dangerous!"

Alicant's jaw clenched. "And what would you have me do, Father? Challenge her to a duel? Declare war on a woman with a Kingdom at her back?"

Otto sipped, unfazed. "I would have you remain vigilant. As you have always done. You must make sure your sons are ready. If Valeikova backs the Princess–"

"Enough," her voice cracked, sharp. She turned to him. "I am already watching every breath I draw. I teach Aegon restraint he does not want to learn. I shield Aemond from whispers that call him lacking and undeserving. I read Helaena's riddles as if they were prophecy. And you," she stood abruptly, "you speak to me like I am still your ward to be positioned on a board."

Otto's lips thinned.

"You raised me to see plots everywhere. And I do. Even in your concern." She stepped past him, pouring herself a drink with trembling hands. "You always said I should protect my children."

"I did," Oto replied coldly, "and I still do. But you forget, daughter–one day, protection won't be enough. You'll need loyalty. And you'll only get it if you act now, while you still can."

Alicent didn't answer. Her eyes drifted to the crackling fire. And for once, she wished Aegon would come stumbling through the door to whine or slur about nonsense. But he was asleep. Asleep, and already someone's pawn.
____________________________
Back in her chambers, Rhaenyra stood at the tall windows overlooking Blackwater Bay. The wind smelled of salt and distant torches. Laenor lay on a cushioned bench nearby, boots off, watching Jacaerys huddled over a carved dragon toy at the hearth with Lucerys and Joffrey. Lucerys whispered something at Jace, who shook his head solemnly.

"She's not Valyrian," Laenor said firmly, though to both him and Rhaenyra, it sounded unsure. "She doesn't look it. She doesn't sound it. It's a story. A pretty one."

"She could be," Rhaenyra replied, thoughtful. "Their Valyrian was strange, but that fluency... It was no mimicry. Valyria was vast; there may have been dialects. Plus, many dragonlords disappeared long before the Conquerors even came to Westeros. Perhaps one survived east instead of west."

"Then why the sickle?" He asked. "Why not a sword like ours? A dragon, even?"

"Perhaps they did not feel the need to parade their dragons around," Rhaenyra said. "And that sickle... I saw the way the Duchess held it–like it mattered more than any blade here. Her delegation believes in it."

Laenor sat up. "Do you envy her?"

"I envy the faith her court has in her," her voice dipped. "I don't even know if my father has that much in me anymore."

Leanor stood and came beside her, resting a reassuring hand on her arm. "She's proud. Maybe rightfully so. But pride doesn't make her Valyrian. You are."

"She doesn't need to be," Daemon said as he entered without knocking. "The smell of blood on that sickle cannot be faked. Nor soldiers trained like that."

He hushed as the three boys were just about to race towards him. They huffed and pouted, but obediently sat down.

Rhaenyra turned. "You approve of her?"

Daemon smirked. "I approve of people who know how to command a room."

There was something in her that intrigued him. Her discipline, her restraint, maybe. Or maybe the absolute clarity with which she moved in a room full of knives. He had known generals with less command, queens with less presence.

"Laena would like to meet her," he murmured, almost to himself.

Rhaenyra, who had noticed his distracted stare, arched a brow, "Planning a proposal, uncle?"

Daemon snorted, "Laena would like that less."

The other two chuckled, despite themselves. But the tension returned quickly. "If they are of Valyrian blood," Laenor said slowly, "then the question becomes: what do they want from us? A sister-realm, or something more?"

Daemon tossed a grape in the air. "If I were her? I'd be testing the waters. See who flinches when she breathes too hard."

Back at the fireplace, the boys were still whispering not-so-softly to each other.

"She doesn't have a dragon." Jace pursed his lips, watching Lucerys try to make a hand shadow dragon in front of the fire, "But I think she has something better. Did you see her sword? It was shaped like a crescent moon."

Joffrey giggled. "Maybe she cuts down bad dreams with it."

Luke looked serious. "Maybe she's here to stop a war."

Jace glanced over at his mother, then nodded, "Maybe."
____________________________
Under the heart tree, where the stars barely reached through the leaves, Princess Rhaenys stood beside Lord Corlys. The wind stirred the weirnood's red leaves.

"She looked Daemon in the eye," Rhaenys noted. "He blinked first. I don't think she was even aware of the stare-off."

Corlys smiled faintly. "Let him stew. He's been restless ever since they docked."

A beat. Their smiles faded.

"She carried herself like she's already won," Corlys murmured.

Rhaenys hummed. "They brought three mere ships and said three ships unnerved everyone today. The Duchess is in no competition. She is here as a messenger. A reminder."

"What of?"

Rhaenys looked up at the pale face carved into the bark. "That dragons aren't the only legacy of Valyria."

Corlys did not answer. He then sighed through his nose. "Viserys is enchanted. Again."

"He always wanted kin," she said softly. "But now that he has them, he doesn't know what they mean."

"...The Duchess. You felt it too. That weight."

"I feel the future shifting beneath our feet."

Corlys scoffed. "Our court can barely stomach a Princess of Dragonstone. Now we're faced with a woman who might be a war minister and a ruler and a teacher all in one. Half our lords will choke on the idea."

"Then let them choke," Rhaenys said mildly. "Perhaps they will say less while gasping for air."
____________________________
As of now, the 'creature' Westeros was fussing over was inhaling food in her chambers.

As soon as Yevgeniya entered her chambers, she had tossed off the heavier parts of her garments, unpinned the kokoshnik with a practised hand, and flopped down on the mat she brought from home. She did not even have the time or mind to assess the chambers the Seven Kingdoms had prepared for her or other Valeikovites. Alexandr moved silently around her, as he always did when she was too tired to command aloud. He carefully placed a tray in front of her on a small table: rich broth with chunks of smoked venison, root vegetables, and bread still warm from the coals, filled with meat and cheese. He sat down beside her, his hands ready to reach for the pitcher of chilled juice if needed.

She ate, she savoured the warmth, the depth of flavours. The sea had gnawed at her bones for months. No matter how long she had been doing this for, she could not stand staying idly on a ship for such a long time. Westeros itself gnawed at something deeper. She could take storms, mutinies, even sleepless nights at the prow of a ship, but the banquet had been a different kind of weather. All smiles and subtleties, gazes sharp as scalpels and twice as invasive.

Soldat was the first to break the silence. He poured himself a glass of plum kvass, then leaned against the window ledge.

"Well," he said lightly, "they didn't throw wine in our faces. I count that as a win."

Yevgeniya scoffed around a mouthful of bread, tearing off another chunk. "Yet."

"They asked if you had a husband," Ilariy practically howled as he flopped into the velvet-cushioned chair beside her bed, clutching his stomach. "As if anyone would marry you!"

Yevgeniya glared at him, but stayed quiet. She was too used to that by now.

The twins, Kalarossi and Valarossi, had already changed into lighter, looser dresses and were now curled up on the mat across from her, their bare feet tucked under them.

"It was not as hot as I expected," Kalarossi murmured meekly.

"It was hotter than I wanted," Valarossi scowled. "Yevgeniya, can you hurry up?" She was already crawling forward, ready to latch onto her sister like a starved cat.

Alexandr glared at them. He knew they just could not wait to cling to Yevgeniya, whose body temperature was a pleasant coolness, and whose scent was of pine and Drakoniya's snow. "Pust ona yest. Govniyuki."

"It was less colourful than we expected," they continued simultaneously, ignoring Alexandr.

"I wouldn't take fashion or interior design advice from either of you," Alexandr gauged at their attire. From afar, their clothes and accessories all had the calming colour scheme of blue. However, you could see up close that the minor colours and shades did not really match, and none of the embroidery and charms were of the same theme.

The twins snorted, miffed, but still, they refrained from clocking back at him. Valarossi's fingers twisted a dragonfly-shaped pin on her dress, while Kalarossi's gaze drifted to the fire, thoughtful.

Kalarossi said quietly. "That girl—Helaena... Her words weren't idle. She knows something, or senses it."

Yevgeniya mused, "What, do you think?"

Valarossi sighed dreamily. "We don't know yet, but she'd love our bug collection. Imagine what rare insects she might have."

Alexandr grimaced. "I still cannot believe you two chose to bring that of all things."

"Focus." Arseniy scoffed before the twins could go off at Alexandr, and let out a loud sigh. "What in all hells was that feast about? A whole parade of royalty and one of their heirs looked like he drank half the feast before we arrived."

He did not need to explain who he was talking about.

"Drank and ogled," Alexandr added. "I could see it in his eyes. He has no sense of state. No restraint."

Ilariy waved a hand in mock imitation of Viserys: "This is my daughter, my grandsons, my future, my heirs, and my disappointment, my disappointment's disappointment..."

"Bureau Director Frovolo," Soldat coldly reprimanded.

Yevgeniya finally lifted her head, expression unreadable. "He is not wrong, though. Viserys is fond of Rhaenyra's sons. Overly so. Too obviously so."

She leaned to her sisters, her voice dropping, but cheerful, like a pigeon's coos. "What of their dragons? Did you hear whispers?"

Valarossi shook her head, her lips pursed. "We did not catch anything specific from the servants. They're cagey about their beasts. When they talked about dragons, though, their wording was a bit... overfamiliar."

"The scale we sent stirred them, but they haven't reciprocated with details," Kalarossi added. "They must be waiting to see if we'll reveal ours first."

"That will be understandable. But there was that question." Valarossi narrowed her eyes. "'Your husband must be proud to let you speak for kings.' I would say it was naïve, but it smelled of condescension."

"They are either proud enough to make public jabs at us, or seriously diplomatically untrained," Frovolo said flatly.

"The Targaryens conquer," murmured Danvok, who had been quietly scripting away. His voice was still monotone, and he did not look up from his ink. "I would not expect diplomacy from them."

"They are not conquering now." Frolovo finally (actually) contributed to the conversation. "The Kingsguard are disciplined, but they're not prepared for us. That Ser Criston Cole—he's their best, I'd wager, but he's more show than substance. I saw how he sized me up, like I was a threat to his pride. From what I see, their nobility's private armies are ridiculously disproportionate to the Targaryens'. Their soldiers seem well-trained, but I don't know if they see their... purpose."

"Well, I think the Targaryens can barely see their own purpose." Yevgeniya exhaled, then put down the spoon. "The Queen and the Princess barely masked their distaste for each other. The King tries to hold them together, but he doesn't seem to be doing a particularly good job. His sons from the Queen are coddled or chaotic. The Princess's children have discipline, but not control. They mirror this place."

"Who are you more impressed by? The Queen or the Princess?" Marquis Soldat mused.

"None." She deadpanned, and added for some palatability, "I have not had enough interaction with either of them."

"I do know, however, that the royal family is cracking, and the court is immature." She squinted. "Either this is  a facade, a test, or they are truly divided and didn't have the court training to hide it."

"Such a test cannot be conducted on such a wide scale. Moreover, every single one of their lords watched their King praise one child while the Queen sat frozen beside her own: a dynastic disaster ; and their eyes only had calculations. Baron Danvok sealed the scroll he was writing on. "That court is cracked like winter glass. We step wrong and it cuts us. But step right... We can make it shatter."

Yevgeniya looked at him. "We can. But that is not our purpose. Our purpose is to confirm whether or not the Seven Kingdoms, or the Targaryens, are a threat."

"Bureau Director Frovolo, I want your men to mingle with their servants, their smallfolk. Get to know them, to understand their daily lives, their feelings, their masters. Every glance between the Hand and the Queen. Every flicker of resentment between the Princess and her father. Baron Danvok, I want full reports and history of the Queen's side, and the Princess'. Names, gestures, seating arrangements. Disadvantages and advantages. Kalarossi, Valarossi, Alexandr..." She paused for a beat. "Get close to the heirs, but do not get yourselves too deep."

She turned to Soldat. "After you draft the assessment of today's events, I will send word to Pyotr regarding Westeros' stability."

"What of their heritage?" Alexander suddenly asked, his voice quiet.

"We have yet to see their dragons. But if the rumours are true, of how they treat their dragons..." Yevgeniya tilted her head. "The answer to our purpose will be simpler than we thought."