"How many ships have been constructed by the shipyard so far?"
"As per your instructions, Deus, we have begun construction. Over the past four moons, we have built eight ships. The shipyard is working at maximum capacity, but building the dromonds reinforced with steel is taking longer," the Admiral admitted hesitantly.
"That is as instructed, Quintus. I do not wish to have ships so brittle they break down on the whims of the winds. Considering the speed of the ship-making, I would hazard the estimated time for the entire fleet to be ready and manned to be anywhere between six and eight years."
"You would be right, Deus," the Admiral assented.
"The beasts of war will also take time; the additional legions will be ready by then as well. Very well. Let us settle the invasion to begin eight years from today, in the spring."
"Thy will be done, Deus. The invasion shall begin in the fifty-fifth year of your ascension," the Admiral proclaimed resolutely.
They continued to discuss further details of the invasion while the aides moved through the room, ironing out logistics and taking notes as instructed. By the time they finished, the sun had long set and the moon had risen, bright and shining in the sky.
The Imperator left the Admiralty late into the night, feeling famished.
…
The Golden Palace was quiet, in contrast to the clamour of the docks. Marble floors cooled Hadrian's boots as he strode through the corridors, the only sound the rhythmic clinking of the Praetorian guards trailing a respectful distance behind him.
He bypassed the grand dining hall, favouring the intimacy of his private solar. A simple meal had already been laid out—roasted pheasant, warm bread, and a flagon of watered wine. Hadrian promptly transfigured the wine to water unwilling to partake in this indulgence today. Hadrian collapsed into his chair, the weariness of the day finally catching up to him. He tore a piece of bread, savouring the steam rising from it.
"You look like you've been arguing with Quintus again, Pater."
Hadrian paused, the bread halfway to his mouth. He didn't need to look up to identify the voice; it was calm, measured, and carried the same cadence as his own.
"Quintus argues with everyone, Octavian. It keeps him young, it keeps me young" Hadrian gestured to the empty chair across from him. "Sit. Eat. Unless you've already feasted on the rumours of the court."
The man chuckled. "You are not old pater despite the appearances"
Hadrian merely quirked his eyes at the comment choosing not to reply.
Octavian stepped into the light. He was a striking figure, possessing the same piercing green eyes as his father, though they were set in a face that was all sharp angles and smooth, chiselled lines. His hair, black as a raven's wing, was kept short and meticulous—a far cry from the unruly mop Hadrian had sported. A faint, white line of a scar cut through his left eyebrow, trailing down to his cheekbone—a ghost of a lesson learned long ago.
"I have little appetite for court rumours," Octavian said, taking the seat with an easy grace. He poured himself a cup of wine but left the food untouched. "But I do have news from the Sunset Sea."
Hadrian raised an eyebrow, continuing to eat. The Sunset Sea meant Westeros. It meant dragonlords. "Go on."
"The eldest son of Jaehaerys Targaryen is dead."
The room seemed to drop in temperature. Hadrian set his bread down slowly. "That is news indeed. How did it come to be that a dragonlord could be downed"
"Assassinated. A Myrish crossbow bolt on the Isle of Tarth," Octavian clarified, his voice devoid of emotion, clinical in its assessment. "He died before he could even draw his sword."
Hadrian leaned back, his hunger forgotten. He stared into the depths of his wine cup. "A travesty indeed. This will not spell well for the House of the Dragon. What of his heir he is survived by a daughter if I seem to recall rightly."
"Princess Rhaenys," Octavian supplied. "She is capable, by all accounts. A dragonrider, married to the Sea Snake."
"And a woman," Hadrian countered bluntly.
"Precisely." Octavian took a sip of his wine, his green eyes darkening with calculation. "The Old King loved Aemon, but the Lords of Westeros? They are Andal traditionalists. They will not kneel to a Queen when there is a male alternative available."
"Baelon," Hadrian said the name "The Brave."
"He is popular. A warrior. And he rides the largest living dragon after Balerion," Octavian noted. "If Jaehaerys names Rhaenys, the realm is pushed further to the cusp of fracture. If he names Baelon, he alienates the Velaryons and sets a precedent that women cannot rule."
"He will choose Baelon," Hadrian said with certainty. "Jaehaerys is old. He fears war more than he loves fairness. He will choose the path of least resistance, thinking it secures peace."
"But it plants the seeds of a much larger war," Octavian finished the thought. "Disinheriting Rhaenys creates a claimant line with a grievance and the wealth of Driftmark behind them. It is a fracture that will not heal."
Hadrian looked at his son, pride swelling in his chest. Octavian saw the board clearly. He understood that a crown was not just gold and velvet, but a heavy thing forged in blood and law.
"Rome was not built in a day, and House Targaryen will not fall in one," Hadrian murmured. "But the cracks are forming. Keep your eyes on the West, Octavian. When dragons wage war on kin is when we will be primed for spells of our own."
"I have already doubled the spy networks in King's Landing, Pater," Octavian said, a small, confident smile touching his lips. "We will know the happenings of King's Landing just as early as the King does"
Hadrian spoke up after consuming the last morsel of food on his plate having satisfied his appetite but not his hunger. "One last thing Octavian we will be going ahead with your plan simply on a different timeline. What are your thoughts on moving it all up by a year?" said the Imperator with a knowing smile.
A smile that was mirrored by his son equally "Thy will be done Aeternus"