The torches lining the walls of the Red Keep's Throne Room flickered restlessly, casting long wavering shadows across the vaulted hall. The silence was heavy—almost oppressive—broken only by the distant echo of metal boots striking polished stone. Slowly, the massive oak doors groaned open, revealing a tall, slender figure dressed in black.
He stepped inside without hesitation.
His black hair was neatly trimmed, his features refined and sharply handsome, and his posture carried a natural, effortless dominance. Every footfall radiated a quiet, invisible pressure, as though the air itself tightened in his presence.
Upon the Iron Throne, King Viserys Targaryen narrowed his eyes.
He had never seen the man before—not in portraits, not in rumors, not in the letters that trickled across the Narrow Sea—yet he recognized him instantly.
"Welcome to King's Landing, Lu Sheng, Dragon King of Essos," Viserys announced, his voice echoing through the hall with a deliberately imposed majesty.
Lu Sheng lifted his gaze. It swept over the Iron Throne, the seated King, and then the royal family gathered beside him. His expression remained calm, detached—like a master observing a chessboard whose endgame had long been decided.
Viserys rose from the throne with visible effort and descended the steps with his family close behind him. The Kingsguard in white cloaks tensed, their hands unconsciously drifting to their sword hilts.
Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, stood stiffly at the King's side. His hawk-like eyes never left Lu Sheng, as though trying to detect even the faintest hint of aggression.
The hall felt wound tight, ready to snap.
Everyone present knew who this man was—the Dragon King of the East, the conqueror who had swept through Essos like a tempest, seizing three giant dragons with a power that defied reason.
If he chose violence, blood would run like rivers through King's Landing.
"Greetings, Dragon King of Targaryen," Lu Sheng replied evenly, inclining his head. His tone was measured—neither deferential nor arrogant.
Viserys forced a smile, suppressing the fear coiling in his stomach, and began introductions.
"This is my Queen, Alicent Hightower," he said.
Queen Alicent curtsied gracefully. Her eyes, however, held wariness—sharp, analytical, calculating.
"My eldest daughter, Princess Rhaenyra, heir to the realm."
Rhaenyra stood tall, her gown a luxurious blend of black and red embroidered with the three-headed dragon sigil. Her chin lifted slightly, violet eyes shimmering with curiosity—and challenge. Many suitors had knelt before her, but none had ever looked at her with such unreadable calm.
"My eldest son, Aegon."
A young servant girl held the boy in her arms; the toddler shrank back shyly from the stranger.
"And my newborn daughter, Helaena."
The infant slept soundly, untouched by the tension suffocating the hall.
Lu Sheng acknowledged each in turn. His gaze lingered on Rhaenyra for a heartbeat longer.
So this is the Realm's Delight. Beautiful, yes… though not particularly sharp.
The thought passed, and he shifted his attention back to the King.
Viserys exhaled slowly, then spoke in a voice tinged with gravity.
"I believe there are matters between us that should be discussed privately."
Otto stiffened, clearly wanting to intervene, but Viserys raised a hand to silence him.
Lu Sheng arched a brow—mildly surprised.
Straight to the heart of it, are we?
But in the King's eyes, he saw it: fear, desperation, hope, and a flicker of resolve.
"Very well, Viserys."
---
A Private Audience
The side hall was quieter, yet the tension felt even thicker. Viserys personally dismissed the attendants, guards, and advisors, leaving only himself and Lu Sheng.
He led him to a massive stone table.
Upon it stood a meticulously carved model—an ancient city recreated in painstaking detail. Hundreds of slender towers spiraled upward, and sweeping bridges connected impossible heights. The architecture was strange, alien, and undeniably majestic.
"This is Valyria," Viserys said, his voice layered with reverence. His fingers hovered above the miniature towers. "My homeland, reconstructed from fragments of ancient records. I have dedicated half my life to piecing it together."
Lu Sheng stared at it blankly.
So the King is a hobbyist model craftsman… what does this have to do with me?
Viserys turned, his purple eyes shining intensely.
"Lu Sheng, our two houses are the only surviving Dragonrider bloodlines in the world. We stand above all others. Our strength and our glory come from that lineage."
He spoke with conviction, with longing, with a need to reclaim something lost.
Lu Sheng's lips curved faintly.
"Prince Daemon and the Dragonriders of House Velaryon challenged my expansion," he said calmly. "That does not align with the peaceful rule you speak of."
Viserys froze—then swallowed.
"I admit… that was a mistake," he forced out. "It was never the will of the Iron Throne. Daemon's recklessness, the Velaryons' arrogance—they brought losses to your empire and shame to my house. I am willing to offer ransom and compensation."
Lu Sheng studied him—measuring sincerity and the fear beneath it.
"Very well," he replied. "I will release the three Dragonriders. The treasurer escorting them will determine the compensation."
Viserys sagged with relief, his shoulders dropping as though a crushing weight had lifted.
But then—he inhaled deeply, gathering courage for a far more dangerous proposal.
"As the last two Dragonrider houses, to mend the divide and secure our shared future… would you accept a marriage alliance with House Targaryen?"
Lu Sheng blinked—genuinely taken aback.
He stared at Viserys as one might look at a gambler who had pushed all his coin onto a single throw.
"Princess Rhaenyra is already betrothed," Lu Sheng reminded him. "And Princess Helaena has only just been born."
"No!" Viserys snapped—eyes gleaming with fierce relief, as though he had been waiting for that line.
"The Velaryons have disgraced the Crown! They nearly cost us our dragons. They are no longer worthy of binding themselves to House Targaryen."
The mild, soft-spoken King was gone. In his place stood a man cornered—dangerous, determined, burning.
Lu Sheng's eyes sharpened.
"Are you certain?"
"I am," Viserys said without hesitation. "Rhaenyra's children will inherit the Iron Throne. This I promise to her—and to the realm."
Lu Sheng stepped closer.
"And what do you want in return?"
A glimmer of cunning flickered in the King's gaze.
"You may have many children with her," Viserys whispered, "but the heir who inherits the throne must bear the Targaryen name."
A trade.
A throne for a lineage.
A marriage for survival.
Lu Sheng almost laughed aloud.
He had no interest in ruling Westeros. But the future—the war of ice, fire, prophecy, and doom—would be fought here.
He needed influence. Access. Legitimacy.
This alliance offered all of it.
"I accept," he said simply.
The words were soft, but they reshaped destiny.
Viserys all but melted with relief, smiling broadly, speaking of Valyria's glory and the bright future of unity between their houses.
Lu Sheng answered politely, though he barely listened.
He knew that with his acceptance, the balance of power in Westeros had shifted. A true Dragonrider—one with mastery, purpose, and overwhelming strength—now had a foothold among the nobles and factions of Westeros.
The realm had no idea what storm had just begun.
After some ti
me, a gentle knock interrupted them.
Queen Alicent's voice floated through the door—measured, respectful, controlled.
"Your Majesty, the guests are waiting."
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