The air felt like a bowstring drawn to the breaking point.
Fingers of the Bloodsworn soldiers whitened around their hilts as they stared, wolf-like, at the woman upstairs and at the Hain members whose expressions were all over the map.
From the opposite crowd came a few ragged breaths and the soft rasp of steel on leather—one spark away from carnage.
At that moment Luciana let out a soft laugh.
The sound cracked the frozen killing intent, yet made the air feel stranger still.
Her pale-violet eyes curved in amusement, as though the threat had been no more than harmless banter between friends.
'Come now, if we're going to talk business, let's be civilized.' She waved a languid, pale hand and pointed at the crude wooden stairs that climbed to the second floor.
'Up you come, Brother Lotte. Whether we fight—and whether it's worth it—depends on how heavy our chips are, wouldn't you say?'
Aegon stood motionless, studying her for two heartbeats, then angled his head toward Henry and the Bloodsworn behind him. 'Hold position. Stay sharp.'
'Commander!' Henry hissed, worry etched across his face.
Letting Aegon climb alone into what was clearly the enemy's heart was a gamble too reckless to like.
Aegon lifted a hand, cutting him off.
He unbuckled the plain longsword at his hip but kept it in his grip rather than entrusting it to Henry, ready to clear the blade in an instant, and started up the groaning stairs.
Each step was measured, his back straight, as though he were heading upstairs for tea instead of walking into a den of knives.
Luciana watched him come alone, a flicker of appreciation in her eyes, then turned and slipped back into the room she had left moments earlier.
The chamber was small and sparsely furnished: a rough square table, a few chairs, a low cabinet holding bottles and cups.
A yellowed map of the Lysene Gulf hung on the wall, its edges curling like dry leaves.
Thick planks nailed across the window let only threads of daylight seep through; a single oil-lamp on the table lit the room.
Luciana was already seated, casual as a cat. She motioned to the chair opposite. 'Sit.'
Aegon did not sit at once. His gaze swept every corner, confirming no ambush, then pulled out the chair and settled into it.
The longsword lay across his knees within easy reach.
Luciana took two reasonably clean cups from the cabinet, lifted a half-full bottle, and poured a deep-red wine with practiced grace.
She slid one cup toward Aegon, lifted her own, and gave it a lazy swirl.
'Try it? It's no Arbor gold, but it has its own charm.' She sipped, pale-violet eyes studying him over the rim.
Aegon never glanced at the wine; his calm stare stayed fixed on her face.
After a few breaths she sighed in mock hurt. 'How cruel—won't even drink with me? Afraid it's poisoned?'
Silence answered her.
'Fine, fine.' She set the cup down, her levity fading a notch. 'Skip the wine and get straight to business, then.'
She leaned forward, fingers laced on the table, and spoke a single word, voice low and deliberate: 'Rogare.'
Then she paused, watching every flicker that crossed Aegon's face.
Rogare.
Aegon felt the name strike a chord.
Faded memories from another life stirred.
House Rogare—another casualty of the 'Spring of Lys,' once a merchant and banking dynasty whose wealth had eclipsed even the Iron Bank of Braavos.
They had survived the purges, broken but not exterminated, yet their power had been bled white.
Pushed to the margins of power.
Rich, but toothless—an obsolete noble house.
He let his features show only the proper blankness, brow knitting as though trying to place the half-familiar name.
Seeing that, Luciana's eyes flashed with satisfaction; she judged him ignorant of Lys's deeper currents.
A subtle relaxation crept into her tone as she explained: 'We have allied ourselves with what remains of House Rogare.'
'They may be ruined and long absent from the council, but a starved camel is still bigger than a horse. The fortune they hoarded across a century is enough to start… a change.'
She began ticking points off her fingers, voice gaining confidence: 'First, outside pressure. Relations between Lys and Tyrosh and Myr have worsened—border skirmishes, piracy at sea.
To meet the threat, the city hires whole companies of mercenaries at ruinous cost, a drain that never ends.
Second, inside tension. To fill the treasury, the council keeps inventing taxes—on trade, on the harbors, even on entering the city.
Free folk and small traders are howling, and the markets have gone cold.'
"Third, the economic lifeline is damaged." A cold smile tugged at her lips. "Caravans that set out from Lys and head for the Disputed Lands or the other Free Cities have been… disappearing rather frequently these past few months."
"Perhaps their luck is simply awful, running into those ghost-like 'pirates' again and again. The merchants are bleeding coin, their expenses outrun their income, and their complaints about the governors' incompetence grow louder every day."
"Fourth, the nobles are drifting away. Even powerful houses like the Antalions are dissatisfied with Governor Dorian Antalion's crushing taxes and foreign weakness."
"The regime in Lys is beset by troubles within and without, like an old house riddled with cracks—only a final kick is needed to bring it down."
She concluded, eyes gleaming: "And that, precisely, is our opportunity!"
"A hundred-odd years ago those bastards used poison at a banquet, backed by an army outside, to launch a coup that nearly rooted House Hain and House Rogare out of existence…"
Her voice dropped, carrying an icy hatred. "So why can't we repay them in their own coin today?"
"Poison?" Aegon's brow twitched, almost imperceptibly.
"Exactly." Luciana did not deny it, her tone decisive. "A grand banquet, every important figure gathered in one place… just a pinch of colourless, tasteless 'seasoning' will make the problem far simpler."
"According to our information, such a banquet will be held a month from now to welcome their so-called honoured guest."
She painted the picture, speaking faster and faster: "At that moment, so long as an elite, fast-moving army seizes the city walls, the docks, and the barracks amid the confusion, locks down the whole city, and brings the nobles' private troops and the city watch under control—"
"Then, just as they once dealt with House Hain, we can ransack the conspirators' mansions one by one and confiscate their wealth and Mercenary contracts!"
"After that," she drew a deep breath, as though victory were already in sight, "our House Hain, backed by its former prestige and Rogare wealth, can swiftly stabilise the situation and proclaim a restoration!"
"And you and your men, as the earliest supporters, will naturally receive your due share—land and riches."
When she finished, she lifted her cup for another sip to moisten her dry throat, then looked at Aegon, her tone turning casual again, even patronising:
"To be blunt, we and House Rogare have long since contacted the Mercenary companies—the Stormcrows and the Windblown are elite enough."
"As for you and your hundred-odd followers…"
She smiled, fingertips drumming lightly on the table.
"You're the extra garnish, the icing on the cake—not much, but not entirely useless either."
What she did not say was that the bulk of the coup's funding actually came from the still-wealthy Rogare family.
The remnants of House Hain mainly supplied a clandestine intelligence network, assassins skilled at striking from the shadows, and, after the restoration, the historically resonant banner of 'Hain'."
By the secret pact between the two sides, once success was achieved, the largest share of the spoils—
—including the crucial right to tax revenues and several key harbours—would fall to Rogare.
Her eagerness to recruit Aegon sprang not only from admiration for the fighting prowess he had shown today, but, more importantly, from her desire to add a military bargaining chip for the coming division of spoils with Rogare.
Aegon listened in silence.
He lowered his gaze to the sword hilt resting across his knees, fingers absently tracing the cold etched metal, brows locked in concentration as he weighed and pondered.
The plan sounded meticulous, accounting for external pressure, internal strife, even economic impact.
Yet… poison, mercenaries, a palace coup, restoration.
He let the words slip out slowly, his tone flat and unruffled.
Then he lifted his head; violet eyes fixed on Luciana, sharp as a blade.
"After nursing your grievances for a hundred years, the best you can come up with is that tired old trick of poison?"
He set down his cup; the base tapped the wood with a soft clink.
"Have you considered that the Antalion family has ruled Lys all this time—do you really think they've left themselves no defence against the very method they once used?"
"And those Mercenary companies you've contacted—are they truly reliable? Is their loyalty worth no more than the deposit you paid in advance?"
"Even if you succeed in poisoning the governor and his inner circle and seal the news—"
"—what about the private soldiers of the other Lysene houses, the middle- and lower-ranking officers in the city watch you haven't bribed, and those factions dissatisfied with the status quo but far likelier to declare independence or throw in with Tyrosh or Myr at the first sign of chaos?"
"How do you intend to deal with all of them?"
"Rogare gold may buy temporary force,"
"but once the restoration is done, holding the seat will take more than coin—it will take the ability to govern, wisdom, and… absolute power strong enough to crush every opposing voice."
Aegon's voice was low, yet each question struck like a hammer blow against the lovely blueprint Luciana had sketched.
"Your plan…" he shook his head slightly, a hint of cool, almost ruthless assessment in his tone.
"Sounds, I'm afraid, a little too… simplistic."
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