Aegon sat in silence on the rough-hewn wooden chair, fingertips absently stroking the hilt of the sword laid across his knees.
The oil-lamp on the table danced, throwing shifting light across his sharply cut face; deep within those violet eyes, dark currents surged beneath ice.
Benefit and cost clashed in his mind like two armies lining up for battle.
If the Antalion Governor of Lys and the other nobles had simply stayed content to rule their own cities, keeping to themselves and leaving Aegon Targaryen well alone,
he might have chosen to watch from the sidelines while Haine and Rogare stirred the muddy waters of restoration, claimed his armour and sailed away to build his own power.
But they had chosen to conspire with the Blackfyres.
That impostor who bore his name, that puppet so carefully crafted by Illyrio and Varys,
would soon arrive at Lys under the escort of the Golden Company to accept the title 'Prince of Lys', turning the wealthy city into a springboard for a counter-attack on Westeros.
Trouble either way.
Sit back and let False Aegon grow strong? No—no different from digging his own grave.
Aegon knew better than anyone: in the game of power, strength is the only truth.
Once that impostor welded together the might of Lys, the swords of the Golden Company and the coin of Pentos, the name Aegon Targaryen would be seized and set in stone by his rival.
By then, even if he revealed his true identity, who would believe a man already dead when faced with overwhelming power?
Who would choose a lone true dragon over a 'true dragon' who seemed far better placed to reward them?
With enough might, the false becomes the 'true' in the eyes of the world.
Better to strike first than wait for death!
A cold flash crossed Aegon's eyes like a bared blade.
Since trouble could not be avoided, he would grind the trouble-makers—and the trouble itself—into dust.
Still, the plan Luciana and her allies had nursed for years, pinning everything on poison and unreliable mercenaries, struck him as wishful thinking.
It was full of holes and relied on blind luck.
Besides, judging by her tone, he and the Bloodsworn were merely an 'extra' to sweeten the spoils once success was in hand?
Aegon sneered inwardly.
He had not come to be someone else's weapon.
What he wanted was the status of an equal ally, a share of the rewards great enough to fuel his next ambition—and, in the end, to bend that very force to his will!
The key to all of it lay in the woman sitting before him, trapped in a weak partnership with Rogare—Luciana Haine.
A clear, bold plan began to take shape in Aegon's mind.
When Luciana saw him remain silent, his frown deepening, she spoke, stung by what felt like dismissal. "What? Are you awed by our 'grand design', or do you scorn it? Brother Lotte, don't forget—you stand in our territory."
Aegon lifted his gaze, calm yet piercing, and met Luciana's pale-violet eyes.
"A plan?" he said slowly, voice low. "Luciana, a scheme that depends on poison and foreign mercenaries is not a restoration; it's a desperate gamble with slim chances."
"You—" Luciana's expression froze, her flirtatious smile replaced by offended anger. "On what grounds do you say that? We have prepared for years…"
"Years of preparation, yet you still haven't solved the most basic problems."
Aegon cut her off without courtesy, each deliberate word striking like a hammer. "First: the odds of poisoning success.
Are the governor's cooks and servants absolutely trustworthy? Does House Antalion have no countermeasures?
A colourless, tasteless poison potent enough to fell every key figure is rare in itself; the operation is delicate, and a single slip ruins everything.
Second: the reliability of mercenaries. I've heard of the Stormcrows and the Windblown—they sell their swords to the highest bidder. House Antalion can outbid you any time, bribe them to switch sides or simply hold back.
How will you guarantee they'll appear on schedule when the city erupts, and risk assaulting well-defended Lys?
Third, and most crucial," Aegon leaned slightly forward, exerting invisible pressure, "city defences. Even if the poison works and the mercenaries keep faith, what of Lys's inner walls and guards?
How will you seize the entire city before other nobles' household troops and remnants of the city watch can react?
Once dragged into street fighting, how long can your handful of men and wavering mercenaries hold out? When other houses' relief forces arrive or the harbour fleet intervenes, you'll be turtles trapped in a jar.
Luciana opened her mouth to argue, but every point Aegon raised struck at the heart—fatal weaknesses she and her Rogare allies had secretly feared yet chosen to ignore or pin on "luck".
Her face drained from red to white, fingers twisting the hem of her dress in silence.
After a long moment she drew a sharp breath and forced a cold laugh. "Very well, O great Ser Lotte Haine—what brilliant stratagem do you offer? Anyone can wage war on paper!"
Aegon knew the moment had come; he had to prove his worth and seize the initiative.
'Brilliant' is a stretch, yet it's surer than trusting poison," he said evenly. "Every scheme crumbles before absolute strength."
"With an elite force loyal only to us, we can strike straight from the harbor at the critical hour, seize the gates and the Governor's Palace, and cow the city in a single thunderclap."
"Strength?" Luciana scoffed, sweeping an exaggerated glance around the room—though Aegon's Bloodsworn were elsewhere, her meaning was clear.
"You mean your hundred-odd men? Or those Mercenaries who may not even fight? Don't make me laugh."
"Even if they dared an assault, the Lysene nobles would never let so many foreign blades inside!"
"Men can be hired," Aegon replied calmly. "Given coin and time, I can recruit enough desperate rogues and sailors in Lys and the surrounding towns."
"Recruit?" Her laugh grew colder, dripping scorn. "If we could buy an army capable of taking a city, we'd have done it long ago."
"The Rogares are rich, but raising troops openly would warn our enemies."
"And even if you gathered them, a rabble without training, without matching arms and armor, would be sheep before regulars! Where would the steel come from? Lys watches the arms trade like a hawk."
Meeting her glare, Aegon said without hesitation, "Armor and weapons—I will supply them."
"I have channels to secure enough fine plate and standardized steel for several hundred."
Luciana froze.
She searched his face for any flicker of bluster, but his gaze was steady.
She knew too well the worth—and the near impossibility—of such gear; if true, his claim changed everything.
It hinted at some hidden power or conduit behind him.
She pondered, calculations racing.
Aegon's help—if he could truly solve the thorniest problem of equipment—would greatly strengthen her hand and give House Haine more say with the Rogares.
Risk remained, yet the reward might dwarf it.
"Done!" she decided at last, eyes flashing. "One month. Recruit your men and secure the gear."
"Remember—only one month."
She rose, voice hardening: "In a month, whether you're ready or not, the banquet takes place—our best and perhaps only chance."
"When that feast begins, we move—by our original plan: poison."
She was drawing her line, and tightening the screws.
She would not stake everything on him.
Aegon stood as well, meeting her stare: "A month is enough."
"How much coin do you need to start?" she asked.
"As much as possible—hiring cutthroats, deposits on gear; everything costs," he answered bluntly.
Luciana crossed to an old chest, unlocked it, and hefted a heavy leather purse onto the table.
The bag landed with a dull, enticing clink of gold.
"Five hundred dragons—House Haine's first investment in you."
"Spend it wisely, and... don't disappoint us, Brother Lotte," she warned, testing.
Aegon hefted the purse—substantial.
Without another word he tucked it inside his doublet, gave her a curt nod, and strode out.
Watching him vanish down the stairs, Luciana's smile faded, a complex glint stirring in her violet eyes.
Had she backed the right horse—or let a wolf into the fold? In a month she'd know.
Below, Aegon ran a thumb over the sack of gold, a cold smile curving his lips.
The game had begun.
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