Deep within the Violet Garden, in a secret room filled with the scent of aged wine, expensive incense, and the stench of conspiracy, the candlelight flickered uneasily.
Cregan of Oakenshield scanned the roughly sketched map of the Princes Residence's surroundings on the table one last time, his finger tapping the shadows representing the backstreet.
Four people sat around him, all allies who had been covertly connecting and wagering their lives and fortunes over these past few days.
Every face bore the desperate excitement of a final gamble and an ill-concealed tension.
"Remember," Cregan's voice was low but exceptionally clear, "once it's completely dark, my men will gather in the backstreet from various locations, about two hundred of them."
"Viserys will meet them there on time. He is the banner, the legitimacy. His men... they're barely an excuse."
His lips curled slightly in a faint, imperceptible sneer: "Your respective men will set fires and create chaos in various parts of the city as planned to draw the attention of the City Watch."
"Don't aim for casualties, just chaos. Wait for the fire at the residence, or... some other movement," he vaguely glossed over the uncertain assumption regarding the "dragon."
"Then immediately lead your men to seize the nearest warehouses and city gates, raise King Viserys's banner, and announce the restoration of order."
"Lord Cregan, you... are you really not going to the backstreet?" a sallow-faced middle-aged merchant couldn't help but ask, his voice trembling.
Cregan shot him a look that made the merchant immediately shrink back.
"With my status, I will naturally be here, securing the rear for everyone and coordinating the various parties."
His tone was flat, his reasoning high-sounding, "Besides, someone always needs to... see which way the wind is blowing."
Everyone understood perfectly.
If they succeeded, Cregan of Oakenshield would naturally be the primary contributor, stepping gracefully to the forefront.
If they failed, he was merely a secret sympathizer, or could even claim to have been deceived and coerced, still leaving room for maneuver.
As for Viserys? A ridiculous, self-deluded puppet, the perfect scapegoat and disposable asset.
It wasn't that he didn't fear that pale gold, three-headed red dragon that looked like it had stepped out of myth.
Whenever the night was still and he thought of the thunder that might descend, Cregan would still feel a chill in his marrow.
But Aegon was pushing too hard.
His new policies were like a blunt knife, not in a hurry to decapitate, but methodically carving the flesh of these noble families inch by inch... taxes, privileges, private armies, trade monopolies, the wealth and connections accumulated over generations...
At this rate, within a few years, House Oakenshield and other families like his would be reduced to vague names in history books, or some ruined house bowing for a few copper coins on the street.
Rather than being slowly boiled like a frog, it was better to take a gamble. If they won, they would restore their former glory or even go further; if they lost, they would only die a few years sooner.
The atmosphere in the secret room was heavy, with only the crackling of the candle. They checked the details one more time, and just as they were about to finalize everything—
"Boom—!"
"Ah—!"
"Kill—!"
Noisy clamor, the clashing of metal, shrill screams, and panicked cries surged through the thick door of the secret room like a bursting flood!
The sounds were so loud and so close, as if they were happening in the next booth, or even in the hallway!
The faces of the five people in the secret room turned deathly pale instantly.
"What's going on?!" A fat noble stood up abruptly, knocking over the wine glass at his hand, the amber liquid spilling across the map in a mess.
"Is it... is it the people we gathered?" another withered old man's voice was confused. "Could they be drunk and causing trouble? Wasn't there an order forbidding drinking tonight for the big operation?"
Cregan's heart felt as if it were gripped by a cold iron hand, a chill rising from his feet to the top of his head.
He knew better than anyone what kind of trash those two hundred private Soldiers he'd recruited were... thugs, hooligans, bankrupt mercenaries, dregs rejected by the City Watch.
Barely gathered with money and empty promises, they were hidden in various corners of the garden.
Could this rabble have been unable to restrain themselves and caused trouble?
No, that's not right! The murderous intent in the sounds was too heavy, the screams too shrill; it didn't sound like an ordinary brawl!
"Go out and see!" Cregan forced himself to stay calm, but his voice had already changed pitch.
He quickly walked to the door of the secret room and listened intently.
The chaos outside, far from subsiding, grew more intense, mingled with clear, orderly shouts and heavy footsteps... sounds that only a well-trained army would make!
Cold sweat instantly soaked Cregan's back.
He slammed open the door of the secret room and rushed toward the luxurious booth outside, the other four following him, their faces devoid of color.
In the booth, the sweet scent had not yet dissipated.
But now, what reached their ears was the dull thud of weapons piercing flesh, the groans of the dying, the pleas for mercy at the peak of terror, and the sticky sound of boots stepping through pools of blood... as if a symphony of hell were being played just a door away.
Cregan's hand rested on the ornate carved wooden door of the booth, but it felt as heavy as a thousand pounds. His throat was dry, his fingertips ice-cold.
"Clang—!!!"
The loud crash was deafening!
The heavy wooden door of the booth was actually kicked open from the outside by a massive force! The door panel twisted and slammed against the wall, splinters flying everywhere.
Dazzling light poured in along with the cold night wind.
It wasn't candlelight, but the piercing light of at least a dozen blazing torches, illuminating every inch of the luxurious decor and every terrified, distorted face in the booth, leaving them nowhere to hide.
In the firelight, a squad of Soldiers in full black armor, their faces shrouded in the shadows of their helmets, filed in. Their steps were uniform, and the blades of their halberds shimmered with a cold light.
They silently fanned out, instantly controlling every corner of the booth, as a cold murderous intent filled the air.
The one leading them was not wearing a helmet, revealing a young but hard-lined face with a shallow scar on his chin.
He wore officer's armor slightly different from that of the ordinary Soldiers, the three-headed red dragon emblem on his chest polished bright. His bracer was removed, revealing a left hand that still seemed somewhat stiff, but his right hand resting on the sword hilt was as steady as a rock.
His gaze was like lightning as it swept over the five people frozen in the center of the booth, their faces ashen. A cold, ill-concealed sneer curled his lips.
Cregan recognized that face. Karl.
The commander of the City Watch whom they privately mocked as a Mercenary leader and Aegon's watchdog.
Karl's gaze finally landed on Cregan's face, as if he had already targeted him.
He wasted no words, raising his hand with a wave, his voice as cold and hard as iron:
"Take them."
"What are you doing?! I am Cregan of Oakenshield! You have no right—" Cregan cried out in shock and anger, trying to use his former authority for a final struggle.
But before he could finish, two black-armored Soldiers pounced on him like wolves, twisting his arms and kicking his knees with crisp, efficient movements.
Cregan gave a cry of pain as he was forced to his knees. Rough rope immediately bit into his expensive velvet robes, binding his wrists.
The other four were not spared either, quickly subdued amidst terrified screams and futile struggles.
Someone tried to shout insults or explanations but was immediately gagged with a torn rag from somewhere, leaving only muffled grunts.
Karl watched all this indifferently, as if disposing of several pieces of troublesome trash.
He waved his hand: "Take them away."
Cregan was roughly dragged up and shoved toward the exit of the booth.
As he passed Karl, he raised his bloodshot eyes and glared at the warrior he once looked down upon, a hiss of resentment escaping his throat.
Karl didn't even give him a second glance.
Once outside the booth, the sight in the hallway completely shattered any remaining hope Cregan and the others had, leaving only boundless horror and cold despair.
In the hallway, the luxurious Myr carpets of the garden were now soaked with dark red, not-yet-solidified blood.
Bodies lay scattered about, some in mismatched clothing that vaguely resembled the private Soldiers they had recruited, and a few in the guard uniforms of the Violet Garden.
Even more were prisoners like them, hands tied behind their backs, kneeling on the ground and trembling. Many of the faces were familiar to Cregan... they were the "elites" he had hidden throughout the garden.
Standing were only the silent, grim Soldiers of the Three Cities Garrison, their black armor stained with blood.
They stood with halberds, keeping the prisoners separated and guarded.
In a corner, a group of disheveled, terrified prostitutes and servants huddled together, covering their mouths and staring in horror at the scene, not daring to make a sound.
It was over. All over.
Cregan's mind went blank.
Their supposedly secret assembly, their supposedly clever resistance—in the eyes of their opponent, it was likely nothing more than a child's clumsy trick, seen through long ago.
They were the prey being hunted, from beginning to end.
Karl did not stop, gesturing for the Soldiers to keep pushing them outside.
The direction was exactly the gathering point they had planned for tonight... the backstreet behind the Princes Residence.
The closer they got, the deeper Cregan's heart sank.
There were signs of battle everywhere along the way—blood splattered on the walls, discarded broken weapons, and more dejected accomplices being escorted.
Clearly, Karl's men hadn't just raided the Violet Garden; they had acted across the entire city simultaneously, following a detailed list.
When they were stumbled into the backstreet, Cregan saw a sight that made his soul tremble.
The street was lit as bright as day by torches.
Two rows of black-armored Soldiers stood like silent statues from the entrance of the alley to its depths.
And in the center of the alley, on the open ground where they had planned to gather, it was now packed with people kneeling! There were hundreds of them!
They were arranged in some kind of order. Many had faces filled with the same shock and confusion as Cregan, clearly having been suddenly captured in their respective hiding places.
The sounds of crying, suppressed sobbing, the friction of ropes, and the crackling of burning torches created a suffocating atmosphere.
And in front of where these people were kneeling, on the slightly elevated stone steps of the alley, stood a man.
Silver hair. Black clothes. A tall, straight figure.
He wasn't wearing armor, just simple black everyday clothes. Under the flickering light of the torches, he seemed to absorb all the surrounding light, becoming the only stable, cold, and blinding core in this scene of chaos and blood.
Aegon Targaryen.
He stood with his back to the alley entrance, his head slightly tilted up, seemingly looking at a corner of the night sky reddened by firelight above the high walls of the residence.
He didn't turn around, but Cregan could feel that as he and the others behind him were brought in, an invisible gaze, one that seemed to pierce through flesh, had already landed on them.
Cregan was pushed to the very front of the group of prisoners and roughly forced to the ground, kneeling on the cold, rough stone pavement.
The sharp pain in his knees cleared his mind slightly, but boundless fear immediately seized him. He and the others had become the "VIPs" in the front row of this "audience."
He didn't see the pale gold, three-headed red dragon.
But at this moment, Cregan felt more clearly than ever that marrow-freezing pressure belonging to a higher level of existence.
It wasn't just fear of power; it was the trembling and sense of insignificance originating deep within the body of a creature at the bottom of the food chain when facing an apex predator.
Karl strode forward and stopped slightly behind the black-clad figure, his right fist thumping his chest. His voice echoed clearly in the deathly silent alley:
"Your Highness. Within Lys, all the primary participants on the list have been brought here."
Aegon slowly turned around.
His movements were slow, carrying a composure that suggested he was in control of everything.
The firelight illuminated the hard lines of his jaw and the shadow cast by his high bridge.
Those purple eyes calmly swept over the dense crowd kneeling below, finally landing on Cregan and the others who had just been brought in and forced to kneel at the front.
The gaze was calm and rippleless, without anger, without mockery, and even without much emotion.
It was as if he were looking at a pile of insignificant trash about to be cleared away.
"Mhm." He gave a faint response, acknowledging Karl's report.
The voice wasn't loud, yet it strangely caused all the faint sobbing and struggling in the alley to vanish instantly.
Karl continued: "According to your instructions and the intelligence provided by Triarch Luciana, I have dispatched the rest of the men to act simultaneously throughout the city, arresting the relatives and families of these people and seizing their properties and residences. However..."
He paused, seemingly hesitant, his voice lowering slightly: "Regarding Lord Viserys... how should we handle him? Please give your instructions, Your Highness."
The alley grew even quieter. Only the crackling of the burning torches remained.
Aegon's brow twitched almost imperceptibly.
He looked toward the dark corner at the other end of the street leading to the side gate of the residence. The corner of his mouth seemed to quirk up extremely slightly, a curve so cold it lacked any warmth.
"Leave him be."
Aegon's voice remained flat, but it made the hearts of everyone kneeling on the ground leap into their throats.
"The stage has been set for so long, and the gongs and drums have sounded. The 'protagonist' must eventually make his entrance to finish the performance."
His gaze swept over the "audience" below once more, their faces full of terror and streaming with tears, his tone carrying a trace of faint, hair-raising amusement.
"Otherwise, wouldn't it be a waste of so many... spectators who have specifically come to support the show?"
He turned slightly, looking back toward that corner as if waiting for something.
"I would quite like to hear..."
Aegon said softly, as if talking to himself, or whispering to some invisible ghost in the air.
"What kind of... inspiring lines my dear uncle can say tonight."
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