A prolonged, heavy silence filled the palace hall after Ivika's grim assessment of the war in the Stepstones. Finally, the elder governor picked up the letter from Tyrosh.
"The Stepstone Islands belong to the Tri-City Alliance, yet the majority of the benefits have been appropriated by Tyrosh itself," Ivika declared, his voice cutting through the quiet. "We are the weakest among the three cities. Therefore, I believe it suffices to send only some supplies. No ships should be dispatched."
His words met with the silent agreement of the others. From the perspective of Lys and their personal coffers, none wished to risk their own vessels. However, a spark of malicious ingenuity ignited in Anders's eyes.
"I believe that if we do not send even one ship, Tyrosh will not relent, especially Lord Fetas," Anders interjected.
"What do you mean?" Ivika turned to him.
"What I mean is," Anders said, a sly smile playing on his lips, "doesn't Cayman aspire to run for governor? Then let him. Why are you all looking at me? I am doing this for his benefit. Without tangible achievements, what voter among the Lyseni would support him?"
The other governors brightened at this notion. It was a viper's solution. If Cayman wished to run, he would need to showcase commendable accomplishments, and a command in the Stepstones would be a dramatic one. It seemed unlikely the ambitious youth would turn down such an opportunity. Moreover, it would appease Tyrosh without costing them a single warship. And if Cayman were to perish on the blood-soaked islands, they could simply unite to besiege his trading company and seize the beauty soap technology. It was a perfect, win-win proposition.
Ivika rapped his knuckles on the table. "Then it is settled. Benick, since he is your son, you shall negotiate with him. Can you manage that?"
Upon hearing this, Benick's expression shifted dramatically. "Me? Again? That seems implausible," he immediately declined, his face a mask of fury and shame. "I shall not deceive Cayman. Those who wish him to go may treat with him themselves."
Alas, his remarkable acting skills could not deceive the seasoned men in the room.
"Can you refrain from putting on such a facade?" Anders sneered, his scorn palpable. "With your rotund face, it is utterly revolting. Do you not realize?"
The words caused Benick's eye to twitch, his inner rage barely contained. During his prosperous days, Anders would not have dared speak to him so. This humiliation, on the heels of the one he suffered from his own son, was intolerable. But in the realm of Free Cities, personal wealth was power, and Benick currently had little.
Ivika fixed his piercing, triangular eyes on Benick. "If you will not go, I shall. Benick, I am unaware of what transpired, but the priority now is the Stepstone archipelago. Do you comprehend my meaning?" He had heard rumors of Benick's recent visit to Cayman's manor and the subsequent locking down of the estate. Something had gone very wrong.
"Very well," Benick muttered, defeated. "Let us adjourn the meeting here."
Ivika waved his hand, and the others departed. As Anders exited, he cast a glance full of jealousy and malice at the elder governor. This old man perpetually sought to overshadow the others with his seniority. Anders, now the wealthiest in Lys, believed he should be the council's cornerstone.
Meanwhile, upon returning to his own manor, Benick's composure shattered completely.
"Beasts! Dogs! A wretched lot!" he roared, his eyes bloodshot. He kicked over a heavy rosewood table, sending its contents scattering. To be humiliated twice in a single day was an unprecedented affront. He wreaked havoc in the room before finally collapsing onto the floor, his portly frame trembling with rage, his features contorted.
"It is all your doing… Haha… It is all your doing," he mumbled to the specter of his illegitimate son. "Do not blame me for being ruthless."
His face flushed with an eerie hue of determination. He rose, retrieved paper and quill, and began to write furiously. Soon, a handwritten letter was completed. He carefully sealed it with a glob of wax and called for the head maid, Farland.
"You are to find Frank and ensure he personally delivers this letter to that wench, Saera Targaryen," he commanded, handing the sealed missive over.
Farland received it with both hands, her face a perfect mask of deference. "At once, my lord."
Just as she prepared to turn away, Benick suddenly called out to her. "Farland."
Her heart skipped a beat, but her expression remained unchanged. "What is your command, my lord?"
"First," Benick said, his voice dropping as he sat on the floor, his legs spread apart in a vulgar display of ownership. "Conceal the letter."
Observing his posture, Farland silently breathed a sigh of relief. This, at least, was a familiar degradation. "Of course, my lord," she whispered. Obediently, she knelt between his knees and began to immerse herself in her work.
Minutes passed. Finally, Farland wiped the corner of her mouth and rose to leave, the sealed letter now hidden within her robes.
"Soon… soon," she murmured to herself as she departed the chamber. Gently, her hand caressed her abdomen, and a radiant glow, unique to maternal love, illuminated her face. "My child, I shall never allow you to be sold to a master like a mere beast. Trust me, you will grow up healthy and happy."
As she spoke these soft vows to the life growing within her, she remained blissfully unaware of the presence of another, watching her from the shadows of the corridor.