The alliance with Helier, sealed in the pre-dawn hours, was a pivot upon which the fate of Liss now turned. As the sun rose, Common stood on his balcony, watching the city stir. The air itself felt charged, thick with unspoken fears of the distant war in the Stepstones. He knew that power was not just taken by force, but won in the minds of the people. His first move would be a masterstroke of perception.
His command, issued to a network of trusted agents, was simple and direct: "Begin with the taverns."
Across the city, the establishments of his Free Trade Guild sprang to life. Critics often mocked his business model, where fine ale was sold for a pittance. They saw a fool losing money on volume. They failed to see that Common was not selling ale; he was purchasing the most valuable commodity in Liss: public opinion. Every coin lost was an investment in the city's collective ear.
In the smoke-hazed interior of the Red Rose Tavern, the atmosphere was a volatile mix of cheap wine and anxiety. A burly merchant named Boros, his silk tunic a mark of his station, slammed his cup down, the crash silencing the room.
"Dragons!" he boomed, his voice dripping with indignation. "That is the only language Westerosi savages understand! If we had our own dragon rider, a true protector, they would not dare threaten our shores!"
His words found fertile ground. The patrons, already fearful and intoxicated, murmured in agreement.
From a shadowed corner, a sellsword named Roric stood. "We have one! Common has a dragon!"
Boros waved a dismissive hand. "Common is a merchant, free to flee with his gold and his beast! Why should he stay? I heard he sought to lead, to make Liss strong from the governor's council, but was blocked by the old powers! They care more for their privileges than our protection!"
Roric's eyes widened on cue. "Who would be so blind?"
Boros leaned in, his stage whisper carrying across the room. "It is said… an elder on the council spoke against him." He let the silence hang, thick and heavy. "You all know who I mean."
A grizzled sailor spat. "Ivika! That old coot!"
"Show respect," an elderly merchant cautioned weakly, but his heart wasn't in it.
"Respect?" Roric scoffed. "I've heard he deserves a dungeon! A girl from the Silk Street, not yet a woman… and her father found floating in the harbor for his complaints!"
The dam broke. Once the first accusation flew, others followed in a torrent. Tales of Ivika's supposed depravity and treasonous dealings with Tyrosh filled the air. The tavern keeper watched, a faint smile on his lips as he polished a glass. The seed had been planted.
By afternoon, the narrative had mutated and grown, spreading through the city's arteries like a fever. The conflict in the Stepstones was no longer a distant squabble; it was the prelude to a Targaryen invasion of Essos. The logic, terrifying in its simplicity, became a rallying cry: only a dragon can fight a dragon. Liss needed its own Dragon King, and the old governors, Ivika foremost among them, were standing in the way.
When the news finally reached Ivika in his manse, evening was falling. A trembling clerk delivered the report of the city's rampant gossip.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, Ivika erupted. "Incompetence!" he roared, sweeping a ledger from his desk in a storm of parchment. "Why am I only hearing of this now?"
The clerk flinched, bowing his head. Inwardly, he cursed the old man's willful ignorance.
"The source!" Ivika hissed. "Where did this filth begin?"
"W-we don't know, my lord. It was everywhere at once. A plague."
"Useless!" In a blind fury, Ivika seized a crystal inkwell and hurled it. The clerk cried out as it struck his temple, blood welling from the cut. He pressed a hand to the wound, silent and broken.
The sight of blood seemed to shock Ivika back to cold calculation. He saw the strategy now—this was a campaign to dismantle his authority. "Deploy the City Watch," he commanded, his voice icy. "I want every rumor-monger arrested. The streets will be quiet by nightfall."
The City Watch, more accustomed to breaking up tavern brawls than political warfare, fanned out. In the northern and western districts, their presence cowed the loudest voices. But when a contingent approached the Eastern District, they halted.
Blocking their path was a line of men from Common's Storm Brigade. They stood silent, a wall of grim resolve and hardened steel. The air of lethal intent was palpable.
The watch captain, Marco, felt a cold dread. His young lieutenant, Rickard, whispered, "Father, should we not enforce the governor's authority?"
Marco delivered a quiet, sharp slap to the back of his son's head. "Use your title and your wits, boy," he hissed. "I've sent word to the governor. We wait." He gestured subtly toward the mercenaries. "Do not be a hero for a politician's pride. We are paid to keep the peace, not to be devoured."
Rickard nodded slowly, his idealism crumbling before his father's cynical wisdom. They would hold their line, but they would not cross it. The real battle for the soul of Liss had begun, not with a clang of steel, but with a whisper in a tavern, and it was here, at this crossroads, that the old guard's power met its first, immovable obstacle.