Night. Rain poured in torrents.
Raindrops the size of beans hammered the tiled roofs, streets, and harbor of Lys, drumming out an unbroken, nerve-wracking patter.
Low, lead-gray clouds pressed against the city's spires; lightning tore open the sky at intervals, briefly illuminating this city of desire now twisted and unfamiliar beneath the rain.
Near the Perfume Garden stood a quiet yet elegant courtyard.
Ever since that "tournament," the Magister of Lys, Dorian Antalion—having seen that the Targaryen name still carried a shadow of influence—had subtly changed his attitude toward the siblings Viserys and Daenerys.
There was still no promise of open support, but he granted them a decent house, food, and clothes, and no longer treated them with open contempt.
This courtyard, with its little fountain and rose beds, was now their refuge in Lys.
"Ugh—!"
In the bedchamber Viserys Targaryen lurched upright from the mattress with a short, sharp gasp of pain.
He panted, violet eyes wide with terror in the darkness; cold sweat soaked his thin silk nightshirt and clung to his gaunt frame.
Blood.
He had dreamed of blood.
Blood everywhere.
A viscous, dark-red sea of it, reeking of rust and brine, stretching to every horizon and drowning all.
He saw broken hulls bobbing in that crimson tide, countless twisted forms struggling and screaming within the waves—yet no sound came forth.
The high walls and towers of Lys rose like mirages above the scarlet, also drenched and trembling.
Then he saw the figure.
A man in pitch-black armor, walking step by steady step through the rain and the blood, inexorable, straight toward him.
The face was lost in the shadow of the helm and the downpour; only a pair of icy violet eyes locked on him through the rain.
Farther still, something vast and incomprehensible stirred within the night, rising and falling with the armored figure's stride.
Each glimpse of its outline brought a soul-deep shudder and a choking dread.
"No… no…" Viserys rasped, fingers clawing the damp sheets until the knuckles whitened.
The figure came closer, clearer, as though cold fingers would close about his throat at any instant.
"Hah… hah…" He gulped air, clutching the fabric at his chest, fingertips numb.
He looked around: the familiar lavish chamber, fine furniture, the steady drumming of rain outside—everything normal.
Soaked in sweat, he caught a flash of lightning that lit his pale, distorted face, stark with fear.
It was no dream.
That bone-deep murderous chill, the hopeless certainty of doom, was too real; every bone screamed.
He flung aside the thin blanket and leapt barefoot onto the cold floor.
He could not stay—not for an instant. Danger—greater than ever before.
He stumbled from the room, out into the courtyard's torrential rain.
The icy downpour drenched him at once, the nightshirt plastered to his skin, but he barely noticed, staggering by instinct toward the side wing where guards and servants lodged.
Bang! He kicked open Jorah Mormont's door.
Jorah, roused by thunder and rain, was sitting up in bed; he stared, dumbstruck, at the drenched, white-faced apparition in the doorway.
"Your Grace, what—"
"No questions! No time!" Viserys cut him off, voice shrill, violet eyes glittering unnaturally in the storm-light.
"Pack—yours, mine, Daenerys's—anything of worth we can carry! Now, this instant!"
"Tonight?" Jorah blinked, glancing at the storm-lashed night. "Your Grace, it's pouring, and well past midnight—"
"Yes! Tonight! Now!" Viserys screamed, seizing Jorah's arm so hard his nails drew blood.
"Pack! No questions! It's an order! They're coming—danger!"
Seeing the king's near-mad terror, Jorah felt his stomach knot.
He had long known his sovereign's quirks and nerves, but never such utter panic.
It felt absurd, yet a knight's oath held; he clenched his teeth.
"Yes, Your Grace. I'll ready our things." He rose and began to pack his small kit without another word.
Viserys did not linger; he spun back into the rain, racing toward Daenerys's room on the far side of the house.
Bang! Again he burst in without knocking.
Inside, Daenerys sat curled on a window-seat, a thin blanket about her shoulders.
She was not asleep, only gazing at the rain-blurred night, fingers absently stroking a frayed black-and-red ribbon across her knees.
On the little table beside her rested the gem-studded golden crown.
She turned at the crash of the door, staring at her rain-soaked, wild-eyed brother.
"Daenerys, listen!" He loomed over her, water streaming from silver hair down his ashen cheeks, voice ragged above the thunder.
"It's not safe—we have to leave—now!"
The faint light that had gathered in her violet eyes while she day-dreamed slowly died.
Here we go again.
The fleeting, stolen peace—a soft bed, clean food, a roof where she didn't have to watch anyone's face—was ending again.
Just like all the other times: she would finally find a place that looked safe enough to breathe, to receive some scrap of kindness or charity.
Then her brother would burst in at dawn or dead of night, white with terror, shouting, "Danger! Someone's coming to kill us—we have to leave now!"
But she never saw anything.
No killers, no assassins—only her brother's face, paler and more twisted each time, and his orders growing wilder and wilder.
Then another frantic flight, another stretch of vagrancy, another round of cold, hunger, and begging.
She opened her mouth—outside, a storm was raging; couldn't they at least wait until sunrise?
But the madness in Viserys' eyes, absolute and on the edge of shattering, choked every word. All she managed was a tiny, defeated sigh.
Silently she set down the ribbon, stood, and began gathering her few pitiful belongings.
A few old dresses, washed until the color had fled; the black-and-red ribbon; and the heavy, beautiful crown.
Her movements were stiff, her gaze hollow.
Across the city, inside the heavily guarded Governor's Palace, lights blazed; the atmosphere could not have differed more from the storm outside.
In the opulent hall a fireplace of costly scented wood drove away the night's chill.
Around the long council table sat the true powers of Lys.
Governor Dorian Antalion occupied the head, robed in deep purple velvet stitched with gold, a great ruby ring turning slowly between his fingers.
His son Cassimir lounged in the chair beside him, wearing the faint, careless smile that was his habit.
Important councillors and both commanders of the city garrison were present.
Even Sa Melis occupied the last seat, now in a dignified dark-blue gown, her make-up exquisite, her manner meek and attentive.
'Our esteemed guest, Prince Aegon Targaryen, and his loyal protector Ser Jon Clinton will arrive shortly,'" Dorian began, voice steady with the assurance of long authority. "The net we cast is ready to be drawn in."
"Surely we cannot allow city rats to disturb our guests' pleasure?"
Cassimir gave a soft laugh. "The Rogare pack of misers still think their little schemes are invisible, dreaming of a return to power while they hide among their coins."
"They don't realize they're simply golden pigs we've fattened for the slaughter."
"When the time comes, we cut their throats."
He spoke as if discussing dessert. "Still, Father's plan is exquisite: leave one bait in place and every rat that's hidden for a century crawls out of its coffin."
"Hain… tsk, after all these years they still haven't died out, still dreaming of another 'Spring of Lys'? Truly… hilarious."
"Enough, Cassimir."
Dorian cut his son's open mockery short and swept the room with his gaze. "No more waste of words."
"The coffers are lean and our guests nearly here; it is time to tighten the net and clean house."
"City Guard."
He looked at a hard-faced middle-aged officer in a crisp uniform.
"Lead the companies yourself. With the magistrates, seal every rat-hole on the list."
"Take them alive—I want confessions. Seal their properties. Swift and clean."
"Yes, Governor!" the officer answered, snapping to attention.
Dorian turned to another commander in charge of external defense: "Take an elite company and watch the Mercenary camps outside the walls."
"The Stormcrows, the Windblown—especially them."
"At this hour I will brook no unrest. Tell them: stay quiet and their pay is guaranteed."
"If they stir…"
He paused, voice chilling. "You know what to do."
"Further, send extra patrol ships toward Tyrosh and Myr. They have their own troubles, but we must be wary."
"Understood!"
Sa Melis leaned forward slightly, speaking with just the right note of concern: "Governor, will this not leave our garrison inside the city dangerously thin?"
"After all, we must comb the city and simultaneously watch the sellswords…"
Dorian glanced at her; a flicker of appreciation mixed with deeper calculation crossed his eyes, and he waved a hand.
"No matter. These are only gutter-rats who skulk in shadows and dabble in poison—what storm can they raise?"
"The true threat has never lain inside our walls."
"Tyrosh, Myr, Volantis—those are the wolves we must watch."
He leaned back again, the ruby turning beneath his fingers, and told Cassimir: "Once the city is swept clean, 'invite' the captured rats and the nobles who have grown too lively of late."
"I intend to use this occasion to knock certain restless hearts—and appetites—back into place."
His tone stayed mild, yet several councillors straightened involuntarily.
"Tell them," Dorian said, gaze sweeping the room and settling on the storm-black window, voice carrying absolute authority and an icy warning
"those who fail to come will answer for it."
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