The lights of Violet Garden, in the late-night streets of Lys, appeared particularly ambiguous and hazy.
Viserys practically crashed through the main entrance.
The smell of wine, sweat, and the burning rage from within made him like a beast trapped in a cage, finally finding a way out.
He stumbled, grabbing a passing maid in thin gauze, and asked hoarsely, "That... man in purple! Where is he?!"
The maid shivered, frightened by his red eyes and distorted expression, and pointed upstairs.
Viserys pushed her away and staggered up the thickly carpeted stairs.
His heavy footsteps and ragged breathing echoed in the corridor.
He forgot his dignity, forgot caution; only one roaring thought remained in his mind: Traitor! Aegon is a traitor! He must pay the price!
Relying on a vague memory, he violently pushed open a half-closed door.
The room was dimly lit, with only a few oil lamps exuding a cloying sweet scent.
The middle-aged man in purple robes was sitting on a low couch covered with soft furs, pouring and drinking by himself.
Seeing Viserys, who had returned looking like a madman, a flicker of surprise quickly crossed his eyes, immediately replaced by a deeper, almost imperceptible joy.
He did not get up, merely put down his wine cup, a perfectly timed look of concern on his face.
"Lord Viserys? What is this...?"
"Traitor!"
Viserys roared, his voice cracking from alcohol and agitation.
"Aegon! He betrayed the family! Betrayed the Targaryen! He forgot his roots! Forgot the blood feud!"
"He wants to... establish his dynasty here! Ha! The Second Targaryen Dynasty? Dream on! He won't get away with it!"
He stumbled to the table, hands propped on the surface, glaring at the middle-aged man, spittle almost spraying onto his face: "I'll make him pay! Pay the price for his betrayal!"
The middle-aged man put down his wine cup and slowly stood up.
The astonishment on his face gradually transformed into a profound understanding, and then a firm resolve.
"I knew it," he lowered his voice, every word like honeyed poison, "I knew that with your wisdom and courage, my Lord... no, Your Majesty, you would never sit idly by while the glory of the Targaryen was so defiled, so... stolen."
The address "Your Majesty" was like a ladle of boiling oil poured onto Viserys's raging anger and vanity.
He straightened his already stooped back; though his drunken eyes were still hazy, a distorted, self-assured resolute expression appeared on his face.
"This is not the place to speak, Your Majesty, please follow me." The middle-aged man said, gesturing, and led Viserys towards a hidden tapestry on the inner side of the room.
Pulling back the tapestry revealed a secret door, leading to a narrow, single-person spiral stone staircase, descending downwards.
The purple-robed middle-aged man led the way, and Viserys dazedly followed.
At the end of the stone staircase was a secret room.
It was not large, but very sturdy. The walls were made of rough-hewn stone, with a heavy oak table, a few chairs, a wine cabinet, and several maps of Lys and the surrounding areas pinned to the wall.
It was extremely soundproof here; not a single sound from above could be heard.
The middle-aged man invited Viserys to sit on a padded chair.
"Allow me to reintroduce myself," the middle-aged man bowed slightly, "Cregan of Oakenshield. I once controlled nearly thirty percent of Lys's spice, silk, and slave trade."
"Now..." He gave a self-deprecating laugh, but there was no trace of amusement in his eyes.
"Now I am just a dog hiding in a gutter, watching my family fortune slowly being squeezed dry, watching crude Mercenaries and women ride roughshod over me, not even daring to breathe loudly."
He looked at Viserys, his gaze burning: "But a cornered dog will jump over the wall. Your Majesty, as I said before, there are many who are dissatisfied with Prince Aegon's... no, with that usurper's tyrannical new policies."
"Not just in Lys, Myr, Tyrosh; none of the nobles whose power was seized, property reduced, and who were trampled underfoot, don't harbor a deep hatred in their hearts."
"We just... lack an opportunity, lack a legitimate claim, lack a... true Targaryen legitimate heir like you!"
"We have already secretly made contact," Tryg's voice was even lower, yet more inciting, "Originally, we were waiting, accumulating strength."
"But unexpectedly, a heaven-sent opportunity! That Aegon suddenly left, with no fixed return date! Only that woman named Luciana and a few ruffian soldiers are left in charge of the city."
"A once-in-a-lifetime chance! Although preparations are a bit rushed, it's worth a shot!"
Viserys listened, his drunkenness somewhat dispelled by excitement and the illusion of impending power. He eagerly asked, "You... what do you plan to do?"
"A coup. Directly seize the Princes Residence!" Tryg declared decisively, "That is currently the center of power for the Three Cities. That Mercenary named Khal is in the military camp outside the city; the manor's defenses are relatively weak."
"As long as we control the manor, capture Luciana, and you, as the Targaryen King and Aegon's uncle, step forward to declare the restoration of order, our people will respond simultaneously throughout the city, controlling the city gates, warehouses, and Port! By then, the overall situation will be decided!"
"Then... how many people can you muster? How many soldiers?" Viserys pressed, this being his most pressing concern.
A trace of imperceptible difficulty crossed Tryg's face, but it was quickly replaced by determination: "Your Majesty, to be frank, time is short, and preparations are insufficient."
"Lys's previous army was either killed or disbanded and reorganized; we couldn't infiltrate our people. Our friends in Tyrosh and Myr also can't openly send troops, as the city gates are now under stricter scrutiny than ever before."
"Most of the private soldiers our families previously maintained were confiscated; only a small portion of elites were secretly hidden and preserved, plus reliable guards and servants... piecing it all together, we can gather about eight hundred people for you."
"Eight hundred people?" The spark of hope that had just ignited in Viserys was doused with cold water, and his face turned pale.
Tryg keenly caught his hesitation and immediately stepped forward, his tone fervent and provocative:
"Your Majesty! Eight hundred people, that's not a small number! Didn't that Aegon, when he first arrived, also overturn the entire Lysi Noble Council with a similar force?"
"You are of true dragon blood, the legitimate Targaryen King! Destiny is on your side! Eight hundred loyal and brave warriors, a night raid, catching them off guard, striking directly at the heart! As long as we take the manor and control that dragon..." He deliberately paused, observing Viserys's reaction.
"If that dragon can recognize him, why wouldn't it recognize you? You are the elder of the Targaryen, you are the King!"
"Dragon..." Viserys murmured, repeating the word, drunkenness and anger making his thoughts simple and obsessive.
Yes, he was a Targaryen, the dragon should obey him! As long as he stood at the top of the manor, that dragon... perhaps it would acknowledge him, just as it acknowledged Aegon?
This vague and arrogant thought quickly took root in his brain, scorched by alcohol and fury.
Seeing his changing expression, Tryg added fuel to the fire, his tone filled with adoration and trust:
"Your Majesty, we believe in you! Eight hundred brave warriors are the starting point for you to regain your great cause! As long as you give the order, we will go through fire and water, without hesitation! Let Lys, let the entire Narrow Sea return to the benevolent rule of a true Targaryen monarch!"
Viserys was flushed with blood from this flattery and provocation; his remaining reason was completely drowned by the grand and illusory words like "King," "legitimate heir," and "restoring order."
He slammed the table, his face red, and hissed, "Good! Eight hundred it is! If Aegon can do it, I, Viserys Targaryen III, can do it even better!"
He seemed to already see himself standing at the highest point of the Princes Residence, subjects prostrate at his feet, and the pale golden giant dragon docilely circling beside him.
A hot current, mixed with fear, excitement, and extreme vanity, rushed through his body.
"How exactly should we proceed?" he pressed, his voice trembling with excitement.
Tryg looked at this "King," whose mind was muddled by anger and alcohol, and a cold sneer almost escaped his throat.
He quickly calculated in his mind: Viserys is a Targaryen, and Aegon is also a Targaryen. Since that dragon can recognize Aegon, there's no reason it wouldn't recognize Viserys, after all, this one is the legitimate King, the uncle, the elder.
Aegon rose to power with a dragon, invincible? Then we will use another "Targaryen" to deal with his dragon!
On his face, he became even more respectful, and began to elaborate on his flawed surprise attack plan, which perfectly catered to Viserys's current state of mind.
Viserys listened, an unnatural flush spreading across his face.
"Aegon! My good nephew! You wait, your Uncle Viserys is coming to settle accounts with you!"
...
As the sky began to lighten, Viserys was escorted out of the side door of Violet Garden by two silent servants, placed into an inconspicuous palanquin, and quietly sent back near the Princes Residence.
He still reeked of alcohol, but his mind was in a peculiar state of excitement.
Fear, anger, ambition, the longing for kingship, and the lingering false courage from alcohol burned and intertwined in his chest.
Like a thief, he sneaked back to his luxurious yet cold guest room.
He collapsed onto the bed, not even having the strength to take off his wine- and perfume-stained robes, and fell into a deep sleep, a twisted smile still on his lips.
It was as if he dreamed of sitting at the highest point of the Princes Residence... no, the King's Palace... with his long-desired iron throne beneath him, receiving the worship of all people.
What he didn't know was that almost simultaneously with his entry through the manor's side door, the stern-faced old maid responsible for his daily care quietly left the guest room area, walked through the empty corridors of the early morning, and arrived at the side hall where Luciana handled daily affairs.
Luciana was already there.
She sat at a desk by the window, reviewing a list concerning Tyrosh timber supply in the morning light.
Hearing footsteps, she didn't even lift her head.
"He's back?" Her voice was calm and unruffled.
"Yes, my lady." The old maid stood with hands clasped, her voice equally stiff, "Returned near dawn, reeking of wine, disheveled. He must still be hungover. Should we... take some measures?"
Luciana put down her quill and looked out the window with a calm gaze.
The morning light was gradually illuminating the rooftops of Lys and the distant sea.
"No need."
She said faintly, "Everything as usual. Give him what he needs, and don't stop him too strictly if he wants to go out."
"Just ensure he returns here safely; as for the rest... no need to know, no need to do more."
A hint of doubt flashed in the old maid's eyes, but years of training made her immediately bow: "Yes, my lady. I understand."
Luciana picked up her quill again and signed her name at the end of the list, as if it were merely a trivial matter.
"Indeed..."
She looked at the still-wet ink of her signature, muttering to herself, the morning light reflecting in her clear, pale purple eyes:
"When the dragon leaves its nest, some bugs hidden in the shadows dare to crawl out and dream."
She placed the signed list aside and pulled out a new draft regulation on Port quarantine.
"Good."
The corners of her mouth curved almost imperceptibly, an arc that was cold and sharp.
"His Highness is right, if you're unwilling to part with good bait, how can you... catch those big fish hidden in the deepest parts, who think themselves clever?"
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