Chapter Text
Orgor Nux was a man who loved power. Ever since he was young, this simple son of a salesman had ambitions to become rich and powerful. He had first been a minor secretary of finance, before becoming an assistant to a minister; The man had welcomed him into his home and raised him like a son, he who had only had four daughters and he had ended up marrying one of them. His good father offered him a position as secretary of state and from there, it was easy to climb the ladder to the top. Once he was comfortably installed in power, he got rid of his wife and the family that had taken him in, keeping with him only the son she had fathered.
He also removed all the government members in place and replaced them with people they could manipulate. Even for a city like Tyrosh that tolerated slavery, Orgor was a cruel man. He regularly organized raids where he asked his men to bring back pretty women that he could dispose of, despite the harem of thirty concubines that he already had. Twelve concubines and twenty-two children whose names he did not even remember, but he did not care; the world was finally responding to his desires. For ten years, he had reigned supreme over Tyrosh and soon, he would also have control over the trade of Essos and Westeros when the Triarchy had finally secured the Stepstones. Then, he would become one of the most powerful men in the world.
However, one fine morning, Orgor Nux raised his head and saw two dragons flying over his city. Their ferocious roars could be heard despite the height. Of course, he knew that there were still a few dragon riders in the world, but they had settled in Westeros, far from his city. So why? He didn’t have time to wonder.
“Master Orgor! A messenger has arrived from the dragon rider!”
A tall man in armored armor entered the room. He introduced himself as Daenar, a knight of Volantis.
“I come from Prince Daemon Targaryen. He requests hospitality from the Grand Master of Tyrosh for himself, his men, and his dragons.”
“H-Hospitality?”
“Yes, the prince wishes to visit the city of Tyrosh. He is currently touring the major cities of Essos for his pleasure.”
Orgor held back a sigh of relief. There should be no problem. “Of course. I request that quarters be prepared immediately for His Highness and his men.”
Daenar smiled politely. “We would also need a hundred goats and thirty cows a day to feed the dragons. No one wants to be around hungry dragons.”
“Of course. Everything will be done to make the prince and his dragons feel as comfortable as possible.”
Outside the city, Daemon had landed in front of his armed escort. According to the information he had, Orgor Nex was a monster of the worst kind who kidnapped and raped young girls for pleasure. He mercilessly executed those who tried to leave the city to escape his cruelty.
The prince knew he was not a good man. He had killed—many—and schemed, kidnapped, and even threatened, but he had never enjoyed doing it. Daemon had never enjoyed gratuitous cruelty, as seemed to be the case with the Master of Tyrosh. Saera was right; by taking the city, he would save many from a horrible fate. But he had to do it intelligently. He had to appear as a savior, not an invader.
“Jaemor, Rhaenor. You and your brother will stay with me. I promised your mother that I would not let anything happen to you, and I intend to keep that promise.”
When they heard of Daemon’s plans, Saera’s three sons had absolutely insisted on accompanying him, much to their mother’s dismay. She had tried, with the support of her nephew, to dissuade them, but they had been adamant; Dameon was family, and they weren’t abandoning his family. The prince almost had tears in his eyes hearing this, because it had been a long time since he had a family member (who wasn’t a ten-day-old princess) supporting him.
He really missed Rhaenyra.
In any case, taking Tyrosh required intelligence. He couldn’t just claim the city, and risk alienating the rest of the Triarchy. Daemon had to create a situation where Orgor would be seen as the one at fault and as a victim taking back his rightful claim.
“I can’t believe it,” Jaemor murmured as they rode through the city in a procession. “We’re really going to do this?”
“Yes. We’re going to conquer a city,” Rhaenor replied, still in a low voice. “But calm down and stop sounding so excited.”
Daemon smiled, shaking his head. Jaemor's enthusiasm reminded him of his own, the first time he had joined the battlefield with his father. Saera's son truly had the blood of the dragon in him, and perhaps deserved the prince to make the effort to find him a mount to claim. The cries of a crying baby forced him to look at the townspeople.
It was pitiful.
He had seen misery before; whether in Westeros or Essos, even in the most prosperous of cities or the richest of kingdoms there will always be poor people, those at the bottom of the ladder who will never taste the effects of prosperity. However, Tyrosh was a different story. The people were almost all dressed in rags, the children were skinny and there was a smell of latrines throughout the city. Most of the dwellings were in an advanced state of disrepair. All these poor people looked at him with wary or amazed eyes. Some were slaves, recognizable by their iron collars around their necks, but even those who were not seemed to suffer from Orgor's tyranny.
It made Daemon feel bad.
The further the procession went, the more he understood that the lives of these people would be his responsibility. It would be his role to make sure they were well-fed, safe, and happy. Daemon wanted to be a martial and firm king, but he didn't want to be a tyrant either. May the sky strike him down if he ever became Orgor Nux.
Orgor was a short, stocky man, with black hair and beard sprinkled with silver, a sign that age seemed to be catching up with him. He was all sweaty in front of the prince, intimidated by the fact that he found himself in front of someone more powerful than him for the first time in 10 years.
“Prince Daemon Targaryen,” the Grandmaster said with a bow. “I am pleased to welcome you to Tyrosh, I hope you enjoyed your stroll through the city.”
“I have never seen anything like it,” he replied, looking the man in the eye. No need to offend him with remarks about how he ran the city.
“Our city is known for its trade, its port, which is one of the most prolific on the western coast of Essos, and of course, mercenaries.”
Interesting information. Having mercenaries on your side could be beneficial.
“I have had the servants prepare a feast fit for a prince, and of course, I have planned some entertainment.” Orgor pointed at a young woman and Daemon shuddered.
He loved sex, but the idea of taking a woman against his will repulsed him. As his father used to say, there were enough whores in King’s Landing without him resorting to rape.
Soon it would be over. In a way, Daemon was delighted by his brother’s betrayal. All these people were in desperate need of saving, and Orgor Nux was a parasite who deserved to die. Nothing the man could do next could convince him otherwise.
…..
In a way, the Grand Master of Tyrosh had managed to do worse. The man seemed quite happy to show the prince the extent of his cruelty, bragging about the girls he had kidnapped and raped. It was disgusting. He briefly wondered what Otto and Viserys would think of that; if they would find a way to say he was an even worse person.
“I feel like throwing up,” Daemon muttered as Daenar poured him a cup of wine.
“I see what you mean. While slavery was commonplace in Volantis, I have rarely seen anything so repugnant.”
Slavery was one of the few things Daemon hated about Essos. It was ironic since his ancestors in Old Valyria had actively participated in the human trade. When he traveled to the East, he would avoid cities known for their brutal slavery and avoid associating with the Masters. However, there would be no slaves, if he could do anything about it.
That night, as the pale stars clung to a moonless sky, Daemon stood alone in his assigned chamber in the great fortress of Tyrosh. The atmosphere weighed, but his mind was heavier still. He knew that his allies were as fickle as the shifting winds of the sea and that his enemies, though temporary, could prove dangerous if he let his guard down.
It was at that moment that a figure appeared in the doorway. A young woman, with brown skin, curly black hair, and a terrified look on her face, stood there, hesitant. She was petite, dressed in a simple linen dress that clung to her skin because of the ambient humidity.
Daemon didn’t need to ask a question. He knew who had sent her. Orgor Nux surely hoped to coax the dragon prince with this gift. A slave, probably meant to please him, a carnal offering to gain his good graces.
Daemon stared at her for a moment, his lilac eyes piercing through the darkness of the room. The young woman’s frightened gaze reminded him of all those who, over the years, had prostrated themselves before him out of fear rather than respect. He had no use for Orgor Nux’s gifts, much less for this poor terrified creature before him. His mind was too consumed with anger and vengeance to be distracted by such trivialities.
“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice low and sharp.
The young woman hesitated, her eyes searching for a way out, an escape from this oppressive situation. But there was none.
“Lysa,” she finally answered, her voice barely above a whisper.
Daemon looked away toward the window, where the lights of Tyrosh glowed faintly in the distance. Lysa stood there, unsure of what to do or say. Finally, after a long silence, Daemon spoke again, but this time in a softer, almost weary tone.
“You may go.”
Lysa looked up at him in surprise. Her hands were still shaking, but Daemon’s clear command made her turn on her heel and leave the room without question. She didn’t know why he’d spared her, but she had no intention of finding out.
As the door closed behind her, Daemon sighed deeply. This world offered him nothing but lies, betrayals, and horrors veiled in smiles. He remembered Viserys, on his throne, the throne that should have been his. The Dragon did not forgive, and his vengeance, he had sworn, would burn to the roots of that betrayal.
Tyrosh was only the beginning. Soon he would carry his flames to Lys, then to Myr, and soon his name would echo in every street, every market, every port. His brother would regret it bitterly.
Looking out the window, he muttered to himself. “This world will burn before I give up what is mine.”
Lysa had left Daemon’s room trembling, but as soon as she crossed the threshold, she was overcome by a terror even greater than the one she had felt when she entered. Orgor Nux would never forgive her for disobeying his wishes, and the retribution would be brutal. Death might not come immediately, but pain would.
Her steps slowed in the dark corridor. She could hear the distant echoes of laughter and conversation from Daemon’s guards, but it brought her no comfort. Every breath felt like a challenge, every beat of her heart a note of anguish. In a fit of panic, she turned and headed back toward the door she had only just left.
Her fingers trembled as she knocked softly, unsure of what to say or even why she was returning to this man, this stranger. Perhaps because he had, in some way, been more merciful than anyone she had ever met. Perhaps because, despite his reputation for cruelty, he had not raised a hand against her, or demanded anything.
The door opened slowly, revealing the Targaryen prince, his impenetrable gaze scanning the dark corridor before settling on her again. “You came back,” he said, his voice calm but with a hint of annoyance in his eyes.
Lysa swallowed hard, her eyes lowered to the floor, unable to meet his gaze.
“I... I couldn’t leave,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “If I go back there, Orgor Nux... he... he’ll punish me.”
Daemon didn’t answer right away. He stared at her, his features hard, but in his gaze, there was a hint of a more complex emotion than she’d expected. Pity? No, not really. It was something darker, an understanding of the world they lived in, where the weak were expendable pawns and the powerful were ruthless players.
After a moment, he stepped away from the door and jerked inside.
“Come in.”
Lysa hesitated, then stepped carefully through the door, still breathing hard. Daemon closed the door behind her and returned to a small table by the window where a carafe of wine sat, along with two ornate silver cups. Without a word, he poured some wine into a cup and handed it to her.
“Drink,” he said. “It will help calm your nerves.”
Lysa took the cup with trembling fingers, surprised by the gesture. The wine had a rich, heavy aroma, quite unlike the ordinary drinks she had had access to as a slave. She took a small sip, then another, letting the warm liquid ease her anxieties, if only a little. Daemon, for his part, stood, watching her silently.
“Why are you a slave?” he asked abruptly, breaking the silence that had fallen.
Lysa blinked, surprised by the direct question. She hadn’t expected to have a conversation, especially not with someone as fearsome as Daemon Targaryen.
“My parents… they were merchants from Lys,” she finally answered, hesitating over the words. “When I was a child, we were captured by pirates… sold as slaves in Tyrosh. Since then, I… I’ve never been free.”
Daemon looked away briefly, his face betraying no emotion. It was a story he had heard before, in other forms, from other mouths. Tales of broken lives, of families torn apart by war or greed, were commonplace in the Free Cities. Yet something in the way she spoke, in the visible terror that permeated her every move, seemed to pique his interest.
“And what do you want now?” he asked, his piercing eyes staring at her. “Are you seeking my protection?”
Lysa lowered her head, her hands gripping the wine cup nervously. She had learned never to ask for too much, never to hope. But now that she stood here, facing one of the most powerful men in the known world, she felt a strange mixture of desperation and audacity welling up inside her.
“I just want to… survive,” she answered in a whisper. “I want to live without fear.”
Daemon studied the young woman for a long moment, weighing his words. Survive. A simple goal, but even that was a luxury for so many in this world.
“Stay here,” he finally said, making a decision that seemed to surprise Lysa as much as it did himself. “You will be safe as long as you are with me.”
He turned and returned to the window, glancing at the lights of Tyrosh in the distance. But before he could walk away completely, he added in a softer, almost absent voice. “Fear is a faithful companion… but it will never save you.”
Lysa remained silent, watching Daemon walk away, a strange sense of peace rising within her. Perhaps she had found, at least for tonight, a glimmer of hope in the shadow of a dragon.
The next morning, the pale light of dawn filtered through the thick curtains, casting shadows across the room. Tyrosh’s palace, despite its apparent luxury, lacked the splendor of the fortresses of Westeros. The damp stones and colorful tapestries could not mask the ambient humidity and the salty smell of the sea.
Lysa opened her eyes slowly, wrapped in a rough blanket on a simple makeshift bed, arranged in a corner of the room. It took her a moment to remember where she was and why. The previous day came back to him like a distant dream: the mission he had been entrusted with, his fear of Orgor Nux, and finally, the piercing gaze of Daemon Targaryen, who had allowed him to stay.
Daemon, meanwhile, was sitting on a chair by the window. Dressed in a simple black linen tunic, he seemed lost in thought, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sea and the sky merged. His sword, Dark Sister, lay beside him, always within reach. He did not seem to have slept much, if at all.
Lysa, hesitant, straightened up, her movements cautious for fear of disturbing the heavy silence that reigned. She cast a furtive glance at Daemon, but he did not pay her any attention, or at least, he pretended not to notice that she had woken up.
She stood up slowly, adjusting the dress she had still been wearing since the day before. There was a strange tension in the air, a kind of stillness before the storm. Lysa knew she couldn’t stay forever. Tyrosh was a nest of vipers, and Daemon’s protection, while welcome, didn’t guarantee she would be safe forever.
Finally, it was Daemon who broke the silence, not taking his eyes off the horizon.
“You woke up early.”
It wasn’t a question, but a simple observation. His voice was deep, slightly hoarse after the night.
Lysa hesitated for a moment before answering.
“Yes,” she murmured. “I… I didn’t sleep much.”
Daemon nodded slightly as if he understood. He still wasn’t looking at her, but she could sense that his mind was already far away, occupied by thoughts beyond her control.
“I can’t protect you forever,” he said in a calm voice. “Tyrosh isn’t safe, even for me.”
His words were heavy with truth. Lysa had survived so far by avoiding attachment to anyone, and by following the rules of her masters, however cruel they were. But with Daemon, she found herself in a complex situation. He was not a master, like the others. He represented both danger and a strange form of protection.
“What will become of me?” she asked, her voice wavering with uncertainty.
Daemon rose slowly from his chair and finally turned to her. He stared at her, and in his violet eyes, she saw neither cruelty nor condescension. Only a cold, calculating gaze, but one that, in a way, also seemed to carry a greater burden than that of simply conquering Tyrosh.
“You have two choices,” he said, stepping slightly closer. “Help me and gain your freedom or stay a slave your whole life.”
Lysa felt a wave of anxiety wash over her at the thought of fleeing alone. She had learned to survive, but these Free Cities were equally dangerous for a woman in her situation.
“I can’t, I am scared.” she whispered. “I have forgotten what it was to be free.”
Daemon studied her face for a moment, his penetrating gaze seeming to probe her thoughts. He let out a quiet sigh and turned away again, approaching the table where the carafe of wine from the night before remained.
He poured two glasses of wine, despite the early hour, and handed one to Lysa. She took it without thinking, recognizing the gesture as a form of acceptance. Perhaps it was his way of saying she could count on him for a time, however brief. They drank in silence, the taste of the wine recalling the night before. Daemon finally leaned back against the table, watching Lysa with a mixture of curiosity and resignation.
“Do you know why I’m here?” he asked after a moment.
Lysa shook her head. She knew Daemon’s reputation, but she didn’t know the real reason he was in Tyrosh.
“I came to conquer the Triarchy,” he explained, his icy voice contrasting with the warmth of the wine. “And Tyrosh is the first to fall. It’s revenge… against my brother, and against all those who dared defy me.”
Lysa shivered. She had heard of Daemon’s wars against the Triarchy, of his exploits in the War of the Stepstones. She knew, too, that he was ruthless toward his enemies.
“And you, Lysa,” he said, setting down his glass. “If you help me, you must understand that loyalty comes at a price. If I fall, so do you. If I win… you might find some semblance of freedom.”
Lysa remained silent, weighing her options. Staying with Daemon Targaryen was no guarantee of survival, but at least it gave her a chance. A chance to stay alive long enough to see how the cards would fall in this deadly game.
Daemon straightened, his hand brushing Dark Sister as he prepared to leave the room.
“Prepare yourself,” he said, heading for the door. Before he could cross the threshold, Lysa’s soft voice spoke behind him.
“I know poisons well.”
“You know poisons,” Daemon repeated, his voice soft but cold and calculating.
Lysa nodded, her fingers trembling slightly as she recalled her years of serving in powerful houses, where slow death was often preferred to brutal execution. Jealous mistresses, power-hungry merchants, and traitorous nobles all had their ways of disposing of undesirables, and she had learned to observe and understand.
“Yes,” she said, her voice weak but determined. “I learned from a former slave who was a healer. She taught me about toxins, how to use them, and where to find them. Small doses, subtle enough that one would not suspect anything until it was too late.”
Daemon leaned back in his chair his gaze hardening. He sized the young woman up, weighing what she represented. She was no longer just a slave fleeing the blows of Orgor Nux, but a useful pawn in his game of conquest.
“What poison would be best?” he asked in a slow voice, testing Lysa’s knowledge. The tyrant of Tyrosh will not fall easily. He is protected by guards and masters of medicine. He must appear to die naturally, or from a weakness that cannot be cured.
Lysa, gathering her courage, approached the table and leaned forward slightly. She whispered as if the name of the poison itself were a deadly secret:
“The Black Basilisk.” A rare poison, used mainly in the Free Cities. It acts slowly, over several weeks. Small doses slipped into food or drink. The first symptoms resemble a minor illness: fatigue, and nausea. But as it goes on, it causes a gradual degradation of the internal organs. Even healers can't detect it. They'll think it's a blood disease, a curse... until it's too late.
Daemon listened intently, the name of the poison stirring something in him. He knew poisons, of course, but this one was particularly insidious. Slow, almost invisible. Perfect for destabilizing an enemy without arousing suspicion.
“And you, can you get this poison?” he asked, his gaze fixed on her.
Lysa hesitated. She knew it was possible for her to get it, but it was risky. If she was caught, death would be slow and painful.
“Yes,” she finally murmured. “I know people… discreet merchants, who sell this kind of thing. But it will take time and… gold.”
Daemon straightened, a thin smile playing on his lips. Gold was no problem. Time, however, could be more complex to manage. But with a poison as subtle as the Black Basilisk, he could let Tyrosh collapse under his own weight, while he prepared his strength for the final blow.
“This is how we will do it,” he said, his tone filled with the cold assurance of a man who knew how to outwit others. “I will provide you with the gold you need. You will go and get the poison, discreetly. Then, you will sneak into the tyrant’s palace with the help of the other slave women you know. They will not arouse suspicion. And you will begin to administer the Black Basilisk to him. Slowly, over several weeks. He will not suspect a thing.”
Lysa felt a pit form in her stomach. She knew this mission was dangerous, but she was out of options. Helping Daemon might give her a chance at survival, and freedom. She nodded, gritting her teeth to keep her fear from showing.
“I will do as you ask,” she said, almost under her breath.
The King-to-be stood, coming closer to her, and placed a light but firm hand on her shoulder.
“If you succeed, Lysa, you will be free. Not just from this tyrant, but from everything that still binds you to this city. Do what is right, and you will have no fear of anyone.”
His words, spoken with an almost disconcerting coldness, resonated with her like a promise of salvation. Daemon was not a man to be loved, but he was a man who kept his promises. Lysa felt he was telling the truth. If she succeeded, she would be free.
The next few days were a whirlwind of preparations. Daemon sent the gold to Lysa in secret, and she traveled into the underworld of Tyrosh, to the hidden markets and dark alleys, where poison circulated like a common commodity. With carefully chosen contacts, she obtained the vials of Black Basil, carefully concealed in ordinary bottles.
Meanwhile, she recruited other slaves to serve the tyrant. Women who went unnoticed, invisible in the corridors of the palace. Their promise of freedom, whispered by Lysa, was enough to convince them to play their part. They would introduce the poison little by little, in the dishes, the drinks, in the baths that the tyrant took to soothe his muscular pains.
In the weeks that followed the implementation of Daemon and Lysa's plan, Tyrosh began to slowly change its face. The streets were still lively, the merchants shouted their prices and the rich houses with colorful facades displayed their opulence. But beneath this surface, invisible currents of corruption and manipulation worked to destroy the tyrannical regime in place.
But Daemon knows that killing Orgor Nux is not enough. Tyrosh was protected by an army of slave guards, loyal not by choice, but by fear of chains and punishment. These men and women, born into servitude, represented a formidable force, but also a weakness to be exploited.
Daemon approached some of them in secret, promising them something no master would ever offer: freedom. To slaves, freedom was more precious than gold, more desirable than any reward. He offered them not only emancipation, but a place in his future army, where they would no longer be servants, but free men able to choose their own destinies.
“Are we supposed to believe you?” asked Ezekiel, one of the guards who had served Orgor for the past five years.
“I am a man of my word. Help me conquer Tyrosh, and I will set you free once I have conquered the city.”
“Your promises are only valid if we agree to serve you after the conquest,” another man said, crossing his arms. They had been chosen to represent the city’s soldiers, Daemon not speaking the local language. “What will you do if we want to leave?”
The question made the prince’s teeth grind.
“You will be free if that is what you wish. I am a man of my word.” He paused. “This plan is to take the city in the least violent way possible, to avoid useless death. Those who are on my side will be safe. Those who betray me will die under the flames of my dragons.”
A gentle reminder that he was a Targaryen, a man with two powerful dragons, who could decimate most armies if need be. The two men looked at each other, at the risk of being betrayed or making an enemy of the prince with two dragons.
“We will help you,” Ezekiel finally said.
One night, as the stars twinkled above the towers of Tyrosh, Daemon spoke with his two cousins, Rhaenor and Jaemor, in his private quarters. They had helped Daemon establish his power in the city by sharing positive rumors about him with the people, but the alliance with Lysa left them skeptical.
Rhaenor, the older of the two, spoke first, his voice low but full of distrust:
"This woman... Lysa... can you really trust her? She is only a slave. Why believe her? Perhaps she is playing a double game, perhaps she still serves that dog Orgor Nux.”
Jaemor, younger and more impulsive, chimed in. “Yes! How can you be sure she won’t betray us? If she’s skilled enough to handle poisons, she might be skilled enough to poison your plans.”
Daemon, who had been listening quietly to his cousins, raised an amused eyebrow. He knew their doubts were not unfounded, but he saw beyond their immediate concerns. He rose from his chair, the candlelight dancing across his determined features.
“Rhaenor, Jaemor, I understand your fears. But there’s a difference between fear and opportunity. Lysa is a tool. Nothing more, nothing less. She has everything to lose if she fails, and everything to gain if she succeeds. Her past as a slave makes her a perfect ally to slip in where no master could go. And believe me, she has no love for that tyrant or Orgor Nux.”
Daemon turned to the window, looking out at the moonlit city.
“Lysa is useful to me, but she is not part of my long-term plans. Once the tyrant is dead and Tyrosh is in my hands, she will be free, as I promised. And if she decides to betray me before then, well... I will have no trouble dealing with her.”
Rhaenor, crossing his arms, looked unconvinced.
“You play a dangerous game, Daemon. Slaves are volatile. They have lived their entire lives under domination and fear. How can you be certain that, faced with freedom, she will not choose vengeance?”
Daemon turned to his cousins, a cold smile on his lips.
“Because, Rhaenor, Lysa knows that the freedom I am offering her is the only freedom she can hope to obtain. And I am far more formidable than anyone in this city. Men like her don’t betray when they know what they’re risking.”
Jaemor, still wary, added.“If she falters, I’ll be there to watch her. We can’t allow the fate of our conquest to rest on a single slave.”
Daemon nodded, satisfied.
“Do what you must, but remember: Lysa won’t take Tyrosh. I will. She’s just one link in a larger chain. Masters, guards, slaves… all will eventually bend to my will.”
Silence fell over the room as the three men stared out at the city of Tyrosh, each thinking of the unseen movements beneath the cobblestone streets. The plot was advancing, and soon, the tyrant would fall from his throne, carried away by the unseen hands of the slaves and conspirators Daemon had so skillfully manipulated.
However, despite Jaemor and Rhaenor's concerns, Lysa has not betrayed them. After a few weeks, the first signs appeared. The tyrant, a robust and energetic man, began to complain of inexplicable fatigue, and internal pains that no healer could explain. He became more irritable, suspecting his advisors and generals of plots. The slaves, continued their work in silence, always invisible, always docile in appearance.
The sky of Tyrosh had been covered with a thick veil of clouds, plunging the city into a darker night than usual. Inside Daemon's apartments, the dim light of the candles dimly illuminated the room. The prince, leaning on a small table, poured wine into two cups while Lysa stood a few steps away from him, slightly tense. They were alone, as often in recent weeks, but the facade they had to maintain for the rest of the city weighed on their shoulders.
Daemon let out an amused sigh as he glanced at Lysa before setting both cups down on the table.
“They must think I’ve gone mad,” he murmured with a mocking smile, handing her a cup. “The exiled prince, taking a mere slave as his lover.”
Lysa took the cup hesitantly, her fingers brushing Daemon’s in a gesture that might have seemed intimate to an observer, but it wasn’t. This game they were playing was a cover, an illusion meant to distract curious eyes from the true nature of their exchanges.
“They believe what they want to believe,” she replied softly, her dark eyes settling on the red wine for a moment. “As long as they don’t discover the truth, it serves us well.”
Daemon leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of his wine, before fixing Lysa with a piercing gaze.
“And you, Lysa, what do you think about all this? Having to play the lover of a man you don’t desire, all for a cause that could kill you. Do you regret accepting this mission?”
Lysa sat down slowly across from him, folding her arms on the table, her expression calm, though her heart was beating faster than she would have liked. She had never wanted to become the centerpiece of a plot against the tyrant of Tyrosh, but she also knew that this was her best chance of escaping this life of slavery.
“Regret?” No, she breathed. “I’ve seen worse, Daemon. And you offer me something no one else has ever promised me… freedom.”
Daemon smiled, but his eyes shone with a calculating light. He liked the quiet strength he sensed in Lysa. She played her part perfectly, blending in with her surroundings while remaining vigilant. But he also knew she was not naïve. They were allies, nothing more, and that fragile understanding could be shattered at any moment.
“Things are progressing well,” Daemon continued, changing the subject. “The tyrant is beginning to show more visible signs of weakness. As for his guards… let’s just say that several of them are no longer as loyal as he thinks.”
Lysa nodded, her mind calculating the implications of this news. She had seen the tyrant faint at one of his banquets. He had straightened up quickly, but the paleness of his face and the sweat beading on his brow could not be ignored. The poison was taking effect.
“The Black Basilisk is working as intended,” she said quietly, as if speaking too loudly might arouse suspicion. “Each dose weakens him a little more. Before long, he will be too weak to rule, and his own allies will begin to turn away from him.”
Daemon nodded, satisfied. Everything seemed to be going as he had imagined. The city was crumbling under the weight of its own contradictions, and soon, he would only have to reach out and grab it.
“We must continue to be careful,” Lysa added after a moment of silence. “The weaker he becomes, the more wary his advisors will be. Some already suspect treason.”
Daemon stared at her, a smirk forming on his lips.“You are more cunning than many of the rulers of this city, Lysa. Perhaps I should keep you by my side even after the tyrant falls.”
Lysa replied with a smile that did not reach her eyes.
“Perhaps. But all I want is to keep my promise. Freedom, that is all I desire.”
Silence fell between them again, heavy but not hostile. They didn’t need to lie to each other; they both knew they were pawns in a much larger game.
Daemon finally broke the silence.
“Very well. In a few days, I will give you new instructions. We must maintain the illusion until the end. As long as we play the role of these unlikely lovers, they will not look too closely at our schemes.”
Lysa nodded, taking a sip of wine to mask her confusion.
“I just hope that when this is all over, we can finally lay down our weapons.”
Daemon smirked.
“When this is over, Lysa, you won’t have to bear weapons anymore. I promised you that. My war, however, has only just begun.”
This sentence intrigued the young woman. She knew that the prince had been exiled after being supplanted by his niece, which he seemed to have taken badly. However, she decided not to get involved. Leaving the prince’s room in the early morning, Lysa walked with determination towards the kitchens with one goal in mind: to kill her tormentor. Orgor would die and she would finally be free.