The light in the Governor's Palace council chamber was murky. The blood had been hastily washed away, leaving broad, dark patches of damp, while the deep red seeping into the cracks between the stones resembled dried-up veins.
The air held a mixture of smoke, the briny smell of the sea, and the stale reek of charred wood trapped in the summer heat.
Aegon sat in the high-backed chair at the head of the table, the Blackfyre Sword across his knees and Dark Sister leaning against his chair.
His eyes were closed, his fingertips unconsciously tapping the scabbard with a steady tick, tick.
Sounds drifted faintly through the window: the work chants of men hauling bodies, the intermittent groans of wounded soldiers, and the rough shouts of troops.
A city was licking its wounds, and its ruler had to stop the bleeding before cutting away the rot.
Footsteps sounded in the stone corridor, drawing steadily closer, their measured rhythm carrying an almost imperceptible weight.
Aegon's tapping fingers stopped.
The door opened.
Luciana walked in.
She had changed into a long dress, but its hem had once again been stained dark red by the blood she had walked through.
The dust had been washed from her face, revealing the pallor beneath, with heavy, dark circles under her eyes.
A thin layer of ice seemed to cover her purple eyes, freezing every emotion deep beneath it. She held a thick roll of parchment, its edges crumpled in her grip.
She stopped a few steps from the long table and inclined her head slightly. "Your Highness."
Aegon opened his eyes. In the dim light, his violet irises looked particularly dark.
"Speak."
Luciana unrolled the documents.
Her voice was steady, clear, and without inflection, yet every word fell heavily, as though soaked in ice.
"The