Deep within the Violet Garden, candle flames flickered uneasily in the secret chamber steeped in the scents of aged wine, expensive incense, and conspiracy.
Tregar Omeron scanned the rough sketch of the area surrounding the Prince's Residence one last time, tapping a finger on the shaded patch that represented the Backstreet.
Four people sat around him, allies who had been secretly coordinating these past few days, staking their fortunes and lives.
Every face bore the feverish excitement of an all-or-nothing gamble, along with barely concealed tension.
"Remember," Tregar said, his voice low but exceptionally clear, "after full dark, my men will converge on the back street from all directions. About two hundred."
"Viserys will meet them there on time. He is our banner, our claim to legitimacy. His men... barely count as a pretext."
His lip curled in a faint, almost imperceptible sneer. "Your own men will set fires across the city as planned, creating chaos and drawing the garrison's attention."
"Don't worry about casualties. Just cause disorder. Once a fire breaks out at the residence, or... something else happens..." He glossed over the uncertain possibility involving the dragon.
"Immediately lead your men to seize the nearest warehouses and city gates. Raise King Viserys's banner and proclaim that you are setting things right."
"Lord Tregar, are you... really not going to the back street?" a sallow-faced, middle-aged merchant could not help asking, his voice trembling.
Dargold gave him a look that made the merchant immediately shrink back.
"A man of my standing must naturally remain here, securing your rear and coordinating our various forces."
His tone was level, his justification impeccably respectable. "Besides, someone must... see which way the wind is blowing."
Everyone understood perfectly well.
If they succeeded, Tregar Omeron would naturally emerge as the foremost contributor, stepping calmly