Westeros, King's Landing, Jaqenion Estate, study.
The light of dusk filtered through the leaves outside the window, casting dappled shadows across the thickly carpeted study.
Luke sat behind the wide desk, his fingertips unconsciously tapping the smooth surface. His gaze rested on the woman seated opposite him — a figure almost rged with the shadows.
Her na was Aurora — a na that ford a cruel contrast with her current state.
Her shoulder-length black hair was thick as raven feathers, but most of it was deliberately swept to the left side, tightly covering the ruined half of her face.
Luke had only seen it once, when she swore her oath of loyalty — a grotesque old burn scar and a deep knife wound that nearly crossed her eye socket.
The uncovered right half of her face had skin so pale it was almost translucent. A single eye the color of a cold deep pool was respectfully lowered.
She wore a plain dark-gray coarse dress, utterly unremarkable — the kind of figure that would be forgotten the mont you turned a corner in the alleys of King's Landing.
But Luke knew that beneath this unassuming shell lay considerable skill and a heart tempered by hardship into sothing exceptionally tough — and now bound by gratitude into absolute loyalty.
One month earlier, this very woman had dared to "assassinate" him in broad daylight on Silent Sisters Street.
Her strike had been ruthless and swift — a poisoned short dagger aid straight at Luke's throat. Even the battle-hardened Bronn had been startled and barely managed to intercept her.
What surprised Luke even more was that this woman had actually traded blows with a fighter of Bronn's caliber for several exchanges before being subdued.
If she hadn't clearly held back at the final mont, Bronn might not have taken her down unscathed.
When she was dragged before Luke, she did not beg for rcy. She simply raised her one good blue eye and rasped: "I only wanted to see you, Lord Luke. I offer my life in exchange for a chance to speak."
Luke had waved Bronn and the other guards back a distance and given her that chance.
Thus, he heard the story of a desperate mother: a pair of three-year-old twins stricken with the terrible "coughing blood fever," lying on the verge of death in a broken shack in Flea Bottom. Neither the maesters nor the street healers of King's Landing could help them.
Aurora had once been a household guard for a minor noble. Disfigured and cast down to the lowest rungs of society after an incident, with her husband long dead, the twins were her only remaining hope.
With nowhere left to turn and having heard rumors of the "magic rchant" Luke's miracles, yet unable to gain an audience, she had resorted to this extre thod to force his attention.
Luke had gone to see them.
The two tiny children were burning with fever, their faces flushed red, breathing faint and accompanied by a terrifying whistling sound.
The herbs and bloodletting of this era truly could not save them.
Without a word, Luke returned to the estate and brought back "special magic powder" — in reality, strong Blue Star antibiotics disguised as such.
After several days of proper dosing, along with fever reduction and nutritional support, the children's condition improved miraculously.
When the two children opened their clear eyes again and weakly called "Mama," Aurora had dropped to her knees on the spot, forehead pressed to the cold floor, and sworn a blood oath: she would offer her life and soul to Luke Jaqenion and his family, never to betray them.
Luke needed eyes and ears — soone who could slip into the darkest corners of King's Landing and gather intelligence for him.
Aurora was the perfect candidate: skilled, intelligent, with complex experience and deep familiarity with the underbelly of the city. Most important of all, she possessed absolute loyalty born from gratitude and a clear weakness.
Thus, the codena "Aurora" was born. Luke gave her a startup fund and several extrely discreet contact points, tasking her with "weaving a web" in the shadows of King's Landing — building an intelligence network that answered solely to the Jaqenion family.
Today was the first ti she had co to the estate of her own accord to report critical intelligence.
"Master," Aurora's voice was low but clear and steady, "my 'little spiders' have brought back word that the Hand of the King, Lord Jon Arryn, has been acting strangely lately."
Luke's eyes sharpened. "Continue."
"He has frequently disguised himself and secretly visited several brothels in King's Landing, especially those on Silk Street near the Old Gate." Aurora spoke evenly.
"At first we thought the old lord might… have particular tastes. But closer investigation revealed he was not seeking pleasure. He was asking the prostitutes questions about their clients — particularly about certain golden-haired guests and their habits."
"Furthermore, this afternoon, the Hand went alone, without any guards, to a smithy called 'Tob's Forge' midway down Steel Street. He stayed inside for about ten minutes."
"He did not commission or purchase any weapons. He simply spoke with the smith and the apprentices, seemingly observing their work — especially paying close attention to one particularly burly young apprentice."
Luke leaned forward slightly. "Is that apprentice nad Gendry? Possibly with the surna… Waters?"
Aurora's visible blue eye flashed with obvious surprise. She clearly hadn't expected her master to know the na and possible surna of a re blacksmith's apprentice on sight.
She quickly composed herself and nodded respectfully. "Yes, Master. The sturdy black-haired, blue-eyed apprentice is indeed called Gendry. Our people learned from the other apprentices that he has no clear surna, though so occasionally call him 'Big Gendry.'"
Luke understood at once.
Robert Baratheon's bastard son, the blacksmith apprentice Gendry Waters… Jon Arryn was indeed investigating.
And he was starting with Robert's "baseborn" children, trying to confirm his suspicions about the parentage of Joffrey and his siblings through hereditary traits.
The brothel visits were likely also to investigate children born to won who had lain with Robert.
"Very good, Aurora. This intelligence is extrely important."
Luke praised her, then his gaze fell on the small object she carefully took from her bosom.
It was an unremarkable black sphere, slightly smaller than a pigeon egg, with a smooth surface — like a polished black stone or cheap jewelry.
But Luke knew it was one of the disguised core components of a miniature recording device he had brought from Blue Star and given to Aurora for the most dangerous and vital surveillance missions.
Only the most core and closest "little spiders" were issued these "black balls." After obtaining critical information, they would send them back through extrely secret channels.
"This was delivered by Spider Three," Aurora said, presenting the black ball with both hands. "She successfully infiltrated Lord Baelish's household as a laundry maid. Last night she slipped out on the pretext of an errand and brought this back."
"She said that while cleaning outside Lord Petyr's private reception room, she faintly overheard suppressed arguing and weeping from inside. It seed to be between Lord Petyr and a female guest."
"She took the risk of pressing the 'black ball' against the bottom of the door crack and recorded a fragnt. It wasn't long, but she caught the words 'Jon,' 'Lys,' and 'child,' and felt it was of major importance."
Luke took the black ball, which still carried the warmth of Aurora's body. It felt slightly heavy in his hand.
He unlocked a drawer in his desk, took out an identical-looking black ball from a specially made small box inside, and handed it to Aurora.
"Well done. Tell Spider Three she has rendered great service. Her reward will be delivered through the usual channel. Have her continue her infiltration, but be extrely cautious — Petyr Baelish is an old fox."
"Yes, Master."
Aurora accepted the new black ball, tucked it away carefully, bowed once more, and then slipped out of the study as silently as she had arrived, vanishing into the shadows of the corridor.
Luke stood up, confird the study door was bolted from the inside, and checked that the curtains were fully drawn.
Then he returned to the desk, took a tablet computer from his personal space.
He pressed the power button. The cool blue screen lit up, illuminating his thoughtful face.
With practiced movents, he pried open the small black sphere with a tool, removed the fingernail-sized micro-storage card inside, and inserted it into the tablet's slot.
He opened the dedicated audio decoding and playback software. A waveform appeared on the screen. He plugged in earphones, took a deep breath, and tapped play.
At first there was only the faint hiss of electronic noise mixed with very distant, muffled voices and the clink of objects — the sound quality was poor, obviously recorded through a door.
The environnt had not been ideal, and the device had been planted secretly.
But soon the audio beca clearer, as if the speakers had moved closer to the door or their emotions had raised their volu.
First ca a woman's suppressed, tear-choked voice, thin and trembling with fear:
Lysa Tully: "…No, Littlefinger, I can't… I can't do this! He is my husband! He is Robin's father! By the gods, this is kinslaying, a monstrous sin! We will be sent to the seventh hell!"
Then Petyr Baelish's distinctive voice sounded.
His tone was lower and gentler than usual, carrying a hypnotic, soothing quality, yet the cold calculation between the words seeped through the gentle facade:
Petyr: "Shhh… my little bird, my dear Lysa. Calm yourself. Look at . Look at ."
There was the rustle of clothing and soft sobbing.
Petyr's voice drew even closer, almost a whisper: "He is not Robin's true father, and you know it. Robin is our child, the fruit of our love. Jon Arryn? He was rely an old man standing between us — a knight who kept you caged like a canary but never gave you love or warmth. What has he ever brought you? Nothing but the empty burdens and shackles of the nas Tully and Arryn."
Lysa wept: "But he has treated well… he gave status, he gave the Vale…"
Petyr gave a soft, mocking laugh: "Status? The Vale? My foolish girl, Lysa. Those things were yours by right, by blood. Without him, you would still be the princess of Riverrun and the mother of the Vale's rightful lady."
Petyr's tone turned grave: "I know because I care for you — for us. Lysa, Jon is not investigating soone else. He is investigating the king's seed! He suspects… no, he has almost confird… that Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tomn — those three golden-haired little monsters sitting in the line of succession to the Iron Throne — are not Robert Baratheon's blood at all!"
A sharp intake of breath ca from Lysa, followed by near-suffocating silence broken only by her heavy, terrified breathing.
Petyr continued to apply pressure, his voice still calm: "It is Cersei — and her twin brother Jai Lannister. They committed incest and produced these three golden-haired abominations. Jon has found evidence, or is very close to the truth. Think about it, Lysa. Once he tells Robert — that boar-tempered king — what will happen?"
"King's Landing will bleed. The Lannisters will strike back. The Seven Kingdoms will plunge into war! At that ti, as the Hand's wife, as soone who might know the truth, can you and our poor, sickly Robin survive the storm? Will Tywin Lannister allow anyone who knows to live?"
Lysa completely broke down, speaking incoherently: "Gods above… the Seven… what are we to do? Run? Back to the Eyrie?"
Petyr's voice suddenly filled with temptation and "deep affection": "Run? No, my Lysa. Running ans living in eternal fear and hiding. And as long as Jon lives and continues his investigation, this fire will eventually reach us. We need… to deal with the source. Not out of evil, but for survival — for our future, so that Robin can grow up in a safe world without suspicion or the threat of war."
Lysa trembled: "Deal with… you an…"
Petyr lowered his voice, sounding like a serpent hissing: "I have a little trinket from Lys. They call it 'Tears of Lys.' Colorless, odorless, even carrying a faint sweet scent. Just a few drops mixed into his evening sweet wine or milk… it will make a man slowly waste away, as if afflicted by so consumptive disease. The maesters will never find the cause."
"He will pass 'peacefully' in his sleep, without pain. Everyone will simply sigh that the venerable old Hand finally succumbed to the burdens of state and years of toil. A tragedy, but not a scandal, not war."
Lysa's resistance weakened, yet fear remained: "But…"
Petyr cut her off, using the famous line with seductive power: "Lysa, look at . The world is like a great ladder. Many try to climb it and fail, falling to their deaths. So have the chance to climb but are held back by the kingdom, the gods, love… these illusions that bind their hands and feet."
"Only the ladder is real."
"Chaos is not a pit. Chaos is a ladder."
"Jon's death will bring so chaos, yes. But for the king, for the Lannisters, for every faction, this chaos will conceal an even more terrible truth and give them each a chance to catch their breath and regroup. And this chaos will also be the ladder we climb. We will be together, forever together, with no one left to fear. For that future, my little bird, will you help ? Will you take this step for us?"
A long silence.
The earphones carried only Lysa's increasingly rapid breathing, which slowly cald again, along with Petyr's patient, almost suffocating wait.
Finally, Lysa's voice ca — weak, hoarse, but carrying a desperate resolve: "Give… the thing."
Petyr's voice instantly filled with relief and deeper tenderness — perhaps with a trace of hidden triumph: "Good, my brave Lysa. Rember, be careful. Act as naturally as you would when tending to Robin. Once this is over, we will be free."
The recording grew fuzzy again here, as if the two were exchanging the deadly "Tears of Lys" or beginning a more private, whispered conversation that exceeded the planted device's optimal pickup range.
The audio file ended abruptly.
Luke slowly removed the earphones. The tablet's screen light illuminated his calm face, but his eyes flickered with complex emotions — understanding, gravity, and a quietly rising sharp scrutiny of the storm about to sweep across Westeros.
The gears of history were turning with a clear, cold sound right beside his ear.
Petyr's poisonous sche, Lysa's capitulation, Jon Arryn's fated "natural death"… the first domino of the War of the Five Kings had been gently pushed.
In the study, only the rhythmic tapping of Luke's fingers on the desk remained, accompanied by the deepening night over King's Landing outside the window.
There were still many matters awaiting him on Blue Star, but for now, Westeros would not produce any major waves.
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