"That's fine—Lord Lysandro obviously has his own reasons," Tiberius said to Lysaro with a bright, understanding smile. Inside his head, though, a dark little storm cloud rolled through.
[Motherfucker. If Lysandro had let his daughter show her face at this banquet tonight, I'd have dragged her ass straight to the balcony or the garden and shown you exactly what "cooking the rice" looks like!]
Simple math: Lysandro couldn't exactly ship his daughter's savior and secret boyfriend off to die on the Volantis front lines, could he?
Of course, Tiberius was only fantasizing. Actually doing it…
…probably wouldn't happen.
And if he tried, the first person to lose his shit wouldn't be Lysandro—it would be his straight-laced uncle Jules.
Uncle, can I still show my face at the White Company camp tomorrow?
Sorry, kid. Three strikes—you're out.
"By the way, Lysaro," Tiberius said as he watched Lysaro swap his honeyed warm milk for a cup of wine, "how's the hunting going?"
"Ugh, don't even ask!" Lysaro looked annoyed the second the topic came up. "That damn leopard disappeared again!"
[You're something else. Your hunting grounds aren't that big—how do you lose a whole leopard? Poor pigs and sheep on the estate are probably getting eaten alive.]
[Still, straight-up asking Lysaro to hire the White Company as bodyguards? Too blunt.] Tiberius thought.
So instead he kept chatting with Lysaro about how to shape the stories praising Lord Lysandro. Lysaro read him several new sections he'd written, and Tiberius had to admit the prose was elegant and the plot logic tight.
[Lysaro's actually pretty good at this!] Tiberius thought. [Classical flair, almost Homeric. But…]
"These passages are perfect for noble salons and high-society gatherings," Tiberius said carefully. "But the stories also need to spread among the common people."
"My idea is that people should hear them in noisy taverns, crowded street corners, even at kids' bedsides—not just in fancy noble parties."
"Think about it. The nobles and rich merchants already know your father inside out. They won't suddenly love him more because of a few pretty tales. But the common folk? All they see is his grand mansion, strong slaves, beautiful bed-slaves, the fleet that fills half the harbor, and the imposing bank. They don't know what kind of man Lysandro Rogare really is."
"Through these stories they'll learn: he's a wise, devoted governor who loves his people. Simple minds eat that up!"
He leaned closer, voice dropping like he was sharing a secret. "Imagine the entire city of Lys whispering about your father's virtue and wisdom. How many enemies would dare challenge him then? When he proposes new laws, won't the people support him far more easily?"
"I see, Tiberius. So you want me to write it more… approachable?"
"Exactly!" Tiberius snapped his fingers. "Approachable! Make it catchy, no fancy words or flowery language. Dock workers, kitchen maids, apprentices in the wine cellars—they won't understand your elegant prose. It'd be like feeding roses to cows. They'd get bored after three sentences and start demanding the storyteller shut up so they can hear the dirty jokes instead!"
"So everything I wrote is useless?" Lysaro looked crushed, deflating like a punctured bladder.
"Not useless at all. Actually, you've already nailed the structure," Tiberius pointed at the parchments in Lysaro's hand. "The way you stop at the climax, solve one crisis only to introduce the next, keep the audience hooked—that technique works for nobles and commoners alike. You just need to swap the language for plain speech they can understand right away!"
"I get it!" Lysaro's eyes lit up. "You're a genius, Tiberius!"
[No, I was just a failed webnovel writer back on Earth. Couldn't even get signed.]
After that Tiberius stopped talking about "deifying" Lysandro and switched to harmless gossip—who was cheating on whom, which sea trader had lost a shipment, etc.
Tiberius couldn't care less about any of it, but he kept the wide-eyed curious-kid act going, which clearly flattered Lysaro.
[In the end Tiberius is still a commoner—he doesn't understand noble politics!] Lysaro thought with quiet pride. [And he's so young. These are things I'll have to teach him myself!]
But when they wandered over to a decorative fireplace lined with ceremonial weapons, Tiberius picked up an elegant but poorly balanced throwing spear meant for show, weighed it in his hand, frowned slightly, and set it back down.
"I heard you killed Jon Starr with a throwing spear?" Lysaro grinned. "Tch, I'd love to learn. One day I want to put a spear through a leopard's belly too."
Tiberius saw the hook sink and smiled inside. The bait was set. Time to reel him in.
He pretended to think for a second, then said casually, "It's not that hard. By the way, Lysaro, about the details of those stories and how to spread them wider—we really need to plan this carefully. Maybe we should find a quieter, more private place to talk it through? Like…"
He paused at exactly the right moment, let his eyes sweep the noisy hall, then looked back at Lysaro with a knowing little smile.
"Like your hunting grounds? We could go hunt that leopard. It's quiet, no annoying small talk. We can enjoy the hunt and hammer out the details of this big project for your father's reputation at the same time. What do you think?"