The Great Sept of Baelor loomed like a mausoleum over King's Landing, its high arches swallowing the dim afternoon light, the massive stained-glass windows casting fragmented, bloody hues onto the cold stone floor. The tolling of the bells was relentless, a heavy, solemn dirge that rolled over the city like distant thunder.
Inside, the air was thick with incense and something far less holy—the whispers of nobles who had come not to mourn, but to witness. Black and crimson banners hung from the pillars, draped like the shrouds of a kingdom pretending at grief.
At the center of it all lay Joffrey Baratheon. Death had not been kind to him. The Silent Sisters had done their work, but even their practiced hands could not make him whole. His severed head had been stitched back onto his bloated corpse, a grotesque mockery of the boy-prince who had once sneered down at the world. His face, once flushed with cruel delight, was now waxen and stiff, lips slightly parted as though in one final, silent gasp. His golden curls had been combed, his finery impeccable, his crown gleaming atop his ruined head. And yet, no amount of silk and gold could disguise the truth—Joffrey Baratheon was dead.
Cersei Lannister stood beside the bier, her face carved from something harder than grief. If one looked closely, they would see the cracks—her trembling fingers where they rested on her son's chest, the way her lips pressed too tightly together, as though holding back a scream. But her golden hair was immaculate, her gown a deep crimson that made her look every bit the wounded lioness she wished to appear. There was no crown upon her head—no longer a queen, not in truth—but the rage in her green eyes burned brighter than any crown ever had.
Jaime stood at her side, his face unreadable. He had not spoken since they had entered the sept, not to Cersei, not to anyone. His jaw was set, his golden hand resting against the hilt of his sword, as though half-expecting a fight to break out over the corpse of his sister's son.
At the far end of the hall, slouched against one of the stone pillars, King Robert Baratheon let out a long, exhausted sigh. He had the look of a man who had been forced into an obligation he had no patience for—his broad frame was wrapped in the same finery he had worn for years, though it barely fit him now, his once-muscled bulk gone soft with drink. His blue eyes, bloodshot from a night of heavy wine, flicked lazily over the gathered nobles, then to the corpse of the boy he had never truly claimed as his own.
"Well," he muttered under his breath, voice thick with disinterest, "he certainly looks better dead than he did alive."
A sharp intake of breath from a nearby noblewoman. A scandalized murmur rippling through the crowd.
But Olenna Tyrell only smirked, leaning ever so slightly toward her granddaughter. "I daresay the King has finally found some truth in his words," she murmured, voice low enough that only Margaery could hear. "Pity he had to be half-drunk for it."
Margaery did not so much as blink. She stood poised, hands folded in front of her, her expression a portrait of quiet, noble grief. A dutiful lady, mourning the loss of the Crown Prince. It was an act, of course. She had not shed a single tear for Joffrey. Why would she? The boy had been a monster, and monsters deserved their endings. Still, she played her part well.
"A tragic loss," she whispered, her voice honeyed with just the right amount of sorrow. "He was… such a promising young man."
Olenna gave a soft, dry chuckle. "Yes, quite promising. If one enjoys a promise of suffering and incompetence. The boy had all the makings of a great ruler—provided one was hoping for another Mad King."
Margaery said nothing, only glanced toward the bier where Cersei remained frozen, her body rigid with barely contained fury. The Former Queen—if she could still call herself that—was gripping the fabric of her skirts so tightly that the fine embroidery threatened to unravel beneath her nails.
Jaime, sensing the storm brewing beside him, finally spoke, his voice low and even. "Cersei."
She did not turn to him.
"Cersei," he said again, this time softer.
Her fingers flexed against the fabric.
"I will find whoever did this," she whispered, her voice like steel wrapped in velvet. "I will see them torn apart, limb by limb. I will watch them suffer until their last breath."
Jaime exhaled, slow and steady. "And then what?"
Her head snapped toward him, her green eyes ablaze. "Then I will have justice."
Jaime held her gaze for a long moment, then looked back at the body of the boy they had created together. "Justice," he echoed, though there was no conviction in his tone.
The High Septon droned on, speaking of Joffrey's greatness, his bright future cut short, his nobility and his strength. The words were a hollow thing, echoing against stone, floating above a crowd that did not truly care.
Robert let out another sigh, rubbing at his temples. "Gods, is this going to take all day?"
"You could have stayed in your cups, Your Grace," Olenna mused, her sharp eyes twinkling with mischief. "But then you'd have missed all this heartfelt sorrow."
Robert gave her a sideways glance, then let out a tired chuckle. "Oh, aye. A real tragedy, this." His voice dropped lower, so only she could hear. "Would've been a bigger tragedy if the little bastard had lived."
Olenna pressed a hand to her chest in mock horror. "Why, Your Grace, such words about your own son?"
Robert snorted. "That little shit wasn't my son, and we all know it. He was his mother's.."
Silence stretched between them for a moment, broken only by the High Septon's endless prattling. Then Olenna, ever pragmatic, tilted her head slightly. "And what will you do now, Your Grace? Now that the Mad Prince is gone?"
Robert stared at the corpse for a moment longer, then reached into his sleeve and pulled out a flask. "Same thing I always do, Lady Olenna," he muttered before taking a long swig.
The ceremony ended with a final toll of the bells, the sound rolling over the city like a final exhale. Cersei lingered by the bier, her fingers tracing over the cold, lifeless hand of her son before placing a single red rose atop his chest.
She turned then, her face a perfect mask of grief and rage, and swept from the hall without another word.
Margaery watched her go, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles. The game was moving once more.
And the Queen of Thorns? Olenna Tyrell merely patted her granddaughter's hand and sighed. "Well, that was an absolute waste of an afternoon. Come, my dear, let's go find something more pleasant to drink to."
And with that, the Tyrells turned away from the corpse of the dead king, already thinking of what came next.
—
The bells tolled, their mournful dirge rolling over the city like the final gasp of a dying beast. Inside the Great Sept of Baelor, the air was thick with incense and whispers, heavy with the weight of unspoken thoughts.
Cersei Lannister stood before the bier, her hand resting lightly on Joffrey's cold chest. He was dressed in gold and crimson, the finest silks the royal tailors could muster, but death had done him no kindness. His face was pallid, waxen, his lips tinged blue. The Silent Sisters had done what they could, but even they could not hide the grotesque evidence of his brutal end. His throat bore the crude stitches where his severed head had been reattached to his body, an insult that made Cersei's stomach turn. He had been her golden lion, her firstborn, her Joffrey—and now he lay still and broken, robbed of life, robbed of dignity.
Her fingers twitched against the fabric of his tunic. She had always imagined her son's reign stretching long into the years, unchallenged and unyielding, the crown secure on his head, the Seven Kingdoms kneeling before him. Instead, he had been stolen from her, ripped away by the hands of traitors, of cowards who lacked the courage to face him in battle.
And yet, they had dared.
She let her gaze sweep over the gathered mourners, her face the perfect mask of grief. But behind the veil of sorrow, fury seethed, coiling in her veins like a serpent. The nobles of King's Landing stood in hushed groups, dressed in mourning blacks and greys, but their eyes were sharp, hungry. They whispered behind lace fans and gloved hands, their words thick with speculation, their hearts unmoved by her son's death. They were waiting, watching. Waiting to see how the Queen Mother would react, how she would wield her grief—whether it would break her or sharpen her into something deadlier.
Fools.
She was not some simpering, broken widow. She was Cersei Lannister.
"They're staring at you," Jaime murmured beside her, his voice low.
"Let them," she said, barely moving her lips.
Jaime stood stiffly at her side, clad in the polished gold of his Kingsguard armor. He had always been beautiful, her twin, her mirror, but his face had hardened in the past months. The glint in his green eyes was not the easy arrogance of their youth, but something else—something colder. Grief, perhaps. Guilt.
Good.
Let him grieve. Let him feel the weight of what had been lost. Joffrey had been his son, as much as hers, though he had never dared speak the words aloud. He had kept his distance, played the role of Kingsguard, while she had carried their golden-haired boy alone. And now it was too late.
She felt his gaze on her but did not meet it. Instead, she let her eyes drift toward the back of the sept, where Robert Baratheon stood with a goblet in hand, looking as if he had stumbled into the wrong ceremony. He was broader now, softer, his once-mighty frame lost beneath layers of wine and indulgence. His face was red, his beard flecked with grey, and his eyes—her gods, his eyes—held not a flicker of grief.
"Twelve years," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "Twelve years, and he cannot even pretend to mourn him."
Jaime exhaled sharply through his nose. "Robert never mourned anything but his own failures."
Robert caught sight of them and made his way over, clumsy in his movements. He reeked of wine and sweat, and Cersei's fingers curled into the silk of her mourning gown, nails pressing against her palm.
"Cersei," he grunted, his voice thick with drink. He gestured toward the bier with his goblet. "Waste of a good crown, that one."
Her breath stilled. She turned slowly, deliberately, fixing him with the full force of her stare. "Say that again."
Robert blinked at her, swayed slightly, then shrugged. "It's a bloody shame, is what I meant. But you knew what he was."
"And what was he?" Her voice was ice.
Robert scratched at his beard. "A little shit," he muttered.
A sharp inhale came from somewhere nearby—perhaps a noblewoman, scandalized by the king's callousness. Cersei barely heard it over the sound of her own heartbeat roaring in her ears.
Her nails dug into her palms until she felt the bite of pain. "He was my son."
Robert scoffed. "Aye, he was your son. Not mine, though, was he?"
A hush fell over the gathered lords and ladies, eyes flicking between them. Cersei felt her rage climb, white-hot, threatening to spill over. Not here. Not yet. But one day soon, Robert Baratheon would choke on his own words.
She forced herself to turn away from him, lest she do something rash. She scanned the crowd instead, her gaze landing on Margaery Tyrell.
The girl had the gall to wear a dress of midnight blue rather than black, a subtle deviation from mourning attire that spoke volumes. Her hands were folded in front of her, her expression one of quiet solemnity, but Cersei knew better.
She strode toward the girl, heels clicking against the marble floor. "My lady," she said, voice smooth as silk. "You do not weep."
Margaery lifted her chin, her brown eyes wide with innocence. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I wept in private. I did not wish to make a spectacle of my grief."
Lies. Clever, pretty little lies.
Behind Margaery, the Queen of Thorns stood with a small, knowing smile. Olenna Tyrell had never been one for pretense. She tilted her head slightly and said, "Really, Cersei, I don't see what all the fuss is about. The boy was an abomination. Best to put him in the ground quickly before he starts smelling worse than he already does."
A flicker of rage crossed Cersei's face before she schooled it back into composure. "Watch your words, Lady Olenna."
The old woman did not so much as blink. "Oh, I always do. You should try it sometime."
Cersei clenched her jaw. The Tyrells. Always preening, always playing their games. They were up to something, and she would find out what.
The ceremony droned on. The High Septon's voice echoed through the great sept, speaking empty words of loss and remembrance. And through it all, Cersei stood tall, unbowed, unbroken.
They thought this was the end of Joffrey's reign.
They were wrong.
This was only the beginning.
She would have her vengeance. On the ones who took her son. On the ones who dared to look at her with pity. On the ones who thought they could take what was hers.
Let them whisper. Let them scheme.
In the end, she would burn them all.
—
The funeral of Prince Joffrey was, to the casual observer, a somber affair. But to those who truly knew the ways of the world—those with eyes sharp enough to see through the veneer—the ceremony was nothing more than a performance, a spectacle that masked the undercurrents of power, deceit, and relief that ran just beneath the surface. Lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms draped themselves in their finest black, offering their muted condolences as they filed past the dead prince, some with a flicker of discomfort, others with barely concealed satisfaction.
Standing to the side of the scene, Lord Hadrian Peverell, with his well-groomed appearance and cold, calculating eyes, observed the proceedings. Beside him, Lady Fleur Peverell, or rather Daenerys Targaryen in disguise, stood tall, her face a serene mask of calm. Her golden hair, artfully styled to perfection, shimmered in the dim light of the sept. Her blue eyes, like twin sapphires, scanned the room, betraying nothing of the storm that raged beneath her composed exterior. She was the very picture of grace—but her mind, always sharp, was anything but at ease.
"Always a pleasure to witness a good spectacle, isn't it?" Harry murmured lowly, his lips curling into a faint, sardonic smile. His voice was smooth but carried a sharp edge, one that Fleur knew well. His gaze never wavered from the gathering crowd, studying their movements and their thoughts.
Fleur's lips twitched into a slight smile, though her thoughts were far from the banter. "Some play their roles better than others." Her French accent tinged her words delicately as she responded. The edge of her voice was honeyed but cold, her ability to mask any trace of emotion a skill that had served her well over the years. "You, my dear husband, are a master at reading between the lines. But tonight, you are not alone."
Her mind reached out, subtle and practiced, probing into the thoughts around them. She could feel the murmur of whispers, the idle gossip of the courtiers—weak-minded individuals. Their thoughts were cluttered with petty ambitions and lustful desires, but something darker lurked beneath it all. "They're all hiding something," she muttered under her breath, barely audible to Harry. "I can almost taste their secrets, as thick as the air in here."
Harry nodded, his eyes scanning the room, and for a moment, his lips curled in distaste. "I know. Most of them would sell their souls for power. Even the High Septon." He barely suppressed the sneer that threatened to form. He had long grown weary of the hypocrisy of the Faith and their endless pretense of piety. But there was one thought that had caught his attention, one that gnawed at the back of his mind. It was fleeting, almost imperceptible—a whispered notion that flitted through the thoughts of the crowd. "Find the Targaryen girl. Bring her to Illyrio. The reward will be..."
He narrowed his gaze, trying to locate the source. It didn't take long for his instincts to zero in on the cloaked figure lurking among the Smallfolk. The person stood unnervingly still in the midst of the milling crowd, their posture rigid, their presence unsettling. "Daario," Harry muttered softly, his voice darkening with recognition. "He's here."
Fleur's eyes flicked to the figure, her gaze sharp and calculating. "Illyrio must be more desperate than I thought," she murmured, her voice barely rising above a whisper. She could feel the weight of the man's intent pressing in on her, the malevolent undertones of his thoughts clear even from this distance.
Jon Snow, ever vigilant, stood just to Harry's right, his dark eyes scanning the room with a practiced wariness. Though he couldn't read minds like the others, his instincts were sharper than most. As the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon had been raised with the knowledge that every room, every conversation, was a potential battlefield. He was no stranger to lurking danger, and tonight felt like one of those nights.
He met Harry's eyes for a brief moment, and the unspoken understanding between them was immediate. His hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword, the grip loose but ready. "Do you need me to take care of it?" Jon's voice was low, but his words held a quiet weight.
Harry's eyes flickered between Jon and the cloaked figure. "Not yet," he replied, his voice calm but full of intent. "We need to know who else is involved. There's more to this than just Daario. We need to be sure."
Fleur, who had been silently probing the minds around her, let out a soft breath, her hand unconsciously reaching up to touch the necklace that concealed her true identity. "He's not the only one with his eyes on me," she murmured, her expression betraying the slightest flicker of unease. "The wheels are already in motion."
Harry caught her glance, understanding the weight of her words. "We've known this day would come," he said softly, a faint glint of resolve in his eyes. "But that doesn't mean we can't be ready."
A dark smile tugged at Jon's lips as he gave a brief nod, his hand tightening slightly on the hilt of his sword. "Ready for anything," he muttered under his breath.
As the funeral proceedings drew to a close and the High Septon's voice echoed through the sept, Harry's thoughts turned to the dangerous game that had already begun. He could feel the pressure building, like the calm before a storm. Cersei Lannister, Petyr Baelish, and now Daario Naharis—there were too many pieces on the board, and none of them could be trusted.
But as the mourners began to file out of the sept, Harry's thoughts were already focused on what came next. The game of thrones was far from over. And this time, they would play to win.
—
Daario Naharis stood among the throngs of Smallfolk, his sharp eyes darting back and forth through the sea of faces, ever watchful, ever searching. His usual smirk—the kind that made women sigh and men begrudgingly admire him—was still on his lips, but underneath that veneer of charm, the weight of his mission pressed heavily upon him. He was no longer the carefree mercenary he'd once been. He was a man on a task given to him by Illyrio Mopatis, and he would see it through, even if it meant capturing Daenerys Targaryen and dragging her back to Pentos.
The crowd buzzed around him, unaware of the dangerous game he was playing. Daario's sharp eyes searched through the faces of the Lords and Ladies gathered, always looking for the distinctive look of his quarry—the blood of dragons that would give her away. The Targaryen silver, the violet eyes that glowed like stars in the dark. He knew it could be any of them, hiding beneath their cloaks or veils, cloaked in the ordinary garb of the common folk.
But then he saw her.
A woman stood in the center of a small group, her back straight, her poise regal even as she mourned. She had the elegance of a queen, the kind that made all eyes turn her way, even without the need for grand gestures or extravagant displays. Her golden hair caught the light as it cascaded down her back, shining like a river of sunlight. Her eyes—blue, like sapphires—were fixed on the High Septon, but there was something about her, something in the way she carried herself, that made his pulse quicken.
It's her, Daario thought, his lips curving into a smirk. It has to be. She's perfect. She's just perfect.
The crowd seemed to shift around him as he focused on the woman. He felt the weight of destiny pressing upon his chest as though the gods themselves were whispering, urging him forward. He couldn't tear his gaze away from her.
But then something stirred inside him—a whisper of doubt. The violet eyes weren't there. Her hair was golden, not silver. She wasn't Daenerys.
No, it can't be her, he thought, his smirk faltering. It's just a trick. She's not the one.
He frowned, annoyed at himself. There was something about this woman, something that left him uneasy, though he couldn't put his finger on it.
Just as he was about to break his focus and continue the hunt, his instincts screamed at him. He felt it before he saw it—the subtle shift in the crowd, the dark pull of shadows creeping around him. The air around him grew heavier, thick with the scent of danger.
Too late, he realized, as his gaze darted to the edges of the crowd.
From those shadows emerged three women, their movements smooth and fluid, as though they were part of the night itself. They slipped through the gathering like ghosts, their eyes locking on Daario with lethal intent.
The Sand Snakes.
Nymeria Sand, the eldest, was the first to make herself known. Her lithe form moved through the crowd with the grace of a shadow, silent and deadly. She wore a cloak of dark leather, the edge of a dagger peeking from beneath her sleeve. Her dark eyes met his with the coldness of a snake preparing to strike.
Behind her was Obara Sand, her face set in a hard, unyielding expression. Her hand twitched near the hilt of her spear, her body brimming with restrained violence. Obara was the fire to Nymeria's ice—she was as wild and unpredictable as a storm.
And then there was Tyene Sand, the youngest but perhaps the most dangerous in her own way. Her beauty was a weapon as much as her smile was a warning. She appeared delicate, almost fragile, yet Daario knew better than to trust the softness of her appearance.
Tyene's lips curled into a sly smile as she moved in on him, her voice a soft, dangerous melody that was far too calm for the situation. "You seem lost, my lord," she purred, leaning in close enough for him to feel the heat of her breath against his skin. "Looking for someone, perhaps?"
Daario's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his dagger, the familiar weight comforting him for a split second. But before he could make a move, he felt the cold press of Nymeria's hand on his shoulder. Her grip was firm, unwavering, and for the first time in his life, Daario realized he might not be in control of the situation.
"Didn't you hear, Daario?" Nymeria's voice was low and lethal, a whisper that could cut like a blade. "We've been watching you."
His eyes darted between the three women, his pulse quickening. Shit, he cursed inwardly. How did I miss them?
Tyene's smile deepened as she saw the panic in his eyes. "You should've paid more attention, my dear Daario," she teased, her voice dripping with mockery. "Now you'll learn just what happens when you miss the most important things."
Daario's heart hammered in his chest as he tried to calm himself. His mind raced, calculating his options. The crowd was too thick for him to draw his blade without drawing attention. There was no easy escape. His instincts screamed at him to fight, but his mind was colder now, weighing the odds.
Obara stepped forward, her voice as rough as gravel scraping against stone. "You came looking for a Targaryen princess," she said, her tone mocking. "But we're afraid you've found something far more dangerous."
With one swift motion, Nymeria's dagger pressed lightly into his side, the cool steel a constant reminder of the danger that surrounded him. Daario swallowed hard, his eyes darting between the women, but the weight of their presence had him paralyzed. For the first time in a long while, he was the one trapped.
"Well then, my dear," Nymeria said, her voice calm and deadly, "let's see how well you play in our game."
Daario's thoughts raced as he realized the truth—his hunt had been turned against him. He was no longer in control. The Sand Snakes had him cornered, and in this moment, there was no escape. He could feel the tightening grip of inevitability around him, like a noose slowly pulling tighter.
As Tyene's laughter echoed in his ears, Daario understood. He wasn't the hunter anymore. He was the prey.
—
The mourners spilled out from the Great Sept of Baelor, their faces etched with grief, though the weight of sorrow seemed to lighten as the rituals came to an end. The air was thick with the silent tension of a city on the verge of change, but for Harry, Jon, and Daenerys, the sense of history and doom was hardly a concern. They moved through the thick crowd, pushing past the smallfolk with an unspoken determination, their eyes darting over every face, every movement.
Harry's cloak swirled around him as he threaded through the crowd, his gaze narrowing, almost predatory. He knew the man they were looking for was here somewhere, hiding in plain sight, blending in with the mourners. He could feel it in his bones—the game was afoot.
"Any sign of him?" Jon's voice was barely a whisper, though the edge of tension in his words cut through the quiet noise of the bustling streets. He kept his eyes scanning the crowd, arms folded, his expression fixed with quiet determination.
"Not yet," Harry murmured, voice strained with frustration. His fingers gripped the fabric of his cloak as he surveyed the crowd, his eyes flitting from one face to another. "But he's here. I can feel it."
Daenerys, still in the form of Fleur, stood with a graceful elegance beside them, her sharp eyes scanning for any sign of their quarry. She was attuned to the smallest details, and though the bustle of the crowd was dizzying, she didn't let it distract her. Her lips parted to speak, but her words came out as a soft whisper, laced with a quiet tension.
"He's not hiding in plain sight," she said, her gaze flicking over a group of people as if she were sensing more than just their physical presence. "He's smarter than that."
Jon gave a quiet grunt, his eyes narrowing as he took in the shifting crowd. "Or maybe he's just got a little too much confidence for his own good."
The words had barely left his mouth when a familiar figure stepped through the crowd—tall, lean, and confident, with a dangerous glint in his eyes. Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne, emerged like a dark star from the crowd. His presence was unmistakable, his stride deliberate and full of grace.
"Ah, look at this," Oberyn drawled, his voice silky smooth, as he approached them with an almost predatory glint in his dark eyes. "The famous trio: Harry Peverell, Jon Snow, and the always radiant Fleur Peverell." He gave a deep bow, his tone both teasing and respectful. "It's not every day I get to see such esteemed company. Tell me, what brings you all to this solemn occasion? A funeral, or perhaps a little conspiracy of your own? Both, perhaps?"
Harry couldn't help but grin at Oberyn's theatrics, though his eyes never stopped scanning the crowd. "Is it that obvious?" he said, his tone light, but there was a hint of seriousness beneath it. "We're here for a chat with an old acquaintance. Someone who might be able to help us."
Jon folded his arms, giving Oberyn a look that could've curdled milk. His lips pressed together, and for a brief moment, it was clear that he wasn't exactly in the mood for games. "You haven't seen anyone like that around here, have you?" He jerked his head toward the crowd with a raised brow, clearly implying that they weren't here for pleasantries.
Ellaria Sand, standing by Oberyn's side, smirked at the tension in Jon's tone. Her sharp eyes gleamed as she leaned closer, her voice low but filled with a knowing amusement. "You're looking for Daario, I take it?" she asked, her accent thick with the warmth of Dorne, but still smooth and commanding. "I know him well enough to recognize when he's been... reckless."
Daenerys straightened at the mention of the man they were hunting, her expression a mix of frustration and determination. She turned to face Oberyn, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You know where he is, don't you?" she asked, her voice carrying a quiet but intense force. There was a flicker of something more in her gaze, a promise of retribution that hung in the air.
Oberyn chuckled softly, a sound that sent a shiver down the spine of anyone who heard it. He had a way of speaking that made everything sound like a secret, something half-spoken with danger lurking just beneath the surface. "Ah, my sweet princess," he began, his voice smooth like velvet but edged with the rawness of experience. "If there's one thing I've learned about that man, it's that you can never fully trust his words." He said the last word as though it were a dare. "But you can trust his... actions."
Ellaria, standing at Oberyn's side, gave a knowing smile, as if to confirm her lover's point. "He's always been more interested in the chase than the capture," she said, her gaze lingering on Daenerys for a moment longer than necessary, before turning her attention back to Jon and Harry.
Jon eyed both of them with a quiet wariness, the edge of suspicion never leaving his face. "So your Sand Snakes have him already, then?" he asked, his tone thick with the unspoken question of whether he could trust their words.
Oberyn's grin stretched wider, and he looked to Ellaria, who merely shrugged, her smirk still lingering. "Yes," he said, with a sense of satisfaction. "My girls are well acquainted with Daario's... particularities. He's likely already in their hands by now." His tone was light, but there was a dangerous undertone to it, like the promise of a storm. "If you wish to speak with him, however, I suggest you head to Chataya's in about an hour. They'll have had their... fun by then."
Ellaria's lips curled into a smile that promised far more than anyone could truly fathom. "Just don't be too late," she added with a wink, her voice carrying a warning beneath the playful tone. "My girls are very thorough." She leaned in slightly toward Jon. "And they don't take kindly to interruptions."
Harry raised an eyebrow, a wicked grin curling on his lips. "So you're saying Daario's already caught?"
Oberyn's laugh was dark and rich, the sound of it carrying an almost musical quality. "Oh, I'm not saying he's caught per se. I'm saying... he's already being handled." He winked, the humor in his eyes unmistakable despite the underlying danger. "You'll find him at Chataya's. Don't worry about him. My girls are well... persuasive."
Jon gave a tight nod, his lips curling into a grim line. "We'll take your word for it." His gaze narrowed, clearly unwilling to let his guard down completely, even though he trusted Oberyn more than most.
Oberyn chuckled, his hands lifting in a shrug. "Of course, of course," he said, a wicked smile never leaving his face. "But I would caution you—don't keep them waiting too long." He gave a knowing glance at Ellaria, who responded with a raised brow, clearly enjoying the intrigue of the situation.
Daenerys' lips parted with a hint of impatience, her voice sharp as she spoke. "We'll be there," she said quietly, though the words carried weight. Her gaze flicked briefly to Jon and Harry. "If Daario's already talking, we can end this quickly."
Oberyn's eyes gleamed with something almost predatory, his smile widening. "Very well, then. An hour," he said, turning and offering a final wink. "Don't disappoint my girls. They have a very particular way of making people talk."
With that, Oberyn and Ellaria disappeared into the crowd, their voices a soft murmur as they walked off, leaving the trio with the lingering sense of a game they were now fully embroiled in.
Jon watched them leave, a grim smirk on his face. "Well, I guess that's our next stop."
Harry gave a low chuckle, his gaze still searching for any sign of their quarry. "If Daario gets the pleasure of a Sand Snake interrogation, we should probably go. Wouldn't want to leave him hanging, right?"
Daenerys nodded once, her tone quiet but firm. "Let's make sure Oberyn's right. If Daario's already talking, we can wrap this up quickly."
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!