Chapter 24

As Ser Daemon Sand left Oberyn's chambers, the door barely closed behind him when Nymeria Sand stepped into the room. Her sharp eyes took in the tension in her father's posture, and she knew immediately that something serious had transpired.

"Father," she began, her voice calm but tinged with concern, "what's happened?"

Oberyn sighed deeply, setting down his wine as he regarded his daughter with a steady gaze. "A Sellsword by the name of Daario Naharis is in King's Landing," he informed her, his voice low but urgent. "He's here on behalf of Magister Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos, searching for Daenerys Targaryen. They mean to capture her, bring her back to Pentos to be wed to Khal Drogo."

Nymeria's expression darkened, understanding the gravity of the situation. "But they don't know that Daenerys is here, hiding as Lady Fleur Peverell," she replied, her mind already racing with the implications.

"Not yet," Oberyn agreed, "but it's only a matter of time before they piece it together. We need to act quickly to ensure her safety."

Oberyn moved to his writing desk and quickly scrawled a note, his script swift and precise. He chose his words carefully, knowing that every moment counted.

---

Lord Hadrian Peverell,

It has come to my attention that Daario Naharis, a seasoned and dangerous sellsword, is currently in King's Landing under the orders of Magister Illyrio Mopatis. His mission is to locate and secure Daenerys Targaryen, intending to deliver her to Khal Drogo in Pentos. This places Lady Fleur in imminent danger, as her true identity could soon be uncovered.

We must act swiftly and decisively. Take all necessary precautions to protect her. Our plans hinge on her safety and the secrecy of her true identity. Should Illyrio's agents discover who she truly is, all that we have worked for will be at risk.

I trust you will know how to proceed.

With urgency,

Prince Oberyn Martell

---

Oberyn sealed the note with his personal signet, the impression of the sun and spear emblem standing out in the crimson wax. He handed the letter to Nymeria, his gaze serious.

"Deliver this to Lord Peverell immediately," Oberyn instructed, his voice firm. "Ensure that he understands the full gravity of the situation. We cannot afford any missteps."

Nymeria took the letter, her expression mirroring her father's resolve. "I'll see to it personally," she promised, before turning on her heel and leaving the chamber with determined strides.

As she made her way through the corridors of the Red Keep, Nymeria moved with a purpose born of necessity. The letter in her hand felt heavy with the weight of their alliance and the fate of Daenerys Targaryen, now known as Lady Fleur Peverell. Nymeria knew that time was of the essence—every moment that passed brought Daario Naharis closer to uncovering the truth. 

She would deliver the message to Hadrian, and together, they would ensure that Daenerys remained safe, hidden from those who sought to use her for their own ends. The sands of time were running out, but they were determined to protect Daenerys, no matter the cost.

—

In the dim, oppressive confines of the chamber, Cersei Lannister's grief and fury intertwined into a raw, seething anger. The cold stone walls seemed to close in tighter with each breath, amplifying the heavy silence that enveloped the room. Her bandaged right hand, a recent casualty of vengeance, throbbed incessantly, but the pain was a mere flicker compared to the burning rage that consumed her.

The Silent Sisters moved about their grisly task with the cold efficiency born of their grim vocation. Their veiled faces concealed any trace of emotion as they attended to Joffrey's dismembered body. His head lay grotesquely severed and placed beside him, a stark, horrific testament to the violence that had befallen him. The Sisters' hands moved methodically, their actions disturbingly calm as they reattached Joffrey's head with a precision that bordered on surgical artistry.

Cersei's eyes, swollen and red-rimmed, were fixed on the macabre scene before her. Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, her fury bubbling over as she watched each needle pierce the flesh, stitching together her son's mutilated corpse. Each stitch, each pull of the thread, felt like a direct assault on her heart, pulling taut the strings of her torment.

The chamber was filled with the unsettling symphony of the Sisters' work—the soft, almost rhythmic sound of the needle sliding through the flesh, the occasional rustle of their robes, and the muted sobs that escaped Cersei's lips. The horror of seeing her son's body being reassembled like a broken doll made her chest tighten, and she could hardly bear the sight. Her remaining hand clenched into a tight fist, the knuckles white with the force of her rage.

Unable to contain herself, Cersei erupted, her voice a jagged snarl. "How can you remain so detached?" she roared, her voice breaking with anguish. "This is my child you're desecrating! He is not some corpse to be pieced back together!"

The Silent Sisters continued their work, their silence a stark contrast to Cersei's explosive fury. Their expressions remained hidden, their movements precise and unyielding. As they applied balms and salves to Joffrey's reattached head, the room filled with the sickly-sweet smell of blood and herbs. Cersei's eyes tracked every movement, every stitch, her rage growing with each deliberate action.

Despair soon turned to cold, calculated vengeance. Cersei's thoughts twisted into dark, sadistic plans. She envisioned torturous retribution, her imagination filled with scenes of Littlefinger's suffering, his screams echoing through the chambers as he faced the full force of her wrath. "Littlefinger," she spat, the name a venomous curse. "He will pay for this. I will make him suffer beyond measure. And his allies—every last one of them—will feel the wrath of my fury."

The Silent Sisters, undeterred by her outbursts, completed their grim task. They began to cover Joffrey's body with a shroud, but Cersei's hand shot up, halting their movements. She stepped forward, her gaze lingering on Joffrey's pale, lifeless face, now eerily intact beneath the candlelight. Her fury simmered beneath her steely exterior, a dark promise of revenge that would make even the gods tremble.

As the Sisters gathered their tools and prepared to leave, Cersei remained rooted in place, her eyes cold and unyielding. The chamber felt heavy with the stench of blood and the scent of impending retribution. Cersei stood alone, her shadow stretching long across the floor, a grim testament to her resolve.

The storm inside her had not abated; it had merely coiled tighter, preparing to strike with a vengeance that would sweep away all who dared to oppose her. For now, she would wait, plan, and bide her time. The game was far from over, and Cersei Lannister had no intention of losing. Her vengeance would be both swift and brutal, a reckoning to be feared.

—

In the dead of night, Nymeria Sand moved through the shadowed alleys of King's Landing with silent efficiency. Disguised in a plain kitchen maid's dress and apron, she blended effortlessly with the night staff bustling through the city's winding streets. Her mission was clear, and every step was deliberate as she made her way towards the Red Keep.

She slipped through the servants' entrance with practiced ease, her presence blending seamlessly with the lowly night staff. The kitchen was a subdued haven of muted activity, the soft clatter of pots and the hum of hushed conversations filling the quiet. Navigating through the labyrinthine passages of the Red Keep, Nymeria's movements were as smooth and calculated as a shadow.

The soft sound of approaching footsteps disrupted her stealth. Nymeria pressed herself against the cool stone wall, her breath held. From the darkness emerged Jon Snow, wrapped in his cloak, his serious expression illuminated by the faint torchlight.

Seizing the opportunity, Nymeria stepped forward, her voice a soft murmur that cut through the silence. "Jon, I have an urgent message for Lord Peverell."

Jon's keen eyes assessed her quickly, noting her disguise and the urgency of her demeanor. "What's this message about?" he asked quietly, scanning the dim corridor for any signs of unwanted observers.

Nymeria reached into her apron, pulling out a sealed parchment with careful precision. "It's from Prince Oberyn. He made it clear that this must reach Lord Peverell without delay."

Jon took the letter, his expression grave as he examined the seal that denoted its importance. "I'll ensure Lord Peverell receives this immediately. Thank you for your discretion."

Nymeria's face, shadowed by worry, reflected her concern. "Be cautious. My father believes this message concerns a critical matter involving the Targaryens."

Jon's resolve solidified, his gaze firm. "Understood. You should return to your duties before you're missed."

With a final, apprehensive look, Nymeria melted back into the shadowy corridors of the Red Keep, her movements as fluid as they were silent. Jon, now clutching the vital letter, proceeded with purpose toward the chambers of Harry and Dany. Each step was laden with the gravity of the news he carried, a potential turning point in their intricate plans.

—

In the opulent, dimly lit chamber of King Robert Baratheon, the air was thick with the pungent aroma of stale wine and the sour, heavy scent of sweat. The grandeur of the room, with its rich tapestries and overstuffed furnishings, seemed almost to mock the king's current state. Robert lounged in a massive, throne-like chair, his bulk nearly swallowed by the cushions as he reclined, a half-empty flagon of red wine clutched in his hand.

Robert's once-imposing frame was now a shadow of its former self, bloated and slovenly from excess and indulgence. Wine spilled down his chin as he took another long, careless gulp, his movements slow and erratic, betraying the depth of his inebriation and neglect.

Standing across from him, Eddard Stark cut a stark contrast—his dark, solemn attire and composed demeanor highlighting the disparity between his own restrained frustration and the king's disarray. Eddard's attempts to address important matters were continually thwarted by Robert's muddled haze.

"Ned, you don't understand," Robert slurred, his voice wavering as he sank deeper into his chair, which groaned under his weight. "The Tourney is what the people need. After Joffrey's death, they need something to cheer for, something to lift their spirits. We can't let them wallow in misery. It's not good for them."

Ned's frustration was barely contained as he replied, "Your Grace, a grand Tourney so soon after Prince Joffrey's death may seem insensitive. The mourning is still fresh, and such excess might be seen as a lack of respect. A more restrained approach might be prudent."

Robert's eyes flared with irritation, his gaze unsteady. "I've made my decision, Ned. The Tourney will go on. The smallfolk need it. It'll give them a chance to forget their troubles, even if only for a fleeting moment. And I'll name Tommen as my heir during the festivities. It's the least I can do for the future."

Ned sighed, recognizing that further argument would be futile. Shifting his approach, he said, "Very well, Your Grace. Since the Tourney is set, there is another matter to address. With Baelish charged with Joffrey's murder, the position of Master of Coin is vacant. I propose Lord Manderly for the role."

Robert's face clouded with confusion. "Manderly? Why him?"

Ned maintained his calm demeanor. "Lord Manderly is in King's Landing for the Tourney and has both the experience and resources necessary to manage the realm's finances. He would be a competent choice."

A fleeting spark of interest crossed Robert's face, but it quickly faded as his attention returned to the flagon of wine. "Manderly, then. Fine. If you think he's fit for the task, let it be so. I have no desire to concern myself with counting coins. Let him handle the numbers."

Ned nodded, relieved to have a decision. "Thank you, Your Grace. I will make the arrangements."

As Ned turned to leave, Ser Meryn Trant filled the doorway, flanked by two women whose scant attire and nervous glances starkly contrasted the somber atmosphere of the room. Their presence was a brazen display of the court's decadence, a glaring reminder of the king's utter disregard for the kingdom's pressing matters.

Robert, oblivious to the new arrivals, continued to slouch in his chair, absorbed in his flagon. Trant, with a curt nod, gestured for the women to approach, their movements growing increasingly intimate.

Ned's gaze hardened at the scene, the contrast between Robert's indulgence and the kingdom's mounting challenges underscoring the weight of his own burdens. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and walked towards the door, determined to confront the pressing issues outside the castle walls.

As he exited, the growing disquiet within him only deepened, a stark reminder of the vast divide between Robert's self-indulgence and the urgent responsibilities awaiting him.

—

Harry and Daenerys sat close together in their chambers, the flickering light from the hearth casting soft shadows on the stone walls. The room was a sanctuary for them, a place where they could speak freely, away from the eyes and ears of the world outside.

Daenerys, though often stern and poised as a ruler, had softened in Harry's presence. Tonight, however, an unspoken tension lingered between them, a tension that had been growing over the past few days. She looked up at Harry, her violet eyes searching his face. "Rhaenys spent a lot of time hanging onto your every word at dinner tonight," she began, her voice gentle but tinged with a hint of uncertainty. "I noticed... how she looked at you."

Harry met her gaze, his expression calm but thoughtful. "I noticed too. But it's not just me, Dany. She looked at you as well, though she tried to hide it."

Daenerys's brow furrowed slightly as she processed his words. "I... I never really considered that. I know she admires you, but I thought her interest in me was just... familial."

Harry reached out, taking her hand in his. "Dany, you're more than just an aunt to her. You're a symbol of everything she's been denied—power, heritage, and maybe even love. But there's something more. Fleur was always in tune with her feelings, and I can sense that part of you recognizes Rhaenys' interest. You've never hidden your own attraction to women from me, and I know this might be new to Daenerys, but it's something Fleur embraced fully."

Daenerys looked down at their joined hands, her thoughts racing. "It's true," she admitted softly. "Fleur... I've always known I was drawn to both men and women, though Daenerys herself never had the chance to explore such feelings. With you, it's different. We've always been honest with each other about who we are. But this... this is new territory."

Harry smiled gently, lifting her hand to his lips. "We don't need to rush into anything, Dany. But it's important we acknowledge what's happening. Rhaenys might be struggling with her feelings, especially given everything she's been through. We need to be careful with how we handle this, not just for our sake, but for hers too."

Dany nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. "You're right. We need to tread carefully, but we also can't ignore what's in front of us. Rhaenys deserves honesty and respect, just as we do."

Their conversation was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Harry rose to answer, revealing Jon, who entered with an air of urgency. "Harry, Dany," he greeted them, his voice serious. "There's something you need to see."

Harry took the letter Jon handed him, breaking the seal and quickly scanning its contents. His face grew grim as he read, and he passed the letter to Dany, who read it just as quickly. Her expression mirrored his as she handed the letter back to Jon.

"It's from Oberyn," Jon explained, his tone tense. "Daario Naharis is in King's Landing. He's been sent by Illyrio Mopatis to capture Dany and bring her back to Pentos, where she's to be married off to Khal Drogo."

Dany's face hardened with resolve, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes—worry. "So Illyrio still thinks he can use me as a pawn," she said, her voice cold. "But what about my brother? Why isn't Viserys mentioned in any of this?"

Harry's brows knitted together in thought. "That is strange. Viserys has always been Illyrio's focus, the supposed heir to the Targaryen claim. For him to be completely absent from these plans... it could mean that something has happened, or that Illyrio has shifted his priorities."

Dany nodded, her concern deepening. "If Illyrio has decided that I'm the one he wants to control, then Viserys might have outlived his usefulness to him. Or worse, Illyrio could have betrayed him. We need to find out what's really going on."

Harry's mind raced, calculating their next move. "As long as the glamour holds, Dany is safe from immediate danger. But we need to stay vigilant. Jon, make sure she's under constant watch. No one gets close without our knowing."

Jon nodded, his resolve clear. "I'll see to it."

Harry turned back to Dany, his voice filled with determination. "I'll start gathering more intelligence on Daario and Illyrio's plans. We'll also need to speak with Oberyn. He might have more information we can use."

Dany placed a hand on Harry's arm, her voice steady despite the worry in her eyes. "We'll face this together, Harry. We've faced worse before, and we've always come through."

Harry squeezed her hand in reassurance. "Yes, we will. And we won't let anyone take what we've built away from us."

With their course of action set, Jon left to carry out his duties, leaving Harry and Dany alone once more. The weight of their responsibilities hung heavy in the air, but they knew they would face whatever came next together, just as they always had.

—

The Great Sept of Baelor loomed like a brooding colossus over King's Landing, its massive stone walls echoing with the solemn toll of mourning bells. The interior was awash in the muted colors of grief, with heavy draperies of black and crimson cascading from the high arches. The flickering light of countless candles did little to dispel the deep shadows that clung to the corners of the sept, where the nobles of the realm had gathered to witness the final rites for Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon.

Joffrey's body lay upon the dais, dressed in his finest attire, though death had done nothing to soften his features. If anything, it had made them harsher, a cruel mockery of the boy-king's once arrogant visage. His golden hair had been meticulously combed, and a crown of gold and rubies rested upon his brow. But the crown could not mask the ghastly wound that marred his neck, where the Silent Sisters had stitched his severed head back to his body with clumsy hands. The sight was grotesque, and more than one onlooker averted their gaze.

Queen Cersei stood beside the bier, her face a mask of fury and grief, though she was no longer a queen in truth. Stripped of her title, her power, and even her right hand by Robert's decree, she had been reduced to a shadow of her former self. Yet her eyes still burned with an intensity that suggested she had not been wholly broken. Her remaining hand, now skeletal in its thinness, trembled as she rested it on her son's cold chest, and for a moment, her face crumpled with the raw pain of a mother's loss.

To her left, Ser Jaime Lannister stood like a statue carved from ice. His jaw was clenched, his expression unreadable, but his eyes betrayed the storm that raged within him. The Kingslayer, once so cocksure and arrogant, seemed lost, adrift in a sea of grief.

King Robert Baratheon loitered near the back of the hall, his broad shoulders slumped under the weight of too many years of self-indulgence. His once-powerful frame had gone to fat, his eyes bloodshot from a night spent in his cups. He did not even pretend to mourn; to him, Joffrey had never been more than an irritating reminder of a marriage long soured. Now, with his so-called "son" dead, Robert seemed more concerned with finding his next flagon of wine than with paying his respects.

The lords and ladies of the realm had come to witness the spectacle, though few were moved to genuine sorrow. They whispered among themselves, their eyes flicking between the corpse of the prince, the broken queen, and the indifferent king. The air was thick with speculation and unease, for if the Mad Prince's death had brought relief to some, it had also plunged the realm into a new uncertainty. Whispers of justice, of vengeance, of dark plots and deeper intrigues circulated like a chill breeze, carrying with them the scent of fear.

Margaery Tyrell stood with her family, her face composed into an expression of perfect decorum, though her heart was cold. She had not loved Joffrey, had not mourned his passing. The Queen of Thorns, Lady Olenna, stood beside her, her sharp eyes missing nothing. The old woman's mind was already working, calculating the new balance of power, the opportunities and dangers that Joffrey's death presented. For the Tyrells, this was merely another move in the great game, one that they intended to win.

The High Septon droned on, his voice echoing off the cold stone walls as he recited the eulogy, painting Joffrey as a prince of great promise cut down in the flower of his youth. It was a lie, and all knew it. There was no love lost for the Mad Prince, no true sorrow at his passing. The words were empty, hollow as the shells of the candles that flickered and danced in the drafts that swept through the sept. Joffrey had been a monster, and his death, though tragic in its brutality, was seen by many as a just end to his reign of terror.

As the ceremony drew to a close, Cersei leaned over her son's corpse, her hand trembling as she placed a single, blood-red rose atop his chest. The color stood out starkly against the pale flesh, a final token of a mother's love. She lingered for a moment, her face a portrait of anguish, then slowly straightened, her expression hardening. Whatever softness had been in her heart was gone, burned away by the fires of grief and rage. She turned away from the bier, her hand clutching at the empty space where her other had once been. In her eyes was a promise of vengeance, a dark determination that those responsible for her son's death would pay dearly.

The bells tolled, a mournful dirge that carried out over the city, a reminder to all that the heir to the Iron Throne was dead, and with his death, the realm had been cast into the shadow of uncertainty. The sun dipped low in the sky, its light streaming through the stained glass windows, casting long, twisted shadows across the faces of the gathered nobles. As they filed out of the sept, their faces drawn and pensive, they knew that this was not the end but merely the beginning of a new and bloodier chapter in the history of Westeros.

—

Cersei stood over Joffrey's lifeless body, her face a mask of sorrow, but behind her eyes simmered a cold, vengeful fury. Her son lay before her, pale and still, a grotesque mockery of the golden boy he once was. The sept was filled with the soft murmur of mourners, their eyes darting from her to the body of the prince, but Cersei saw them all for what they were—vultures, scavengers picking at the bones of her grief.

Beside her, King Robert swayed slightly on his feet, the stench of wine heavy on his breath. His eyes were glazed, unfocused, and he barely seemed to comprehend the scene before him. Robert, the drunken fool who had once dared to think himself her equal, stood as a reminder of all the indignities she had suffered. It was a twisted irony that he, of all people, should be present at the wake of a child who was not his own. No, Joffrey was hers, hers and Jaime's—or rather, hers and the Lannisters'. For when Jaime had turned away from her, had refused her advances and spurned her love, she had taken her revenge the only way she knew how. With Kevan, with Tygett, with any Lannister who might serve to fill the void Jaime had left.

A flicker of satisfaction crossed her face, quickly masked by the expression of grief she knew was expected of her. It pleased her, in a bitter way, to know that none of the children who bore the Baratheon name were truly Robert's. Joffrey, the pride of her line, had been born of her own machinations, a product of her defiance and her need for control. And now he was dead, stolen from her by treachery, by the plots of men like Petyr Baelish.

Littlefinger. The name alone made her blood boil. The cunning, lecherous worm had played his game too well, and now her son lay cold and dead. Oh, she had no proof, not yet, but she knew it in her bones. It was Baelish who had orchestrated this, who had murdered her golden lion in such a barbaric manner. And he would pay for it. She would see him flayed alive, his skin peeled from his body in strips. But first, she would make him watch as everything he had ever built crumbled to dust.

And then there were others, shadows in the corners of her mind. Lord Hadrian Peverell, with his cold eyes and quiet strength, the man who had taken her hand, her champion, her queenship. The memory of his victory over the Mountain in that cursed trial still twisted in her gut, a wound that festered with each passing day. And his wife, that ethereal beauty, Lady Fleur. The very thought of her made Cersei's lips curl in a sneer. That creature, with her flawless skin and golden hair, was an affront to everything Cersei had ever stood for. How dare she stand before the court, before the realm, and outshine the Queen? How dare she draw the eyes of men, the whispers of the court, when that adoration should be Cersei's alone?

The mourners continued to file past, offering their empty words of sympathy, their shallow condolences. Cersei acknowledged them with little more than a nod, her mind already turning to the vengeance she would unleash. Let them think her broken, let them see her as the grieving mother, the queen in mourning. She would let them think it for now.

But she would have her revenge. On Petyr Baelish, who had stolen her son. On Lord Peverell, who had humiliated her before the court. And on his wretched wife, who dared to exist in a world where Cersei should be the only one admired, the only one desired. She would make them all pay, in blood and in fire.

And when the day of reckoning came, they would all see the true face of Cersei Lannister—the face of a lioness, fierce and unforgiving, who would stop at nothing until her enemies lay broken and bleeding at her feet.

—

The funeral of Prince Joffrey was an elaborate display, the kind of ostentatious ceremony that befitted a royal—though it was clear to anyone with half a wit that the grief on display was as hollow as the golden lion sigil emblazoned on the Lannister banners. Lords and ladies donned their finest black, faces schooled into expressions of sorrow that barely concealed their relief. In truth, Joffrey's death had rid them of a terror, but in the halls of power, appearances were everything.

Lord Hadrian Peverell stood beside his wife, Lady Fleur Peverell, and Jon Snow, his expression a mask of calm that belied the storm brewing within. The words spoken over the dead prince's body were little more than flowery lies, and Harry's mind buzzed with the falseness of it all. But his thoughts were focused on more than just the empty eulogies. Beneath the surface, his mind, and that of Fleur's, reached out silently, sifting through the thoughts of those gathered around them, searching for truths hidden beneath the veneer of mourning.

Legilimency, the art of reading minds, was a skill both Harry and Dany had honed over the years, and now it served them well. As the somber words of the High Septon droned on, their mental probes slipped into the minds of the assembled lords and ladies, gathering secrets like spiders gathering flies. There were the usual petty jealousies and rivalries—nothing unexpected in the game of thrones—but darker desires and hidden agendas also lurked beneath the surface.

One lord, his thoughts tinged with lust, eyed a servant girl across the room, imagining the ways he might force her into submission. No one will miss her for a few hours. A bit of coin, and she'll do what I want. Another lady, draped in a heavy veil of black, was already plotting the downfall of a rival house, her thoughts consumed by schemes to claim their lands through marriage. They are weak. A union with the Wylers would secure their loyalty to me.

Harry's thoughts flickered briefly to Joffrey's vile fantasies—the twisted desires the prince had harbored for Dany. Those same dark thoughts had been Joffrey's undoing. Harry had killed him without a second thought and framed Petyr Baelish for the crime, a fitting end for the man who had sown chaos in the realm. Baelish had his own sins to answer for—Jon Arryn's murder, embezzling the crown's wealth, and the destruction of Lyanna Stark's letter, a letter that could have averted the bloody conflict that had torn the Seven Kingdoms apart. In Harry's mind, Baelish's downfall was both just and necessary, a calculated move to protect his family and reshape the realm.

Beside Harry, Dany maintained her serene façade, her golden hair and blue eyes a striking contrast to the somber tones around her. The glamour charm, anchored to the necklace she wore, concealed her true identity. With her silver hair and violet eyes hidden, she was safe from those who hunted her—at least for now. But Harry could sense the tension beneath her calm exterior, her mind sharp as she sifted through the thoughts of those around them, seeking out any hint of danger. The recent revelation that Daario Naharis was in King's Landing, searching for Daenerys on Illyrio Mopatis's orders, had left her on edge.

Daario's mission was clear: to capture Daenerys and bring her back to Pentos, where she would be wed to Khal Drogo. It was a fate Dany feared—reduced to nothing more than a broodmare for a warlord. The absence of any mention of her brother Viserys in Illyrio's plans troubled her even more. Viserys might have been cruel and unstable, but he was still her brother, and his exclusion hinted at schemes within schemes, a game in which they were all pawns.

Jon Snow, standing on Harry's right, was vigilant as ever, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His dark eyes swept over the crowd, searching for threats. He was the Bastard of Winterfell to most, but Harry and Dany knew the truth—Jon was Aegon Targaryen, the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms. And while Jon couldn't read minds, his instincts were keen, honed by years of survival in a world that had little mercy for bastards.

As the final eulogies were spoken and the ceremony neared its end, Harry caught a flicker of something in the sea of thoughts—something that made his pulse quicken. It was a brief, almost fleeting thought, but one that stood out amidst the sea of idle musings and shallow grief. Find the Targaryen girl. Bring her to Illyrio. The reward will be… The thought trailed off into something carnal, but the intent was clear.

Harry's eyes scanned the crowd, his heart thudding in his chest as he searched for the source. Finally, his gaze locked onto a cloaked figure among the Smallfolk, standing unnervingly still amidst the milling crowd. The hood was pulled low, obscuring the figure's face, but Harry's instincts screamed a warning. This was Daario Naharis.

---

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