The dead of night in King's Landing was a world apart from the chaos of the day. The stench of the city never faded, but at least in the stillness, it was easier to ignore the filth, the bodies in the alleys, the whispered deals made in the dark.
Nymeria Sand moved through the narrow passageways with the easy grace of someone who had spent her life weaving through danger. Her plain kitchen maid's dress was loose enough to hide the daggers strapped to her thighs, and the apron was just clean enough to make her look unremarkable. That was the trick—never be too clean, never be too dirty. Just another servant in the Red Keep, invisible to the lords and ladies who thought themselves above the lowly hands that fed them.
She passed through the servants' entrance, nodding at the bored guards who barely spared her a glance. The kitchens were still alive, as they always were, simmering with quiet voices and the occasional clatter of pots. The smells of roasting meats and fresh bread clung to the air, a stark contrast to the tension twisting in her gut.
She didn't linger. Nymeria knew these halls well enough now, had mapped every shadow, every hidden corridor where she could slip away unnoticed. The walls of the Red Keep had heard too many secrets, and tonight, they would bear witness to one more.
Then, a sound—a soft shuffle of boots against stone.
Nymeria pressed herself against the cold wall, her breath steady but shallow. A moment later, a figure emerged from the darkness, his cloak shifting as he walked, torchlight catching in his solemn grey eyes.
Jon Snow.
She moved before he could see her first, stepping into his path like a ghost rising from the night. "Jon," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, but sharp enough to cut through the still air.
Jon halted instantly, his body tensing. One hand twitched toward his belt—old habits. His eyes narrowed as he took her in, his breath forming a faint mist in the cold corridor.
"Nymeria," he said, keeping his voice low. "You move like a shadow."
She smirked, just a flicker of amusement. "I am a shadow when I need to be." Then, her expression sobered. "I have a message for Lord Peverell. From my father. It cannot wait."
Jon's gaze flicked down to the apron she wore, taking in the faint bulge of a concealed blade. His expression remained unreadable, but Nymeria had spent enough time around men like him—warriors who carried the weight of the world on their shoulders—to know when they were calculating risk.
"What message?" Jon asked, voice quiet but firm.
Nymeria reached into her apron and pulled out a sealed parchment, holding it between them like a blade poised for a killing strike. The wax seal bore the unmistakable sigil of House Martell—the sun and spear of Dorne.
"My father said it must reach Lord Peverell immediately." Her dark eyes locked onto his. "And he said to trust no one."
Jon exhaled through his nose, taking the letter and turning it over in his gloved hands. He ran his thumb over the seal, his jaw tightening. "Something's wrong," he muttered. It wasn't a question.
Nymeria's lips pressed together in a thin line. "Oberyn believes this concerns the Targaryens. Something big."
Jon's grip on the letter tightened. He didn't ask how she knew that. Nymeria knew things. It was what she did.
He glanced down the hall, his senses sharp. The Red Keep had eyes and ears everywhere, and the walls were always listening. "I'll make sure he gets it," he promised, slipping the parchment into the folds of his cloak. His voice was quiet, but his words carried weight. "You should go before someone asks why a kitchen maid is whispering in the dark."
Nymeria hesitated, just for a moment. Her father had told her to deliver the message and leave, but something about Jon Snow made her linger. He carried the look of a man who had seen too much and still refused to break.
"Be careful," she said at last. "I have a feeling this is the kind of message that gets men killed."
Jon's eyes met hers, and for a brief second, there was something in them that wasn't just duty or cold resolve.
"I know," he said simply.
Nymeria gave him a final, knowing look before she turned and melted back into the shadows of the Red Keep, her movements as fluid as a dancer's.
Jon watched until she disappeared, then turned on his heel and strode toward the chambers of Harry and Daenerys. His grip tightened around the message.
Every step he took felt heavier than the last.
—
The air in King Robert Baratheon's chambers was thick with the sickly scent of stale wine, roasted meats gone cold, and the sweat of a man who had long since abandoned the battlefields for the comforts of excess. The room itself, draped in fine Dornish tapestries and filled with opulent furnishings, felt like a cruel jest when compared to the state of its occupant.
Robert lounged in a great chair, one nearly as imposing as the Iron Throne itself, though far more comfortable. His once-magnificent frame—broad and powerful, a warrior's build—had softened into bloat, his belly stretching the fine silk of his tunic. His face was red from drink, his beard thick and unkempt. He raised his flagon with a grunt and took a long, sloshing gulp of wine, letting some of it dribble down his chin.
Across from him stood Eddard Stark, rigid as ever, his face carved from Northern stone. His dark grey eyes betrayed his mounting frustration, though his tone remained even. He had seen Robert like this before—too many times. He knew the battle was already lost, but still, he fought.
"Your Grace," Ned began, his voice edged with restrained impatience, "the realm grieves for Joffrey. A Tourney so soon would be seen as callous. The people need time to mourn."
Robert snorted into his wine, shaking his head as though he were scolding a naïve squire. "Mourning, mourning, mourning! Seven hells, Ned, how long should I sit here and listen to weeping? They can cry in the streets while they watch the finest knights in Westeros split each other's skulls. Give them something else to scream about."
Ned's jaw tightened. "This is not just about appearances. A lavish Tourney while the city still wears black for the prince—"
"Joffrey is dead!" Robert cut in sharply, slamming his flagon onto the table. "He was my son, aye, and I'll drink to his name. But do you think he would've wanted the whole damn realm weeping for him? No. He would've wanted a show, a spectacle. And I'll give it to him. We'll honor him in the way he'd have wanted—glory, battle, cheers from the crowd!"
Ned exhaled through his nose, forcing down his frustration. "And the coin for this spectacle? The realm is already drowning in debt. With Baelish imprisoned, we are without a Master of Coin."
Robert waved a meaty hand dismissively. "Then find someone else who can count numbers. Gods know I don't give a damn about ledgers and debts."
"I have a name in mind," Ned said, his voice firm. "Lord Manderly. He is already here for the Tourney, and he has the wealth and experience to—"
"Manderly?" Robert frowned, blinking as though trying to place the name. "That fat Northman who eats more than I drink?"
"He is a man of means and wisdom," Ned replied evenly. "If we must hold this Tourney, let us at least ensure the finances are handled responsibly."
Robert grumbled under his breath but waved a hand. "Fine. If it stops your damn nagging, so be it. Manderly can have the post. Just see to it that I don't have to hear about bloody coin ever again."
Before Ned could respond, the chamber doors creaked open.
Ser Meryn Trant entered first, his smug, pockmarked face half-shadowed by the dim candlelight. He moved with the slow arrogance of a man who knew his place in court was secured by cruelty rather than honor. Behind him, two women followed, their movements carefully measured—a blend of confidence and unease, well-practiced in the art of pleasing men of power.
The first woman, blonde and statuesque, had the kind of beauty that turned heads at court. Her dress, though barely covering what it ought to, was of finer make than most. She held herself with a calculated air, like a courtesan accustomed to men believing she belonged to them.
The second, with honey-gold curls and striking green eyes, was equally stunning but carried a different energy—an almost feline grace, her lips curled in an amused smirk as if she found the whole thing tedious yet inevitable.
Ned's expression darkened.
Robert, for his part, grinned wide, the grief that had momentarily flickered in his eyes now buried beneath lust and wine.
"Meryn, you godsdamned dog, you bring me gifts!" Robert bellowed, eyes roaming over the women with blatant appreciation. "I knew I kept you around for a reason."
Ser Meryn gave a stiff, humorless bow. "Your Grace deserves only the finest." His voice dripped with smug satisfaction, his beady eyes darting briefly to Ned, as if daring him to object.
The blonde woman stepped forward, letting her fingers graze Robert's arm. "Your Grace has had a long day," she purred, her voice honeyed and smooth. "Shall we help you forget your troubles?"
The other woman slid onto the arm of his chair, curling against him with effortless familiarity. "The burdens of kingship weigh heavy," she murmured, her lips near his ear. "Let us lighten them."
Robert let out a deep, rumbling laugh, already reaching for the nearest goblet to refill his cup.
Ned, however, had seen enough. His lips pressed into a thin line as he turned on his heel. "Good night, Your Grace," he said, his tone clipped.
Robert barely noticed his departure, already pulling one of the women into his lap.
Meryn Trant watched Ned go, smirking. "Lord Stark never did know how to enjoy himself," he muttered.
Robert snorted. "Ned's got a stick so far up his arse, I'm surprised he can still sit a horse." He turned back to the women, his grin widening. "But I don't have that problem, do I?"
The blonde woman chuckled, trailing her fingers down his chest. "Not at all, Your Grace."
Ned pushed through the doors, his stomach twisting. Outside, the night air was cold, but it did little to wash away the disgust clinging to him.
While Robert drowned himself in wine and flesh, the kingdom trembled.
And Ned was left to hold it together.
—
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls of their private chambers. The warmth of the flames did little to dispel the tension lingering between Harry and Dany, a tension that had been quietly growing over the past few days.
Daenerys—no, Fleur—sat beside him on the edge of their bed, her long silver-gold hair cascading over her shoulders, shimmering in the firelight. There was always a regal poise to her, an unshakable presence, but tonight, her expression was more uncertain. Her violet eyes, bright and piercing, studied him closely as she turned slightly to face him.
"Rhaenys spent a great deal of time watching you tonight," she murmured, her voice soft, yet carrying an unmistakable weight. "Hanging onto your every word."
Harry met her gaze, reading the emotions flickering behind it. Fleur was never one to be easily shaken, but there was something in her voice—something almost unsure.
"I noticed," he admitted, his voice even. "But it wasn't just me, Dany. She was watching you, too."
Dany blinked, clearly taken aback. She had expected him to dismiss her concerns, or at the very least, to assure her that Rhaenys' admiration was nothing more than that. Instead, he had turned the observation back on her.
Her brow furrowed slightly. "Me?" she asked, the faintest trace of a French accent slipping into her voice. "She—she looks up to me, of course. I am her aunt. I am her queen."
Harry exhaled, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. "That's not all she sees."
Dany frowned, staring at him as if he had just spoken in riddles. "I never considered it," she admitted, shifting slightly, her fingers unconsciously twisting a lock of silver hair. "I thought her admiration of me was… familial."
Harry tilted his head, watching her closely. "And what if it isn't? What if it's more than that?"
Dany's lips parted slightly as she processed his words. "She admires you," she pointed out. "She looks at you like you've hung the moon and stars."
Harry smirked. "She does, but she looks at you the same way—only she tries to hide it."
Dany opened her mouth, then closed it again, struggling with something unspoken.
"You've always been honest with me," Harry continued, his voice gentle but firm. "About who you are. You never hid your attraction to women from me. Fleur never hid that part of herself. Daenerys never had the chance to explore it, but that doesn't mean those feelings weren't there."
Dany swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She had spent her entire life trying to separate who she was now from who she had once been. But in moments like these, when she was alone with Harry, the lines blurred.
Her gaze dropped to their joined hands. "Fleur always knew what she wanted," she murmured. "She was never uncertain. But Daenerys… Daenerys was raised in a world that left little room for such thoughts. Duty always came first. I never once questioned what I wanted. It never mattered."
Harry squeezed her hand. "But it matters now."
Dany inhaled deeply, then exhaled, looking up at him. "If you are right, and Rhaenys feels this way—what do we do?"
Harry studied her for a moment before replying. "We tread carefully. We don't rush anything. Rhaenys has been through enough in her life. She deserves honesty. She deserves respect."
Dany nodded slowly, her expression unreadable. Then, a small, almost wry smile played at the corner of her lips. "And what about you, mon amour?"
Harry smirked. "Me?"
She arched a delicate brow. "Do you have feelings for her?"
Harry didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached up, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. "I care about her," he admitted. "She's strong, intelligent, kind. And she reminds me a little of you."
Dany let out a small laugh, shaking her head. "Then perhaps I should be worried."
Harry grinned. "Or perhaps you should be flattered."
Dany rolled her eyes but leaned into his touch. "Flatter me later. For now, we must figure out what to do."
Harry nodded. "Then we take it slow. We see where things go. Together."
Dany exhaled, resting her forehead against his. "Together," she whispered.
—
The quiet crackle of the fire was interrupted by a soft but firm knock at the door. Harry and Dany exchanged a look, the weight of their conversation momentarily set aside. Harry rose smoothly, his steps measured as he moved to answer.
As he pulled the door open, Jon Snow stepped inside, his dark eyes sharp with urgency. He was still dressed in his leathers, his cloak slightly damp from the cold outside. His presence alone was enough to set both Harry and Dany on edge.
"Harry. Dany," Jon greeted, his voice low and serious, cutting straight to the point. "There's something you need to see."
Harry's jaw tightened as Jon pulled a sealed letter from his belt and handed it over. The wax bore the sigil of House Martell—a sun pierced by a spear. Without hesitation, Harry broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning the words quickly. His expression darkened with every line.
Wordlessly, he passed the letter to Dany. She took it with steady hands, but as her violet eyes moved across the page, a shadow fell over her face. Her fingers tightened around the parchment before she exhaled sharply, a slow burn of anger kindling behind her gaze.
Jon crossed his arms, watching them both carefully. "It's from Oberyn," he explained, his tone edged with tension. "Daario Naharis is in King's Landing. Illyrio Mopatis sent him to capture you, Dany. He plans to drag you back to Pentos and marry you off to Khal Drogo."
There was a beat of silence. The fire in the hearth crackled, but the warmth it cast did nothing to thaw the ice forming in Dany's chest.
"So Illyrio still believes he can use me as a pawn," she murmured, her voice soft but cutting like a blade. A slow, dangerous smile curved her lips, but there was no humor in it—only fury, cold and simmering.
Jon shifted slightly, glancing between them. "That's not all," he said. "There's no mention of Viserys in the letter."
Dany's brows knit together. She read the letter again, as if searching for something she had missed. "Not even once?" she muttered, her accent slipping into something softer, more Fleur than Daenerys. "That is… odd."
Harry rubbed his chin, deep in thought. "Illyrio has always paraded Viserys as the rightful heir. For him to be completely absent from these plans…" His green eyes darkened. "It means one of two things. Either something's happened to him, or Illyrio has finally decided that Viserys is more trouble than he's worth."
Dany inhaled deeply, her fingers tightening around the parchment before she tossed it onto a nearby table. "If Illyrio has shifted his focus to me, that means he no longer sees Viserys as useful." Her voice dropped, her expression unreadable. "Or perhaps he's already disposed of him."
Jon's expression was unreadable, but he gave a slow nod. "If that's the case, we need to find out for certain. I don't like unknowns."
Harry exhaled sharply. "Agreed. But first things first—Dany is safe for now. The glamour is holding, and no one in King's Landing suspects who she really is. As long as that remains the case, Daario won't know who to take."
Dany smirked slightly. "Let him try."
Jon shot her a look. "We're not letting it come to that."
Harry turned to him. "Make sure she's under constant watch. No one gets close to her without our knowing. I want eyes on Daario, too. If he makes a move, I want to know before he even draws breath."
Jon gave a small, almost imperceptible smirk—his version of approval. "Aye. I'll see to it."
Dany folded her arms, regarding them both. "And what of Oberyn?"
Harry's expression hardened. "I'll meet with him. If Daario is here, Illyrio's web is already spinning. We need to know how far it reaches before we start cutting strings."
Dany studied him for a moment, then reached out, placing a hand on his arm. The firelight reflected in her violet eyes, but there was something deeper in her gaze—an unshakable trust. "We'll face this together, Harry," she said, her voice steady, but laced with that ever-present confidence. "We have before, and we will again."
Harry covered her hand with his own, squeezing it gently. "Damn right we will."
Jon cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "If you two are done…"
Dany turned to him with an amused smile. "Jealous, Jon?"
Jon rolled his eyes. "Hardly."
Harry smirked. "You sure? You've been spending a lot of time with Ygritte lately."
Jon scowled. "That's different."
Dany arched a brow. "Is it, though?"
Jon sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Can we get back to the part where someone's trying to kidnap you?"
Harry chuckled, but the mirth faded as reality settled back in. "Stay sharp. If Daario's here, then we're already playing his game. We just need to make sure we win."
Jon nodded once before turning and heading for the door. "I'll let you know if anything changes."
As he left, the room fell into a thoughtful silence. The weight of their responsibilities pressed heavily upon them, but Harry and Dany had never been ones to back down from a fight.
Dany exhaled, glancing at Harry. "Illyrio has no idea who he's truly dealing with."
Harry smirked. "He'll find out soon enough."
—
The chambers of Lady Margaery Tyrell were warm and bathed in the soft golden glow of candlelight, the air thick with the scent of roses and lavender. Silken gowns in shades of deep green, gold, and black lay draped across a chaise, each one a masterpiece of embroidery and elegance, waiting to be chosen for the morrow.
Alla Tyrell, ever dutiful, fussed over the choices, her nimble fingers smoothing the fabric of a particularly fine black gown edged with golden roses. "This one, I think," she mused. "It strikes the right balance—somber enough for mourning, but with just enough gold to show everyone you're the future queen."
Margaery, seated before a polished mirror, barely acknowledged her words. Instead, she idly twisted a curl around her finger, her mind far from matters of attire. Her lips curled into a knowing smile, her thoughts lingering on something—or someone—else entirely.
"You've barely looked at the dresses," Alla noted, glancing up from her work, her sharp eyes catching the shift in Margaery's expression.
Margaery hummed, a small, almost secretive chuckle escaping her lips. "I was simply… distracted."
Alla arched a delicate brow. "By what?"
Margaery turned, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Not what, Alla. Who."
Alla let out an exaggerated groan, already bracing herself. "Let me guess. This is about Lady Fleur's sworn sword?"
Margaery's smile widened. "Jon Snow," she purred, rolling the name over her tongue like the taste of fine Arbor Gold. "A brooding northern warrior with a quiet intensity and those dark, stormy eyes? Mmm. I do love a man with a tragic backstory."
Alla groaned again, flopping dramatically onto a nearby cushioned bench. "Oh, seven save me, Margaery. Not this."
Margaery laughed, rising gracefully to her feet as she wandered toward the gowns, tracing her fingers along the delicate embroidery. "What? A woman is allowed to appreciate fine things, is she not?"
"Perhaps," Alla conceded, propping her chin on her palm, "but Jon Snow is a bastard, my lady. And more importantly, he is not a 'thing' for you to collect and admire."
Margaery turned, a playful tilt to her head. "You wound me, Alla. I would never be so cruel."
Alla shot her a skeptical look. "Wouldn't you?"
Margaery feigned offense. "I would never toy with an honorable man." Then, a teasing smirk. "Now, a dishonorable man? That is another story entirely."
Alla let out a short laugh despite herself. "Oh, you are terrible."
Margaery gave an elegant shrug. "I would argue that Jon Snow is no ordinary bastard. He is the son of Lord Stark, the Hand of the King. He serves Lady Fleur, a woman of considerable influence. That alone makes him more intriguing than most highborn lords I've had the misfortune of dancing with."
Alla wrinkled her nose. "You say that as if it's an accomplishment."
"It is," Margaery insisted, picking up a silver comb and running it through her waves. "You should have seen him today—so serious, so stoic. And yet, beneath all that Northern frost, I could feel the fire." She turned back to Alla, eyes gleaming. "A man like that doesn't know how to flirt, but you know he's thinking it."
Alla groaned again, flopping onto her back. "I cannot listen to this."
Margaery laughed. "Then cover your ears, dear heart, because I am not finished."
Alla sat up, expression sobering slightly. "You should be. Margaery, you cannot let anyone hear you speak of him this way. Your grandmother is already making plans for you. First Joffrey, and now Tommen." She hesitated, lowering her voice. "If Lady Olenna even suspected you were entertaining thoughts of a man unworthy of your station—"
Margaery sighed, waving a hand. "She would scold me, remind me of my duty, and tell me to smile."
Alla crossed her arms. "Then act like it."
Margaery turned back to the mirror, fastening a golden rose-shaped pin into her hair. "I will. But a woman must be allowed some thoughts of her own, mustn't she?"
Alla shook her head. "Thoughts lead to actions, and actions lead to ruin."
Margaery chuckled, but something thoughtful lingered in her gaze. "Oh, my dear Alla. You do worry so."
"I do," Alla muttered, "because you don't worry enough."
Margaery stepped forward, pressing a soft kiss to Alla's cheek before stepping back with a conspiratorial smile. "One day, Alla, I shall marry a king. But until then… let me have my little secrets."
Alla exhaled sharply, watching as Margaery turned back to her gowns. "Just be careful, my lady."
Margaery smiled, lifting the black and gold gown. "I always am."
—
The dim glow of Chataya's brothel, a haven of whispered conversations and unspoken desires, bathed the room in a sensual warmth. The hum of music mixed with the light clinking of wine glasses, setting a mood thick with both the promise of indulgence and the weight of secrets. Rhea Sand, a striking vision with her dusky skin and dark, intense eyes, leaned against the stone wall in a chamber she shared with her sisters. Her fingers traced idle patterns in the smooth stone, but her mind was a thousand miles away, caught in a web of thoughts about the dinner she had just left behind.
The memories of that evening had haunted her ever since the moment she walked out of Chataya's. Harry Peverell's emerald eyes, cool and assessing, had locked with hers for an instant that seemed to stretch into eternity. And Daenerys... Daenerys Targaryen, with her wild beauty, laughter, and commanding presence, had watched him as if she could devour him with nothing but a glance. Rhea's heart twisted in an unfamiliar way, caught between the undeniable magnetism of Harry and the mesmerizing danger that was Daenerys.
It had been a simple dinner, a gathering of old friends and relatives—food, wine, and pleasant conversation. But the underlying tension between the three of them had been palpable. Every glance shared had burned with a quiet, searing intensity.
Her thoughts broke when Obara Sand swaggered into the room. The elder sister's striking features, the graceful tilt of her head, and her playful smirk were all present. Obara's eyes were sharp, assessing, always looking for a way to needle.
"Well, well," she drawled, tossing her thick braid over her shoulder as she leaned casually against the doorframe, "Rhea, darling, still thinking about the mighty Harry Peverell, hmm?"
Tyene Sand, younger but no less devious, slipped in behind her with that same mischievous glint in her eyes, flicking a strand of her golden hair over her shoulder as she closed the door behind her. "And don't forget Daenerys. I'm sure she's been on your mind too." Her voice dripped with a sweet, dangerous tease. "A lovely couple, don't you think? A union forged in fire and ice... Couldn't be more fitting for a Targaryen and a Peverell, hmm?"
Rhea's cheeks flamed as her pulse quickened, her heart thumping loudly in her chest. She straightened, trying to act unaffected, though her body betrayed her. "I don't know what you're talking about," she muttered, but even to her ears, her voice was thin—too defensive, too quick.
Obara smirked, taking a few slow steps forward, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Oh, come now, Rhea. We've known you long enough to recognize a lie when we hear one." She folded her arms across her chest, leaning in as though she were savoring the moment. "You're lying—again." She glanced at Tyene, who raised an eyebrow and snorted softly.
Tyene moved closer, her hips swaying with the grace of a dancer. Her voice dropped to a low, playful tone as she crossed the space between them. "You were practically staring at Harry the entire night, cousin. And don't think we didn't see that look in your eyes when you caught Daenerys looking at him too. You've got it bad, don't you?" She leaned in closer, her breath warm against Rhea's ear. "Tell me, Rhea, was it Harry's gaze you couldn't shake, or Daenerys' fire?"
Rhea stiffened, her eyes flashing with frustration. "It's not like that. I was just... watching. It was a dinner." But the words felt hollow as soon as they left her mouth. The way Harry had looked at her—intense, focused, as if he were peeling back layers of her soul with that sharp, emerald gaze... And Daenerys, with that smoldering look she cast over the table, like a queen commanding her subjects. Dangerous, both of them. Irresistible, in ways that Rhea couldn't explain.
Obara chuckled darkly, stepping in front of her, leaning in close. "Watching, huh? And tell me, little cousin, was it Harry's charm that caught your attention, or are you imagining how you might share him with your dear aunt Daenerys? Sharing—oh, I know it can be... exciting."
The words hit Rhea like a slap, though it didn't stop the flush of heat from rising in her chest. Her teeth clenched as she turned her face away, unwilling to give them the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort. "It's not like that," she snapped, though there was a slight quiver in her voice, betraying her. "I'm not... thinking anything like that."
"Oh, I know," Tyene purred, twirling a lock of her golden hair around her finger. She moved to stand behind Rhea, her voice a soft, teasing whisper against her neck. "It's not about what you're thinking, darling. It's about the feeling." She smiled, her eyes glinting with dangerous amusement. "The way Harry looks at you, like you're the only one in the room. The way Daenerys looked at him... like she might burn the world to have him. That's the danger." She leaned in closer, her lips barely brushing Rhea's ear. "And I think you like it."
Rhea's breath hitched in her throat as she stepped away from Tyene, her heart pounding. Her thoughts spiraled back to that dinner, to the way Daenerys' laughter had been a sharp, melodious sound, her presence a force that seemed to swallow everything around her. And Harry... He wasn't just a man; he was a challenge, something that called to her, made her want to unravel him piece by piece.
Obara, watching her with knowing eyes, leaned back with a smirk. "Oh, it's not just Harry, is it? You've been thinking about both of them, haven't you? Daenerys and Harry? You're not fooling anyone, Rhea. We see it in your eyes. You're infatuated."
Rhea's face grew dark as she clenched her fists at her sides, not trusting herself to speak. There it was, the truth—ugly and clear. She couldn't deny the way they had both captured her attention, each in their own way. But Daenerys, a queen, a force of nature... Harry, a wild card, sharp and dangerous—both of them were a web of fire and ice, and Rhea was tangled up in it. She couldn't escape them, not even in her thoughts.
Tyene stepped in front of her, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "Oh, sweet cousin, don't worry. It's obvious, really. You're thinking about them. You're fantasizing about them both. Don't tell me you've been keeping it all in that beautiful head of yours?" She raised an eyebrow knowingly. "But listen closely, Rhea. You'd better be careful. They're married—to each other. They've got their bond. You're not just going to slip in there."
Rhea's eyes hardened, though her pulse quickened at the thought. "I'm not like that," she whispered, but the uncertainty in her voice was more telling than she realized.
Obara raised a brow, her smile crooked and knowing. "You know, Rhea, it's a dangerous thing. Falling for someone like Harry Peverell, or someone like Daenerys. They're both far too used to getting what they want." Her eyes flicked toward Tyene, who gave a little shrug, as if to say, "Well, it's true."
Rhea didn't respond. She stood there, feeling the weight of the truth in her chest, yet still unable to fully accept it. She wasn't like this. She couldn't be like this.
"Don't worry, cousin," Tyene teased, nudging her playfully. "We'll be here for when you're ready to admit it. Maybe at the next dinner with them. If you can manage to keep your hands to yourself for that long."
Rhea shot them both a look—sharp and biting—but inside, she knew they were right. They always were. Deep down, she was already tangled in their web. And there was no getting out now.
---
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