The flickering torchlight cast long, dancing shadows along the stone walls of the Red Keep's dimly lit corridors. The air was thick with the scent of burning oil and old stone, the kind of smell that had seeped into the very bones of the castle over centuries of secrets and betrayals. Footsteps echoed softly against the uneven floor, the only other sound the distant murmur of voices from deeper within the keep.
Jon Snow walked beside Daenerys, his expression tight with concern, his gloved hands resting near the pommel of his sword. He wasn't a man who trusted easily, and the idea of bringing Southern courtiers into Dany's inner circle unsettled him.
His dark eyes flicked toward her, catching the way the firelight played across her fair features, the silver-blonde strands of her hair almost glowing in the dim corridor. "Why agree to Margaery's help in choosing your attendants?" he asked, his Northern brogue carrying a rough edge. "As Lady of Moat Cailin, you should have Northerners around you. People you can trust."
Dany slowed her pace, turning to face him fully. There was a confidence in the way she moved, a quiet grace that spoke of both nobility and steel. Her lips curved slightly, a knowing smile that made Jon wary.
"In the North, people are blunt," she murmured, her voice holding the faintest trace of an accent, the remnants of her life as Fleur Delacour surfacing when she chose her words carefully. "They tell you what they mean. Here, in the South, words are weapons, masks, and games all at once."
Jon's frown deepened. "You don't trust Margaery." It wasn't a question.
Dany exhaled a soft chuckle, shaking her head. "Ma chère… trust is a luxury I cannot afford here." She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "But I can see beyond the masks, beyond the pleasant words. I know what they think, not just what they say."
Jon's brow furrowed as he took a step back, processing her meaning. "Legilimency."
Her smile widened just a fraction, blue eyes gleaming with amusement. "Oui."
Jon shook his head, exhaling through his nose. "I keep forgetting you and Harry can do that."
"It's easy to forget what you cannot see," she said, tilting her head. "But it is why we agreed to Margaery's help. She will think she is guiding my choices, steering me toward her allies, her spies. But I will be the one truly choosing. Those who serve me will be loyal to us."
Jon's arms crossed over his chest, his lips pressing into a firm line. "That's a dangerous game."
Dany stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on his arm, her touch warm even through his sleeve. "The only game they play here," she murmured. "The difference is, Harry and I can see the board in ways they cannot."
Jon studied her, his dark eyes searching her face. She wasn't just playing the game; she was controlling it. Seeing it unfold with a clarity no one else possessed. And she wasn't afraid.
His respect for her deepened.
"I see now," he said finally, nodding. "Just know that whatever happens, I stand with you."
Dany's smile softened. "And I with you, Jon." Her gaze was steady, unshaken. "Together, with Harry, we will protect our house… and our future."
Jon gave her a short nod, and as they continued their walk, the weight of the Red Keep's politics felt just a little less oppressive. The South was full of deception, its noble houses woven into a tangled web of plots and counterplots. But with their abilities—and their trust in each other—Jon found himself believing they might just be able to navigate the storm ahead.
Maybe, just maybe, they could win this game.
—
The Street of Silk was alive with music, laughter, and the sultry calls of pleasure workers draped in silks so fine they may as well have been mist. Lanterns swayed above the throng, bathing the street in warm amber light, making the jewels on courtesans' throats and the sweat on drunkards' brows gleam alike.
Through the revelry, Daario Naharis strolled as if he owned the place. And, in his mind, he very well might.
His golden beard, groomed to perfection, gleamed under the lantern glow, and his blue silk cloak flowed behind him like a prince's standard. His tunic, unbuttoned just enough to suggest a man without fear, exposed tanned skin and the hint of a scar across his collarbone—one of many. The hilt of his arakh, fashioned like a snarling tiger, sat against his hip, while his Myrish stiletto glinted at his thigh. His every step exuded confidence, danger, and the kind of charm that could get a man into bed or a duel, depending on how the conversation went.
Women smiled at him. Men eyed him with wariness. And Daario? Daario drank it all in like the finest Arbor Gold.
Above the street, watching from the lavish balcony of a pleasure house, Oberyn Martell leaned against the railing with all the ease of a man who had never known a moment of doubt in his life. The Red Viper of Dorne was dressed in a flowing robe of burnt orange and gold, embroidered with the sigil of his house—a red sun pierced by a spear. His dark, smoldering eyes tracked the figure below, lips curling into an amused, knowing smirk.
Beside him, Ser Daemon Sand, the Bastard of Godsgrace, stood with arms folded, his stance tense yet controlled. His curly black hair framed a face that was young but already weathered, eyes sharp, assessing. Unlike his prince, Daemon was not indulging in the luxury of watching for sport.
Oberyn, ever the picture of languid grace, swirled the wine in his goblet, his voice like silk over steel.
"Daemon," he murmured, "do you see the peacock strutting below? That is Daario Naharis."
Daemon's sharp gaze followed, narrowing slightly. "I see him, my prince," he said, his tone cool but attentive. "And I've heard the name. Sellsword. Braggart. Cutthroat. Mercenary."
Oberyn chuckled, tilting his goblet toward the youth. "Yes, but a most interesting one." He gestured below. "Daario does not walk; he parades. He does not talk; he performs. He fights as if the gods themselves wrote him into a song, and he bedmates as if he were born for nothing else."
Daemon raised a brow. "And you admire this?"
Oberyn grinned. "I understand it."
Below, Daario was busy charming a dark-haired courtesan, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger as he whispered something against her ear. The girl laughed, tipping her head back, and Daario grinned like a man who had already won.
Oberyn took a slow sip of wine, still watching. "But what I do not understand… is why he is here." His gaze sharpened, losing some of its warmth. "He is no courtier, no lord, no loyalist to any house but his own. If Daario Naharis walks the streets of King's Landing, it means one thing."
Daemon met his gaze, finishing the thought. "Someone paid for him to be here."
Oberyn's smirk returned, slow and knowing. "Which means we should know who." He extended a lazy hand toward the street. "Follow him, Daemon. But do not get in his way. Daario is not a fool, even if he looks and acts like one."
Daemon nodded, already pulling his hood over his head. "I'll learn what I can." Without another word, he moved, melding into the crowd like a shadow slipping between candle flames.
Oberyn watched as Daario turned a corner, laughing as he tossed a coin to a passing street performer. His instincts whispered that something was afoot, something that could upset the delicate chaos he so enjoyed in this city.
And if Daario Naharis was involved?
It promised to be very interesting indeed.
—
The sun dipped low over King's Landing, painting the city in hues of molten gold and deep crimson. The scent of salt and sweat mingled with the distant aroma of roasting meat, while bells tolled across the city, marking the lateness of the hour. In the shadow of the Red Keep, three figures moved with quiet intent, their destination set, their purpose clear.
At the head, Harry Potter—Lord Hadrian Peverell to those outside his closest circle—strode forward, his dark tunic impeccably tailored, his emerald-green eyes sharp with calculation. His expression was composed, almost indifferent, but beneath it lay a mind working ten steps ahead, already playing the game before the pieces had even been set.
Beside him, Daenerys Targaryen, hidden under the alias of Fleur Peverell, moved with practiced grace, the dim torchlight catching the platinum-gold of her hair—or what little of it peeked from beneath the delicate veil she wore. Clad in a deep sapphire gown, her presence was commanding, her every step deliberate, her posture that of a woman who knew her worth and feared nothing.
Trailing slightly behind them, Jon Snow, clad in his customary black, walked with a quiet intensity, his dark eyes scanning their surroundings, his hand never straying far from the pommel of his sword. Though he had shed the Northman's furs for something more fitting for the southern heat, he still carried the air of a man born to ice and steel.
The weight of what they had learned the day before still sat heavy in the air between them.
Rhaenys Targaryen lived.
It had been Oberyn Martell himself who had unknowingly confirmed it, his mind open and unguarded beneath Harry's subtle touch of Legilimency. A secret kept for years, buried under falsehoods and whispered only in the safest of circles. But now, they knew.
And that knowledge was both a weapon and a shield.
Harry adjusted his tunic as they neared the edge of the Red Keep's inner walls, speaking in a measured, quiet voice without breaking stride.
"Are you ready, Fleur?" he asked, using the alias that kept her true name safe from curious ears.
Dany's lips curved into a slight smirk, though her sapphire eyes gleamed with something sharper—the fire of a woman playing a dangerous game.
"As ready as I'll ever be, mon chéri," she murmured, the soft lilt of her faux-Valois accent adding just the right touch of mystery to her words. "Though I find it amusing that we must treat the Martells like one would an unruly stallion—gently, with just the right touch… until it is time to break them in."
Jon made a sound that was half a scoff, half a grunt.
"I wouldn't be so quick to think we can break them in," he muttered, his tone edged with quiet wariness. "Dorne plays its own game. They don't bend to anyone. And Oberyn Martell? He's not a man to be taken lightly."
Dany turned her head slightly, arching a delicate brow. "And you think I am?"
Jon exhaled sharply, his expression unreadable.
Harry chuckled under his breath, cutting through the tension before it could settle.
"We have the advantage, Jon," he reminded, his voice light but laced with meaning. "The Martells don't know that we know. Let them think they still hold all the cards. The moment they realize otherwise… well, let's just say, we'll be dictating the terms."
Jon nodded, though the flicker of skepticism in his gaze remained.
As they passed through the Red Keep's inner gates, moving toward the heart of the city, the streets grew busier, livelier. The air was thick with the hum of conversation, the flickering torches casting shifting shadows across the cobbled paths.
Their destination loomed ahead: Chataya's brothel—a house of silk-draped luxury, known not just for its discretion, but for the powerful men who found themselves whispering secrets within its walls.
Harry's mind whirred, already mapping out the conversation to come. The Martells believed themselves cunning, unpredictable, but in truth, they were like every other House with a cause—driven by love, by vengeance, by ambition.
He just had to decide which of those strings to pull first.
As they reached the entrance, Dany cast him a look, one of pure mirthful confidence, and leaned in just enough to let her warm breath graze his ear.
"Shall we dance, mon amour?" she whispered.
Harry smirked.
"Let's see if they can keep up."
Jon sighed.
He had a bad feeling about this.
—
The rich scent of myrrh and jasmine filled the air as Chataya led them through the lavish corridors of her famed establishment, a woman of striking elegance and effortless charm. Clad in a deep emerald gown, her dark skin shimmered under the flickering candlelight, her every movement a blend of practiced grace and quiet authority.
"Welcome, my lords, my lady," Chataya purred, flashing them a knowing smile, her honey-gold eyes dancing with amusement as they entered the main hall. "Prince Oberyn and his esteemed company await you."
Harry offered her a polite nod, his gaze sweeping the room, absorbing every detail, every potential escape route, every shift in the flickering candlelight.
Jon, ever the cautious Northman, let his hand rest casually on the pommel of his sword, though his eyes betrayed his unease.
Dany, in her guise as Fleur Peverell, merely smiled, a picture of composed nobility, though the sharp gleam in her sapphire eyes suggested she was just as attuned to the game as Harry.
"Merci, Lady Chataya," she said smoothly, her French-accented High Valyrian rolling off her tongue like silk. "It is always a pleasure to step into an establishment where discretion is valued so highly."
Chataya laughed, rich and warm. "Then you have come to the right place, my lady."
With that, she pushed open the heavy doors to a private dining chamber.
Oberyn Martell rose in one fluid motion, a feline grace in his movements, his amber eyes gleaming with something dangerous and amused. He was clad in the deep ochre and burnt gold of Dorne, the fabric embroidered with swirling sunbursts. His smile was warm, but there was something razor-sharp beneath it, a predator's curiosity as he studied his guests.
"Ah, Lord Peverell, Lady Fleur, and the ever-brooding Jon Snow," Oberyn drawled, his voice like sun-warmed sand, smooth yet cutting. "It is always a pleasure to meet those with such… compelling reputations."
Harry inclined his head, the picture of noble courtesy. "The honor is ours, Prince Oberyn. Your hospitality is deeply appreciated."
At Oberyn's side stood Ellaria Sand, her dark curls cascading over one shoulder, her lips curved in a slow, knowing smile. Unlike Oberyn, whose eyes burned with barely restrained intensity, Ellaria's gaze was steady, assessing, the look of a woman who had seen too much and feared nothing.
Seated beside them were Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene Sand, each carrying themselves with distinct energy.
Obara, the eldest, sat with the tense stillness of a coiled serpent, her expression unreadable, her hand resting on the hilt of the whip coiled at her belt.
Nymeria, elegant and measured, watched them with calculating eyes, her long fingers idly tracing the rim of her goblet, assessing the newcomers as one might a game board.
Tyene, by contrast, smiled sweetly, golden-haired and deceptively soft-looking, though her blue eyes were sharp, filled with a mischief that hinted at something far deadlier beneath the surface.
But it was the woman seated just a little apart from them who drew Harry's gaze the most.
Rhea Sand.
The name was a lie, but her presence carried an unspoken weight, the air around her charged with a quiet, contained power. Her deep bronze skin, the shape of her eyes—**so much like Elia Martell's—**and the way she held herself with quiet authority told Harry everything he needed to know.
Rhaenys Targaryen lived.
And she was studying him just as intently.
Oberyn broke the silence, gesturing for them to sit.
"Come," he said, pouring rich Dornish red into his goblet. "Drink with us. The night is young, and there is much to discuss."
The conversation began as all such dances did—light, teasing, a game of veiled meanings and measured responses.
Oberyn, ever the provocateur, swirled his goblet lazily as he leaned forward, eyes glinting. "I have heard many things about you, Lord Peverell. They say you are a man of mystery, a shadow that moves where he pleases. Some even whisper that you have the ears of kings and the secrets of lords."
Harry smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "People often whisper when they do not know the truth, Prince Oberyn. But I find that secrets, once spoken aloud, lose much of their value."
Oberyn's lips curled, intrigued. "A wise answer. And you, Lady Fleur," he turned his gaze to Dany, his amusement deepening, "they say you are as dangerous as you are beautiful. That beneath the mask of civility beats the heart of a lioness."
Dany tilted her head, meeting his gaze with an almost lazy confidence. "How interesting," she mused, her accent just thick enough to intrigue, her smile as sharp as Valyrian steel. "I have heard similar things about you, Prince Oberyn. That beneath your charm lies the bite of a viper."
Oberyn laughed, delighted. "Ah, but you see, my lady, a viper does not bite without reason. Only when provoked."
Ellaria, who had been watching quietly, finally spoke, her voice smooth as honey, but edged with iron.
"Strength is a valuable thing, Lady Fleur," she said, tilting her head. "In Dorne, we respect strength in all its forms. And we do not shy away from women who know how to wield it."
Dany's expression did not change, but something in her posture shifted, the quiet steel beneath the surface revealing itself.
"Strength is not a choice, Lady Ellaria," she said softly. "It is a necessity. One either has it, or one is at the mercy of those who do."
Ellaria's eyes gleamed with something close to respect. "Well said."
Jon, who had been silent thus far, finally spoke, his voice low and steady.
"You speak of strength, but trust is what matters more," he said, his gaze flickering toward Obara and Rhaenys, who were watching him closely. "You can be strong, but if you don't know who you can count on, you'll fall just the same."
Oberyn studied Jon for a long moment, before nodding slowly. "A lesson learned in the North, I imagine?"
Jon's jaw tightened. "Aye."
Oberyn raised his goblet. "Then let us see if trust can be built tonight."
As the conversation wound deeper, the game truly began.
Harry, Dany, and Jon knew they were treading a fine line, balancing truth and deception, trust and caution.
But one thing was certain—
They had stepped into a den of vipers.
And vipers were always watching.
—
The last of the wine had been poured, the final dishes cleared away, yet the air remained thick with unspoken truths. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the private chamber, the weight of the conversation pressing upon them like a storm waiting to break.
Rhea Sand, silent for most of the evening, finally stirred. Her gaze, dark and searching, settled on Jon with an intensity that cut through the warmth of the room like a cold wind from the mountains. When she spoke, her voice was steady, but beneath it lay something raw, something that had simmered for years beneath Dornish sun and silent grief.
"Jon Snow," she said, her words slow and deliberate, tasting the name as if testing its truth. "Or should I say... Lyanna's boy?"
The room stilled.
Jon tensed, his brow furrowing in confusion. His name had been questioned before, but never quite like this. The weight of it was different now, like steel pressed to his throat. He glanced at Harry and Dany, catching the flicker of understanding in their eyes. They had expected this moment. He had not.
A sharp inhale from Obara Sand broke the silence. "Is that what we're calling him now?" she mused, her voice laced with skepticism. "A Stark whelp with dragon blood?" She snorted. "A pretty tale, but a tale nonetheless."
Rhea—no, Rhaenys—ignored her. She remained focused on Jon, her expression unreadable, yet filled with something deeper than mere curiosity. "I have heard the whispers. I've seen the way your name lingers in the mouths of those who know more than they say. You're not just a Stark bastard, are you?"
Jon's jaw tightened, his fingers curling into a fist on the table. But when he finally answered, his voice was steady. "No. I am not."
Silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.
Then, Oberyn Martell—who had watched the exchange with a gaze as sharp as a viper's—placed a hand on Rhaenys' shoulder. His usual smirk had faded, replaced by something unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, lacking its usual venom but still laced with meaning. "This is Rhea Sand," he said, though the words felt like a formality. Then, after a pause, he corrected himself. "But she was once known by another name. Rhaenys. Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Rhaegar."
Jon's breath caught.
He had not expected that. Not so soon. Not so suddenly.
Dany exhaled softly, exchanging a glance with Harry. This was not the moment to reveal everything, but it was a moment to acknowledge what had been lost—and what had been found.
Jon looked at Rhaenys, truly looked at her, and saw something in her face that mirrored his own reflection. The same high cheekbones. The same sharpness in the eyes. The same weight of a past neither of them had been allowed to claim.
"You're my sister," he said finally, the words feeling foreign and familiar all at once.
Rhaenys gave a small nod, her lips pressing together. She had prepared herself for this moment, yet now that it had come, there was no script to follow.
"And you, my brother," she answered, voice barely above a whisper. "Blood of my blood."
The Sand Snakes—who had been listening with varying degrees of interest—reacted in their own ways.
Nymeria's golden eyes narrowed, calculating. "If this is true, it changes everything."
Tyene, ever the sweet-faced deceiver, smiled innocently. "A Targaryen prince raised as a wolf. How poetic."
Obara crossed her arms. "You expect us to forget what his father did?" she demanded. "Rhaegar abandoned our aunt, abandoned you, Rhaenys. He left Elia to die while he chased after his She-wolf whore."
Dany's head snapped up, the flicker of anger in her eyes immediate. The French lilt in her voice surfaced, her words measured but edged with steel. "Mind your tongue, Sand," she warned. "Lyanna Stark was no whore."
Obara scoffed. "And yet, her choices got our aunt and our cousin slaughtered."
Oberyn sighed, rubbing his temple. "Obara, must you always be so dramatic?" His usual playfulness returned, though subdued. "The past is set in stone, but the future remains unwritten. Let's not waste breath cursing ghosts."
Ellaria, who had been watching the entire exchange with an unreadable expression, finally spoke, her voice soft yet firm. "No one here blames you, Jon." She met his gaze, her dark eyes searching. "You were a child, innocent of the choices that shaped your birth. But you are a man now, and your choices—your alliances—will shape the future."
Oberyn's smirk returned, a glint of something dangerous in his eyes. "And that is why we are here, is it not?" He leaned forward, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his goblet. "To see if we are… aligned."
Harry finally spoke, his voice calm but carrying the weight of quiet authority. "Trust is not easily given, Prince Oberyn. And neither is truth." He glanced at Jon, then at Rhaenys. "But I think we are all seeing the value of both tonight."
Oberyn chuckled, raising his glass. "A wise answer, Lord Peverell. I do enjoy a game where all the players know the stakes."
Rhaenys, who had been silent for a moment, spoke again, softer this time. "I do not ask for vengeance," she said, looking at Jon. "Nor do I ask for pity. I only ask that we do not let the mistakes of the past define the choices we make now."
Jon held her gaze. "Then we have the same goal."
A moment of understanding passed between them.
Ellaria lifted her own goblet, her smile returning, though it carried a sharpness beneath its warmth. "Then let us drink to new beginnings, shall we?"
Oberyn's grin widened. "To new beginnings," he echoed, his voice smooth as silk.
The goblets met in a quiet, resounding clink.
The night was not yet over. The game was far from played out. But for the first time in a long while, the board had shifted. And the pieces were finally moving.
—
The air in the chamber had thickened, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths and the ghosts of the past. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the stone walls, mirroring the emotions rippling through the gathered company. It was the kind of moment where history threatened to repeat itself—or to be rewritten entirely.
Harry felt the shift in the air, the tension coiling like a viper ready to strike. He exchanged a glance with Dany, who nodded almost imperceptibly. The time for secrecy had passed.
"It's time," Harry said quietly, his voice carrying the gravity of the moment.
Dany exhaled softly, reaching up to the delicate charm that hung from her necklace. As she unfastened it, the illusion unraveled like smoke in the wind. Silver hair cascaded down her back, violet eyes shimmered in the dim light, and her true lineage stood revealed for all to see.
A sharp intake of breath echoed around the room. The Martells and the Sand Snakes stared, their expressions shifting from shock to understanding, then to something deeper.
Oberyn, ever the predator, leaned back in his chair, a slow smirk curling his lips as his eyes raked over Dany with the sharpness of a blade. "Well, well," he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement and intrigue. "I always did enjoy a good reveal. And what a revelation this is."
Ellaria, seated beside him, tilted her head, her dark eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Daenerys Targaryen," she said, savoring the name. But then her gaze flickered to Harry, her expression turning thoughtful. "No… not quite. Not anymore."
Dany smiled—graceful, yet edged with steel. "Daenerys Peverell," she corrected. "I am married to Lord Hadrian Peverell."
Oberyn chuckled, swirling his wine. "Married, are you? That is a rare thing for a Targaryen—to wed for something other than power." His eyes flicked toward Harry, unreadable. "And what of love?"
Harry met Oberyn's gaze without hesitation, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. "I'm not one for arranged marriages. We made our own choices."
Oberyn let out a low, knowing hum. "Wise. Love makes a better ally than duty. Though, in my experience, the two rarely go hand in hand."
Ellaria smiled slyly. "Then perhaps it is time for new experiences."
Rhaenys—Rhea—had been silent, her gaze locked onto Dany with a mix of awe and something else… relief. She stepped forward, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're alive."
Dany turned to her, something in her expression softening. "And so are you."
The two women regarded each other, a lifetime of grief, exile, and stolen legacies lying between them. Yet in this moment, none of it mattered.
Jon, who had been watching the exchange with quiet intensity, finally spoke. "My mother named me Aegon," he said, his voice steady. "She wanted to honor our brother." His gaze met Rhaenys's, something raw and unspoken passing between them. "I swear to you, Rhaenys, the deaths of Princess Elia and Aegon will be avenged. The first step has already been taken—Harry killed the Mountain."
Silence fell like a hammer.
The room seemed to pulse with energy as Rhaenys closed her eyes, exhaling sharply. When she opened them again, her gaze landed on Harry, something new flickering in their depths. A slow, almost reverent nod. "Thank you."
Obara, who had been leaning against the table with her arms crossed, let out a low whistle. "I loved to watch that fight, by the way." she muttered, though there was grudging respect in her voice.
Nymeria smirked. "You always did enjoy bloodshed."
Tyene, ever the innocent-eyed viper, leaned forward, her voice honeyed. "And I loved how he died slowly, Lord Peverell!"
Harry's lips curled slightly. "As slowly as he deserved."
Ellaria, who had been watching Harry carefully, lifted her cup. "Then let us drink to justice."
The Sand Snakes followed suit, raising their goblets. "To justice," they echoed.
Oberyn lifted his own goblet last, his smile sharpening. "And to those who deliver it."
The clink of glasses rang out, sealing the unspoken pact between them.
But as the room settled, Rhaenys turned back to Harry. The gratitude in her eyes had not faded, but something else had begun to take root—something deeper. Her hand brushed against his as she lowered her goblet, the touch lingering just a heartbeat longer than necessary. "Thank you, Lord Peverell," she said again, her voice softer this time, more personal. "For avenging my family."
Harry held her gaze, feeling the weight of her words. "It was the least I could do."
Dany, watching the exchange, rested a hand on Rhaenys's shoulder. "Together, we will ensure that their memory is honored—not just through vengeance, but through rebuilding."
Rhaenys nodded, but her gaze flickered back to Harry for just a moment more, something unspoken passing between them.
Oberyn, ever the observer, leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand. "Oh, this is interesting," he murmured, his smirk deepening.
Ellaria shot him a knowing look. "You always did enjoy drama."
He grinned. "Who doesn't?"
Harry sighed inwardly. He could feel the complications piling up already. He hadn't come here for this—but then again, when had anything in his life ever been simple?
As they stepped out into the cool night air, he caught Rhaenys watching him, and for the first time in a long while, he wondered just how much more complicated things were about to become.
And, knowing his luck? Very.
---
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