The chamber was dimly lit by flickering candlelight, the air thick with the scent of parchment and wax. The walls of the Red Keep seemed to close in around them, holding the weight of secrets yet to be spoken. A large wooden table stood in the center of the room, maps spread across its surface, ink-stained letters piled beside them—missives from spies, reports from the Narrow Sea, and invitations wrapped in silk and sweet promises.
Harry sat with his arms folded, his green eyes sharp, his fingers idly drumming against the wood. The Gryffindor ring gleamed on his hand, a reminder of the power he wielded, the legacy he carried. Across from him, Jon brooded, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other clenched into a fist as he processed the enormity of what had just been revealed. And Dany, ever poised, sat between them, her silver-blonde hair catching the candlelight like strands of molten moonlight. She held a parchment in her fingers, smoothing it out with deliberate care, her violet eyes scanning the words with quiet intensity.
Harry exhaled through his nose. "The Tyrells will make their move soon. Margaery will set her sights on you, Dany. She'll come with honeyed words, promises of sisterhood and shared power." He flicked his gaze toward Jon. "Garlan and Willas will approach me, hoping to secure an alliance. And Loras... well, he'll find an excuse to speak with you, Jon."
Jon's brow furrowed, his voice low and skeptical. "And what does he want with me?"
"To gauge your worth, to feel out your loyalties," Harry replied. "The Tyrells don't make moves without reason. They're charming, but they're as ambitious as any Lannister. More, even, because they know how to smile while they tighten the noose."
Dany leaned back in her chair, the ghost of a smirk playing on her lips. "Margaery is... how do you say... formidable?" she mused, her accent shifting, slipping into something soft, something reminiscent of Fleur's elegant French lilt when she was deep in thought. "She is beautiful, graceful, and very, very clever. I almost admire her. Almost."
"She wants to be queen," Jon said, his voice edged with a quiet understanding. "At any cost."
"Yes," Dany murmured.
Harry chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Then let her try her charms. She'll find she's not the only one who knows how to play this game."
Jon's eyes darkened as he leaned forward, his gaze locked on the map. "And the Lannisters?"
Harry's fingers tapped against the table. "They're bleeding. Joffrey's death was a blow, but it wasn't a killing one. Not yet. Tywin will be scrambling to secure Tommen's reign, Cersei will be drinking herself into paranoia, and Jaime..." He shook his head. "Jaime is a wildcard."
Jon exhaled sharply. "He's still dangerous. One-handed or not, he won't sit idle while his family is attacked."
"Which is why we need to move carefully," Harry agreed. "We need the Tyrells' support, but we can't let them dictate the terms. If we play this right, we can turn them into allies—without becoming their pawns."
Dany tilted her head, considering. "So we test them."
Harry nodded. "We let them think they're leading the dance, all while we move to the music of our own making."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts. And then Harry spoke again, his voice quieter now, measured.
"There's something else." He turned to Jon, watching him carefully. "Yesterday, I used Legilimency on Oberyn Martell. I saw something. Something I didn't expect."
Jon's frown deepened. "What did you see?"
Harry hesitated, then met Jon's eyes. "Your half-sister, Rhaenys. She's alive."
Jon's breath caught. His entire body went still, as if turned to stone. "What?"
Harry's voice was gentle but firm. "She survived the sack of King's Landing. Oberyn has been keeping her hidden, protecting her under the name Rhea Sand. We're dining with them tonight."
Jon pushed back from the table, standing abruptly. His jaw clenched, his eyes storm-dark. "Rhaenys... alive?" His voice was hoarse, as if the words barely made sense on his tongue. "All these years..." He ran a hand through his curls, his usual controlled exterior cracking under the weight of the revelation.
Dany stood, stepping toward him. She reached out, placing a hand on his arm, steadying him. "This is good news, Jon," she said softly. "She is our family. We are not alone in this world."
Jon swallowed hard, his throat working around emotions he hadn't had time to name. He looked at Dany, then at Harry. "I need to see her."
"And you will," Harry assured him. "But we have to be careful. She's lived as a Sand, not as a Targaryen. Her life has been shaped by Dorne, by Oberyn. We can't expect her to simply fall into our cause."
Jon took a deep breath, forcing himself to regain control. "I understand. But I need to speak with her. I need to know."
Harry nodded. "Then we will."
Dany exhaled, her fingers still lightly curled around Jon's arm before she let go. "This changes things," she murmured. "Rhaenys is a symbol. If she is alive... she could rally people to our side."
"Or she could be a target," Harry warned. "We need to ensure her safety before anything else."
Jon ran a hand down his face, trying to center himself. "One step at a time."
Harry gave a small smirk. "Wise words, Jon Snow."
Jon shot him a look but said nothing.
Dany clasped her hands behind her back, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off the weight of everything they had just learned. "Then let us prepare for tonight."
Harry grinned, his easy confidence slipping back into place. "Dinner with the Red Viper and his brood? Should be entertaining, if nothing else."
Jon huffed. "That's one word for it."
Dany arched a brow, her smirk returning. "Well, I do love a good supper."
And with that, they returned to their plans, their strategy shifting with every revelation. The game of thrones was ever-changing, and tonight, they would take their next step into its treacherous depths.
—
The afternoon light slanted through the narrow windows of the Red Keep, painting the stone walls with long, shifting shadows. The corridors outside the Peverell chambers were quiet, save for the hushed murmurs of passing courtiers and the occasional clank of armored boots as Stark guards stood their silent vigil. Their presence, imposing yet unobtrusive, ensured that none approached without scrutiny.
Through these halls walked Alla Tyrell, Margaery Tyrell's lady-in-waiting. She moved with the poised elegance of one well-versed in courtly intrigue, her soft golden gown fluttering against the stone floor with each measured step. In her delicate hand, she carried a sealed parchment—an invitation wrapped in honeyed words and political intent.
As she reached the door, one of the Stark guards, a man with a weathered face and eyes like cold steel, stepped forward. His voice was steady but firm. "State your business."
Alla offered a graceful curtsy, her smile demure but unreadable. "I am Alla Tyrell, lady-in-waiting to Lady Margaery Tyrell. I bring an invitation for Lady Fleur Peverell, requesting her presence for tea."
The guard's sharp gaze flickered over her, assessing, before he gave a curt nod. "Wait here," he ordered before rapping his knuckles against the heavy wooden door.
Inside, the trio had been hunched over a table strewn with maps and parchment, deep in discussion. At the knock, all three glanced up, the tension in the room momentarily pausing. The guard entered, his tone respectful. "My lord, my lady, a messenger from Lady Margaery Tyrell requests an audience. She bears an invitation for Lady Fleur."
Dany and Harry shared a brief look before she gave a small nod. "Let her in," she said smoothly, her voice carrying a melodic lilt—her Valyrian accent softened, but the faintest hint of Fleur's French cadence slipping through.
The guard stepped aside, and Alla entered with a graceful dip of her head. "Lady Fleur," she began, extending the parchment with both hands. "Lady Margaery sends her warmest regards and humbly invites you to join her for tea."
Dany took the parchment with a smile that was polite, almost languid, but her violet eyes studied Alla with quiet calculation. She broke the seal with practiced ease, her gaze flicking across the carefully penned words. Then, after a beat, she looked up.
"Merci, Alla," she said smoothly, slipping into Fleur's accent just enough to make it feel effortless. "Tell Lady Margaery I would be honored to accept her invitation."
Alla dipped into another curtsy, her expression warm, but something in the way she held herself—just a little too composed—told Dany that she was being observed just as much as she was observing.
"She will be most pleased to hear it," Alla replied. "Shall I inform her that you will be arriving within the hour?"
Dany inclined her head. "Oui. That would be most agreeable."
"Very well, my lady. I shall relay the message." With another curtsy, Alla turned and exited, the soft rustle of her skirts vanishing down the corridor.
The door closed, and the polite warmth on Dany's face vanished instantly, replaced by sharp contemplation.
Jon, who had been leaning against the table with his arms crossed, let out a quiet breath, his dark eyes narrowing. "What do you reckon, then?"
Dany turned the parchment over between her fingers. "Margaery is making her move."
Harry exhaled, running a hand through his perpetually untamed hair. "Figured as much. The Tyrells don't waste time when there's an opportunity to gain favor. The real question is: what exactly does she want from you?"
Jon frowned. "An alliance, obviously. The Tyrells play the long game. They won't just throw their lot in with anyone."
Dany set the parchment down, smoothing it with delicate fingers. "I imagine she will test me first. See if I am worth her time, if I can be influenced." A small smirk played at her lips. "I will let her believe what she wishes."
Jon straightened. "I'm coming with you."
Dany raised an elegant brow, but her lips quirked in amusement. "Oh? Are you so concerned that I shall be seduced by her charms?"
Jon's expression remained serious. "I don't trust them."
Harry, who had been leaning back in his chair, smirked. "You don't trust anyone, mate."
Jon shot him a withering look. "Aye, and I'm usually right."
Dany let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "Very well, Ser Jon. You may accompany me. But if she wishes for private conversation, you must allow it."
Jon exhaled, clearly not pleased, but he gave a reluctant nod. "Fine. But I'll be close."
Harry tapped his fingers thoughtfully against the table. "Be careful. Margaery's clever. If she can't win you over with charm, she'll try another way."
Dany met his gaze, her smirk deepening. "Let her try."
With that, she turned, already considering what game Margaery intended to play. Whatever it was, she would be ready.
—
The late afternoon sun painted the Red Keep's stone walls in a golden hue as Jon and Dany followed Alla Tyrell through the winding corridors, their boots barely making a sound against the polished floors. The air was thick with the scent of roses and intrigue as they neared their destination—a secluded terrace garden, where the Tyrells had woven their influence as delicately as their embroidered silks.
Margaery Tyrell awaited them beneath a lattice of ivy and climbing roses, seated at a table adorned with delicate porcelain and an array of dainty pastries. She rose gracefully at their approach, her rich auburn curls gleaming in the soft light. By her side stood Ser Loras, resplendent in a finely tailored doublet of Tyrell green and gold, the pommel of his sword resting lightly under his hand—a knight at ease, yet ever ready.
As Dany and Jon stepped forward, Margaery's lips curled into that signature smile of hers—warm, inviting, and hiding a thousand secrets beneath its surface.
"Lady Fleur," she greeted, her voice smooth as honeyed wine. "It is a true pleasure to finally meet you properly." Her gaze flickered to Jon, lingering just a second too long before she inclined her head. "And you, Jon Snow. Welcome."
Dany, clad in an elegant but simple gown of deep blue, returned the smile, her expression betraying none of her inner thoughts. "Lady Margaery, your invitation was most kind. The gardens are lovely."
"They are, aren't they?" Margaery gestured for them to sit. "My grandmother has an eye for such things. She often says that a well-tended garden is like a well-tended court—both require careful pruning."
Jon watched Margaery closely, his features unreadable, but he wasn't oblivious to the way her eyes had settled on him for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. He'd been around enough highborn women in Winterfell to recognize the look when he saw it—though none of them had ever looked at him quite like this.
Dany did notice.
A flicker of amusement played across her lips as she took her seat, but she said nothing… for now.
Margaery poured tea for Dany and herself, while Jon—ever the Northman—opted for the ale provided, nodding his thanks. Ser Loras, though silent, watched him with an appraising air, as if sizing up an opponent in a tourney.
After a moment of pleasantries, Margaery turned her gaze fully on Dany, her expression one of carefully measured curiosity.
"I must admit, I have been most eager to meet you, Lady Fleur. You are… something of a mystery at court."
Dany's lips twitched upward. "A mystery? That is an amusing thing to say, Lady Margaery."
"Oh, but it is true," Margaery pressed, her voice light, though her meaning was anything but. "The Peverells arrived in King's Landing like a storm on the horizon, sweeping in with strength and certainty. People talk. They wonder what kind of future you envision for yourself here."
Dany tilted her head slightly, allowing the soft cadence of her French-accented Valyrian to slip into her words as she often did when playing up her Fleur persona. "A future where we are not pawns in other people's games, I think. Surely you understand this, no?"
Margaery's eyes gleamed. "Of course. A woman must be the architect of her own fate, or she will find herself at the mercy of those who would shape it for her."
Jon listened intently, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his tankard. He might not have Olenna Tyrell's mind for courtly intrigue, but even he could tell that beneath the pleasant words, this was a careful exchange of power, a dance of veiled truths and subtle promises.
Ser Loras shifted slightly, finally speaking for the first time. "The Red Keep has never been the safest place for newcomers." His tone was polite, but the warning was clear.
Jon met his gaze evenly. "No, it hasn't."
Loras studied him, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. He had heard the stories of Jon Snow, the Stark bastard turned sworn brother, now something… more. Perhaps he saw a kindred warrior in Jon. Or perhaps he simply saw someone who did not yet belong.
Margaery, as always, was unfazed. She leaned in slightly, her voice lowering to something more intimate. "The death of Prince Joffrey has left many in shock. The realm mourns."
Jon said nothing, keeping his expression blank. He knew who had killed Joffrey. And he knew exactly who had ensured that Petyr Baelish took the fall for it.
Dany, ever the actress, let her lips curve into a look of quiet contemplation. "Yes. A tragic loss."
Margaery studied her carefully. "It seems Lord Baelish was behind it all. His ambitions were always dangerous."
Dany feigned mild surprise. "Lord Baelish? That is a serious claim."
Margaery exhaled, as though troubled. "Serious, but not unfounded. He wove too many webs. In the end, he trapped himself."
Dany hummed, tapping a delicate finger against the rim of her teacup. "And yet, even in his fall, he leaves chaos in his wake."
Margaery nodded solemnly. "Chaos brings both danger and opportunity. And in uncertain times, strong alliances are paramount."
Dany smiled at that. "A wise sentiment."
Their eyes met, two queens without crowns, circling each other like wolves in silk and lace.
Jon watched, feeling the weight of the moment. This was not just tea and idle conversation—this was the beginning of something deeper. The Tyrells were extending a hand.
After a beat of silence, Margaery's lips curved into a more familiar, almost conspiratorial smile. "But let us not dwell only on politics. Lady Fleur, as the new Lady of Moat Cailin, you must be in need of attendants. I would be delighted to offer my assistance in selecting them."
Dany inclined her head graciously. "That is most generous of you, Lady Margaery."
Margaery's expression was almost too warm. "We women must look after one another, must we not?"
Jon, who had remained silent through much of this exchange, finally spoke. "Aye. That, we must."
Margaery's gaze flicked to him again, her lashes lowering slightly as she smiled. She wasn't as subtle as she thought.
And Dany wasn't as oblivious as Margaery hoped.
Still, Dany said nothing—only watched with thinly veiled amusement as Margaery played her game.
After a time, the conversation shifted to lighter matters, and when the meeting finally concluded, Dany rose with effortless grace. "Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Margaery. This was… illuminating."
Margaery's eyes sparkled. "As do I, Lady Fleur."
With that, Jon and Dany turned to leave, Ser Loras watching Jon's retreating form with a quiet intensity.
As they stepped back into the corridors of the Red Keep, Dany's lips twitched.
"You know, Jon," she murmured, her tone lilting with unmistakable amusement. "I think Lady Margaery finds you quite… intriguing."
Jon scowled. "She's a highborn lady."
Dany smirked. "Oh, oui. And you are secretly the rightful heir to the Iron Throne."
Jon shot her a look. "I was raised a bastard."
Dany merely chuckled. "And now you are something more."
Jon exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "Seven hells."
Dany patted his arm. "Oh, mon cher. I do not think she minds at all."
Jon groaned. "This is going to be a nightmare."
Dany laughed, the sound light and teasing as they disappeared into the depths of the Red Keep.
—
The afternoon sun bathed the gardens of the Red Keep in golden light, illuminating the riot of color that bloomed in carefully tended flowerbeds. Roses, irises, and golden lilies vied for attention, their fragrance thick in the air, mingling with the salt-tinged breeze from Blackwater Bay. The stone paths wove like a labyrinth through the verdant splendor, shaded by towering elms and whispering willows.
Harry Peverell strode through this floral paradise, his long coat swaying with each step, his emerald eyes alert beneath his dark lashes. There was an ease to his gait, a relaxed confidence that belied the sharp mind always at work behind those piercing eyes. He had spent enough time in courts and councils to know that every meeting, no matter how seemingly casual, was a step in a larger game.
And today, he was about to meet two of the most intriguing players.
Approaching from a path flanked by towering hedges, Willas and Garlan Tyrell cut striking figures against the backdrop of emerald green.
Willas, the elder, exuded quiet authority. He was broad-shouldered but carried himself with effortless grace despite the cane that tapped rhythmically against the flagstones. His hair, a warm shade of chestnut with sun-kissed highlights, framed a face of undeniable handsomeness, his features chiseled yet softened by wisdom. His blue-green eyes, reminiscent of the Reach's endless fields and rolling hills, glowed with intelligence and quiet amusement. He wore a tunic of deep green embroidered with golden roses—Tyrell colors, but understated.
Beside him, Garlan was the more physically imposing of the two—taller, with a warrior's physique, his shoulders broad and his stance unshakable. He carried himself with the easy assurance of a man who knew his own strength but had no need to flaunt it. His brown hair was slightly tousled, his jaw strong, and his piercing blue eyes held an edge of both warmth and challenge. His attire was more practical than his brother's—less courtly finery, more the garb of a knight who had just removed his armor but was never quite unarmed.
As they closed the distance, Willas offered a smile that was both welcoming and subtly appraising. "Lord Peverell," he greeted smoothly, his voice carrying the deep, rich cadence of a man accustomed to command. "At last, we meet."
Harry halted before them, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Ser Willas, Ser Garlan," he said, extending a hand. "I was beginning to think the fabled Tyrell brothers were just that—fable."
Willas chuckled as he shook Harry's hand, his grip firm but measured. "I assure you, we are quite real."
Garlan clasped Harry's forearm in a warrior's greeting, his grip ironclad. "And we've heard plenty about you, Peverell. Tales of your exploits have will surely reach even the furthest vineyards of the Reach." His voice carried a hint of admiration, but also a challenge—as if he intended to see if the man before him lived up to his legend.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "All good things, I hope?"
Willas gave a knowing smile. "That depends on who you ask."
Garlan grinned. "But for our part, we prefer to judge men by our own measure, not by rumors."
Harry inclined his head. "A wise philosophy."
Willas gestured toward a marble bench shaded by flowering trellises. "Shall we sit? The Red Keep's gardens are among its few charms, and I would prefer to speak somewhere that doesn't reek of politics."
Harry chuckled. "Politics has a habit of following us, no matter where we sit."
"True," Willas admitted as they settled on the bench, sunlight filtering through the leaves above. "But I have found that discussions held among flowers and fresh air tend to bear sweeter fruit than those had in dimly lit halls."
Garlan leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady. "Let's speak plainly, Peverell. The Reach values its alliances, but we do not forge them lightly. You are a man of influence, and influence in these times is a blade—sharp, but dangerous. We need to know where you stand."
Harry met Garlan's gaze, reading the intensity there. "I stand for stability. I stand for a future where our children inherit a world better than this one, not torn apart by war and treachery."
Willas studied Harry with quiet intensity, his fingers tapping lightly against his cane. "A noble sentiment. But the means by which such a future is secured—that is where things become… complicated."
Harry's lips curled into a small smile. "You mean to ask where my blade will fall if lines are drawn."
Willas inclined his head slightly. "Something like that."
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the rustling of leaves and the distant murmur of a fountain.
Harry took a breath, his expression turning thoughtful. "The Seven Kingdoms are a game board. But I don't play for sport. I play to win, and I play to build. And I align myself with those who understand the difference between fleeting ambition and lasting legacy."
Willas exchanged a glance with Garlan, something unspoken passing between them. Then, Willas nodded. "Then we share a foundation upon which to build."
Garlan's smile returned, more wolfish this time. "And we'd rather have a man like you at our table than across from it."
Harry smirked. "I'm pleased to hear that."
Willas leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "My sister, Margaery, has spoken highly of Lady Fleur. She sees great value in forging a strong bond between your house and ours. And we, her brothers, would like to ensure that bond extends beyond just courtesy."
Harry tilted his head slightly. "A proposal of true alliance, then."
Willas nodded. "Aye. One built not only on friendship but on strategy. The Tyrells are not merely wealthy landowners—we shape the fate of kingdoms. And we would see that fate guided by wise hands."
Garlan grinned. "Starting, perhaps, with a dinner?"
Harry chuckled. "A tempting offer, but I'm dining with the Martells tonight."
Willas inclined his head. "Understandable. But tomorrow, then. We will host you properly."
Harry extended a hand once more. "Tomorrow it is."
Garlan clasped it, his grip strong, his blue eyes gleaming with approval. "I'll make sure the wine is good and the conversation even better."
Willas's own handshake was firm, yet measured. "Until then, Lord Peverell."
As the Tyrell brothers took their leave, Harry remained seated for a moment, watching them disappear down the garden path. His mind was already turning over the implications of this meeting.
Allies were valuable. Smart allies, even more so.
And the Tyrells were very, very smart.
—
The ship from Pentos eased into the harbor of King's Landing with a slow, deliberate grace, its hull scraping against the dock as the crew leaped into action. Ropes were thrown, gangplanks lowered, and the city's ever-present stink of salt, sweat, and rot rushed forth like an uninvited guest. The capital of Westeros, in all its grimy splendor, greeted the newcomers with open arms and sticky fingers.
Among them strode a man who moved as if the city belonged to him.
Daario Naharis was not a subtle man, nor did he care to be. His golden beard, twisted into three distinct prongs, caught the dying sunlight, glinting like the promise of spilled gold—or blood. His blue cloak, fastened at one shoulder with a sapphire brooch, billowed slightly as he stepped onto solid ground, his leather boots striking the wooden planks with an easy confidence. His curved arakh rested at his hip, accompanied by a matching stiletto, each weapon gleaming from recent care. His swagger was effortless, his smirk practiced, and his eyes—sharp, knowing, always searching—swept over the crowded quay like a hawk scanning for prey.
King's Landing, he decided, was an absolute shithole.
He loved it already.
As Daario strolled through the twisting streets, he took in the sights with the practiced eye of a man accustomed to walking into danger with a smile. Beggars lined the corners, thieves darted through the press of merchants, and the air was thick with the competing scents of roasting meat and human filth. The Red Keep loomed in the distance, a crimson giant silhouetted against the bleeding sky.
He had a task. One that Illyrio Mopatis had paid him handsomely for.
Find Daenerys Targaryen.
A silver-haired girl in a city of brown and black, hidden among the highborn and the dangerous. Not an easy hunt, but Daario had never been one to shy from a challenge. He thrived on them.
His first stop was a tavern. Not the sort where lords whispered treason over wine, nor the sort where gold cloaks gathered to pretend they weren't just another breed of criminal. No, Daario favored the places where secrets flowed like cheap ale, where a man could pay for information as easily as he could a night's company.
The Rusty Tankard was one such place.
The ceiling beams sagged under years of neglect, and the air smelled of old beer, pipe smoke, and poor decisions. Laughter rang out from a dice game near the hearth, while in the farthest corner, a drunk was halfway through composing a song about his lost pig. Daario smiled to himself.
It was perfect.
The man behind the bar was old, the kind of old that suggested he had seen everything and had opinions on all of it. His thinning white hair stuck out in wild tufts, his nose was bulbous and red, and his eyes twinkled with mischief beneath heavy brows. His face was lined with a thousand stories, each wrinkle a chapter in a book no one had yet written.
Daario liked him immediately.
Sidling up to the bar, he dropped a handful of silver stags onto the counter with a lazy flick of his wrist. "Ale. And a bit of… friendly conversation."
The innkeeper arched a shaggy brow as he scooped up the coins. His voice was a mix of gravel and mirth, like an old rogue who'd spent half his life swindling and the other half enjoying the proceeds. "Son, I've been having friendly conversations since before your mother figured out how to swaddle you. What's your flavor? Gossip? Advice? A place to hide if your wife's on your heels?"
Daario grinned. "Tempting. But no. I'm looking for someone."
The old man's smile didn't waver, but his eyes grew just a touch sharper. "Aren't we all?"
"A woman," Daario continued, taking a slow sip of his ale. "Strikingly beautiful. Foreign. Possibly traveling under another name, but she wouldn't be easy to miss."
The innkeeper tapped a finger against his chin, making a show of pondering. "Beautiful, you say? Well, that narrows it down. Half the men in this city are looking for a beautiful woman, and the other half are running from one."
Daario chuckled. "She wouldn't be in a place like this, old man. She'd be somewhere… safer. Somewhere only the most powerful hands could keep her."
The twinkle in the innkeeper's eyes returned. "Ah. That kind of woman." He leaned forward slightly. "Now, I don't go throwing names around—bad for business. But I've heard whispers. A girl who fits your description, tucked away nice and cozy in the Red Keep. Moving among high company. Making powerful friends."
Daario set his ale down and leaned in, his smirk widening. "Now that is interesting."
The innkeeper waggled a finger at him. "A word of caution, son. A man who asks questions in this city tends to find answers he don't like. And sometimes, the wrong ears are listening."
Daario placed another coin on the counter, spinning it lazily beneath one finger. "I like dangerous answers. They make life exciting."
The old man sighed, pocketing the coin with a resigned shake of his head. "Your funeral, golden boy. But I'll say this—if she's in the Keep, she ain't there by accident. Someone wants her there, and that someone plays a long game."
Daario stood, adjusting the clasp of his cloak. "Then it seems I have a game to play as well."
The innkeeper grinned. "Just don't bet all your pieces before you know the rules."
Daario chuckled, gave the man a mock salute, and strode out into the night. The moon was high, casting long shadows over the city. The Red Keep loomed in the distance, and with it, the next step in his hunt.
The chase had begun. And Daario Naharis loved the chase.
---
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