The horsecart rattled and creaked as it navigated the uneven cobblestones, jolting violently with each bump. The sack, containing one very unhappy Daario Naharis, shifted with every bump and jolt, though his protests were quickly silenced by the force of the ride. Each time he made the slightest noise, the response came swift and direct.
THWACK.
Obara Sand's gauntleted hand slammed against the sack, knocking it sideways with a force that made the air crackle with tension. "That was your warning," she growled, dismounting with the lethal grace of a warrior used to taking charge. Her broad shoulders squared, a smoldering scowl on her face, as she reached for the sack to haul it off the cart. "Make another sound, and I'll hit you somewhere a little... more tender next."
Nymeria Sand was the picture of elegance as she dismounted, her silks billowing around her like the waves of a storm. Her eyes glinted with mischief as she twirled a dagger between her fingers, her movements almost languid. "No need to be so rough, sister," she chided, nudging the sack with her foot. "He's already trussed up like a festival boar."
"Boars don't talk," Tyene Sand piped up, her voice sweet but laced with a layer of danger. She adjusted the modest septa's robes she wore, her bright-eyed smile revealing a sharp edge. "Well, not unless you loosen their tongues first. And this one? Very quiet."
Ser Daemon Sand, the most composed of the group, gave a soft sigh and moved toward the cart, a wry grin curling at the corners of his lips. His dark eyes flicked between his sisters, amusement and exasperation in equal measure. "Can we not play with our food for once?"
Obara shot him a sideways glance, cracking her knuckles with a grin. "You sound like Prince Doran. Boring."
Daemon shook his head, still with that quiet, dangerous calm. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Nymeria's smirk widened, her eyes catching Daemon's as she shrugged. "That's 'cause you're the boring one," she teased, flipping her dagger in the air.
With practiced ease, they lifted the sack from the cart, each motion perfectly coordinated, before unceremoniously dumping it onto the cobblestones with a loud thud. The figure inside groaned in discomfort but stilled, clearly struggling to regain control of his temper.
The back door of Chataya's brothel swung open before they even knocked, and there she stood—Chataya, her arms crossed and her gaze sharp but amused, as though she were fully aware of what they were up to, and just as fully prepared to deal with it.
She gave the sack a cursory glance, her brow arched slightly. "I'm going to guess this isn't one of my usual patrons," she drawled, her voice rich with amusement and a bit of sass.
Tyene's eyes twinkled mischievously as she clasped her hands together in a show of mock innocence. "Depends on your definition of a patron," she quipped, her smile turning sly.
Nymeria, still toying with her dagger, shrugged nonchalantly. "He does love the company of women," she remarked, her voice light but carrying an undercurrent of something dangerous.
Tyene leaned in, her grin widening as she lowered her voice just enough for the others to hear. "Though I suspect he prefers them less... inclined to tie him up."
Obara chuckled darkly, her voice low and teasing. "He should've known better than to cross us, then."
Chataya's eyes flickered with an almost imperceptible smirk, though she quickly suppressed it. Her arms uncrossed, and she stepped aside, waving them through. "Y'all got some nerve bringing this mess into my house," she remarked, voice full of good-natured annoyance. "Take whatever that is down to the cellar. My other guests don't need to see this kind of entertainment."
Daemon inclined his head with respect, acknowledging the madam's authority as he passed through the door. His eyes lingered on the Sand Snakes, though his face remained as composed as ever.
The Sand Snakes, however, wore grins that were as sharp as their blades, all too aware of the power they wielded. They brushed past Chataya with their usual swagger, clearly not bothered in the slightest by the scolding, as though it were nothing more than part of the game.
Obara gave Chataya a teasing wink, her tone light. "Don't worry, Chataya. We won't ruin your evening... too much."
—
The cellar smelled of damp stone, aged wood, and expensive wine. Shadows flickered against the stacked barrels of Arbor gold and Dornish red, the dim lantern light barely reaching the far corners. The moment they shut the heavy oak door behind them, they dropped the sack onto the stone floor.
Thump.
Daario let out a muffled grunt of irritation.
Obara kicked the sack, not hard enough to hurt—just enough to let him know she could if she wanted to. "Still alive?"
A muffled string of curses answered her.
Nymeria knelt, unsheathing a curved dagger and slicing through the gag with smooth, practiced ease. The cloth fell away, and Daario inhaled sharply, shaking his head before tilting his chin up with that damnably charming smirk.
"Well, well, well." His blue eyes roved lazily over the women standing around him, lingering just a bit too long on each one. "If you wanted me bound and at your mercy, you only had to ask."
Tyene giggled, her fingers ghosting over his stubbled jaw. "You say the sweetest things."
Daario's smirk deepened, his voice dropping just enough to make it suggestive. "I find it best to flatter beautiful women, especially when they're deciding whether or not to gut me."
Nymeria sighed, shaking her head. "And here I thought we grabbed the smart one."
Obara grabbed a fistful of his tunic and yanked him upright, her grip firm. "Shut. Up."
Daario let out a mock-wounded sigh, shifting as best as he could in his bindings. "Obara Sand. So fierce, so beautiful. Always so quick to violence." He tilted his head, voice silky smooth. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't find it a bit… thrilling."
Tyene laughed, clapping her hands. "Oh, I like him."
Daemon, who had remained silent through most of this exchange, finally stepped forward, his expression flat. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Naharis." He gestured toward the Sand Snakes. "You know which one they'd prefer."
Daario let his head loll back slightly, dramatic as ever, before giving Daemon a slow, knowing smirk. "You must be the reasonable one. It's always the ones with the brooding stares and pretty faces." He let his gaze flick over Daemon, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Tell me, ser—do you also prefer to play rough?"
Daemon didn't so much as blink. "Start talking."
Daario sighed, his smirk not faltering, even as he took in his surroundings. "Alright, alright." He rolled his shoulders as much as the ropes would allow, exhaling dramatically. "No need to get your hands dirty." His grin widened, sharp and knowing. "Ask your questions, my lovely captors. But I must warn you—" his voice dropped to a mock whisper—"I do have a weakness for charming women." His eyes flicked to Tyene, to Nymeria, to Obara, his smirk positively devilish. "You may find it difficult to tell whether my answers are the truth… or just a sweet lie wrapped in a Dornish kiss."
Tyene tilted her head, flashing him a bright, deceptive smile, before pulling out a small vial from within her robes. She let the liquid catch the dim light as she swirled it lazily.
"Would you like to find out?"
Daario's smirk twitched—just slightly—before returning in full force.
Nymeria stepped closer, dagger gleaming. "Shall we start?"
Daario let out an exaggerated sigh, looking around before flashing them all one last roguish grin.
"As you wish."
—
The halls of the Red Keep were still heavy with the cloying scent of burnt incense and lilies, the last remnants of the funeral rites held for Joffrey Baratheon. Court was still thick with whispers, speculation, and forced solemnity, all while the real players moved unseen in the shadows.
Harry, Jon, and Dany—currently disguised as Fleur Peverell—had wasted no time in shedding their mourning blacks for riding leathers. The change was both practical and psychological—they had no patience for pretending to grieve the boy-tyrant any longer.
Harry's scarlet cloak billowed behind him as he fastened the buckles of his vambraces, his fingers idly brushing the pommel of Ignis, the sword humming faintly in response. Beside him, Dany adjusted her belted dagger, her usual silver-blonde locks hidden beneath a dark hood, the illusion of Fleur Peverell's golden curls shimmering ever so slightly under the torchlight.
Jon, ever the picture of grim determination, was still fidgeting with his gloves. The poor bastard had spent the entire day trapped in silk and velvet, and the discomfort was still clinging to him like a bad dream.
"Are we all set?" Harry murmured, giving one last tug on his glove as they strode down the corridor.
Dany—Fleur—tilted her head, her blue eyes gleaming with impatience. "Let's go before someone stops us."
And, naturally—
Someone stopped them.
Or rather—Jon walked straight into her.
—
Margaery Tyrell had been trained since childhood to be the perfect courtly lady.
She was composed. Charming. Poised.
She was also, unfortunately, not immune to the laws of physics—which meant when Jon Snow, built like a brooding Northern fortress, walked right into her, she stumbled.
Her hands instinctively shot out, catching herself against the solid muscle of his chest before she immediately pulled back, her pulse hammering just a little too quickly.
Gods above.
She lifted her chin, mask slipping effortlessly back into place as she let out a soft, breathless laugh—the kind that was deliberately disarming. "Ser Jon."
Jon blinked, startled, before his face twisted into the apologetic grimace of a man who had just inconvenienced a lady and would now like to die about it.
"Lady Margaery, I—"
"Are you alright?" she cut in smoothly, tilting her head just so, offering him the slightest of smiles. She could feel Alla practically vibrating behind her, but she kept her focus on Jon, resisting the urge to smooth down her skirts. That would be too obvious.
Jon, however, was adorably oblivious. He opened his mouth, then hesitated, then—Gods help him—glanced at Harry and Fleur like he was waiting for permission to answer.
Margaery felt the corner of her lips twitch. Hopelessly endearing.
Harry, who was clearly enjoying himself, cleared his throat, the picture of innocent amusement. "We were just heading out, my lady."
Margaery's sharp gaze flickered over their riding attire, the shift from their earlier mourning clothes impossible to ignore. Her fingers, clad in black gloves, curled ever so slightly against her skirts.
"And where, might I ask, are you riding off to?"
Jon, poor thing, immediately scratched the back of his neck, a dead giveaway of his discomfort. "Uh…"
Margaery had to fight the urge to laugh.
Gods. Seven Hells.
It really wasn't fair for a man to be this attractive and this hopeless at the same time.
"Just a small errand," Dany—Fleur—cut in smoothly, her voice carrying that soft, foreign lilt she used when speaking as Fleur Peverell. "Nothing of consequence."
Margaery noted the way Fleur positioned herself closer to Jon, as if acting as an unconscious buffer. Interesting.
A sudden movement behind Margaery caught Fleur's sharp eyes.
Alla Tyrell, her ever-mischievous lady-in-waiting, was staring at them with wide eyes and the barest hint of a knowing smirk.
Margaery resisted the urge to groan. Not now.
Alla, however, had zero self-preservation instincts, because as Jon turned to leave, she leaned in and whispered—
"He's rather handsome when he broods, isn't he?"
Margaery did not blush.
She merely tilted her chin with a practiced smile, gave Alla a warning look, and continued on her way with measured grace—
—until she was out of sight.
Then, without missing a beat, she whipped around and swatted Alla on the arm.
"Not. A. Word."
Alla grinned. "Oh, my lady, this is so much better than I imagined."
Margaery sighed. "I despise you."
"You adore me."
…Damn it, she did.
—
"She likes you," Dany said the moment Margaery was out of earshot.
Jon frowned. "What?"
"She likes you," Harry repeated, adjusting his saddle straps as they reached their horses. "Like, likes you."
Jon scoffed, grabbing his reins. "You're both seeing things."
Dany swung up onto her horse with infuriating grace, eyeing Jon with the smug certainty of a woman who had watched this dance play out a thousand times before.
"She was flushed, Jon. Blushing."
Jon muttered something about 'courtesy being a lady's armor', which only made Harry groan in exasperation.
"I swear to Merlin, you're impossible," Harry grumbled, fastening his gloves. "You walked into her—full body impact—and the first thing she did was smile at you like you were the Seven's gift to Westeros."
Jon scowled. "She smiles at everyone like that."
"No," Dany said pointedly, "she does not."
Jon looked highly unconvinced, but mounted his horse all the same.
Within moments, they were galloping out of the Red Keep, leaving behind the whispers of court as they raced towards Chataya's.
—
Margaery Tyrell moved gracefully along the winding stone paths of the Red Keep's gardens, her skirts brushing against the neatly trimmed hedges. The scent of roses lingered in the warm afternoon air, carried on a gentle breeze that whispered through the trellises of ivy. She inhaled deeply, savoring the peace of the moment. Or at least, she tried to.
Because, unfortunately, her mind was not on the roses, nor the golden sunlight filtering through the leaves. No, her mind was elsewhere. Or rather—on someone else.
Jon Snow.
Dark, brooding, frustratingly oblivious Jon Snow.
A sigh escaped her before she could stop it. And, of course, her ever-attentive lady-in-waiting, Alla, caught it immediately.
"Oh, Seven bloody Hells," Alla groaned, rolling her eyes as she twirled a lock of chestnut hair around her finger. "I knew it. I knew you were thinking about him."
Margaery arched an elegant brow, her lips curving into a playful smile. "About whom, dear Alla?"
Alla huffed in exasperation. "The Stark-blooded, sword-swinging, morally upright, utterly humorless, devastatingly handsome—"
"I never said he was handsome."
Alla leveled her with a deadpan stare. "Right. And I'm the Queen of the Andals."
Margaery let out a soft, practiced laugh, tilting her head ever so slightly. "A little dramatic, aren't we?"
Alla crossed her arms, not fooled in the slightest. "You were staring, Margaery."
"I was not staring."
"You were definitely staring. And don't even try to deny it. I watched you."
Margaery sighed, reaching out to pluck a soft pink rose from a nearby bush. "He's… interesting."
Alla groaned. "There it is again! 'Interesting.' What does that even mean?" She gestured dramatically, as if appealing to the gods themselves. "Margaery, he's a brooding bastard knight with a perpetual scowl. That's not interesting, that's a Northern condition."
Margaery chuckled, twirling the rose between her fingers. "Perhaps I simply admire a man who doesn't fall at my feet the moment I smile at him."
Alla snorted. "No, you admire a challenge. And Jon Snow, for all his brooding, is a challenge." She shook her head, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "And let's be honest—if he weren't so ruggedly handsome, you wouldn't find him half as 'interesting.'"
Margaery pressed the rose to her lips, her expression coy. "I admit nothing."
Alla let out a dramatic sigh. "Fine. Let's say—for the sake of argument—that I allow you this… little distraction. What, precisely, do you plan to do about it?"
Margaery hummed, her eyes drifting towards the castle in the distance. "Nothing, of course. I'm simply observing."
"Observing," Alla echoed dryly. "Right. Well, your grandmother would observe you right off the highest tower if she knew you were entertaining thoughts about a bastard."
Margaery's lips quirked. "She's not that dramatic."
Alla gave her a pointed look. "Margaery, she had a man assassinated over dinner for being a threat to her plans. Forgive me if I don't doubt her capacity for theatrics."
Margaery let out a soft laugh, brushing a stray curl from her face. "Fair point."
Alla sighed, looping her arm through Margaery's as they continued their walk. "Look, I understand the appeal. He's gruff, and honorable, and looks like he could carry you off into the sunset on horseback—"
Margaery smirked. "I'm beginning to think you fancy him."
Alla scoffed. "Please. I prefer my men to be witty, charming, and, preferably, not from the frozen wastelands of Westeros." She leaned in conspiratorially. "But you, my dear, don't get the luxury of preferences."
Margaery exhaled through her nose, her fingers tightening slightly around the rose.
Alla softened, giving her a knowing look. "I know you like Jon. And I know it's… tempting. But you don't get to be tempted, Margaery. You're meant for a throne."
Margaery tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "A throne that would one day before occupied by a boy."
Alla's lips pressed together in sympathy. "I know."
Prince Tommen.
The sweet, kind-hearted child who was now Crown Prince. The boy who would, one day, be King. The boy she was supposed to mold into the ruler Westeros needed.
A boy, not a man.
She could play the part. She would play the part.
Alla squeezed her arm. "Tommen is young. But he's malleable. And he's the key to everything your grandmother has been working towards."
Margaery smiled, slow and deliberate. "Then I suppose it's time I start playing my part."
Alla grinned. "That's the spirit."
Still, as they walked deeper into the gardens, Margaery found her thoughts lingering on Jon Snow.
And damn it all—Alla was right. He really was devastatingly handsome when he brooded.
—
The looming walls of the Red Keep had long since faded behind them, swallowed by the winding streets and the thickening dusk. The air smelled of horse, damp earth, and the distant brine of Blackwater Bay, the stench of King's Landing thankfully left in their wake. With Joffrey's funeral rites concluded, the city was still steeped in tension, the hushed whispers of the court mirrored in the uneasy quiet of the streets.
For the first stretch, Jon, Harry, and Dany—still disguised as Fleur Peverell—rode in relative silence, their horses' hooves a steady rhythm against the dirt road. It was almost peaceful.
Almost.
Then, inevitably—
"You know," Dany began, her voice carrying that lilting amusement that made Jon immediately wary, "I can't help but notice that Lady Margaery did not seem particularly displeased to see you, Jon."
Jon inhaled deeply, exhaled sharply through his nose, and muttered, "Not this again."
"Oh, especially this again," Harry said, adjusting his grip on Ignis's hilt with a grin that promised nothing but torment.
Jon scowled, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders. "She was being polite."
"She was blushing," Dany pointed out, flicking her reins to ride closer beside him. Her golden curls—glamoured, but no less striking—shimmered under the last slivers of fading sunlight.
Jon barely managed to keep from rolling his eyes. "She was warm."
Harry let out a bark of laughter. "Yes, Jon. I'm sure she was 'warm' because of all that nonexistent heat in the Keep's stone corridors." He gave Jon a pointed look. "She likes you."
Jon's scowl deepened. "She smiles at everyone."
"She smiles at everyone politically," Dany corrected, tilting her head at him. "That was not a political smile. That was a Margaery Tyrell smile."
Jon frowned. "Aren't they the same?"
"No," Harry and Dany chorused in unison.
Dany sighed in exasperation, flicking her golden hair back over her shoulder as she shot Harry a knowing glance. "Mon dieu, he is hopeless."
Harry leaned forward on his saddle. "Let me spell it out for you. That was not a 'let's be friends' smile. That was a 'let's find a secluded corridor and see where the night takes us' smile."
Jon's ears turned scarlet. "That's ridiculous."
Dany smirked, adjusting the dagger at her belt with casual grace. "Is it?"
Jon opened his mouth, then promptly closed it, his scowl deepening.
Dany and Harry exchanged a victorious glance.
It was far too easy.
But then, just as Jon was about to bury himself further into his own brooding misery, the teasing softened into something more serious.
Dany slowed her horse slightly, matching his pace. "Joking aside, Jon… this could be useful."
Jon exhaled sharply. "What do you mean?"
Harry, ever blunt, didn't mince words. "We need the Reach. Gold, food, men—the Tyrells have it all. And the easiest way to secure it?"
Jon's hands tightened on his reins. "…Marriage."
Dany nodded. "You are Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar, rightful heir to the Iron Throne. If we're going to put you on it—to unite Westeros, to prepare for the Long Night—you will need allies. Powerful ones."
"The Tyrells are the power in the south right now," Harry added. "Mace Tyrell is desperate to wed Margaery to a king. First, it was Joffrey. Now, it's Tommen. But if there's a stronger claim—"
Jon's jaw tensed, his grip firm around his reins. "That's assuming I want the throne."
Dany's voice was quiet but unwavering. "You don't have a choice."
Jon turned to glare at her, but there was no mockery in her expression. No amusement. Just fact.
"You're the best hope Westeros has," she continued, her blue eyes sharp as steel.
Jon swallowed. The weight of it pressed down on him like a smith's hammer against an anvil. He had spent his entire life believing himself a bastard—unwanted, unworthy of anything beyond the Wall. Now, they were telling him he was a king. That he had to be a king. That his life was no longer his own.
He exhaled sharply. "And what of you?" he asked, his voice edged with something unreadable. "You're a Targaryen too."
Dany met his gaze steadily. "I was never meant to rule Westeros alone." She paused. "And I will not—if it means ensuring the realm's survival."
Jon's stomach twisted. "And you think wedding Margaery Tyrell is the way to do that?"
Harry gave a lazy shrug. "It's certainly not the worst option." His lips curled into a smirk. "I mean, she's beautiful, clever, and she clearly already has an interest in you."
Jon exhaled through his nose, resisting the urge to argue—because the truth was, when Margaery had smiled at him, he had felt something. Something warm. Something dangerous.
Dany seemed to sense his hesitation. Her voice gentled, though her tone remained firm. "No one is asking you to decide now. But think on it, Jon."
Jon said nothing.
But as they rode on, his thoughts lingered on Margaery's knowing smile, on the way her hands had pressed against his chest, the way she had looked at him—not as a bastard, not as a threat, but as something else entirely.
And that, more than anything, terrified him.
—
The air grew thicker as the trio approached Chataya's, the famed establishment that stood as both sanctuary and sanctuary for secrets. The Red Keep faded behind them, swallowed by the slow descent of the sun, and the sounds of the bustling city were replaced by the quiet, almost eerie hush that settled over the area. The ornate sign of Chataya's swung lazily in the wind, casting a fleeting shadow over the stone road, and Jon couldn't help but eye it with a mix of skepticism and wariness.
Jon halted his horse at the gates, and the others followed suit. His gaze flickered toward the building: whitewashed stone, intricate carvings, windows draped in velvet curtains. Everything about it screamed luxury and decadence, but Jon's instincts whispered of danger lurking beneath the surface.
"You know, this place kind of screams we're up to something shady," Jon remarked, pulling his cloak tighter against the evening chill.
Dany, already dismounting, threw him a teasing glance. Her lips curled into a knowing smile, one that carried the allure of a queen who had learned to play the game of shadows with precision. Kate Upton would be proud. "You'll get used to it, Jon," she replied in a voice rich with both a French lilt and the unspoken promise of trouble. "Sometimes, shady places are where the truth hides."
Harry snorted, throwing Jon an amused glance. "Dany's got a point. When you're looking for answers, you don't exactly go knocking on the front doors of the Red Keep. Besides, this place has more than enough secrets to make it worth the visit."
Jon let out a low grunt, clearly unamused. "I'm just saying, I'd rather not get dragged into whatever political drama's brewing in there." His eyes flicked toward the door, and he let out an exasperated sigh. "But I guess I'm not gonna get a say in this, am I?"
"Nope," Harry replied breezily, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You're already in it."
And with that, they crossed the threshold, stepping into the fragrant haze of incense and sandalwood. The air was warm, heavy with the scent of luxury—silk curtains, polished wooden floors, and the flicker of golden candelabras casting dancing shadows along the walls. There was a sense of waiting here, like the very air itself held its breath.
Chataya was sitting at the back of the room, sipping from a goblet of crimson wine, looking every inch the alluring and dangerous madam she was known to be. Her robes clung to her like shadows, and when she saw them, her sharp eyes glinted with recognition, the faintest flicker of amusement crossing her face.
"Ah, my friends," she purred, standing with effortless grace. Her voice was rich, honeyed, laced with charm. "You've come to speak with my most... interesting guest, I assume?"
Dany, always with a smile that could melt the coldest of hearts, offered Chataya a nod. "You know us too well," she said, her French accent flowing effortlessly with the ease of a practiced diplomat. Her voice was both seductive and regal, a dance of words that few could resist. "We've heard your establishment is the perfect place to uncover... truths."
Chataya's eyes twinkled. She was amused, but there was a sharpness behind her smile. "You flatter me, my dear. But I assure you, it is not flattery I require. It is information, yes?"
Harry, ever the opportunist, gave a lazy smile and took a slow glance around the room. "Information, certainly. But if we have to make small talk to get it, I'm not going to complain." He winked. "Though, it's your establishment. I'm sure there are more... creative ways to extract it."
Jon shifted uneasily, his discomfort palpable, but Chataya gave him a warm, teasing look. "And you, my dear, seem rather out of place. No need for worry—this is a place of friends," she said, though there was an edge to her words. Her eyes flickered toward him, then back to Dany, as if waiting for a response.
Jon didn't move, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. "I'm not here for wine," he muttered, his tone dry. "I'm here for answers."
"Oh, Jon, live a little," Harry teased, a wicked grin on his face. "Come on, a little wine's not going to kill you. Unless, of course, you really want it to."
Chataya gave a soft, musical laugh, her eyes crinkling with amusement. "I see you've been training him well, Lady Fleur," she teased, her voice light but knowing. "Wine's only the beginning. Come, relax, I will point you in the right direction."
Dany smiled, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "Let's get down to business," she said, her tone now sharpening as her playful demeanor gave way to the seriousness beneath the surface. "We came for Daario Naharis. We understand he's here."
At the mention of Daario's name, Chataya's demeanor shifted subtly. She leaned back in her chair, her gaze soft but calculating. "Ah... Daario," she said, her lips curling slightly. "The Sand Snakes have been... entertaining him in the cellar. They are... particular about their guests."
Jon's posture stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "Entertaining," he repeated, the word hanging in the air. His voice was taut with suspicion, but there was something else behind it—something darker. "What does that mean exactly?"
Chataya raised an eyebrow, her smirk never faltering. "Let's just say their... entertainment has been educational for him," she said, leaning forward slightly. "But I'm sure you'll find that... intriguing."
Harry's smirk deepened, clearly enjoying the exchange. "I'm sure Daario's 'education' will be quite... thorough," he drawled. "Lead the way, Chataya. The sooner we get this over with, the better."
Chataya, ever composed, nodded gracefully. "Of course, follow me."
With a swift motion, she turned and led them down a narrow corridor, the air growing cooler and heavier with each step. The walls, once adorned with luxury, now gave way to the cold, damp stone of the cellar. There was a distinct shift in the atmosphere—gone was the warmth of indulgence, replaced with the heavy, almost oppressive air of tension.
As they reached the cellar door, the muffled sounds of conversation drifted through the cracks—Daario's voice, low but unmistakable. Chataya knocked lightly on the door, and the voices immediately silenced. After a moment, she opened the door, revealing the shadowy room within.
The Sand Snakes were gathered around Daario, their sharp, striking figures standing in stark contrast to the shackled man in the corner. Daario was silent, his usual cocky demeanor nowhere to be seen, his face unreadable.
"My dears, your guests have arrived," Chataya announced with a teasing lilt to her voice, stepping aside to allow them entrance. "And I believe it's time for you to... discuss matters of importance."
Jon's eyes locked onto Daario, his voice sharp with authority. "We need to talk."
---
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