The Dornish party arrived at their lodgings on the Street of Silk, a place where vice was not just tolerated but celebrated. The air was thick with the scent of exotic spices and perfumes, mingling with the murmured laughter of courtesans and the low hum of revelry. Plush cushions and gilded lanterns cast dancing shadows on the walls, while the occasional moan of pleasure slipped through the beaded curtains that separated the rooms. This was not merely a brothel—it was a temple to indulgence, a palace of whispered secrets and honeyed sin.
Oberyn Martell strode through its entrance like a king returning to his court, his dark eyes alight with amusement and unchecked sensuality. Every movement was effortless, every step a proclamation of confidence. He wore pleasure like armor, his lips ever on the verge of a smirk, his gaze drinking in the surroundings like a man savoring a fine Dornish red.
Beside him, Ellaria Sand moved like a panther, languid and utterly at ease. She leaned into Oberyn with a knowing smile, her fingers trailing absentmindedly along the edge of a silk-covered divan. Obara followed, her movements sharp, her presence brimming with an unspoken challenge, while Nymeria glided past, her keen gaze drinking in the room. Tyene, ever the mischievous one, twirled a dagger between her fingers, the very image of innocence betrayed only by the wicked glint in her eyes.
And awaiting them, perched on a chaise like a queen holding court, was Rhea Sand. Or rather, Rhaenys Targaryen—a secret long buried beneath the sand. She wore a gown of deep red silk that clung to her body in all the right places, her dusky skin catching the candlelight, her dark curls cascading over one shoulder. The tilt of her head, the lazy curve of her lips—there was something undeniably royal about her, though her smile carried the same teasing mischief as her supposed sisters.
"Uncle," Rhea purred, stretching out a hand toward Oberyn. "I heard today's trial by combat was quite the spectacle. Tell me, what's the word on the street?"
Oberyn took her hand, but instead of a simple clasp, he lifted it to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to her fingers. His smile was nothing short of sinful. "The word, my dear, is glorious."
He settled onto the chaise beside her, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. "Hadrian Peverell fought Gregor Clegane." His voice dropped into something lower, something velvety and rich. "Tell me, Rhea… have you ever seen a man cut down a monster?"
Rhea's eyes narrowed, lips curling into a smirk. "I have seen a few men who thought themselves monsters get their throats slit."
Ellaria laughed, pouring herself a goblet of wine before passing another to Rhea. "Ah, but this was different. This was a dance. The Mountain came at him like a bull, and Peverell… well, he moved as if he had all the time in the world. He shattered Clegane's sword, broke his knee, toyed with him."
Tyene let out a soft hum. "And then he crushed him." Her eyes sparkled with delight. "Not with strength, but with skill. Like a lover who knows just how to undo his partner, one touch at a time."
Rhea raised an eyebrow, swirling her wine. "The Mountain? Brought to his knees?"
Nymeria, lounging against the cushions, nodded. "Brought is too kind a word. He was dropped. Made to beg for his life. He was a pitiable wreck before it was over."
Obara scoffed, arms folded. "It was justice. The kind of justice that should've come years ago." She tilted her head, regarding Rhea. "You know what this means, don't you?"
Rhea exhaled slowly, taking a sip from her goblet. "Cersei must be frothing at the mouth."
Oberyn chuckled, running a thumb along the rim of his own cup. "Oh, my darling niece, frothing does not even begin to cover it. Her hand is gone—severed like a common thief. You should have seen her face. She looked as if someone had pissed in her wine."
Ellaria let out a sultry laugh, curling a hand around Oberyn's arm. "And Joffrey? That little wretch stormed out of the arena, red-faced and shrieking like a child denied his favorite toy."
Rhea's lips parted in mock surprise. "That Petulant Child? Humiliated? Oh, what a tragedy."
Nymeria smirked. "You should've been there, sister. It was a delight."
Obara cracked her knuckles. "I'd have preferred to see him gutted, but this was satisfying enough."
Rhea leaned back, thoughtful. "The Lannisters are crumbling. And yet, I wonder… Peverell. What does he want?"
Oberyn smiled, slow and indulgent. "Ah. That is the question, isn't it?"
He leaned in, voice dropping to something conspiratorial. "Which is why, my dear, I have invited him and his wife to dine with us tomorrow evening. What better way to see the measure of a man than in the company of wine, women, and whispered secrets?"
Rhea raised an eyebrow. "And you kept this from me?"
Oberyn chuckled, tilting his head. "Would you have preferred I ruin the surprise? There is no better way to judge a man than when he is surrounded by pleasure."
Ellaria's lips curled. "And perhaps," she mused, "his company will be as stimulating as his prowess in combat."
Tyene's eyes gleamed. "Maybe his wife will be, too."
Obara smirked. "If he's half as impressive as they say, he might prove to be a most delightful companion."
Rhea sipped her wine, a slow smile creeping across her lips. "Very well," she murmured. "Let us see what kind of man this Hadrian Peverell truly is."
Oberyn leaned back, watching her with amused satisfaction. "Oh, my sweet niece," he purred, "I do believe we are in for quite the evening."
The laughter and murmured plans filled the chamber, as the promise of revelry, seduction, and whispered intrigue settled upon them like a thick, perfumed haze. Tomorrow would be a night of pleasure and revelation—and Rhea Targaryen, hidden no longer, would finally set eyes on the man who had shaken the world.
—
The Tyrell-owned manse in King's Landing was a testament to the wealth and influence of the Reach's most powerful family. Fine Myrish tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes of chivalry and splendor. The scent of fresh roses drifted through the air, a not-so-subtle reminder of the family's sigil. The soft glow of lanterns illuminated the long dining table, where the Tyrells had gathered for an urgent discussion.
At the head of the table, Lady Olenna Tyrell sat like a queen in all but name, her sharp blue eyes surveying her family with the precision of a seasoned general. Opposite her, Lord Mace Tyrell puffed up his chest, as though his mere presence lent gravity to the meeting. Lady Alerie Tyrell, ever composed, sat beside her husband, her cool gaze betraying a sharp intelligence. Across from them were their four children: Willas, the thoughtful heir; Garlan, the warrior; Loras, the reckless golden knight; and Margaery, the family's most valuable political asset.
Olenna's knotted fingers drummed once against the polished wood before she spoke. "Well, I hope you've all had your fun gallivanting about, but it's time to discuss something of actual importance."
Loras, who had just taken a sip of Arbor Red, swallowed hard. "Grandmother?"
Olenna turned her gaze on him with the exasperation of a woman forced to endure fools for far too long. "I trust you've at least heard about today's trial by combat?"
Loras hesitated. "I—"
"No, of course you haven't," Olenna cut in, rolling her eyes. "You were too busy playing squire to Renly Baratheon. Or should I say, his sword-swallowing champion?"
Mace Tyrell turned red at the implication. "Mother—"
"Oh, hush, Mace. If I wanted to listen to a blubbering fool, I'd summon one of the singers your dear wife insists on hiring."
Lady Alerie's lips twitched in amusement, though she said nothing.
Loras, face burning, sat up straighter. "I have my duties, grandmother."
"Yes, yes, fondling Renly's banners," Olenna muttered with a dismissive wave of her hand. "In the meantime, a man of actual worth—Lord Hadrian Peverell—slaughtered Gregor Clegane in single combat, won the favor of the court, and, most importantly, embarrassed the Lannisters."
Willas, ever composed, set down his goblet. "That is no small feat. The Mountain was thought to be unbeatable."
"Exactly," Olenna said, eyes gleaming. "And now, we must decide how best to place ourselves in his good graces."
Loras crossed his arms. "You're suggesting we… befriend him?"
"No, Loras, I'm suggesting you prance about in his colors and offer to polish his boots," Olenna snapped. "Of course, befriend him! Or if that's too much work, befriend someone close to him. That Snow boy, for instance."
Loras made a face as if he'd bitten into something sour. "Jon Snow? The bastard?"
"The bastard," Olenna echoed mockingly. "Yes, the one who was raised in Winterfell and fights like a seasoned knight. That bastard. And he happens to be Lady Peverell's sworn shield, which makes him valuable. Something you might recognize if you could pull your head out of Renly's codpiece long enough to use it."
Loras bristled but said nothing.
Margaery, ever the peacemaker, stepped in smoothly. "If I may, grandmother, I could establish a friendship with Lady Fleur Peverell. Women like us understand the power of alliances."
Olenna's sharp gaze softened, just a fraction. "That's why you're my favorite, dear. Yes, I want you to befriend her. Charm her, draw her in. She's already a favorite at court, and we can use that to our advantage."
Margaery smiled, tilting her head slightly. "I shall make every effort."
Olenna then turned to Willas and Garlan. "As for you two, you'll find a way to get close to Lord Peverell himself. The man has power, and I want to know what he intends to do with it."
Garlan, who had been listening intently, gave a nod. "I'll speak with him. If he's as skilled as they say, he'll respect a man who appreciates swordplay."
Willas, the more diplomatic of the brothers, added, "And I will engage him in conversation. If he has any ambitions beyond securing his family's safety, I'll discern them."
Olenna leaned back in her chair, pleased. "Good. Finally, someone in this family who knows how to think."
Mace, who had spent most of the meeting stewing, cleared his throat. "Mother, I believe we should also consider strengthening our ties with the Lannisters. Their fall from grace is not guaranteed."
Olenna gave him a look of sheer pity. "Oh, Mace. Sometimes I wonder if you were dropped on your head as a babe."
Mace sputtered. "I was not!"
Lady Alerie gently patted his arm. "No, dear, but I do recall you running headfirst into a statue of Garth Greenhand when you were three."
Olenna smirked. "That would explain a great deal."
The room filled with soft laughter—except for Mace, who looked rather put out.
Olenna straightened, her expression turning serious. "The Lannisters are faltering. Cersei is weakened, Tywin's pride is wounded, and Joffrey is a fool. Our future lies not with them, but with those who can shape the realm's new order. Lord Peverell is one such man."
She let her gaze linger on each of her grandchildren, ensuring her words sank in.
"Do as I say. Secure these alliances. And, for the love of the Seven, do not embarrass me."
Margaery smiled knowingly. "Would we ever, grandmother?"
Olenna let out a dry chuckle. "Gods help me, I almost believe you."
The meeting concluded, each Tyrell departing with their tasks in mind. Olenna sat back, sipping her wine, the wheels of her mind already spinning. The game was shifting, and she intended to be on the winning side.
—
The hidden tunnels of the Red Keep were as familiar to Varys as the veins in his own hands, and he navigated them with the unhurried grace of a man who had all the time in the world. In truth, he did not. The threads of his web were shifting, stretching taut in ways that troubled him, and the arrival of Lord Hadrian Peverell and his enigmatic wife had only complicated matters further.
Silence embraced him as he entered his private chamber, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows upon the walls. A single parchment lay upon his desk, sealed with the sigil of Ilyrio Mopatis. Varys allowed himself a small, knowing smile. Ah, my dear Ilyrio. What fresh intrigues do you bring me today?
With practiced ease, he broke the seal, unrolling the letter. His eyes skimmed the familiar, flowing script—then stopped.
His smile faded.
"Daenerys has vanished."
Varys read the line again, his usually impassive expression tightening. Vanished? That was not a word he liked. He trusted Ilyrio to keep their precious dragon safe, hidden from the vipers who would see her dead. For her to simply disappear was... troubling. More troubling still was the fact that Ilyrio had delayed in informing him. That was unlike the man.
"Why did you wait so long, old friend?" Varys murmured, tapping a finger against his lips. He reread the letter, searching for a hidden meaning, a cipher between the words.
Ilyrio's letter spoke of searches conducted, of sellswords dispatched across the known world, of coffers opened to pay for whispers. But no trace of Daenerys had been found.
And yet, she was somewhere.
Varys let out a slow breath and folded the letter with care, his mind already assembling the puzzle. He did not believe in coincidences, and the timing of Daenerys's disappearance aligning with the arrival of Lord Hadrian Peverell and his wife in King's Landing reeked of something deeper. Had the Targaryen girl somehow found her way here, under his very nose? Or was it something else? Something worse?
He reached for another piece of parchment, dipping his quill into ink as he began composing his own missives. First, to his spies embedded within the dockside taverns, the brothels, and the underbelly of the city. Find the sellswords. They will come to King's Landing seeking gold, information, or both. I want to know who they are, who they serve, and what they know.
Then, another note—this one directed at his little birds scattered throughout the Red Keep. Listen closely when Lady Fleur Peverell speaks. Follow Lord Hadrian's movements. They are more than what they seem, and I would know their true nature before the wrong people do.
And finally, a personal note to Ilyrio.
"You have worried me, my friend. Vanishing is such an ominous word. Is it that she has disappeared... or that she has taken flight?"
Varys sealed the letters and summoned one of his most trusted agents, pressing the parchment into his palm with a smile so thin it could cut glass.
"The game is changing," he murmured as the man departed.
Varys sat back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes lost in thought. The wind had shifted, and he intended to know from which direction it blew before anyone else did.
—
The halls of the Red Keep were a maze of shadow and torchlight, twisting corridors that whispered secrets to those who knew how to listen. Harry, Dany, and Jon moved with quiet purpose, the weight of the trial still pressing upon them. The air felt charged, as if the very stones knew that the tides of power were shifting.
Then, from the shadows, he emerged.
Petyr Baelish materialized like a serpent slithering from its burrow, his signature smirk in place, eyes gleaming with that ever-calculating amusement. He inclined his head ever so slightly, his tone smooth as silk laced with steel.
"Lord Peverell. Lady Peverell. Allow me to offer my most sincere congratulations on your… spectacular performance today." He let the words linger, like a man savoring the taste of a fine Dornish vintage. "It was… truly something to behold."
Harry came to a halt, his expression unreadable. "Thank you, Lord…?"
"Baelish," Petyr supplied, his smirk deepening. "Petyr Baelish. Though some prefer to call me Littlefinger."
Dany's eyes, sharp as dragonfire, narrowed just slightly. "Ah. Le petit doigt." Her accent, usually refined, dipped into its natural lilt, a touch of mockery in her voice. "Lady Stark spoke… highly of you."
A flicker of something—annoyance? amusement?—flashed across Baelish's face, gone almost before it appeared. He placed a hand over his heart in a mock display of gratitude. "She is too kind. Catelyn and I share a long history."
Harry said nothing, but beneath the surface, his Legilimency cut through the veil of Baelish's carefully crafted persona. The man's mind was a cesspool of treachery—Jon Arryn's murder at his hands, whispered schemes that had turned the realm against itself, the buried truth of Lyanna Stark's letter, which could have unraveled Robert's Rebellion before it even began. And the greed. The quiet, insidious siphoning of the crown's wealth under the guise of the Master of Coin, gold flowing into his own pockets like a river of stolen promises.
Harry's stomach twisted, but outwardly, he was the picture of composure. "Lady Stark's judgment is as astute as ever," he said evenly, his gaze locked onto Baelish. "It's always a pleasure to meet a… friend of the Starks."
Jon, standing at Harry's flank, exhaled sharply through his nose. His hand, almost unconsciously, tightened around the hilt of Blackfyre. He didn't trust this man, not for a moment.
Baelish, undeterred, let out a quiet chuckle. "Indeed. It is always reassuring to see the Starks flourishing, after all they have endured."
Jon's jaw clenched. Because of you.
"Prosperity is what we all strive for," Dany said, her voice smooth as Valyrian silk, but edged with something dangerous. "Through unity and trust, we can achieve it."
Baelish's eyes flickered to her, his head tilting slightly as if trying to decipher whether there was more behind her words. "Wise, my lady. Let us hope we can all contribute to the realm's prosperity."
Harry smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Oh, we all have our parts to play."
A silence stretched between them, a taut wire ready to snap. Then, Baelish—always knowing when to retreat—offered them his final smirk, bowed with impeccable grace, and melted back into the shadows from whence he came.
As soon as he was gone, Jon let out a low breath, his brows furrowing. "That man's a viper."
"A viper would be preferable," Dany muttered, folding her arms. "Vipers do not pretend to be your friend before sinking their fangs into your throat."
Jon looked to Harry, his expression wary. "What did you see?"
Harry's green eyes were hard, unreadable. "More than I expected. He's deeper in the game than we imagined. He's not just a schemer—he's the architect of more than half the realm's chaos. Jon Arryn's death? His doing. Robert's Rebellion? He stoked the flames. And that's just the beginning."
Dany's lips pressed into a thin line. "Then we must stop him before he becomes even more dangerous."
Harry's expression darkened, but then, slowly, a smile curved his lips—not one of amusement, but of calculation. "We won't just stop him. We'll use his own web against him."
Jon arched a brow. "How?"
Harry's eyes gleamed with quiet menace. "By making sure the next thread he weaves… is a noose."
—
The grand hall of the Red Keep was ablaze with firelight, the golden glow of the chandeliers casting flickering shadows upon the high stone walls. The scent of roasted boar, spiced wine, and honeyed cakes mingled in the air, a heady contrast to the simmering tensions that lurked beneath the surface. Laughter rang out, goblets clinked, and yet, beneath it all, there was an undercurrent of something far darker.
Harry Peverell sat with an air of measured ease, flanked by Dany on one side and Jon on the other. Fleur—no, Dany—was resplendent in deep crimson and gold, her curls cascading over one shoulder like molten gold. She sipped her wine with the quiet confidence of a queen in exile, her sharp blue eyes taking in everything, every whispered conversation, every guarded glance.
Then, with all the grace of a charging warhorse, Lord Wyman Manderly lumbered forth, a broad grin splitting his bearded face. His sheer bulk seemed to command the space around him, his booming voice rising above the din.
"Lord Peverell!" he declared, raising his goblet high, the rich scent of mulled wine clinging to him like a second cloak. "A toast! To your unparalleled courage and skill! Seven hells, lad, that was a spectacle! You've got the North singing your name already, and I dare say even the dead in their crypts are nodding their approval!"
A ripple of laughter and applause followed.
Harry inclined his head, lifting his own goblet in return. "You honor me, Lord Manderly," he said, his voice steady. "It was a hard-fought battle, but in the end, justice prevailed."
"Aye, justice!" Manderly bellowed, draining half his goblet in a single gulp. "And I'll drink to that!"
From a few seats away, the sharp voice of Lady Olenna Tyrell cut through the revelry with the precision of a Valyrian steel blade. "Justice is a rare dish in this court, Lord Manderly," she mused, her aged yet piercing gaze settling on Harry before shifting to Dany. "And might I add, Lady Peverell, your presence lends a certain elegance to this victory. You and your husband do make quite the striking pair—like something out of an old song, only with fewer tragic endings, I hope."
Dany inclined her head, a glint of amusement in her eyes. "Lady Olenna, you flatter me," she said smoothly, her accent slipping into something silkier, more Fleur than Daenerys. "But you are quite right. I much prefer a tale with a happy ending. Tragedy is… tiresome."
Olenna's lips curled into something resembling a smirk. "A woman after my own heart."
At the high table, apart from the mirth and camaraderie, Prince Joffrey Baratheon brooded like a storm cloud waiting to break. His goblet sat empty before him, his fingers curling and uncurling against the polished wood. Every cheer, every toast, every burst of laughter seemed to chip away at his fragile pride, his face darkening with each passing moment.
Sandor Clegane stood behind him, the ever-watchful shadow, his scarred face impassive. But inside, he was enjoying the night far more than his prince. He had watched The Mountain—his own hated brother—fall. And though he had not been the one to deliver the killing blow, the sight of it had brought him a grim sort of satisfaction.
Joffrey's grip on his goblet tightened until his knuckles turned white. His petulant scowl deepened.
Clegane, sensing the rising storm, leaned in ever so slightly. His voice was low, a rough growl that barely carried over the feast's din. "You're lucky your mother wasn't here to see this disgrace," he muttered.
Joffrey's head snapped around so fast it was a wonder he didn't wrench his neck. His eyes were ablaze with fury, his lips curling into a snarl. "What did you say, Clegane?" he spat, his voice venomous.
Clegane met his gaze without a flicker of concern, his face a mask of rugged indifference. Then, slowly, deliberately, he straightened to his full height. He loomed over Joffrey like a storm rolling in over a battlefield.
"Nothing, Your Grace," he said, his tone utterly devoid of reverence.
Joffrey's hands trembled, his fury barely contained. But with no one else to bear witness to the exchange, he knew better than to press the issue. Not with him. Not with the Hound.
So instead, he turned away, jaw clenched, seething in silence.
Clegane exhaled slowly, then shifted his gaze toward Harry and Dany, watching them with quiet scrutiny.
If there was one thing he knew about the man who killed his brother…
It was that he didn't need to bare his teeth to be dangerous.
—
The grand hall of the Red Keep was a sea of laughter, clinking goblets, and the rich scent of roasted meats. The air buzzed with revelry, yet beneath the golden glow of torchlight and chandelier, shadows stretched long and deep, concealing whispers of treachery.
Seated at the high table, Daenerys—or rather, Fleur—played her part masterfully, the poised and enchanting Lady Peverell, her radiant beauty a thing of legend. Her lips curled into a faint smile as she delicately sipped from her goblet, but her eyes—deep, knowing, endlessly sharp—were fixed upon a far more intriguing spectacle: Petyr Baelish.
With effortless precision, she slipped into his mind, sifting through the layers of deception and carefully crafted half-truths. Men like Baelish wore their secrets like armor, she mused, but even the finest plate had its weak points.
And oh, what riches he had squirreled away. Vaults of stolen coin, embezzled from the Crown, hidden behind false names and seemingly legitimate ventures. Gold siphoned through webs of corruption so intricate that unraveling them would take a lesser mind years.
But she was not a lesser mind.
Her fingers traced the rim of her goblet as she dug deeper, cataloging names, locations, methods. Each uncovered deceit was stored neatly away, a weapon to be wielded when the time was right.
Across the room, Harry watched with a careful eye, his senses attuned to the subtle shifts in the hall. He noted the slightest flicker in Baelish's expression, the faintest tensing of his jaw—a telltale sign of discomfort.
Perfect.
With a barely perceptible flick of his wrist beneath the table, he cast a Confundus Charm.
Baelish's normally fluid, calculating movements faltered. A flicker of confusion crossed his face, his mind clouding as the enchantment took hold.
And that was when it happened.
Joffrey, already simmering in a foul mood, stalked through the crowd like an agitated viper, his fists clenched at his sides. His frustration had been mounting all night, his wounded pride festering with every toast, every mention of Harry's glorious victory.
And then, by sheer chance—or perhaps fate—Baelish, still reeling from the Confundus Charm, stumbled straight into him.
The collision was sharp and jarring, sending a goblet clattering to the floor.
The hall froze.
Joffrey's head snapped around, his face contorting into a mask of unfiltered rage. "Watch where you're going, Baelish!" he shrieked, his voice cutting through the heavy silence like a blade.
Baelish, momentarily disoriented, blinked. He straightened, attempting to summon his usual silken composure. "Your Grace, I—"
But Joffrey wasn't listening.
With the unhinged fury of a child denied his favorite toy, he shoved Baelish—hard. The force sent the older man staggering back, his footing unsteady.
Gasps rippled through the gathered lords and ladies.
Baelish's mask cracked for the briefest moment. The shock in his eyes was real, as was the flash of anger. This was not supposed to happen.
"Do you think you can just bump into me and get away with it?!" Joffrey snarled, his voice shaking with unchecked venom.
"Your Grace, I assure you, it was unintentional," Baelish said smoothly, though his voice lacked its usual effortless charm.
Joffrey sneered. "Unintentional?" He stepped closer, grabbing Baelish by the collar. "I doubt that."
A breathless hush fell over the hall. Even the musicians had faltered, their notes hanging awkwardly in the air.
Baelish's fingers twitched as he fought the urge to pry the boy's hands off him. He had spent years cultivating an air of untouchability, weaving himself into the very fabric of the court, but this—this humiliation—was something else entirely.
"Your Grace," he murmured, his voice velvet-soft yet laced with unspoken steel. "I would never mean you any disrespect."
Joffrey only laughed—a high, cruel sound. "You're a snake, Baelish. And I hate snakes."
Then, with reckless delight, he shoved him again.
Baelish stumbled backward, crashing into a table. Goblets toppled, a tray of spiced delicacies shattered on the floor, and for the first time in his carefully managed life, Petyr Baelish looked utterly powerless.
Whispers spread like wildfire.
From her seat, Fleur let out an amused hum, tilting her head ever so slightly as she met Harry's gaze.
Joffrey, meanwhile, basked in his own petty triumph. His chest rose and fell with quickened breaths, his eyes glittering with malice.
"Perhaps I should have Ser Boros cut out your tongue," he mused, loud enough for all to hear. "Or maybe I should just have your fingers removed, one by one, for daring to touch your king."
Baelish, for all his practiced grace, finally let his carefully veiled hatred flicker through. For a brief second, his lips parted as if he might say something—something that could doom them both.
But before he could, another voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"Your Grace."
The room turned.
Fleur, ever the vision of unshakable elegance, had risen gracefully from her seat. She glided across the floor, every eye following her as she approached.
She did not rush. She did not falter.
She simply… arrived.
When she reached Joffrey, she tilted her head, her full lips curving into something almost amused. Then, in that honeyed, ever-so-slightly French accent, she spoke.
"You are ze king, non?" She let the question hang in the air, silken, dangerous. "A king should not lower himself to petty squabbles. It is… how you say? Unbecoming."
Joffrey's eyes twitched. "I—"
She took another step closer, just enough that her perfume—rich with jasmine and the faintest hint of dragonfire—filled his senses.
"Let us not ruin such a lovely evening," she purred, her words curling around him like an enchantment. "Ze people are watching, Your Grace. And they will remember everything."
Joffrey swallowed.
His fingers twitched, still curled into fists, but his fury had been… redirected.
Baelish, ever the opportunist, took the moment to recover. He straightened, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves, his expression once more that of the cunning, unflappable lord.
Joffrey's nostrils flared, his gaze flicking between them, before finally—finally—he turned away with a snarl.
"Enough of this," he snapped.
And just like that, the tension broke.
Conversations resumed. Music picked up. The feast continued.
But some things could not be unseen.
Fleur cast Harry a knowing glance as she returned to his side. He smirked.
And Baelish?
Baelish adjusted his tunic, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips.
He had just been publicly humiliated.
And now…
Now, he would never forget it.
—
The echoes of laughter and clinking goblets had long since faded, leaving the great hall of the Red Keep in a state of decadent ruin. Scattered remnants of the feast lay abandoned—half-eaten meats congealing on silver platters, goblets of spilled Arbor Gold soaking into the rushes, the air thick with the mingling scents of wine, sweat, and candle smoke. The last of the revelers had stumbled off to their chambers, leaving behind only weary servants moving like ghosts through the aftermath of excess.
Harry Peverell moved through the wreckage like a wraith, cloaked in the shimmering folds of his Invisibility Cloak. The fabric, as light as air yet infused with ancient magic, draped over him like a second skin, bending the very light around him. He was a phantom in the dark, unseen and unheard, each step precise, each breath controlled.
He glided through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, past flickering torches and yawning archways. The guards posted outside Prince Joffrey's chambers stood rigid in their crimson cloaks and polished armor, the Lannister lion embroidered in gold on their chests. They were the final barrier between Harry and his quarry.
With a flick of his wrist, he sent a silent Stupefy into the first guard's chest. The man crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut. The second barely had time to react before another spell struck him, sending him slumping against the stone wall. Harry caught the nearest body before it collapsed with a clatter, lowering the unconscious man onto the cold floor. There would be no outcry, no alarm. Just two more forgotten souls in the Red Keep's long history of intrigue.
The door to Joffrey's chambers stood before him now—a heavy, ornately carved portal marked with the sigil of House Lannister. With a whispered Alohomora, the lock clicked open, and Harry slipped inside.
The chamber was suffused with a warm golden glow from dying embers in the hearth. Thick velvet curtains billowed slightly from the night air seeping through the high-arched windows. The scent of lavender and expensive oils lingered in the air, mingling with the faint musk of sweat.
Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name, lay sprawled across his grand bed, oblivious to the doom that crept upon him. His golden hair was disheveled, his face slack in sleep, mouth slightly parted as he breathed in deep, even rhythms. The boy-king—cruel, petulant, and arrogant in wakefulness—looked almost innocent in slumber.
Harry knew better.
With a deft flick of his wand, he cast Petrificus Totalus, freezing the prince's body in an instant. Joffrey did not even stir, but his breathing deepened unnaturally as the magic held him in an unbreakable grip. For good measure, Harry added a powerful sleeping charm, ensuring the boy would not wake until he was well beyond the walls of the Keep.
Moving quickly, Harry pulled back the covers and lifted Joffrey's frozen form, his strength augmented by years of training and the subtle aid of magic. The prince was lighter than expected, his frame thinner beneath the layers of rich fabrics and embroidered finery.
With practiced efficiency, Harry draped the Invisibility Cloak over the both of them, the magic enveloping them in perfect concealment. Joffrey's body vanished from sight, swallowed by the Cloak's enchantment, leaving nothing behind but the empty bed and the distant crackle of the dying fire.
The way back was a labyrinth of shadowed halls and silent staircases, each turn calculated, each movement precise. He avoided patrolling guards with ease, slipping through the castle's arteries like a whisper in the dark. His heart beat steadily, not from fear, but from the exhilarating weight of his task.
Down stone steps, through servant's passages, past hidden alcoves—he moved with the fluid grace of a seasoned hunter. The Red Keep, with all its grandeur and watchful eyes, was nothing but a cage of arrogance. And Harry Peverell, unseen and unstoppable, had just stolen its false prince from within.
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