The Goldcloaks moved through the winding streets of King's Landing with the cold efficiency of hunters closing in on their prey. Their armor clanked with each step, boots scuffing against the uneven cobblestones as they advanced toward their destination: one of Petyr Baelish's brothels on the Street of Silk. At their head, Commander Janos Slynt strode with grim purpose, his porcine eyes gleaming with the anticipation of delivering justice—or at least the semblance of it.
The brothel was alive with the sounds of debauchery even at this late hour. Laughter, moans, and the muffled strains of a minstrel's tune drifted from behind velvet curtains, but they quieted the moment the Goldcloaks pushed through the door. The heavy scent of perfume clung to the air, mingling with sweat, spiced wine, and the faint, lingering musk of old incense. The patrons shrank away at the sight of the city watch, half-dressed courtesans hurrying behind beaded drapes as guardsmen shouldered their way through the parlor.
Slynt wasted no time. "Baelish's chambers. Now," he barked, motioning his men forward.
The Goldcloaks surged up the stairs, boots hammering against the wood. When they reached the ornately carved door to Baelish's private quarters, Slynt motioned to one of his men, who hesitated for only a moment before driving his shoulder into the door. It burst open with a resounding crack.
And then they saw it.
Petyr Baelish lay sprawled across his luxurious bed, still half-dressed, his fine silk sheets stained crimson. But the real horror lay beside him—Joffrey's severed head, its glassy, lifeless eyes staring vacantly, lips twisted into a rictus of agony. A mocking crown of thorns had been placed upon his brow. The room stank of blood and death, the metallic tang thick in the air.
For the first time in his life, Baelish was at a loss for words. He stirred at the commotion, blinking as if emerging from a heavy sleep, but the moment his gaze landed on the grotesque sight beside him, his entire body jerked upright, limbs tangled in the bloody sheets. His face drained of color, his usual smirk nowhere to be found.
"What...?" His voice was hoarse, disbelieving. "What is this?" He recoiled from the severed head, his hands flying up as if to ward off a phantom. His usually calculating mind was still clouded, the effects of the Confundus Charm lingering in the sluggishness of his thoughts. His eyes darted frantically from the bloodied bed to Slynt's sneering face. "I—this isn't—"
Slynt stepped forward, his face twisted in mock sympathy. "Ah, Lord Baelish," he drawled, his voice thick with false regret. "Caught in bed with a dead prince. Now that's a scandal even you can't worm your way out of."
Baelish's mind, still struggling to find clarity, grasped at straws. "This is a setup," he said quickly, his voice regaining some of its usual smoothness. "I swear to you, Commander, I had no hand in this." He gestured weakly at Joffrey's head, but his hands trembled. "Do you truly believe I would be so foolish?"
Slynt gave a derisive snort. "Oh, I believe a great many things about you, Baelish. You were seen arguing with the prince at last night's feast. Heated words, a little too much wine—next thing we know, he's missing his head, and you're snuggled up with the evidence. Doesn't take a maester to put it together."
Baelish took a slow breath, forcing himself to still his trembling hands. His mind was clearing now, though his body still felt leaden. Magic. Someone had used magic on him. But who? And why?
"Commander Slynt," he said, his voice shifting, becoming measured, almost conversational. The mask was slipping back into place. "You know as well as I do that I would never be so careless. Whoever did this wanted me to take the blame. And you, of all people, should know that I don't deal in blood. That's more... your style." His lips curled slightly, though he was still visibly rattled.
Slynt's jaw clenched. "You can try to slither your way out of this one, but you're coming with us," he snapped, motioning for his men. "You can explain yourself to the king."
Baelish knew there was no talking his way out of this—not yet. His only option was to play along, bide his time, and piece together who had orchestrated this. With a slow, measured nod, he raised his hands in surrender. "I will come willingly," he said, his voice regaining a sliver of its usual silkiness. "But mark my words, Commander—you are making a mistake."
Slynt smirked. "Oh, I'll sleep just fine tonight, Baelish."
The Goldcloaks seized him roughly, yanking him from the bed, his fine silks crumpling under their grip. Shackles were locked around his wrists with a loud, final snap. They dragged him from the room, his disheveled state and bloodstained robes drawing horrified gasps from the onlookers in the brothel's main hall. The whispers began before he even reached the stairs.
By the time they emerged onto the streets, the news had spread like wildfire. The sight of Petyr Baelish, the ever-composed master of coin, being paraded through King's Landing in chains—his face pale, his lips tight—was a spectacle the city would never forget. People gathered in clusters, their hushed murmurs blending into a cacophony of speculation.
The master of whispers was already spinning the tale. The merchants were placing bets on his fate. The whores were whispering of betrayals and vendettas.
And somewhere, hidden among the crowd, Harry Peverell watched with keen interest. The pieces were moving, the game unfolding. Joffrey's murder was only the beginning, and Baelish—cunning, ambitious, dangerous Baelish—had just been removed from the board.
—
The small council chamber was thick with tension, the air heavy with the scent of candle wax and stale wine. The lords seated around the long wooden table spoke in hushed tones, their expressions ranging from grim to deeply unsettled. The cause of their unease lay in the heavy silence of the Red Keep—the absence of Joffrey's usual shrill demands and, more importantly, the unanswered question of his fate.
Robert Baratheon sat at the head of the table, his great bulk slumped forward, fingers drumming impatiently against the polished wood. His face, usually ruddy with drink and laughter, was dark with something far more dangerous: barely restrained fury. His son—the heir to the Iron Throne—had vanished in the night, and no one yet had answers.
The doors burst open with the force of a storm, and the Goldcloaks filed in, led by Commander Janos Slynt. Between them, shackled and disheveled, was Petyr Baelish. His fine silk doublet was wrinkled, his usually immaculate hair in disarray, and there was something almost haunted in his eyes. But despite the clear signs of distress, his lips curled into the ghost of a smirk, the last vestiges of his arrogance refusing to die.
Then the guards stepped aside, and the council beheld the grotesque proof of the night's horror.
Joffrey's severed head, still crowned with a cruel circlet of thorns, was cradled in the arms of one of the Goldcloaks. The boy's once petulant face was frozen in a final rictus of terror, his lifeless blue eyes staring blankly ahead.
For a long, dreadful moment, no one spoke.
Then Robert stood.
The chair scraped violently against the stone floor as he shoved it back, and in two great strides, he was looming over Baelish, his breath heavy with ale and fury. His meaty hand shot out, seizing the master of coin by the throat, dragging him close enough that Baelish could see the wild, bloodshot rage in the king's eyes.
"Explain yourself!" Robert roared, his voice reverberating through the chamber like a warhorn. "How did my boy's head end up in your bed, you slimy little shit?"
Baelish made a choked sound as Robert's grip tightened, but before the king could throttle the life from him, Ned Stark rose from his seat.
"Robert," Ned said, his voice firm but calm. "Let him speak."
Robert's jaw twitched, but after a tense moment, he shoved Baelish back, sending him sprawling against the table. The master of coin coughed, rubbing his throat as he tried to compose himself.
"Your Grace," Baelish rasped, his voice hoarse but still managing its usual silkiness. "I assure you, I had no part in this. I was asleep when the Goldcloaks found me." He gestured weakly at Joffrey's head. "Someone is trying to frame me."
Robert's nostrils flared. "Oh? And tell me, Littlefinger, what kind of man wakes up to find a dead prince in his bed and doesn't so much as stir?"
Baelish forced a chuckle, though it came out thin. "An unfortunate man, I'd say."
"Unfortunate?" Robert took a menacing step forward. "You think this is some bloody tavern game? My son is dead!"
Baelish spread his hands in a placating gesture, his mind working furiously. He knew he needed to tread carefully. "Your Grace, I would never harm the prince. What possible reason would I have to—"
"You tell me!" Robert snarled. "You've always been a scheming little shit, slithering about with your whores and your coins. You had words with him last night, didn't you?"
Baelish hesitated, the moment of pause enough for Ned to interject. "If you are truly innocent, then who would go to such lengths to frame you?"
Baelish turned to him, and for a moment, the calculating gleam returned to his eyes. "Now that is a most interesting question, Lord Stark," he mused. "You must admit, whoever orchestrated this has done a remarkable job. A murder most foul, and the blame placed so neatly at my feet? I almost wish I had thought of it myself."
Robert's patience snapped. "Enough of your godsdamned riddles!" He rounded on the Goldcloaks. "Take him to the Black Cells. He'll await trial for this treachery."
The guards stepped forward, seizing Baelish by the arms, but he didn't resist. He let out a breath, as if shaking off the last vestiges of whatever spell had clouded his mind. "Your Grace," he said, his voice smooth once more, "you're making a mistake."
Robert didn't even look at him. "I'll drink to that," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. "Get him out of my sight."
As Baelish was dragged from the chamber, his eyes flicked to the assembled lords, assessing them even now. He saw Varys, expression unreadable. Renly, looking sick. Pycelle, feigning concern. And Ned, his face as grim as ever.
And then the doors slammed shut behind him.
Inside the chamber, silence reigned. The small council members exchanged uneasy glances, the implications of what had just occurred settling over them like a stormcloud.
Robert let out a heavy breath and dropped back into his chair, reaching for the nearest goblet of wine. He drained it in one long pull, then slammed it down with enough force to rattle the table.
"This kingdom is cursed," he muttered. "And now I need a new heir."
—
The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the richly appointed chamber, the air warm with the scent of burning wax and the faint trace of dragonfire. Dany sat by the hearth, one leg crossed over the other, her silver-gold hair cascading over her shoulders like liquid sunlight. She toyed absently with the stem of a goblet, her eyes sharp despite the languid grace of her posture.
Harry stood near the map table, one hand resting on its edge as he examined the carved likeness of Westeros. His scarlet cloak, embroidered with a golden phoenix, draped over his shoulders like a mantle of command. They were deep in discussion when the heavy wooden doors swung open.
Jon strode in, his boots thudding against the stone floor with measured purpose. His face, shadowed by the weight of his thoughts, was the same solemn mask he always wore when bringing grim tidings.
Harry looked up first, his gaze flickering with curiosity but tempered by a knowing calm. "Jon," he greeted, his voice steady, expectant. "What news?"
Jon exhaled sharply, his dark eyes searching Harry's as he delivered the words. "Baelish is in the Black Cells," he said, his voice low and rough from too many nights spent brooding over dark thoughts. "The Goldcloaks found him with Joffrey's severed head. In one of his own brothels, no less."
There was a moment of silence as the words settled over the room.
Dany's brows arched, her lips parting in faint surprise before she recovered, swirling the wine in her goblet. "Petyr Baelish?" she echoed, shaking her head. "Hmm. Clever little rat finally trapped in his own maze?" A smirk curled at the corner of her mouth, but her voice, tinged with the soft lilt of Fleur's accent, carried a note of satisfaction.
Jon crossed his arms over his chest. "Robert's convinced of his guilt," he continued. "The fight at the feast, the way Joffrey mocked him… the king sees it as motive. And with that evidence? There won't be a trial. Just a sentence."
Harry's expression remained unreadable, though there was a flicker of something sharp in his emerald eyes. "Good," he said simply. "Baelish's scheming was always going to be a problem. One we no longer have to deal with."
Jon's gaze lingered on him, an unspoken understanding passing between them. He knew Harry had orchestrated this—whether directly or in the shadows, it reeked of his handiwork.
Jon shifted his stance. "So, what's next?" he asked, his voice carrying the quiet steel of a man who had resigned himself to the weight of the game.
Dany set her goblet down and rose from her seat with the elegance of a queen and the deadly certainty of a warrior. She moved to the table where Harry stood, her fingers tracing the carved roads leading from King's Landing to the rest of the realm.
"While Harry was ensuring Baelish's… unfortunate predicament," she said, casting Harry a knowing look, "I was busy clearing out all his hidden gold caches within the city."
Jon frowned slightly, eyes narrowing. "All of them?"
Dany smirked, her eyes alight with mischief. "Every last one." She leaned forward slightly, resting her palms on the table. "Gold he stole from the Crown, from the noble houses, from the very people he claimed to serve? It is now in our hands."
Harry nodded, his voice as smooth as a blade sliding from its sheath. "And we'll be moving to seize the rest. He's been bleeding the kingdom dry for years. We're simply reclaiming what's ours."
Jon let out a slow breath, shaking his head in begrudging admiration. "That'll cripple him," he muttered. "No gold, no allies. He built his power on coin and whispers, and without one, the other crumbles." He lifted his gaze to meet theirs. "So what happens now?"
Dany's expression hardened, any trace of amusement fading. "Now?" she repeated, voice softer but no less dangerous. "Now, we watch as the storm breaks."
Harry stepped beside her, crossing his arms. "Robert's wrath will be swift. Baelish will die. That much is certain. And with him gone, there will be a vacuum. One we must be ready to fill."
Jon glanced between them, his jaw tightening. "And the throne?"
Dany's blue eyes met his, unwavering. "The realm needs a king who can rule with strength, justice, and wisdom. A king who will not be controlled by greed or ambition."
Harry nodded. "Robert is a dying lion. His reign is crumbling beneath him, and he knows it. We've positioned ourselves well—securing the loyalty of the right people, removing obstacles before they can rise against us." His gaze sharpened. "But we need you, Jon."
Jon shifted uncomfortably, his fingers twitching at his side. "I didn't ask for this," he murmured, though there was no real protest in his voice.
Harry smirked. "Neither did I."
Dany reached for Jon's hand, her touch gentle but firm. "You are the blood of Rhaegar Targaryen," she said, her voice tinged with something softer. "And whether you believe it or not, you are meant for this."
Jon hesitated for a long moment, his expression torn. Then, finally, he exhaled, a quiet acceptance settling over him like a cloak.
"I'll do what's necessary," he said, voice steady. "But we need to be ready. The game isn't over yet."
Harry clapped a hand on Jon's shoulder, his grip solid. "We will be."
Jon nodded once, then turned, striding from the room with renewed purpose. As the doors closed behind him, Harry and Dany exchanged a final glance—one of shared resolve, of unspoken ambition.
The storm was coming.
And they were ready.
—
The chamber was dimly lit, the golden glow of candlelight doing little to soften the oppressive atmosphere. The stench of burnt wax mixed with the faint metallic tang of blood still clinging to Cersei's torn and bandaged arm. The fire crackled in the hearth, but its warmth did nothing to temper the cold silence that gripped the room.
Tywin Lannister stood with his back to them, framed by the window, the city of King's Landing stretching before him like a battlefield awaiting his command. He did not move. He did not speak. But his silence was not that of a man in mourning—it was the silence before a storm.
Jaime Lannister paced like a caged lion, his expression twisting between fury and frustration. His hand curled into a fist, a poor substitute for the rage his sword arm could not yet unleash. "Ser Gregor's been cut to pieces, Cersei dragged through the streets like a common whore, and now Joffrey's—" His voice caught for a moment, grief flashing across his face before he buried it under anger. "They left his head in a brothel, Father! In a bed soaked with wine and filth! If this is not war, then what in the seven hells is it?"
Kevan Lannister, ever composed, stood near the table, hands clasped before him. His face was drawn, but his eyes were calculating. "War, Jaime? And who do we fight? The corpse of Petyr Baelish? A faceless enemy lurking in the shadows?" He exhaled, slow and controlled. "We do not yet know who did this. That is the problem."
Tygett Lannister, standing apart from the others, crossed his arms over his broad chest. He had the look of a man who had spent more time on the battlefield than in the intrigues of the court, his blue eyes sharp with a commander's assessment of the situation. "It wasn't just murder," he said. "It was a message. Someone wanted us to see Joffrey like that. Someone wanted us to know."
Finally, Tywin moved. He turned from the window, slow and deliberate, his piercing gaze sweeping over them. He was a man who had built and sustained the most powerful house in Westeros, and he would be damned before he let it crumble before his eyes. "Yes," he said, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of menace. "Someone wanted to show the world that the lion can bleed. That we can be humiliated."
His gaze settled on Jaime. "And the greatest mistake we could make is to prove them right."
Jaime halted mid-stride, his jaw tightening. "So what, then? We sit here and twiddle our thumbs while whoever did this laughs from the shadows?"
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "We will do what is necessary. But we will do it properly." His gaze flicked to Kevan and Tygett. "Tommen will become the Crown Prince before the city can even think to whisper otherwise. A kingdom without an heir invites chaos, and chaos invites opportunity—for our enemies."
Kevan inclined his head, ever the dutiful second. "I will see to it personally. The boy is young, but we will ensure he is... guided."
Cersei, who had remained unnervingly still, finally spoke. Her voice was hoarse, not with grief, but with fury barely held in check. "The Tyrells are vultures," she spat. "They will try to sink their claws into Tommen and twist him against us. Margaery Tyrell is no innocent maiden—she is a spider, weaving her web around my son."
Tywin gave her a long, measured look. "Your son is now our Crown Prince, Cersei. And his marriage, whether to Margaery Tyrell or anyone else is non-negotiable." His voice was clipped, brooking no argument. "You would do well to remember that we need this, for now."
Cersei's lips curled in disgust, but she did not argue. Not yet.
Jaime stepped forward, his expression unrelenting. "And what of the Martells? Oberyn Martell arrives in the city, and not long after, Joffrey is slaughtered. Coincidence?"
Tygett let out a dark chuckle, but there was no humor in it. "Dorne has never been subtle in its hatred for us. They don't even pretend otherwise. This has their stink all over it."
Kevan, ever the voice of reason, folded his arms. "Possible. But suspicion is not proof. If we strike at the Martells without certainty, we risk a war we may not be prepared for."
Cersei scoffed. "Prepared? We are Lannisters." She turned to Tywin. "You say we must be cautious, but I say we strike first. I want them to suffer—whoever they are. I want them to feel the same pain I feel, the same humiliation they have forced upon us."
Tywin's gaze remained locked on her, unyielding as steel. "And you think screaming for vengeance will bring us strength? You let them humiliate you, Cersei. You let them drag you through the streets because you underestimated them. And now you want to make the same mistake again?"
Cersei flinched, her eyes flashing dangerously, but she had no rebuttal.
Jaime stepped between them before the tension could boil over. "Then tell us, Father. Where do we start?"
Tywin studied them all in turn, his mind already calculating. "We start with information. We will know who did this before we act. If the Martells are involved, we will prove it. If there are others, we will root them out. And when we strike—" he stepped closer, his voice lowering to something cold, something deadly, "—it will not be a mere act of vengeance. It will be total annihilation.*"
Kevan nodded, his mind already working through the necessary steps. "I will have our spies comb through every whisper in the city. Even Varys will not keep his secrets from us forever."
Cersei sneered at the mention of the Spider. "Varys is a snake. He will only speak if he believes it serves his own ends."
Tywin's expression did not waver. "Then we will ensure our interests align with his."
Tygett rolled his shoulders, his fingers itching for a sword. "I'll question the Goldcloaks who found Joffrey's body. If there's something to be uncovered, I'll find it."
Tywin gave a slow, approving nod. "Good." Then he turned his attention back to Jaime. "And you will do the same. I want every lead pursued. No detail ignored. Find me the architects of this crime."
Jaime's green eyes burned with determination. "And when we do?"
Tywin met his gaze, his voice colder than the grave. "Then we remind the world why the lion is feared."
Cersei exhaled slowly, her rage still simmering beneath the surface, but now tempered into something sharper.
Kevan nodded. Tygett smirked faintly.
Jaime straightened.
Tywin turned back to the window, gazing out over the city with a look that promised devastation.
The Lannisters would not mourn.
They would avenge.
—
Chataya's Brothel, King's Landing
The brothel buzzed with the energy of those who had long awaited this moment—noisy and unrestrained, but there was something darker beneath the revelry. The thick air of smoke and fragrant wine, mingling with the sound of clinking cups, set the tone of the evening: a mix of triumph, tension, and mystery. The Martells and their allies gathered around a long table, celebrating the death of the Crown Prince, Joffrey Baratheon.
Oberyn Martell, ever the master of composure, lounged lazily on a large, plush chair, his long red cloak pooling on the floor like a fire waiting to ignite. His dark eyes glinted with satisfaction, but it was a satisfaction laced with calculation, not emotion. He had been waiting for this moment for years, but as always, he kept his thoughts close to the chest.
Ellaria Sand, ever at his side, sat beside him with an air of quiet beauty. Her dark hair, cascading over her shoulders, contrasted sharply with the pale glow of her skin. The two shared a bond deeper than mere lovers; they were partners, conspirators in a world of ever-shifting alliances. She leaned in, her voice seductive and knowing.
"So, my love," Ellaria purred, the wine in her hand tilting toward her lips as she studied him with intensity, "the lion's cub is dead. What now?"
Oberyn's lips twitched, a subtle smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He raised his cup slowly, swirling the dark liquid as if it were a rare treasure. "Now, we wait. The death of Joffrey was a long time coming, but it was only the beginning of something much larger. Someone made a statement today." He paused, looking out into the flickering candlelight. "The question is, who?"
From the far end of the table, Rhea Sand—though in truth, Rhaenys Targaryen—watched, her intense gaze sharp as a blade. Her striking beauty was tempered by a sadness that lingered behind her amber eyes. She had long craved revenge for her family, but there was something about Joffrey's death—its grotesque display—that unsettled her. The crown of thorns placed atop his severed head seemed like an act of mockery, not just of Joffrey, but of all the Lannisters. Her voice cut through the murmur of the room like a whisper from the past.
"Whoever did it... wanted to send a message," Rhea murmured, her voice filled with uncertainty as much as curiosity. She glanced at her sisters, the Sand Snakes, all of them as watchful as hawks, before returning her gaze to Oberyn.
"Do you not think that's obvious?" Nymeria Sand asked, her voice cool and calculating. She sat on the edge of the table, her wild hair tumbling around her face. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes were sharp, always measuring the room.
Obara Sand, ever the warrior, leaned back in her chair, arms folded. Her sharp features were framed by her unruly hair, and she cracked her knuckles lazily, the only sign of tension in her demeanor. "Joffrey deserved what he got. But the way he went down, it reeks of something else. Someone wanted him humiliated—made an example of him. And I don't think it was just some random act."
"Agreed," Ellaria chimed in, her voice now cold and measured. "The Lannisters may be vile, but they wouldn't allow such a disgrace without retribution. There's something more to this, something deeper."
Daemon Sand, Oberyn's former squire, sat quietly beside them, his youthful face serious despite the revelry around him. Daemon was a man of few words, and when he spoke, it was often with the gravity of someone who had seen too much. "If it's a move to destabilize the throne, then we must be careful. This may be the beginning of something larger, something none of us can control."
Oberyn's eyes shifted toward him, his gaze sharp but approving. Daemon had a way of cutting through the noise, seeing the threads that connected everything. "You are right, Daemon," Oberyn acknowledged, his voice low and thoughtful. "Joffrey's death wasn't just about revenge—it was a move in a game. And that game has just begun."
Tyene Sand, sitting across from her sisters, grinned like a serpent preparing to strike. Her beauty was disarming, but there was no mistaking the venom in her eyes. "We're always playing games," she remarked, taking a slow sip of her wine. "But for now, let's drink. Let's laugh. Let's celebrate this victory, even if we don't know who dealt the blow."
Rhea, her thoughts still lingering on the message Joffrey's death seemed to convey, glanced over at Oberyn again. She tilted her head slightly, considering her words. "Do you think it could have been someone... from outside the game? Someone with a bigger agenda?"
Oberyn raised an eyebrow, his lips curving in a slow, knowing smile. "Explain yourself," he said, his voice a smooth mixture of intrigue and challenge.
Rhea leaned forward, her amber eyes glinting in the candlelight. "It was too perfect," she said, almost to herself. "The way Joffrey died. The way his body was displayed—his head replaced by a donkey's skull. It's... too theatrical, too deliberate. Could it be that someone was sending a message not just to the Lannisters, but to all who might think they could meddle with the blood of Targaryen?"
Oberyn's eyes flickered with interest. "You believe someone outside of Westeros' usual players is involved in this?" he asked, his voice still calm, but the curiosity unmistakable.
Rhea nodded. "Perhaps. Whoever did it knew how to get under the Lannisters' skin. It was more than just an act of vengeance. It was a warning."
Ellaria's lips twisted into a smile that was part admiration, part mischief. "And what is the warning, I wonder?" she mused aloud, her eyes never leaving Oberyn's. "That the Targaryens are not finished. That those who think they can control the realm through the throne are mistaken."
Oberyn's lips parted in a wide grin, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Ah, my love, always the strategist. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps this is a reminder that we are watching. That we are waiting."
As the conversation grew heavier, the laughter around the table grew louder, masking the undercurrent of suspicion that now threatened to surface. The revelers toasted to Joffrey's death, the clinking of cups echoing like a distant drumbeat, but Oberyn's mind raced ahead, his thoughts already on the next move.
Rhea's gaze lingered on him, a mixture of loyalty and a thirst for the power that still lingered in her blood. She had waited too long to let this moment slip through her fingers.
The Sand Snakes shared glances with one another, a silent understanding passing between them. For now, they could enjoy the celebration—but the true game was yet to come.
The night was far from over, and the players were only beginning to reveal their hands.
As the flames flickered and the wine flowed, a shadow loomed outside the brothel—a shadow that had been watching, waiting, and plotting its next move.
---
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