Ser Daemon knelt beside Daario, making a final check of the ropes binding him to the chair. The Tyroshi's wrists were tied tightly behind his back, his legs secured to the chair's legs, and another rope looped around his chest like a gift-wrapped package. A very obnoxious, heavily perfumed package.
Hadrian had even taken the liberty of casting a Silencing Charm because, knowing Daario, the moment he woke up, he'd launch into some elaborate speech about how impressed he was by their ruthlessness, how he would've done the same, and how he was still devastatingly handsome despite the circumstances.
Daemon gave one of the knots an experimental tug and, satisfied, looked up at Hadrian. "I'll keep an eye on him. If he so much as breathes funny, I'll make sure he regrets it."
"Good man," Hadrian said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Dany, standing over Daario's limp form, tilted her head. "For all his bravado, he has the mental defenses of a child. Reading his thoughts was almost too easy."
Jon scoffed. "Because he doesn't think. He just acts, then smiles like it was his plan all along."
From the chair, Daario groaned, stirring slightly. Even through the Silencing Charm, the vague shape of words formed on his lips—something about a dangerously beautiful woman and how good he looked even when captured.
Nymeria smirked. "I suppose we should be grateful he's not smart enough to keep his thoughts locked away."
Obara cracked her knuckles. "Or we could just beat the answers out of him next time."
Tyene grinned, her golden curls bouncing as she leaned in toward the unconscious man. "Oh, that's always an option."
Hadrian sighed dramatically. "No one's beating him. Yet." His lips twitched into a grin. "For now, let's stick to keeping him breathing."
Obara groaned like a child denied a new toy. "Fine." She rolled her shoulders, already impatient. "We should go. Our father will want to hear about this."
Nymeria hummed in agreement. "A Blackfyre conspiracy, right under our noses? He'll love that."
Tyene giggled. "Oh, and Rhea. She'll want to hear it first."
Hadrian turned to Obara, crossing his arms. "Try to gently convince Oberyn not to put a spear through Varys' gut the moment he hears this."
Obara raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "That is gentle."
Hadrian exhaled through his nose. "Just remind him that we still need the fat eunuch alive. At least for now."
Obara tilted her head, considering. "Fine. But if Varys so much as flinches the wrong way, I won't stop him."
Nymeria grinned. "Sounds fair."
The Sand Snakes peeled away, heading toward their chambers, while Hadrian, Dany, and Jon made their way out of the cellar and into the more refined luxury of Chataya's establishment.
The warm scent of exotic perfumes and aged Dornish wine filled the air as they stepped into the softly lit main hall of Chataya's. Velvet curtains swayed gently with the night breeze, and the rhythmic thrum of distant music played somewhere deeper in the establishment.
And there, waiting near the entrance like a queen on her throne, was Chataya herself.
Tall, poised, with dark skin that gleamed under the lantern lights, Chataya radiated a confidence that made even kings take a second look. Her deep brown eyes flickered with amusement as she regarded them.
"Leaving so soon?" she asked, voice smooth as silk, one brow arching.
Hadrian gave a half-smile. "Duty calls, Chataya."
Dany, ever graceful, inclined her head. "Merci for your hospitality."
Chataya's gaze lingered on her for a beat longer than necessary, a knowing glint in her eyes. "You are always welcome here, Princess."
Dany's lips twitched at the title but said nothing.
Jon, standing slightly behind them, gave a short nod. "Thank you."
Chataya let out a soft chuckle. "You Starks always have such charming manners."
Jon blinked, not sure whether to take that as a compliment or not.
Hadrian, ever the opportunist, smirked. "Next time, I'll stay for the wine."
Chataya smiled. "I'll hold you to that."
And with their goodbyes said, they stepped out into the cool night air, the streets of King's Landing still alive with late-night dealings and whispered secrets.
The cobbled streets were uneven beneath their horses, and the distant scent of salt and smoke lingered in the air as they made their way toward the looming Red Keep.
Jon, arms crossed, rode alongside Hadrian. "So… a Blackfyre conspiracy." He exhaled through his nose. "Just when I thought this city couldn't get worse."
Hadrian, ever the optimist, smirked. "Oh, Jon. You should know by now—it can always get worse."
Jon groaned. "Of course it can."
Dany, riding beside them, glanced up at the Red Keep ahead. "I suspect we will have a very interesting conversation with our dear Spider soon."
Hadrian chuckled. "Oh, without a doubt."
—
The air inside was thick with spice and indulgence, a mix of roasted lamb, citrus, and the sweet tang of Dornish wine. Candles flickered along the walls, their glow reflecting off the goblets and plates strewn across the long table. The scent of sandalwood and myrrh curled in the air, blending with the low hum of laughter and murmured conversation.
At the center of it all, Oberyn Martell reclined on a lushly cushioned couch, his bronzed chest bare, his dark eyes filled with lazy amusement.
Nestled comfortably in his lap, Ellaria Sand plucked the ripest, juiciest pieces of pomegranate and held them to his lips, her fingers lingering as he bit into them. Her nails, painted deep crimson, traced absent patterns over his skin as she smiled.
On his other leg, Alaya, a dark-skinned Lysene beauty with golden rings adorning her fingers and braided hair like a goddess, curled against him. She held a goblet of wine, lifting it gracefully for him to sip. A knowing smirk played on her lips as she traced the faintest scratch across his collarbone, a mark from earlier indulgences.
Across from them sat Rhea Sand—no, Rhaenys Targaryen, the name she would one day reclaim in full. She didn't lounge like the others. No, she ate with quiet precision, cutting through spiced lamb and honeyed figs with measured grace. Her violet eyes, so starkly in contrast to her sun-kissed skin, flicked toward her uncle with the faintest glint of amusement.
Oberyn, sensing her gaze, chuckled. "What is it, my sweet niece? Am I scandalizing you?"
Rhea speared a piece of lamb and popped it into her mouth with deliberate slowness. "I think you'd have to try harder for that."
Ellaria let out a rich, throaty laugh, her nails digging playfully into Oberyn's chest. "Oh, I do love her," she purred.
Before Oberyn could reply, the heavy wooden doors swung open.
Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene entered like a summer storm.
Obara—tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing her usual air of thinly veiled impatience—stalked forward with the grace of a panther, her sand-colored leathers hugging her like armor. Her scowl was already firmly in place. "Father."
Oberyn, without looking away from Ellaria's fingers, smirked. "Daughter."
Nymeria, in contrast, glided in with a smirk of her own, undoing the clasp of her intricately woven belt. "Really, Papa? Midday feasting, wine, and two women on your lap? You never fail to impress." She plucked an olive from a plate, rolling it between her fingers before tossing it into her mouth.
Tyene, all soft curls and poison-sweet smiles, giggled. "Oh, leave him be. Love, wine, and pleasure—what else is there to enjoy?"
Obara's eye roll was practically audible. "I don't know—maybe vengeance?"
At that, Oberyn finally turned his attention to them, brows lifting in interest. "Ah. That sounds like my daughter."
Ellaria, still on his lap, smiled like a lioness watching cubs play. "They take after you so well, my love."
Oberyn sighed dramatically, running his fingers through Alaya's braids. "And here I was, enjoying such a fine afternoon, my belly full, my lips stained red, and now my dearest daughters arrive to ruin the mood."
Nymeria tilted her head toward Alaya. "Before we begin… send her away."
Alaya arched a perfect brow. "I'm sitting right here."
Obara's arms crossed. "And you're about to be walking right out."
Oberyn clicked his tongue. "Now, now, is that any way to treat a guest?"
Obara's expression didn't shift. "She's not a guest. She's a whore."
Alaya's gold-ringed fingers tightened around her goblet as she exhaled through her nose. "I prefer the term 'companion,' thank you."
Oberyn let out a soft chuckle, brushing his knuckles along her jaw. "And a lovely companion at that." He placed a slow, deliberate kiss on her shoulder before waving a dismissive hand.
"Go, my sweet. My daughters are in one of their serious moods."
Alaya huffed, but slid off his lap with unhurried grace, her hips swaying like the tide as she walked toward the door. She cast one last look over her shoulder. "Try not to get too serious, my prince."
Then she was gone.
The moment the door shut, Oberyn leaned back with a satisfied sigh, stretching his arms over the back of the couch. "Alright, then. Tell me—what terrible thing has happened now?"
Rhea, who had watched the entire exchange with mild amusement, finally set down her knife. "Well?"
Obara's expression darkened. "There's a Blackfyre conspiracy."
That got Oberyn's attention. His amusement faded, his smirk thinning.
Ellaria's expression sharpened, her playful demeanor cooling.
Nymeria took a seat across from Rhea, her hands flat against the table. "Someone is trying to pass off a Blackfyre bastard as a son of Rhaegar and Elia."
Silence settled over the room like a held breath before a storm.
Oberyn exhaled slowly, fingers tracing the rim of his goblet. "And who, exactly, is attempting this deception?"
Tyene, all sugar and poison, smiled sweetly. "Why, none other than our favorite eunuch—Varys."
Rhea's fork stilled midair. Her violet eyes narrowed.
"He's trying to pass off a pretender… as my brother?" Her voice was quiet, but the steel beneath it was razor-sharp.
Obara leaned forward, hands pressing into the wood of the table. "Hadrian wants you to try and talk Father out of putting a spear through the Spider's gut."
Oberyn chuckled, low and dark. "Oh, does he now?"
Nymeria smirked. "To be fair, he also said we still need the fat eunuch alive. For now."
Oberyn considered this for a moment, swirling his wine before taking a sip. "Well, that's disappointing. I was looking forward to skewering him."
Ellaria's fingers brushed over his bare shoulder, voice soft and sultry. "Patience, my love. Varys plays a long game. We can afford to watch for now."
Rhea's expression was unreadable, but her grip on her fork tightened. "We need to know more. If this is a Blackfyre, then who is he really? Where did they find him?"
Obara exhaled sharply. "Hadrian's already working on it."
Oberyn leaned forward, eyes glittering with interest. "And Daario Naharis?"
Nymeria smirked. "Currently tied to a chair, courtesy of Hadrian and Dany."
Obara grinned. "And once he wakes up, we're going to bleed the rest of the answers out of him."
Oberyn's grin stretched wide. "Ah, now this is starting to sound like a good day."
—
The chambers were dimly lit, the warm glow of candlelight flickering against the stone walls. A carafe of wine sat untouched on a nearby table, a single goblet beside it. The air was thick with the scent of myrrh and sandalwood, courtesy of the incense burning near the window. Despite the late hour, neither Hadrian, Dany, nor Jon showed any signs of sleep.
Hadrian leaned against the edge of the bed, arms crossed, emerald eyes gleaming with sharp calculation. Dany stood near the hearth, her silver-blonde hair cascading down her back like molten starlight, the firelight painting gold across her skin. Jon, meanwhile, paced near the window, brooding as only Jon Snow could, his features twisted into something between deep thought and quiet frustration.
"Alright," Jon finally said, exhaling. "Let's lay it out." He shot Dany a glance. "Varys has a Blackfyre pretender—his own nephew—and he's trying to pass him off as your nephew, my half-brother." His jaw tightened. "I knew the eunuch was playing his own game, but this…"
Hadrian scoffed. "Aegon Targaryen, my arse."
Daenerys made a disgusted sound in her throat. "He is nothing but a Blackfyre bastard." Her voice, normally smooth as silk, carried a sharp edge, the soft trace of her French accent lilting with contempt.
Hadrian nodded. "And the fat eunuch has spent years shaping him into the perfect 'prince.' A boy trained in history, governance, combat. Polished. Refined. The right kind of tragic backstory to tug at Westeros' heartstrings." He smirked. "And, of course, not a single dragon in sight."
Jon crossed his arms, his frown deepening. "Because Varys despises magic. Anything that reminds him of what was done to him." His voice dropped lower. "He'll never truly support us, Dany. He only wants a puppet he can control."
Dany's violet eyes gleamed coldly. "Then he will be disappointed."
Hadrian exhaled, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. "We have two problems. The first is that Varys has been planning this for years. Every little move he's made in the shadows—stirring discontent with Robert, undermining the Lannisters, keeping tabs on us—was leading to this moment." His gaze flickered between them. "He wants Westeros to rally behind a 'true' Targaryen heir, one raised in exile to be a perfect king. A safe king. A controllable king."
Dany arched a brow. "And the second problem?"
Hadrian's smirk was sharp, utterly devoid of humor. "He's not doing this alone."
Jon's brow furrowed. "Illyrio?"
Hadrian nodded. "The Pentoshi maggot has been financing this scheme from the start. I'd bet my wand he's been bankrolling this 'Aegon' since birth." His lips curled. "After all, he is the boy's father."
Jon's expression darkened. "And Varys has other backers in Westeros."
Hadrian's fingers tapped idly against his arm. "He wouldn't risk revealing his grand plan unless he already had key supporters lined up."
Dany hummed thoughtfully. "The Tyrells?"
Hadrian shrugged. "Maybe not. Mace is an idiot, but Olenna? She's too clever to back a fraud without proof."
Jon exhaled sharply. "The Golden Company, then."
Hadrian snapped his fingers. "The Blackfyres' loyal dogs. If they march under this 'Aegon's' banner, it lends legitimacy to his claim."
Jon scowled. "So what's our move?"
Hadrian's smirk returned, this time laced with genuine amusement. "Oh, Jon. You know me. I'm not interested in playing defense." He straightened, rolling his shoulders. "We rip Varys' web apart before he even knows we have the knife."
Dany's lips twitched. "I like the sound of that."
Jon gave Hadrian a look. "Details?"
Hadrian chuckled. "Step one: we confirm everything. Rhea and the Sand Snakes will keep their ears open. Daario's still our guest, and once he wakes up, we'll get whatever he knows."
Jon frowned. "And step two?"
Hadrian's grin widened. "We make sure the people of Westeros never buy into Varys' pretty little fairytale." He leaned forward. "Aegon, the son of Rhaegar and Elia, is dead. Everyone believes it. If a boy suddenly appears, claiming to be Rhaegar's son by Elia, we make sure he looks like exactly what he is—a Blackfyre fraud."
Dany's gaze turned sharp. "How?"
Hadrian spread his hands. "First, we discredit him before he even sets foot in Westeros. A few choice whispers in the right ears. And when the time comes?" His smile turned almost lazy. "We drag him into the light and burn his entire claim to the ground."
Jon exhaled. "That's risky."
Hadrian shrugged. "So is war. But if we do this right, there won't be one."
Dany smirked. "And if there is?"
Hadrian's emerald eyes gleamed. "Then we do what dragons do best."
Jon sighed. "You and your bloody dramatics."
Hadrian grinned. "You love it."
Jon muttered something under his breath, but the tension in the room had shifted. They had a plan. Now all that remained was to set it in motion.
—
The tension in the room hadn't completely dissipated. Hadrian, always one for mischief, couldn't resist the opportunity to add a little fuel to the fire.
"So," he said, leaning back in his chair, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Before we get too carried away with Varys and his little puppet show, there's the other thing we were discussing earlier."
Jon's eyes went wide, and his hand instinctively shot up to cover his face. "Not now, Harry," he muttered under his breath, clearly wishing he could disappear into the stone floor.
But Dany, with that playful gleam in her eye, turned towards Jon with a smirk. "Oh, but now is the perfect time, Jon," she said, her French accent lacing the words, softening the bite. The way she said his name made Jon's stomach do a strange flip. He immediately regretted bringing it up in the first place.
Hadrian chuckled, knowing exactly how to push Jon's buttons. "Well, Jon," he said, his grin wide, "seems like you're going to have to marry Margaery Tyrell. You know, the one who's practically drooling over you."
Jon shot him a look of pure disbelief. "No, absolutely not. What are you talking about? That wasn't the plan, Harry." His voice was a mixture of shock and panic as he looked between Hadrian and Dany.
Dany raised an eyebrow, her arms folding across her chest as she leaned casually against the stone wall, her lips curling into an almost teasing smile. "Oh, but it's the plan now, my dear Jon. The Tyrells are powerful. They're ambitious. They won't just follow us because we say so. They'll need something real, something substantial." Her gaze drifted over to him, eyes gleaming. "And what better way to secure their loyalty than through a marriage? A marriage to their beautiful Margaery."
Jon's face turned an even deeper shade of red. He opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "This is insane," he muttered, shaking his head. "There's no way—"
"Jon, Jon, Jon," Hadrian interrupted with a dramatic sigh, leaning forward, his expression mock-serious. "The people are going to need proof of your parentage. You and I both know this. We've talked about it." He raised his hands as if trying to make Jon understand. "The Tyrells won't just bend the knee because you say you're the true heir. They'll need to see something they can't ignore."
Jon scowled, crossing his arms tightly. "I'm not marrying her, Harry."
"Well, you don't get to choose," Hadrian said, his voice turning playful. "But it'll work out for you, trust me. Margaery has been giving you that look every time she's in the same room as you. That look." He gestured with a nod. "You know the one."
Jon exhaled loudly, rubbing the back of his neck. "This is madness."
Hadrian laughed, sitting back with his hands behind his head. "I thought you'd say that." But then his expression shifted, the mischievous glint replaced with something more serious. "But before we even think about the wedding, Jon, we need something first. Proof. Absolute proof of your parentage." He gestured toward him with a knowing glance. "We both know it's not enough to just say you're Rhaegar's son. You need that real, undeniable proof."
Dany nodded thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing in focus. "Where do we find such proof?" she asked, her gaze flicking from Hadrian to Jon.
Hadrian stood up, pacing back and forth in front of the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. "Old Town," he said, as if the answer was as simple as breathing. "The Citadel. The Maester who served Rhaegar at Harrenhal would have made a record of Rhaegar's marriage to Lyanna. It wasn't some secret fling. It was done in the Gods Eye. The marriage was conducted in the tradition of the Old Gods. The Maester would have kept a journal of it, some kind of proof to ensure legitimacy."
Jon's brow furrowed. "And you think we can find it in the Citadel?"
Hadrian's eyes gleamed with certainty. "Absolutely. The Maester would've recorded it. There's no way he wouldn't have—something so important to the Crown, especially given that Rhaegar was the heir at the time. We just have to get our hands on those journals."
"And how do we do that?" Jon asked skeptically, looking at Dany and Hadrian as though they'd lost their minds.
Dany tapped her chin, her lips curling into a thoughtful smile. "The Citadel is like a fortress. It's full of knowledge, yes, but also full of... secrets. How do we get access to something like that?"
Hadrian stopped pacing and turned toward them, a smug look crossing his face. "Oberyn," he said, as if the answer was obvious. "We need to talk to Oberyn. His daughter, Sarella—disguised as Alleras—is a novitiate in the Citadel. She's been there for years. If anyone can get us access to those journals, it's her."
Jon blinked, his confusion evident. "Sarella? The one pretending to be a boy?"
Hadrian grinned. "Yep. The Grey Cloaks don't teach the girls in the Citadel—something about tradition. But Sarella... well, she's in the perfect position to help us. She's a novitiate there. She's got the connections. She can get us into the archives, where the journal might be hidden."
Dany's eyes twinkled with amusement. "So, we go to Old Town, convince Oberyn to help us, and we walk out with proof of Jon's parentage? Is that the plan?"
Hadrian gave a half-shrug, his expression both smug and confident. "That's the plan. Once we have that proof, we'll secure the Tyrells. Margaery will marry Jon, and they'll have a queen of their own. The Tyrells will support us—wholeheartedly. And once we've got the Tyrells, we'll be unstoppable."
Jon ran a hand through his hair, clearly still torn. "I still don't like the idea of marrying her."
"Well, Jon," Hadrian said with a grin, "that's the price of being king. Sometimes it's not about what you want. It's about what the realm needs."
Dany tilted her head and gave Jon a teasing smile. "Besides, Margaery might just grow on you. She's quite... charming."
Jon grimaced. "I'll take my chances."
Hadrian chuckled. "Well, at least you're trying to be a good king. That's more than most can say."
Dany shot Hadrian a playful glance. "And after we've secured the Tyrells, what next? We start burning Varys' house of lies to the ground?"
Hadrian's eyes lit up, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Exactly. First, we make sure Jon's parentage is undeniable. Then, we take the throne. And we leave a trail of fire in our wake."
Jon sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping. "I really hope I don't lose my mind first."
Dany's voice softened as she walked up to him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Jon, you're not alone in this. We'll make sure you don't lose yourself along the way."
Jon looked into her eyes, feeling a slight warmth spread through him, and for the first time in a long while, he felt like maybe—just maybe—they could pull this off.
The flickering light of the hearth cast shadows across the room as they moved toward their next step, knowing the storm was brewing on the horizon.
—
Margaery Tyrell stood before the vanity, the flickering candlelight casting warm, dancing shadows on the delicate features of her face. Her golden hair, still damp from the evening's bath, cascaded in waves down her back, reflecting the light with every movement. But she wasn't truly looking at her reflection. Instead, her gaze was unfocused, her mind wandering far from the present, lost in thoughts she wished she could forget.
Jon Snow...
The name, like a whisper on the wind, had been echoing in her mind for days. No matter how hard she tried to focus on the Crown Prince, on her future with Tommen, the memory of a certain Northern bastard kept slipping into her thoughts. The soft press of his presence, the quiet confidence he exuded despite his humble origins, the way his dark eyes had seemed to look right through her when they spoke at Winterfell.
Her fingers trembled slightly as they stroked the silken fabric of her gown, but her mind was elsewhere—far away, in the snow-clad North, where Jon Snow stood at the gates of Winterfell like a man carved from stone. She could almost hear the soft rustling of the snow beneath his boots, feel the weight of his gaze as it met hers. What is it about him?
She pressed her lips together and shook her head, trying to rid herself of the thought. It was madness, wasn't it? She was Margaery Tyrell, daughter of House Tyrell, future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She had a plan, a path laid out before her that would lead to Tommen, the boy who would one day sit on the Iron Throne. She was the Rose of Highgarden, beloved by the people, adored by kings. There was no room for distractions, not when her future was so clearly defined.
But... She turned away from the mirror, her hands fumbling for the delicate lace that fastened the back of her gown. Every time I try to imagine myself beside Tommen, I only see him in the background. Her mind would not let go of Jon Snow—the way he had spoken to her so directly, so unabashedly, as if he weren't intimidated by her beauty or her status. His voice, so deep and rough like the wind howling through the mountains, had stirred something in her that no prince had ever done.
A frustrated sigh slipped past her lips as she tugged the gown off her shoulders, the cool air brushing her skin. She stepped into her nightgown, the silk caressing her body as she moved, but the feeling of his presence still lingered, heavy in the air. Jon Snow. The name was a poison, sweet on her tongue, bitter on her conscience. Why did he haunt her thoughts like this? He had nothing to offer her—not really. No power, no riches, no claim to the throne.
Stop it, Margaery, she scolded herself as she lay down on the bed. The cool sheets enveloped her, but her mind was elsewhere. Focus. Focus on Tommen. He is the future. He is the one you are meant to be with. She closed her eyes, trying to picture Tommen's sweet smile, his soft golden curls, the gentle affection he showered upon her whenever they met. He needs you, Margaery. You will be his queen.
But even in her mind's eye, Tommen seemed distant, a pale shadow to the vivid, intoxicating image of Jon Snow. She could see him now—his dark hair tousled by the wind, his cloak billowing behind him as he stood on the walls of Winterfell. His eyes, so fierce and intense, locked onto hers with a challenge she couldn't ignore. She remembered the way he'd looked at her, like he could see straight through her carefully crafted façade, as if he knew everything she was, everything she pretended not to be.
Her chest tightened. Why him? Why can't I get him out of my head?
The thought struck her like a jolt of lightning, and she sat up in bed, her hands pressing against her temples in frustration. She had managed to ignore so many distractions in her life, from petty squabbles in the court to the games of power her enemies played. But this... this was different. This was Jon Snow, a man who had nothing, and yet he consumed her every thought.
Her breath came in short, shallow bursts as the quiet of her chamber settled around her. The candlelight flickered, casting a soft glow against the walls. She should be thinking of Tommen, of how to secure her place beside him, of how to navigate the maze of politics and intrigue that awaited her. Instead, she was lying in her bed, alone with thoughts of Jon Snow—the Northern bastard who had no right to haunt her dreams.
A smile, half-amused and half-sad, tugged at the corners of her lips. I'm losing my mind, she thought, shaking her head. What would my mother say?
The soft click of the door opening caught her attention, and she looked up to see one of her ladies-in-waiting standing in the doorway. "My lady," the girl said, her voice soft and hesitant, "Prince Tommen requests your presence in the garden tomorrow. His grace wishes to speak with you."
Margaery nodded, though her thoughts were still miles away, with Jon Snow. "Of course," she replied smoothly, her voice a practiced mask of grace. "Tell His Grace I will be there."
As the door closed behind the girl, Margaery turned back to the pillow, sinking into it as her mind once again wandered back to the North.
Jon Snow... she whispered silently to herself, the name like a curse on her lips.
Tomorrow, she would play her part, smile, flirt, and speak of alliances. She would do what she must to secure her future, to ensure that she would one day sit on the Iron Throne beside Tommen. But tonight, she would allow herself this—this indulgence, this weakness. For just one night, she could imagine Jon Snow and wonder what might have been if she were not a woman of power, a woman bound to the game of thrones.
And as sleep slowly claimed her, the last thing on her mind was the storm that Jon Snow had unleashed in her heart, a storm she had no hope of calming.
---
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