The scent of citrus and spice lingered in the warm air as Harry made his way through the lush gardens of the Red Keep. Orange trees lined the polished stone pathways, their heavy fruit hanging low, almost brushing against his shoulders as he passed. Somewhere nearby, a fountain gurgled softly, its rhythmic trickle blending with the distant chirping of birds.
It was, all things considered, an oddly peaceful setting for a conversation that might determine the course of certain... future plans.
Oberyn Martell was already waiting for him, lounging in a cushioned seat beneath the shade of an orange tree, dressed in flowing Dornish robes of deep crimson and gold. He looked every bit the serpent his enemies feared—lean, coiled, and utterly relaxed, yet ready to strike at the first sign of weakness. A goblet of dark Dornish wine rested in one hand, while the other toyed with an orange he had just plucked from the tree. His sharp, dark eyes gleamed with amusement as Harry approached.
"Ah," Oberyn drawled, peeling the fruit with slow, practiced ease, "the elusive Lord Peverell graces me with his presence at last. To what do I owe the honor? Have you finally decided to seduce one of my daughters?" He bit into a slice of orange, savoring the taste before smirking. "A wise choice, if so. They take after their father in many ways."
Harry let out a dry chuckle as he lowered himself onto the seat opposite. "Tempting, truly. But I'd rather not invite the wrath of a certain Red Viper." He reached for the teapot set between them and poured himself a cup. The aroma of spiced Dornish tea filled the air. "I hear you're protective."
Oberyn grinned, his expression both pleased and predatory. "Protective? No, no, my friend. That would imply I seek to control them. I do not. I merely... educate those who would seek their affections. Sometimes with words, sometimes with blades." He gestured idly with the orange peel, his gaze never leaving Harry's. "You seem clever enough to avoid the second lesson."
"I try to be a quick learner," Harry said smoothly, taking a sip of tea. "And I do appreciate a good lesson in survival."
Oberyn chuckled, clearly enjoying the exchange. "Good. I do so hate wasting my time on men with no sense of humor. Or ambition." He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "But I suspect you didn't seek me out just to discuss my daughters' virtues."
Harry nodded, setting his cup down. "I need to get in touch with your daughter, Sarella Sand."
Oberyn's fingers paused for the briefest moment before he resumed peeling the orange, but his gaze sharpened. "Sarella," he repeated, as if tasting the name. "Now, that is interesting." He popped another slice of fruit into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Most lords and ladies barely acknowledge my Sands exist. And yet you come to me, asking for the one they never see."
Harry offered a small smile. "I do my research."
Oberyn exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. "And you must be very thorough indeed, because even in my own homeland, most do not bother to ask about her." His smirk widened. "Which begs the question—why do you?"
Harry leaned forward, fingers laced together. "Because she has a sharp mind, an insatiable curiosity, and a disregard for rules that don't serve her. And because she's one of the few people who can get into the Citadel's archives without raising suspicion." He held Oberyn's gaze. "I need someone like that."
The Dornish prince studied him with renewed interest, tapping his fingers against the stem of his goblet. Then, with a slow smile, he lifted his drink in a mock toast. "You are either a fool or a very dangerous man, Lord Peverell." He took a sip before setting the goblet down. "Fortunately, I find both qualities entertaining."
Harry smirked. "I do try to be a good host."
Oberyn let out a genuine laugh. "You truly are wasted on this place. You would thrive in Dorne." He stretched lazily, as if the conversation itself amused him to no end. "But let's speak plainly—what exactly do you want her to find for you?"
Harry hesitated for only a moment before answering, "Records. Old knowledge. Things the Maesters don't want people looking too closely at."
Oberyn hummed in approval. "Ah. Secrets, then. The kind that get men killed." He tilted his head. "You do know how much the Citadel despises people like us?"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Us?"
"The curious," Oberyn replied, grinning. "The ones who do not take the word of old men as law. The ones who pull at threads best left untouched." He took another sip of wine. "They despise me because I ask questions. And you... well, you must be planning something very interesting to need my Sarella's help."
Harry simply smiled, neither confirming nor denying. "I need someone I can trust to look where others won't."
Oberyn studied him for a long moment before laughing again, shaking his head. "You truly are something, aren't you?" He plucked another orange from the tree and tossed it lightly in his hand. "Very well. I will send word to my daughter."
Harry inclined his head in gratitude. "Thank you, Prince Oberyn."
Oberyn waved a hand dismissively. "No need for thanks, my friend. But I will warn you—Sarella does not take orders, not even from me. If she chooses to help you, it will be because she finds your cause... intriguing." He smirked, his voice rich with amusement. "You will need to impress her."
Harry chuckled, lifting his teacup once more. "Then I suppose I'll just have to make myself very interesting, won't I?"
Oberyn laughed, clinking his goblet against Harry's cup. "That, Lord Peverell, I have no doubt you will."
—
The sun had barely risen, casting its golden light across the cobblestone paths of the Red Keep as Margaery Tyrell, elegant as ever, made her way through the grand halls. The air was crisp, but the weight of a thousand thoughts still hung heavy on her shoulders. The weight of duty. The weight of her plans.
At her side, her lady-in-waiting, Alla, kept pace, her dark eyes scanning their surroundings, a quiet energy radiating from her. Margaery had always relied on Alla's keen eye—one that missed nothing, but remained ever respectful of her lady's wishes. Today, however, Margaery's mind wasn't on the political nuances or the latest gossip of King's Landing, but on a much more dangerous and intriguing thought.
Jon Snow.
Her breath caught in her throat at the very thought. She had caught a glimpse of him at Winterfell, with that dark, brooding presence of his—like a storm waiting to unfold. He was so different from the men she'd known, but it wasn't just his appearance that haunted her. It was the way he carried himself: the quiet power, the deep wells of emotion he held within, and the storm in his eyes that spoke of something untamed, something beyond her control.
But no. Margaery pushed the thought away as they approached the inner courtyard. Tommen awaited her in the throne room, and she would not let distractions steal her focus now. Duty. Duty came first.
As they walked through the gardens of the Red Keep, where the noble ladies gathered, Margaery's thoughts were interrupted. She noticed a group in the distance—a striking woman with golden hair and a regal air, standing beside a tall, broad-shouldered man.
It was Fleur—no, it couldn't be. The woman before her was too perfect, too polished, and yet there was something hauntingly familiar about her. Margaery blinked, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to fall away as her gaze fixed on the woman's vivid blue eyes and golden hair that shimmered in the morning light.
Then there was Jon Snow. He stood beside her, like a shadow to her brilliance. His hair, dark and untamed, fell across his face, his features sharp and rugged. Margaery's heart gave a jolt—a strange mix of familiarity and danger. He stood with the same quiet confidence she had noticed back at Winterfell, the same air of mystery, but this time... it was more. The sun caught the gleam of the long sword at his hip, and she couldn't help but wonder what secrets lay behind his unreadable eyes.
"Margaery," Alla said softly, catching her attention. "You're staring."
Margaery tore her gaze away with a slight flush. She had to regain control. Duty first. She straightened her back and stepped forward, her smile smooth, practiced, and poised, though her mind still raced.
"Lady Peverell," she called out, her voice warm, but edged with something else—something like curiosity. "It's a pleasure to see you again."
Fleur turned toward her with a radiant smile, but Margaery couldn't help but notice the cool, calculating gleam in her eyes. "Lady Tyrell," Fleur greeted her, her voice a melodic blend of French and the lilting tones of her Valyrian heritage. "You look as lovely as ever. How are you today?"
Margaery took a moment to compose herself, her eyes flickering momentarily to Jon before she spoke again. "Quite well, thank you," she replied with the faintest of smiles. "And you, Lady Peverell? I trust your morning has been pleasant?"
Fleur's gaze flickered between her and Jon, a slight spark of amusement in her eyes. "Indeed. I've enjoyed a walk through the gardens. The beauty of King's Landing is always a pleasure, though I confess... it has been more enjoyable with some company." Her gaze lingered on Jon, and Margaery couldn't help but feel a surge of something—jealousy? Intrigue? It was hard to say.
Jon stood silently, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the exchange with an unreadable expression. The wind tugged at his dark hair, and he made no effort to smooth it down. He was a stark contrast to the perfectly poised women around him. There was a roughness to him that made Margaery's composure falter for a moment.
His voice, when he spoke, was low, almost like a rumble in his chest. "The gardens are peaceful," he said, his gaze briefly meeting Margaery's. "When you can escape the noise of court, that is."
Margaery's heart skipped a beat. Jon Snow, with his gravelly voice and unpolished nature, had a presence that none of the noblemen here could match. He didn't care for court politics, didn't care for the play of words and gestures. No. Jon was something else entirely.
Fleur, noticing the momentary tension between the two, leaned forward slightly, her gaze now fully fixed on Margaery. "Are you enjoying the court, Lady Tyrell?" she asked, her tone soft but sharp beneath the surface. "I have heard much about your... influence here in the Red Keep."
Margaery's smile grew wider, though there was a slight edge to it now. "I do my best to keep things in order," she replied with a tilt of her head, the words sweet as honey but carrying the weight of the years she had spent navigating the treacherous waters of King's Landing.
Fleur's lips curled into a knowing smile. "I'm sure you do," she replied smoothly, her voice laced with something Margaery couldn't quite place. "But surely you must find it... difficult, balancing all that power with the demands of the throne?"
Margaery's eyes narrowed slightly, but she kept her expression calm. "I believe we all have our roles to play," she said, her gaze briefly flicking to Jon again, who was now watching her with an intensity that made her feel oddly exposed. "It is all about knowing when to step forward and when to step back."
Jon's gaze shifted to Fleur then, his expression unreadable. "Power doesn't come from the throne," he said quietly, his voice heavy with meaning. "It comes from the people."
Margaery felt a twinge of something at his words. It wasn't a sentiment often heard in the Red Keep. No one here spoke of the people. Only of the crown. She found herself intrigued despite herself.
Fleur smiled once more, this time more knowingly. "You speak the truth, Lord Snow," she said, her voice soft but with a touch of humor. "But in this world, people are as easily manipulated as any piece on a chessboard."
Margaery couldn't help but admire the way Fleur played her game. The words, the soft smiles, the way she weaved her thoughts into the conversation with such elegance. She was like a lioness in disguise—beautiful, yes, but deadly beneath the surface.
Margaery nodded slowly. "Indeed, Lady Peverell. But every piece on the board has its place."
Fleur's smile widened, and Jon's gaze flickered between the two women, his expression a mix of amusement and wariness. "I hope we can all find our places here, then," he said, his voice quieter now. "It's a long game we're playing."
Margaery's heart fluttered in her chest at his words. She could see the storm behind his eyes—the quiet, brooding nature that she couldn't quite decipher.
With a final curtsy, Margaery turned to leave, her heart racing in her chest. "It has been a pleasure, Lady Peverell," she said, her voice calm, though her thoughts were anything but. "I hope we will have the chance to speak again soon."
Fleur's eyes sparkled with an unreadable gleam. "Of course, Lady Tyrell. I would welcome it."
As Margaery walked away, she couldn't help but glance back, her mind swirling with thoughts of Jon, of Fleur, and the strange, dangerous tension that simmered between them all. What was this game they were playing? And where did she fit into it?
Her thoughts were interrupted by Alla's voice. "You seemed... distracted, Lady Tyrell," she remarked, her eyes flickering with amusement.
Margaery smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Perhaps," she said, her mind still racing. "But I have a prince to attend to."
And with that, she continued on her way, leaving the gardens behind—but the shadows of the storm still lingered in her mind.
—
Margaery Tyrell sat gracefully beside Prince Tommen, the faint scent of jasmine tea filling the air. She tried to focus on the young king, who was more interested in the three cats perched on the windowsill than in anything she had to offer in terms of conversation. She glanced at him, smiling, though her mind, like a restless breeze, kept drifting elsewhere. Jon Snow's image lingered in her thoughts—the dark eyes that never seemed to miss anything, the cool, untouchable demeanor that contrasted with the delicate threads of courtly games that she spun so effortlessly.
"Lady Margaery?" Tommen's voice was a soft, high-pitched call, barely piercing the fog of her thoughts. She blinked, focusing on the child beside her, who was now looking at her with wide, curious eyes.
"My apologies, Your Grace," she said smoothly, her voice like silk. "I must have drifted." She hid her confusion behind a practiced smile.
Tommen didn't seem offended. He was still absorbed in his cats. "It's alright," he said, leaning down to scratch the silver tabby, Queen's Shadow, behind the ears. "I was telling you about Ser Pounce." He looked up at her, his face lit with the pure joy only a child could experience when speaking about his favorite subject. "He's very brave, you know. He guards the throne room from all intruders."
Margaery's lips twitched at the earnestness in his voice. She leaned slightly forward, her voice warm, the perfect blend of sweetness and light. "Is that so? A brave protector, indeed. He must be very important."
"Oh yes," Tommen said, looking quite proud. He was in his element now, regaling her with tales of Ser Pounce's many "adventures." "And Queen's Shadow," he added, motioning to the silver tabby who was now grooming herself nonchalantly, "is very good at catching mice. Sometimes, I think she's even better than Ser Pounce at it. But don't tell him that, or he'll be upset."
Margaery smiled, playing along. "I won't tell him, Your Grace," she said softly, but her eyes drifted back to the window, where the gardens beyond beckoned. She couldn't shake the feeling that something—or someone—was missing.
Tommen, however, was oblivious. His attention had shifted back to the cats, and his small hands were now busy petting Midnight, the sleek black cat.
"Do you like flowers, Lady Margaery?" Tommen asked suddenly, his tone full of innocent curiosity as he tugged at her sleeve.
Flowers. A soft sigh escaped Margaery's lips. Of course, she liked flowers. She was a Tyrell, after all. "I do, Your Grace," she said, her smile returning, genuine this time. "Flowers are lovely, aren't they? They remind me of the gardens back home. The roses—such bright colors, so full of life."
Tommen's eyes gleamed with excitement, clearly pleased that she was engaging in his world of cats and flowers. "Oh! I like the flowers in the Red Keep gardens," he said, hopping off his seat, startling Queen's Shadow into a half-hearted leap. "There are so many of them! Do you want to see them later, Lady Margaery? We could walk there together."
Margaery fought to keep her attention on the boy, pushing the distant image of Jon Snow from her mind. She had to be here, in this moment. Tommen was the future of the realm, and if she could shape that future—if she could gain his trust—she would secure her place at his side. And, of course, her family's future. The game was never just about one piece; it was always about positioning.
"I would love that, Your Grace," she said, smiling softly as she reached out to pat his hand. "The gardens are one of the few places in King's Landing that feel... calm, don't you think?"
"Yes!" Tommen exclaimed, his youthful exuberance making Margaery smile despite herself. "There's a fountain there, and it's my favorite spot! The flowers around it smell really nice. You'll like it!"
"I'm sure I will," Margaery replied, nodding. Her eyes flicked again to the door, to the hall beyond, as though expecting someone—someone with dark hair and an aura of mystery. Her thoughts lingered for a second on Jon Snow again. Why couldn't she stop thinking about him?
Her reflection was broken by a soft, almost imperceptible cough from Alla, standing by the door. The young woman's sharp eyes caught Margaery's distracted gaze, and she raised an eyebrow subtly, an unspoken reminder to stay in the moment. The game was still in motion, and Margaery couldn't afford to lose her place.
"Lady Margaery," Alla said, her voice light and calm, but with a faint note of amusement that only Margaery could recognize, "perhaps we should discuss the upcoming court events. The feast, yes? I'm sure Your Grace would enjoy your company there."
Margaery shifted, blinking as if waking from a dream. She could feel her cheeks heat slightly from the slip in attention. "Ah, yes, the feast," she said, her voice regaining its poise. "We shall discuss it later, no doubt."
Tommen was already distracted again, his attention entirely consumed by Midnight, who had decided it was time to bat at his fingers with playful swats.
"Would you like to join me, Your Grace?" Margaery asked, watching Tommen's face light up with glee at the simple joy of his cats.
"Yes, yes! We can play in the gardens and then go to the feast. I want to show you the fountain!" Tommen said eagerly.
Margaery nodded, her heart a little lighter. The world of Tommen was simple, innocent, and full of genuine affection for the world around him. There was no pretense here, no games. Just a child's love for his cats, his flowers, his kingdom. In many ways, it was the perfect escape from the chaos that lurked outside the Red Keep.
"Of course, Your Grace," Margaery said, her voice soft as she leaned closer, her eyes sparkling. "We'll walk in the gardens later and enjoy the flowers." She glanced at Alla, whose expression was faintly amused, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.
The conversation once again turned to cats, and Margaery allowed herself to slip into it. After all, it was only a matter of time before the real game began again. For now, though, she could indulge in the moment. Indulge in the innocence of it.
But even as she smiled at Tommen, her mind kept returning to Jon Snow. And that unnerving sense of something—someone—she couldn't quite ignore.
—
The clang of metal on metal rang through the training grounds, echoing off the walls as Harry and Jon squared off, wooden swords raised in their hands. Jon, despite his natural skill, seemed to hesitate a bit more today, his movements just slightly off—perhaps distracted by the constant pressure weighing on his shoulders. Harry, on the other hand, looked entirely unfazed, his posture easy and loose, his smirk never faltering.
"Come on, Snow," Harry taunted, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I thought you were the brooding, tragic hero of the realm. You know, 'I'm Jon Snow, son of the North and bearer of many secrets.' I'd expect a bit more spirit from you, unless... you're secretly afraid of a little competition?"
Jon shot him a sharp look, the ever-present frown on his face deepening as he gripped his sword tighter. "You talk too much, Peverell," he muttered, stepping forward in a quick thrust aimed at Harry's side.
Harry, light on his feet, danced to the side with ease, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "Ah, there it is! The glint of the 'mysterious tortured soul' I've been waiting for."
Jon narrowed his eyes. "Maybe you should shut your mouth and start taking me seriously."
"Oh, I am. So seriously," Harry said with a mock bow, then flicked his sword up in a casual parry. "I'm just trying to make this spar fun, Snow. If you insist on being too serious, I'll be forced to use my 'secret weapon'."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "And what, pray tell, would that be?"
"Charm, my friend," Harry grinned, his voice thick with sarcasm. "All the ladies can't resist it. Trust me, I've had to fight them off with a stick."
On the sidelines, Dany—dressed in a flowing blue gown that contrasted beautifully with the warm golden light of the training yard—leaned against a stone bench, her eyes flickering between the two sparring warriors. There was a certain satisfaction in her gaze, as if she were watching a game unfold and waiting for the right moment to make her move. She exchanged a brief glance with Harry, their silent agreement clear. The plan was working.
The sound of light footsteps caught her attention, and she turned just as Margaery, Tommen, and Alla entered the training yard. Tommen, wide-eyed and eager, took a few steps forward, his gaze fixed on the sparring match with rapt fascination. Margaery, as poised and composed as ever, followed behind him, though Dany noticed how her attention was already drawn to Jon.
Tommen, bouncing on his heels, tugged at Margaery's sleeve. "Lady Margaery, look! Jon Snow is fighting with Lord Peverell! They're so strong! Do you think he could be my protector when I'm king?"
Margaery's lips curled into a small, elegant smile, but her eyes didn't leave Jon, not for a moment. There was a quiet intensity in her gaze as she watched Jon's every move—his precision, the way his muscles shifted under the weight of the sword, the raw power in each strike. A glimmer of something—interest, curiosity, maybe even more—flickered in her eyes.
"Perhaps," Margaery murmured, her voice soft, almost pensive. "Though I think you'll need more than just strength to protect a king, Prince Tommen. But yes, Jon Snow seems like a knight worthy of his title."
Dany's lips curled into a knowing smile. Oh, she could see it already—the way Margaery's sharp eyes couldn't pull away from Jon, the undercurrent of something deeper lurking beneath her composed exterior. As the plan unfolded, Dany couldn't help but relish the moment. Margaery, so focused on her ambition and the power of the Iron Throne, would soon find herself tangled up in something far more complex.
Jon, now pushing Harry back with a solid strike to his opponent's wooden sword, barely noticed Margaery's lingering gaze. But Harry, ever the opportunist, did. The moment Jon made a mistake, Harry was quick to capitalize on it—swinging his sword down in a swift strike.
"You're really going to let me win this easily, Snow?" Harry smirked, a hint of teasing in his voice. "What happened to your tragic hero complex? I thought you were supposed to be all doom and gloom, not just a poor swordfighter."
Jon let out a short, exasperated sigh. "You're so irritating."
"Ah, but you love it," Harry teased. "Admit it, Snow. You need me to keep you grounded, or you'd be off in some cave sulking about the fate of the world and your true identity."
Jon gritted his teeth and swung again, his movement more aggressive now, but Harry dodged it easily, spinning to the side with the grace of a dancer.
"See? Now we're getting somewhere," Harry said, spinning back to face Jon, giving him a wink. "But don't forget, Snow. You're not the only one with secrets, you know."
At this, Dany stood from the bench, her eyes meeting Margaery's across the training yard. The message was clear—her time was coming. Dany's smile was deliberate, a hint of mischief glinting in her gaze. "Jon Snow... well, he's not just any ordinary warrior," she called out, her voice carrying easily across the yard. "Any man who can keep up with my husband, especially with a sword, is a force to be reckoned with. He is not someone to be underestimated."
Margaery's gaze snapped to Dany, but it was subtle—just a brief flicker of interest before she masked it with her usual poise. "Indeed," Margaery replied, her voice softer than usual, her gaze drawn back to Jon. "A man who would one day be a knight worthy of something... more."
Tommen, still oblivious to the silent tension between the women, leaned closer to Margaery. "I really think Jon Snow could be my protector, don't you? He's strong enough to defend the kingdom."
Margaery smiled, but it was a calculated smile, the kind of smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yes, Prince Tommen, perhaps one day. But remember, even the strongest knight needs to be guided by wisdom."
Alla, watching the scene unfold with a keen awareness, caught Dany's glance. The subtle glint of approval shone in her eyes. The plan was working. With Margaery's attention fully on Jon, Dany knew the next steps were falling into place. It wasn't just about the Iron Throne anymore—it was about the Targaryen bloodline and securing Jon's rightful place.
As Jon landed another strike on Harry, Dany's smile deepened, the web she'd carefully woven tightening around her. Soon enough, Margaery would be drawn into the storm that was Jon Snow, the man who was more than just a knight, more than just a warrior—he was Aegon Targaryen, the true heir to the Iron Throne.
And Margaery? She had no idea just how deep the game went.
Dany's heart thrummed with the knowledge that soon, Jon's name would be on everyone's lips—not just as the mysterious outsider, but as the man who would change everything.
The plan, as intricate and delicate as it was, was working.
—
The clang of metal against metal slowly faded as Harry and Jon dropped their wooden swords to the ground, both panting heavily but grinning from the exertion. The sun had already begun to sink low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the training yard as they took a much-needed break.
Jon wiped his brow with the back of his hand, his tunic clinging to his body from the sweat. "Alright, Harry," he said with a wry grin, leaning against a barrel to catch his breath, "I think that's enough 'grim hero' training for today. My arm feels like it might fall off."
Harry let out a huff of amusement as he gingerly touched his side where Jon had landed a particularly sharp blow. "If this is what being a 'grim hero' feels like, I think I'll pass," Harry said, placing his sword on the nearby rack and stretching. "Remind me to avoid sparring with you when you're in one of your moods. My ego can only handle so much."
Jon chuckled, but it was a soft sound, laced with the usual quiet humor. "You know, for someone who claims to be invincible, you sure go down easy."
"I never said I was invincible," Harry shot back with a grin. "Just very, very skilled. And... occasionally lucky."
"Right," Jon muttered, wiping his face with a cloth. "That's definitely it."
Before Harry could respond, Dany appeared, gliding toward them with a goblet of cool water in her hand. Harry flashed a grin at her, grateful for the drink as she handed it over.
"Here," Dany said, her voice laced with amusement. "I think you need this more than he does."
"Thanks, Fleur," Harry said, taking the goblet and drinking deeply, savoring the coolness of the water. As he handed it back to her, his eyes met hers for a brief moment. There was an understanding between them—an unspoken bond forged through battles fought together, both literal and emotional.
Jon's gaze shifted toward Dany, a softness in his eyes as he leaned against the barrel, clearly tired but enjoying the moment. "Next time, Harry," he said, "we take a break when we're not both about to collapse."
"Right," Harry agreed with a grin. "And maybe I'll teach you some of the 'invincible hero' tricks I've picked up. They work wonders."
Dany smiled and let out a quiet laugh before turning her gaze back to the group. Harry's attention was already wandering, his eyes locking on Margaery Tyrell, who was standing a little away from the training session, watching Jon intently. The Tyrell princess's eyes seemed to follow every move Jon made, a soft, contemplative expression on her face. Harry noticed how her lips curled ever so slightly, her gaze lingering just a little too long.
"I don't think Margaery's eyes have left Jon once," Harry remarked with a smirk, nudging Dany in the side. "What do you think? Another political maneuver in the making?"
Dany raised an eyebrow and gave Harry a sidelong glance. Her lips curved up into a knowing smile. "She's a Tyrell," Dany said with a flick of her hair, the soft French accent in her voice rolling off her words effortlessly. "They always have a plan. And Margaery… well, she's always had an eye for power."
Harry glanced between Dany and Margaery, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "Is she planning to make a move? Or is she just trying to figure out what Jon's all about?"
Dany shrugged, her gaze never leaving Margaery. "It's hard to say. Jon's a Targaryen, and that means something. It won't take much for her to start noticing the truth about him."
Jon, oblivious to the calculating looks around him, had his focus completely on Tommen, who was approaching with his usual wide-eyed enthusiasm, followed closely by Margaery and Alla. Tommen looked like a boy who had just discovered a new toy, clearly eager but a bit nervous at the same time. Margaery, however, wore an expression that was far more inscrutable.
Jon raised an eyebrow when Tommen tugged on his sleeve. "Lord Snow," Tommen said with a slight tremor in his voice, eyes full of wonder. "I've been watching you and Lord Peverell spar, and you're so strong. Can you teach me how to wield a sword like you both do?"
Jon blinked, caught off guard by the request. The boy's eyes shone with admiration, his enthusiasm infectious. "You want me to teach you?" Jon asked, a small smile forming on his lips as he glanced at the young king. "That's a big ask, Your Grace."
Tommen nodded vigorously, his golden curls bouncing with the motion. "Yes! My uncle Jaime always says I need more training, but…" Tommen's voice trailed off, and for a moment, there was a trace of bitterness in his words. "He's never interested in teaching me. He's always too busy with… being the Kingslayer."
Jon's face softened at the mention of Jaime. He looked toward the far side of the yard, where the Kingslayer was engaged with a few knights. "Well, it might be easier for you to learn from your uncle," Jon said thoughtfully. "He's a great swordsman. One of the best."
Tommen's expression faltered, his gaze dropping to the ground. "He never has time for me," he murmured, the sadness clear in his voice. "He's always too busy. I want to be like him, but he doesn't… he doesn't want to teach me."
Jon's heart went out to the boy. He knelt down, placing a hand on Tommen's shoulder. "You know, Tommen," Jon said softly, "if your uncle doesn't have time, then I'll be happy to teach you. It won't be easy, but you've got the heart for it."
Tommen's face lit up, his sadness replaced by a genuine excitement. "You'll really teach me?"
"Of course," Jon said with a warm smile. "We'll start with the basics. It'll take time, but I think you've got what it takes."
Tommen beamed. "Thank you, Lord Snow! I'll practice every day!"
As Jon and Tommen continued their conversation, Harry and Dany exchanged a glance, both of them watching Margaery from the corner of their eyes. The princess's gaze was still locked on Jon, her thoughts unreadable, though the slightest tilt of her head made it clear that she was considering something—perhaps waiting for the right moment to make her move.
"You think she's going to make her play soon?" Harry murmured, watching as Margaery took a step forward, just a little closer to Jon, her gaze never wavering.
Dany raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. "She's a Tyrell," she said again, her tone quiet but sharp. "And Jon's a Targaryen. I'm sure she's already decided what role he'll play in her future. And when she does decide, she'll move quickly."
Harry leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "This is going to be interesting," he muttered under his breath.
"I'm sure Jon will be ready for whatever she throws at him," Dany said, her eyes flicking toward Jon with a soft, almost protective warmth.
Harry chuckled. "We'll see. We'll see."
Margaery, noticing Dany's gaze, finally tore her eyes away from Jon and met Dany's eyes across the yard. There was a flicker of something—recognition, perhaps—but the smile Dany gave her was warm, knowing.
And just like that, the game was on.
"Let the games begin," Harry whispered, watching Margaery with renewed interest.
Dany's smile deepened, her gaze never leaving Margaery's as she replied, "Indeed."
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!