The damp, low light of the cellar clung to every surface, casting long, sinister shadows over the prisoners and their captors. Daario Naharis sat there, tied to a chair, breathing heavily. The smug bravado that had served him well so many times was slipping away, but not without a fight. His mind raced as he tried to make sense of the scene unfolding before him.
The Sand Snakes circled him like wolves closing in on their prey, their postures tense and poised for action. Obara Sand stood tall, her presence as sharp as a drawn blade. Nymeria Sand's eyes gleamed with that same cold amusement she always wore, and Tyene Sand, her lips curling into a smirk, looked like she was waiting for the right moment to strike.
By the door stood Daemon Sand, his eyes dark and unreadable, though there was something about him that screamed restraint, as though he were waiting for a reason to unleash chaos.
But it wasn't the Sand Snakes who had caught his attention; it was the three newcomers who had just entered the cellar, their presence more menacing than all the threats he had faced combined.
The first, a woman with golden hair that shimmered in the dim light, was the one who commanded his focus. Her eyes were a piercing blue, and for a moment, Daario wondered if he was hallucinating. No. That can't be possible. He'd seen her before, he was sure of it—at Joffrey's funeral. But no, this couldn't be the same woman. She was too different. The woman he'd been sent to bring to Pentos was meant to have silver hair and purple eyes—not gold and blue. He'd brushed it off at the time, but now that she stood before him, his mind began to piece things together.
She was here in the flesh, this mysterious woman who had always been a pawn in someone else's game. But...how?
Before he could voice his confusion, the woman spoke, her voice soft, but laced with something dangerous. "I can see you're confused, Daario," she said, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "But I'm sure you remember me from Joffrey's funeral."
He blinked, trying to clear the fog in his mind, then it clicked. "You—" His voice faltered for a moment. "I thought you were the woman. The woman Illyrio wanted me to fetch... to marry off to a Dothraki horselord."
Her smile deepened, but there was no warmth in it. "I thought you would think that," she said, her French accent lilting with every syllable. "I am Lady Fleur Peverell, and this—" She gestured to the towering figure beside her, the one who had killed the Mountain, the man whose legend had spread like wildfire throughout Westeros—"is my husband, Lord Hadrian Peverell."
Lord Hadrian. Daario had heard the name whispered on the streets of King's Landing. The man who killed the Mountain—but Daario had assumed it was just a myth. The Mountain was an unstoppable force. But now, looking at the man standing in front of him, Daario couldn't help but wonder if he had misjudged things.
Hadrian's gaze was unflinching, his eyes as hard as steel, and when he spoke, his voice was as cold as the steel of his sword. "You've heard the stories, Daario," he said, the words heavy with a promise of retribution. "And I am not a man known for mercy."
A chill ran down Daario's spine. He could feel the weight of Hadrian's presence pressing against him, and the wild, uncontrollable anger of the Mountain seemed like nothing compared to this man.
"And this," Fleur added, turning her attention to the other man standing near the door, a shadow among shadows, "is Jon Snow."
The name was a whisper, but it carried weight in the air. Daario looked at Jon Snow, trying to make sense of this latest twist. The man was a mystery, his expression unreadable, but the way he stood, calm and collected, told him everything he needed to know: this was not someone to be underestimated.
Jon didn't flinch, didn't react, just kept his eyes locked on Daario as if waiting for something. There was a quiet intensity about him, a pressure that felt like a storm about to break. His voice was low, steady, and laced with an edge of danger. "I don't need to introduce myself," he said, his words sharp. "You'll learn soon enough who I am."
Daario shifted in his seat, uncomfortable under the weight of their combined stares. But his mind was still swirling, trying to process it all.
"You've heard the name," Nymeria said, her tone dripping with a touch of mockery, her gaze never leaving him. "The man who killed the Mountain. His wife. And this one," she nodded to Jon, "he's a bit of a mystery, but trust me, Daario, he's not someone you want to mess with."
Daario swallowed hard, his usual cocky grin faltering. He didn't know whether to laugh or run. He wasn't the one who'd made a habit of backing down from a fight, but this felt different. Much different.
The silence was thick, oppressive. Hadrian's voice broke through it like a hammer against glass. "Let's cut the games, shall we? You've been running your mouth for too long, Daario. It's time for you to start explaining yourself."
Tyene's lips curled into a smile, her eyes glinting with malice. "You were sent to bring someone to Pentos, weren't you? A girl who was to be married off to a Dothraki horselord. But that was before we found out who she really is. And now," she leaned closer, her voice a venomous whisper, "you're going to tell us everything about Illyrio Mopatis's plans, Daario. Every last detail."
Daario smirked, though it was more out of instinct than actual confidence. "I don't know what you're talking about," he muttered, though the words felt weak even to him.
Dany's smile faded slightly, her eyes narrowing. "Don't play coy with me, Daario," she said quietly, her voice deadly calm. "You'll tell us everything. Or I promise you, things will get uncomfortable."
Obara, ever the fierce one, stepped forward, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade. "You're not in control here, Daario. We are."
Daemon Sand, silent up to this point, finally spoke. His voice was soft, but the undercurrent of menace was unmistakable. "I'd listen to them if I were you. It's not just the Sand Snakes you're dealing with now."
Daario's pulse quickened. His usual bravado was beginning to fray at the edges, but he wasn't quite ready to fold. "You think you've got me cornered, don't you?" he sneered, trying to hold onto some semblance of his old self. "Well, I've been in worse situations before."
Jon Snow's eyes hardened. "You might've been in worse situations, Daario," he said, his tone steady and unyielding. "But this? This is different. You're not getting out of this alive unless you start talking."
The room fell into a heavy silence as Jon's words echoed through the cold stone walls.
Daario exhaled, the weight of his situation pressing down on him. This wasn't a game anymore. These people weren't playing by the rules he understood.
His eyes flicked nervously between them. He was trapped.
And it was just a matter of time before they made him talk.
—
Hadrian Peverell's eyes glinted with a cold fire as he locked onto Daario, whose defiance was slowly crumbling beneath the weight of his fear. The room around them seemed to hold its breath, even the stone walls quieting as though sensing what was about to unfold. The Sand Snakes stood in a half-circle, each of them exuding a mix of wariness and curiosity, their eyes flicking from Hadrian to Daario. Fleur remained silently by his side, her posture regal, though the faintest quirk of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She could feel the tension rolling off him like a storm waiting to break.
Hadrian's voice, calm and sure, sliced through the charged air. "Can I take over for a bit?"
The Sand Snakes exchanged glances, and without a word, Obara, the fiery one, nodded her approval. She was a woman of action, her sharp eyes never leaving the scene, but there was something about the way Hadrian carried himself—an unspoken power—that made her trust his lead.
"Go on, then," Obara said, her tone sharp, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
Hadrian smiled, a quick flash of teeth that didn't quite reach his eyes. With deliberate slowness, he unbuckled his vambrace, the soft clink of metal a herald to what was coming. From the hidden compartment inside, he pulled out a slender, polished stick. The simple elegance of the object held a silent promise, one that Daario would soon come to understand.
Daario, ever the cocky smuggler, narrowed his eyes at the stick in Hadrian's hand. His lips curled into a mocking grin, though it didn't quite mask the slight twitch in his brow.
He scoffed, his voice laced with disbelief. "Oh, please," he drawled, "what is that, some kind of magic wand? You going to wave it at me and make me dance, or—" He let out a short, mocking laugh. "Maybe a couple of sparkles to go with your magic words?"
The Sand Snakes looked at each other, but none of them stepped forward to intervene. Even Obara—who was never one to back down from a challenge—seemed to enjoy watching this particular interaction play out. Jon, ever observant, folded his arms across his chest. He leaned against the wall, raising a brow in amusement but remaining silent, knowing full well what was about to happen.
Hadrian's expression didn't change. His eyes bored into Daario's like twin daggers. The air grew denser, the weight of Hadrian's gaze locking Daario in place. For a moment, it felt like the world was holding its breath.
Daario, still trying to maintain his bravado, snickered again. "Yeah, right. You're gonna need more than that little twig to make me talk. Go ahead, give it your best shot."
The Sand Snakes, Nymeria with her sly grin, Tyene's eyes filled with playful malice, and Daemon's steady presence, all stood silent, but none could tear their eyes away from the unfolding scene. Dany stood just slightly apart from Hadrian, an unreadable expression on her face, but there was something about her posture that hinted at amusement—perhaps it was the small, subtle tilt of her lips as she watched the drama unfold.
Hadrian's lips barely parted as he spoke, his voice cutting through the mockery like a knife through butter.
"Crucio."
The word was soft, but it seemed to reverberate in the room, sending a shiver down everyone's spine. For a heartbeat, Daario remained still, as though he hadn't quite processed the danger he was in. And then it hit him.
His body jerked in the chair with the force of a lightning strike. His spine arched painfully, and his mouth opened in a primal scream that sounded almost inhuman. His hands, still bound tightly, trembled as the waves of agony tore through him. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as he fought for breath. His legs spasmed against the chair, but the restraints held him in place, trapping him in the inferno of pain.
The Sand Snakes stood motionless, their faces unreadable, but even Obara's eyes flickered with a glint of approval. Tyene's lips parted slightly, a soft hum of appreciation escaping her as she watched the chaos unfold. Nymeria crossed her arms, her gaze fixed, studying every minute detail of Hadrian's technique. Daemon's expression remained neutral, but his fingers twitched, perhaps itching for a fight of his own.
Jon Snow stepped forward, his arms still folded across his chest, but there was no mistaking the wry amusement in his eyes. "You sure he's had enough yet, or do you want to give him a few more minutes?" His tone was casual, as though discussing a training exercise rather than the torture of a man.
Hadrian didn't break his gaze from Daario, his eyes cold as ice. He held the curse just long enough to make the point. The screaming echoed in the room, and the sheer intensity of the pain threatened to consume Daario whole. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Hadrian waved his hand with a dismissive flick, releasing the curse. The air in the room seemed to breathe again.
Daario collapsed back into the chair, gasping for air like a man who had just clawed his way out of drowning. Sweat drenched his face, and his body trembled uncontrollably, but his eyes still held the fire of defiance, though it was dimmed now, shadowed by fear.
"Next time you make fun of my stick," Hadrian said softly, his voice like a whisper on the wind, "think very carefully."
Jon took a step forward, a slight smirk playing at the edge of his lips. "I think he's learned his lesson," he said, voice laced with humor, though his eyes remained hard. "Maybe now we can get to the part where he talks."
Daario's chest heaved as he tried to collect himself, his mind still foggy from the overwhelming pain. His eyes darted around the room, finally landing on Hadrian. His lips parted, but no words came. It took a moment, but then he muttered, voice cracked and broken.
"Alright, alright… I'll talk…" His breath hitched. "Just… just don't do that again."
Hadrian tilted his head, the faintest trace of a smile touching his lips. "Good." He stepped closer, looming over Daario as he spoke. "Now, tell me what Illyrio wants with Daenerys Targaryen. And this time, no more lies."
Dany took a step closer to Daario, her gaze unwavering. "If you try to lie again," she added softly, her French accent lilting the words just enough to make them feel like a promise, "I won't be so merciful."
Daario, still gasping for air, nodded desperately. "I swear, I'll tell you everything... everything."
Hadrian leaned in slightly, his voice cool and precise. "I'm listening."
—
The cellar was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and fear.
Daario Naharis slumped in his chair, wrists bound tightly behind him, his once-pristine blue and gold tunic clinging to his sweat-slicked skin. The rogue's trademark smirk was gone, replaced with a clenched jaw and wary eyes. His blonde-streaked curls were damp, and his breathing was ragged, the lingering echoes of the Cruciatus Curse making his fingers twitch involuntarily.
But still, he had spirit.
"Fine… fine," he croaked, licking his lips. His voice was hoarse, but even through the pain, that insufferable arrogance still clung to him like a bad cologne. "I'll talk."
Hadrian leaned forward slightly, his wand still twirling lazily between his fingers. His emerald eyes were calm—too calm. The kind of calm that promised Daario would regret wasting their time.
Standing beside him, Fleur—no, Dany—crossed her arms, her icy blue gaze locked onto the sellsword like a vengeful goddess deciding whether to smite an unworthy mortal. The flickering torchlight caught on the platinum waves of her hair, and though her expression remained unreadable, there was something undeniably dangerous in her posture.
The Sand Snakes loomed nearby, their presence a reminder that Daario wasn't just facing Hadrian's wrath—he was facing the collective sadism of Dorne's deadliest daughters.
Obara, ever the warrior, stood with her arms folded, weight shifted onto one foot, fingers idly tapping against her hip where her dagger usually rested. She was watching Daario like a lioness eyeing wounded prey—waiting, judging.
Nymeria, poised and sharp-eyed, tilted her head, studying him with the kind of detached curiosity one might show a particularly interesting insect before deciding whether to crush it.
Tyene? She was humming softly, the eerie little tune at complete odds with the gleam in her eyes. She looked like she was deciding whether or not to giggle.
Jon, arms folded, exhaled through his nose. His expression was unreadable, but there was a distinct air of not in the mood for bullshit surrounding him.
And then there was Daemon, standing just a bit apart from the others, arms crossed, eyebrow arched, looking deeply unimpressed.
"Then talk," Jon said, voice low.
Daario rolled his neck with a pained groan, then took a deep breath. "Three months ago," he began, licking his lips, "our dear friend Illyrio Mopatis had a deal in place—a real sweet one. The girl—Daenerys Targaryen—was supposed to marry Khal Drogo. You know, big scary horse man, enjoys braiding the scalps of his enemies into his hair? Real romantic."
He flashed a weak grin, but the effect was ruined when he winced at the movement.
Hadrian said nothing. He just watched.
Daario swallowed, shifting slightly. "Everything was set—the feast, the gifts, the fat man's fake tears of joy… and then, poof. The girl vanished." He snapped his fingers. "Along with a rather insulting amount of gold and valuables from Illyrio's vaults. You can imagine how well that went over with our esteemed Magister."
Obara snorted. "I'd imagine the slob cried into his silk robes while stuffing his face with olives."
"More like drowning his sorrows in Arbor Gold and screaming at everyone in earshot," Daario muttered, shaking his head. "But here's the fun part: Illyrio couldn't just call off the wedding. Oh no, no, no. You see, Khal Drogo had already agreed, and Dothraki horselords don't take broken deals lightly."
"That much we know," Jon muttered.
Daario nodded. "Right, right. So, what does our dear Magister do? He sends sellswords—swarms of them—to every city in Essos, looking for his missing bride. I got sent here, to King's Landing, on a hunch. Illyrio figured maybe some clever rat had spirited her away across the Narrow Sea." He rolled his eyes. "Honestly, I thought it was a fool's errand. But the pay was good, and I do like a bit of travel."
There was a beat of silence. Hadrian tapped a finger against his wand.
"That's all well and good," he said lightly. "But it's also everything we already know."
Daario stiffened slightly. "Well, if you already know—"
Hadrian flicked his wand.
"Crucio."
Daario screamed.
His body jerked violently against his bindings, muscles spasming uncontrollably. The pain—hot, searing, relentless—crawled through his nerves like fire ants burrowing into his bones.
Obara smirked. "I like this part."
Nymeria tilted her head, fascinated by the way his entire body convulsed.
Tyene giggled. "He makes the funniest noises, doesn't he?"
Hadrian held the curse for only a few seconds before he released it.
Daario slumped forward, breathless and shaking, a thin line of saliva trailing from the corner of his mouth. His breath was a ragged, uneven mess, his fingers still twitching.
Hadrian gave him a moment. Just a moment.
Then, casually, as if discussing the weather, he said, "Now, let's try this again. Tell me something I don't know."
Daario coughed, shaking his head as if to clear it. He let out a weak chuckle. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?" His voice was raspier now, rough around the edges. "I mean, I figured the famous Hadrian Peverell had to have a mean streak, but this?" He whistled weakly. "This is some proper dark shit."
Hadrian simply smiled.
Daario licked his lips, eyes darting between them. His fingers twitched against the bindings. He exhaled sharply.
"Alright. Alright." He shook his head, then looked directly at Hadrian. "You want something new? Here's something new: Illyrio isn't the only one looking for her."
Silence.
Hadrian's expression remained calm, but Jon's posture shifted. Daemon stiffened.
"Explain," Hadrian said softly.
Daario chuckled, despite himself. "Oh, you're gonna love this." He tilted his head back, smirking again—though this time, it was smaller, more bitter. "Someone else is hunting for Daenerys Targaryen. Someone with deep pockets. Someone who makes Illyrio look like a penny-pinching brothel owner."
Nymeria frowned. "Who?"
Daario's eyes flicked between them, then landed on Hadrian.
"Varys."
—
Daario Naharis smiled. Not his usual smirk, the one that made women sigh and men itch to punch him. No, this was something else. Smaller, sharper. The kind of smile that said: Oh, you're gonna love this, but it's gonna ruin your whole damn day.
Hadrian tapped his wand against his palm. His eyes—too green, too knowing—locked onto Daario like a blade pressed against the throat. "Go on."
Daario exhaled, shifting slightly in his chair. Not that he expected to escape—Hadrian had bound him good and tight—but old habits died hard. "You see, I have a… how do you say… a terrible vice." His blue eyes sparkled with mischief. "Some men drink. Some men gamble. Some men chase women—"
Nymeria Sand rolled her eyes. "You do all three."
Daario grinned, unabashed. "Guilty." Then he leaned forward, as much as his bindings would allow. "But do you know what I really enjoy? Secrets." He let the word linger, savoring it like fine wine. "And do you know the best place to find them?" He tilted his head, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "A fat man's desk."
Jon Snow frowned, dark brows knitting together. "Illyrio's desk."
Daario winked. "And his letters."
Hadrian's fingers stilled. He had always known Daario wasn't just a peacock in gaudy silk, all gold teeth and arrogance. No, beneath the bravado, the man was dangerous—not just with a blade, but with his mind.
"You read Illyrio's correspondence," Hadrian said, already knowing the answer.
Daario spread his bound hands, as if to say, What else would I do? "Not all of it," he admitted. "But enough. The man has a habit of keeping his important letters close, and his favorite maid even closer." His grin turned wolfish. "A lovely girl, really. Quick-witted. Loyal. Terrible at keeping doors locked when properly distracted."
Obara Sand scoffed. "You mean when properly fucked."
Daario clicked his tongue, feigning offense. "Obara, please, such crude language."
She sneered. "Spare me. I bet you didn't even need a full night."
Daario gave her an easy smile. "Two hours. But they were very productive."
Nymeria muttered, "The only thing you produce is regret."
Tyene Sand giggled. "And bastards."
Daario wagged his eyebrows. "Now that I won't deny."
Hadrian sighed. "Can we get back to the part where you rifled through Illyrio's letters?"
Daario's expression sobered—slightly. "Ah, yes. Well, you'll find this quite fascinating. You see, Illyrio Mopatis is a liar."
Nymeria deadpanned. "You don't say."
Daario chuckled. "No, no, not the usual sort of lying. Big lies. The kind that shape kingdoms. The kind that rewrite history." He let the tension build, stretching it like a bard spinning a tale before the climax. Then he dropped it: "Illyrio has a son."
Hadrian's fingers curled tighter around his wand.
"A son," he repeated.
Daario nodded. "A hidden son. Raised in exile, groomed like a prized falcon. Tutored in statecraft, warfare, philosophy—every skill a prince needs." His smile widened. "Because that's what they've been calling him."
Jon's eyes narrowed. "A prince?"
Daario tilted his head. "Aegon Targaryen."
The words hit like a hammer.
Dany's breath hitched. Jon went rigid. Daemon crossed his arms, expression darkening. Nymeria inhaled sharply. Obara muttered a Dornish curse. Tyene simply hummed.
Hadrian, though? Hadrian just stared.
Daario smirked. "Ah, now I have your attention."
Nymeria's lips pressed into a thin line. "You're sure?"
Daario barked a laugh. "Oh, positively." He mimed holding a scroll. "Illyrio keeps everything. And the truth?" His smile was pure amusement. "It's written in his own damn hand." He looked at Dany. "His son? This so-called Aegon?" He paused for effect. "His mother was named Saera."
Dany inhaled sharply. "Saera…"
Daario nodded. "Saera Blackfyre."
The name fell like a blade.
Obara exhaled through her nose.
Nymeria swore under her breath.
Jon's jaw clenched, hands curling into fists.
Daario's eyes flicked to Hadrian. "Illyrio and Varys have been passing off a Blackfyre as the lost son of Rhaegar Targaryen." His voice was almost amused. "And they even managed to fool Jon Connington."
Jon Snow's expression darkened. "Rhaegar's friend."
Daario's smirk deepened. "His loyal friend. Exiled after Robert's Rebellion, clinging to the belief that his prince—the son of his beloved silver prince—was alive. That the boy who was supposedly slaughtered during the Sack of King's Landing had been smuggled away and raised in secret." Daario clicked his tongue. "The man is either tragically hopeful or blindingly stupid."
Hadrian's mind raced. Varys… Illyrio… Blackfyres…
Daemon exhaled. "That's… a lot to take in."
Daario chuckled. "Oh, I'm not done yet."
Hadrian's eyes narrowed. "Then keep talking."
Daario licked his lips. "Illyrio isn't the only one keeping secrets." His smile turned razor-sharp. "Our dear Spider? Varys?" He leaned forward. "He's a Blackfyre, too."
Silence.
Tyene stopped humming.
Dany went utterly still.
Jon looked like he wanted to break something.
Hadrian just… waited.
Daario nodded. "Oh yes. The great Varys, Master of Whispers, Lord of Secrets? He's no common spymaster." His voice dropped, conspiratorial. "He's Illyrio's brother-in-law." He let the words sink in. "Saera's brother."
Dany murmured, "Mon dieu…"
Hadrian's wand spun between his fingers, slow and deliberate. "Which means?"
Daario spread his hands, a showman at heart. "Which means this whole grand game? The return of the Targaryens, the restoration of the rightful king?" His grin was pure satisfaction. "It was never about the Targaryens at all."
Nymeria whispered, "It was about the Blackfyres."
Daario nodded. "And that, my friends, is why they planned to sell Daenerys Targaryen to a Dothraki horselord."
Obara exhaled. "To diminish her claim."
Daario tapped his temple. "Exactly. A Targaryen princess, wasted on a people who will never sail west. A girl who would be nothing more than a khaleesi, forgotten across the sea, while their Blackfyre prince was raised as Rhaegar's heir." His smile turned almost pitying. "Poor Viserys never stood a chance. He was always a pawn."
Hadrian's voice was eerily calm. "So was Daenerys."
Daario's smirk faltered. Just for a moment.
Then he sighed, shrugging. "Ah, well. That's the game, isn't it?" He grinned. "Kings and queens, swords and shadows… some of us just play it better."
Hadrian's green eyes burned.
Daario, Illyrio, Varys… they had played their own game.
But now?
Now the board was theirs. And Hadrian intended to flip the whole damn table.
—
Hadrian's wand flicked faster than thought.
"Stupefy!"
A bolt of red light shot across the table and slammed into Daario's chest mid-sentence. His smirk vanished as his head snapped back, and he crumpled into his chair, arms splaying out, one leg twitching before finally going still. His flamboyant blue-and-gold tunic crinkled awkwardly, one of his mismatched swords rattling against the floor.
Silence stretched.
Then—
"Enfin," Dany muttered, rubbing her temple as though shaking off a headache. "He talks so much."
Nymeria huffed, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed. "That's what I was saying."
Obara snorted, arms still folded as she shot Hadrian an unimpressed look. "Could've done that ages ago, Hadrian."
Hadrian exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose as though she were the one giving him a migraine. "Yeah, and then we wouldn't know what he'd give up willingly."
Tyene, lounging across two chairs, propped her chin in her palm. "Or—and hear me out—we could've just let Dany peek into his head from the start, skipped the theatrics, and saved us all a headache." She shot Dany a knowing look. "You did peek, didn't you?"
Dany straightened, fingers tapping lightly against her arm. "Évidemment." Her lips curled slightly. "And he was telling the truth."
Jon tensed beside her. "Aegon's really a Blackfyre?"
Dany nodded. "His real name is Aegon Blackfyre—the son of Illyrio's wife, Saera." She let the words sink in before continuing. "And there's more." Her gaze flicked to Hadrian. "He was thinking about where Aegon is right now."
Hadrian's jaw tightened. "Where?"
Dany's blue eyes darkened. "With Jon Connington."
Jon Snow swore under his breath. Daemon let out a sharp exhale.
"Jon Connington?" Daemon scoffed, pushing off the wall. "That old fool still thinks he's some tragic hero? I thought greyscale would've taken him by now."
Dany's gaze sharpened. "Connington is raising Aegon as his son. He believes he's Rhaegar's child." Her fingers curled against her dress. "And… they're already planning their next move."
Nymeria arched a brow. "Which is?"
Dany pressed her lips into a thin line. "Winning the Golden Company to their cause."
The room went still.
Then Obara, ever blunt, turned to Hadrian. "And why exactly didn't we just start with mind-reading?"
Nymeria smirked, propping a boot onto the table. "I was waiting for someone to ask."
Tyene clapped her hands together. "I like this game! Next time, let's just skip straight to cheating."
Hadrian rolled his eyes. "Because," he drawled, "I wanted to know how much he'd spill on his own."
Nymeria snorted. "And because you liked watching him squirm."
Hadrian didn't deny it. "Maybe."
Dany gave him an unimpressed look. "Your methods are frustrating."
Hadrian grinned, all teeth. "But effective."
Obara nudged Daario's limp form with her boot. "So, what now? Kill him?"
Nymeria let out an exaggerated sigh. "What a waste."
Tyene smiled sweetly. "I could poison him just a little."
Hadrian waved a hand. "No one's killing him. Yet." His grin widened. "But first…" He turned to Dany. "Want to take another peek? Just to see if he's holding anything else back?"
Dany's smirk was sharp. "Gladly."
---
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