novelzi [92] The Sons of Harpy
[92] The Sons of Harpy
Chapter 92: The Sons of Harpy
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I leapt from the Mother of Dragon’s chamber windows, wings sprouting from my back to carry me safely to the street below. Landing silently, I retracted them and stepped into the shadows. The satisfying crunch of her arm breaking still echoed in my mind.
Meereen slumbered under a bruised purple sky. Dawn wasn't far off, casting the city in that peculiar half-light where night surrenders to morning. The narrow streets remained largely deserted, though a few early risers—bakers, servants, and the occasional drunk staggering home—moved like wraiths through the gloom.
I wiped a speck of blood from my hand that I'd missed earlier. The Unsullied's spine had been surprisingly easy to rip out. These legendary warriors weren't so legendary when facing someone of my caliber.
Just how strong was I now?
The memory of my sister’s face flashed through my mind—her violet eyes wide with pain and shock as I snapped her arm. My little sister. My Dany. The sound of her pain bothered me more than she knew it did.
"Fuck," I muttered, kicking a stray stone down the empty street.
A pair of servants scurrying along the opposite side caught sight of me and quickened their pace, heads bowed. “Hah,” even strangers could sense the storm brewing inside me.
I didn’t want to hurt her, but I’d planned so. I'd come to warn her about the Blackfyre pretender at her side, but she had to blame me for everything—even her oh-so-precious horse-lord's death. As if I'd orchestrated that from across the Narrow Sea while fighting for my life.
“Stupid fucking bitch.”
No wonder she died at Jon Snow’s hands in the original timeline.
As I walked, the red walls of Meereen's buildings seemed to close in around me. A torch guttered in a nearby alcove, its dying flame reflecting in a puddle at my feet.
I raised her. I fed her when there was barely enough for me. Only for her to act so high and mighty in my presence.
The memories surfaced unbidden. Braavos. The house with the red door. Sneaking extra bread to Dany when her little stomach growled. Carrying her on my shoulders through the market. Telling her stories of dragons and our ancestors. Her tiny hand clutching mine as we fled in the night after Ser Willem died.
I'd been little more than a child myself then. A boy of five trying to care for a toddler. No one had taught me how. Yet I did. For she was my last family.
And now? Now that frightened boy who once carried his sister across continents had broken her arm without hesitation. For she deserved it. Why did the very last of the Targaryens have to share such a bad relationship?
I paused at a small square where a fountain bubbled softly. Sitting on its edge, I stared at my reflection in the water. The king who stared back looked troubled.
"She blames me for everything," I muttered. "I didn’t kill fucking Khal Drogo, but I wish I had." I really did. That fucking barbarian idiot. I wasn’t “myself” back then; I lacked these powers, but the memories of my torment at the Dothraki’s hands still were my memory.
However, it’d be unwise to get swept by emotions now. I knew who was the cause of these incidents, so I had to take care of them myself.
It was all Varys and Illyrio. Those conniving spiders had manipulated me, used my desperation to further their Blackfyre plot. I'd always suspected Varys wasn't what he seemed. Back on Earth, theories had circulated about his true identity—a Blackfyre descendant working to restore his line to the throne. That’s why he was always bald, stopping his silver hair from showing.
And Illyrio. That fat merchant had arranged the marriage to Drogo, not me. He’d proposed the idea to me, baited me to accept it, and the foolish me fell for it. Illyrio Mopatis was most likely Young Griff’s father…
"I was a fool then," I whispered to my reflection. "But she's the fool now."
I recalled how gentle she'd once been. The sweet girl who'd braid flowers into her silver hair. The sister who'd crawl into my bed during thunderstorms.
Those days were gone. Irretrievably lost.
Was breaking her arm necessary? The question nagged at me. Perhaps I could have shown my strength differently. Yet the snap of her bone beneath my fingers had felt... satisfying. A physical manifestation of our differences. Of how weak she was without me.
She needed to understand that she couldn't match me—that her dreams of taking my throne were childish fantasies. "She had to learn," I decided aloud, pushing off from the fountain.
My footsteps echoed on the cobblestones as I moved deeper into the sleeping city. The sky lightened gradually, and the stars faded like distant memories.
She called me a coward. Me. The man who'd conquered Westeros. Who'd beaten Stannis Baratheon in single combat. Who commanded a dragon. How foolish was she, truly?
A dog barked somewhere in the distance, and a window shuttered hastily as I passed. Perhaps it was my Authority stat, but it seemed that my anger caused others to flinch.
Well, what now? My thoughts had calmed down, but my emotions hadn’t. I needed to unwind, to release this tension building in my chest. Sex had always been my preferred method. But I was a king now—the most powerful man in the world. Common whores weren’t going to cut it.
The thought of visiting the area where the old masters once lived appealed to me. Many had been killed during Daenerys' conquest, leaving widows behind. Proud, highborn women who’d broken down after their husbands’ deaths.
Of course, the first wife was killed alongside their wives, but the concubines remained.
I smiled at the thought as the first true rays of sunlight broke over Meereen's eastern wall. It shouldn’t be too hard to seduce a widow.
****
Dawn crept over Meereen like a thief, stealing darkness inch by inch. I strolled through the eastern quarter where the crumbling mansions stood in faded glory—monuments to wealth that Daenerys had upended. The streets remained empty save for chirping birds and the occasional servant hurrying on early errands.
The worn facades of these once-grand homes reminded me of King's Landing after my conquest. Empty palaces, abandoned by fleeing nobles, their treasures left behind in hasty retreat. I'd walked those halls feeling like a god among ruins.
The same hollowness lurked under that triumph as it did now—what value was power if it broke everything in its grasp? My sister didn’t know how to protect.
I adjusted the dark wig and covered my silver-white hair. Better to move anonymously for now, especially after the scene at the Great Pyramid. The Unsullied might start
"Ah." Understanding flickered in her eyes. "Family. The sharpest knives are always wielded by those who share our blood. I suppose I can relate to that… after my coward oldest son fled, leaving me alone in this ruined city. He should have died with his father."
I stepped closer, drawn to the defiance in her posture. Here was no cowering servant or simpering courtier, but a woman who'd lost everything and still wore her pride like armor.
"You're not afraid of me reporting to the Queen?" I asked.
"Should I be?" She arched a brow. "I've watched my husband flayed alive. I've seen my youngest son's head displayed on a pike. What more can any man do to me?"
"Many things," I murmured, reaching out to touch a strand of her dark hair. "Some might even be pleasant."
Her breath caught, but she didn't pull away. That had taken her off guard, and she observed me properly for the first time, eyes going over my muscles. "You presume much, Ser."
"And you pretend disinterest poorly." I traced a finger along her jawline. "Shall we continue this conversation somewhere more private? Your home, perhaps?"
Her lips curved into a bitter smile. "What remains of it. The Dragon Queen's freedmen have stripped it of nearly everything valuable."
"Then let me see what they left behind," I said. “If they left behind such a beautiful woman, they at least know to appreciate art.”
That made her scoff out a giggle, pausing for a moment as she made a decision. A moment later, she led me through a side entrance into what had once been a grand home.
The entryway still boasted marble floors, though several tiles were cracked or missing. Dusty outlines on the walls marked where paintings or tapestries had hung. A few pieces of heavy furniture remained—too cumbersome for looters to carry, I supposed.
Nahreen moved with practiced grace through the echoing rooms. "I had thirty servants once," she said, her voice hollow. "Now I have ghosts for company."
"And me," I added, catching her wrist as we entered what must have been a sitting room. "And soon you’ll be begging for a son, too."
She turned, amber eyes flashing. "You talk a lot for a nameless man. What exactly do you want from me, ser knight? I have no gold, no influence. Nothing to offer a man like you."
I pulled her against me, one hand sliding down to grasp her waist. It was a slender thing, soft yet firm, as I felt my fingers dig in. "I think we both know that's not true."
Her fingers splayed against my chest, neither pushing away nor drawing closer. "Is this how Westerosi knights behave? Taking what they want from women they've just met? Poor widows, grieving over her husband’s death?"
"I'm taking nothing," I said, my lips brushing her ear. "You're giving. There's a massive difference. You can pull away, and I’ll walk out. But… I don’t think you’re going to do that, are you? You brought me to your home to get fucked all morning."
Her body trembled against mine. "You're very sure of yourself."
"With good reason." My hand slid lower, gripping her thighs through the thin silk of her dress. "Tell me to stop, and I will."
Instead of answering, she bit her lip, eyes darkening as my hand traveled higher. I backed her against the wall, pinning her with my body as my mouth claimed hers. She tasted of wine and bitterness, her kiss hungry and desperate.
I tore at her dress, the worn silk giving way easily under my hands. She gasped as cool air hit her exposed skin but made no move to cover herself. Her nails raked down my back, demanding rather than pleading.
"The bedroom," she breathed against my mouth. "Upstairs."
I didn't answer, just lifted her in one fluid motion and carried her up the marble staircase.
…..
A few hours later, I lay on her bed, staring at the painted ceiling while she curled against my side, one slender leg draped over mine. Nahreen traced idle patterns on my chest, attempting conversations that I had no interest in. My thoughts had already turned back to the city, to Daenerys, to the pretender at her side.
"You're not listening to me," she murmured, propping herself up on one elbow.
"No," I admitted without remorse.
She studied my face. "You're a strange man. Most want to boast after bedding a woman. You seem... elsewhere. Tell me about your hair. Why were you hiding it with a wig?"
I wonder if she suspects my identity already. There aren’t many famous blonde Knights in Westeros. Not with family members in Meereen. I chuckled.
I was about to reply when the bedroom door swung open. My brows tightened. Six figures entered, their faces hidden behind grotesque golden masks shaped like harpies. Nahreen stiffened beside me, her body going rigid with fear. That means she’s not involved. Good. I don’t want to kill someone I just slept with.
"Viserys Targaryen," the foremost Harpy said, his voice muffled behind the mask. "It's good to see you relax. I believe we can work together. Let's talk."
So they'd known who I was all along. The wig hadn't fooled them. Interesting.
I sighed, leaning back against the pillows. Rather than answer them, I turned to Nahreen, cupped her face in my hand, and kissed her deeply. She responded automatically, though confusion and shock radiated from her body.
The Sons of the Harpy stood silently, waiting as I ignored them. Power wasn't just about strength—it was about making others wait while you did exactly as you pleased.
When I was done, I turned to face them. Now, what do I do with these bastards?
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