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There is little that Rhaenyra finds welcoming about Dragonstone. Even from a young age, she’d thought it to be dim and moody, with hallways that allowed almost no sunlight in and sunken stairs worn with time. When she eventually left King’s Landing to return here, she hadn’t thought of it as capitulation—perhaps only as a necessary extraction.
She was the heir. It was only fitting to take to her ancestral seat.
Now, with a crown atop her head, she can’t decide if it is a cage or a fortress.
Sometimes, she even fears it will someday become her tomb.
Her council tells her to remain where she is, but her hands itch for the fight. She hasn’t known war, but thinks that most of her life has been an uphill battle. She has thirty two years of indignation and derision to make up for.
But she waits. Roams around the gloomy hallways of Dragonstone and tries to will away the grief and the anger, listens as more and more news is brought to her and the scales tip—not in their favor.
She is used to this, by now.
At least, when Daemon goes, she strangely enough feels lighter. She can’t put her finger on it—it takes a while, too, before she even realizes why this balance has reached a new equilibrium inside of her.
His absence gives her space to unfurl. He cares for her, she doesn’t doubt it, but not in a way that doesn’t also benefit him. Even in love, his skewered perspective of it, he grasps for control and dominance. Now that he’s gone, she is no longer trying to prove to him that she’s worthy of being heir, of being queen—she simply is the queen.
At long last, she can get to work.
⁂
Mysaria stays. This is as much surprise as it is benediction—with her life at risk, Rhaenyra is in need of allies more than ever. And Mysaria is smart, cunning, knowledgeable on a host of things she has need of.
It is almost a relief when Mysaria asks for a place in her court. Yes, she can stay.
Rhaenyra watches her from the corner of her eye, hands braced on the stone balustrade. Seasmoke circles and screeches restlessly above the ocean.
“They will be ruled by either you or the usurper,” Mysaria is saying, tearing her gaze away from the dragon to face her, “and only one of you has shown yourself to be merciful.”
The words are a flame to a candle. Something warm and pristine unfurls in Rhaenyra’s chest. She had long believed it to be dead.
⁂
This, then, is the start of a tender thing.
The war is ugly and vicious, uncoiling all its ragged edges as the days pass. Every win is somehow a loss; every step forward pushes them back by two more. It is infuriating.
All this grief hardens into anger. Rhaenyra wants to mourn but doesn’t let herself—fears that if she does, she will simply never get back up. She cannot think about her son out of fear it will undo her entirely.
Late at night, when she sits holed up in the library and reads old, dusty tomes until her eyes burn, she finds herself in unexpected company. Mysaria, then, is the one who holds together the seams. Gentle but firm, long enough for the edges to heal.
Rhaenyra finds in this the strength to go on.
Mysaria has a sharpness about her that she appreciates. Not the blunt force Daemon possesses, but a directness and precision that fills a lack Rhaenyra never knew she had.
They sit together until the early mornings, sparring and discussing and scheming. When the night runs late and Rhaenyra’s resolve grows thin with exhaustion, the anxiety worms its way in. Worries about her family, yes, but mostly they’re insecurities about herself.
When half the realm tells you you’re not worthy, not good enough to sit the throne, it is hard not to believe them.
Mysaria’s determination is unwavering. She is good at putting these worries to rest. She will lean in, as though to reach for her hand, and Rhaenyra wants to let her. It has been so long since she has felt such a connection with someone; she thinks belatedly that Alicent was the last, probably, and that’s a hollowness she’s never quite managed to fill.
She watches Mysaria during these late nights. Catches her gaze when she walks past. Thinks of their conversations long after she’s gone to bed, twisting in the sheets and feeling hot and cold all over.
She feels helpless with something she cannot name.
⁂
Rhaenys dies. The news reaches her early in the morning, before dawn has even extended its grasp fully, and Rhaenyra is lost.
We need Daemon, her council says. Don’t they understand she is not his caretaker?
She talks to Jace about the unclaimed dragons. It is because of this Ser Darklyn dies—she hears his screams as his skin melts from his flesh, the shrill sound of it echoing in her ears even days after.
We must get Daemon, Your Grace, her council says, and her hands itch.
It is temporarily sated when she slaps Lord Bartimos. Perhaps it is time they start seeing the consequences of their constantly underestimating her.
And then even Jace tells her they need Daemon. Oh, she is so sick of hearing his name. It is a strange thought that in his absence, she has grown a little resentful of him. The distance has offered her new insights into their relationships, and none of them good.
It comes as a godsend when Mysaria shows up, cutting the conversation short with only an affirmative: our gift is sent.
Jace doesn’t understand. Rhaenyra has half a mind to explain it to him, but the thought promptly disappears when Mysaria smiles at her. It is not a polite, complacent one—no, it is a genuine smile, one that makes her entire face light up. Rhaenyra’s heart thuds loudly in her chest.
It is a rare sight these days, any smile here on Dragonstone. It somehow means more that it’s Mysaria—beautiful, cunning Mysaria, whose support has been not only steadfast and indispensable, but came from a place of deliberate willingness.
They stand at the stone balustrade, close enough to touch. Rhaenyra lets herself reach for Mysaria’s hand. Tries, and fails, to stifle the warm relief when Mysaria reaches back.
⁂
The even better news comes days later when Mysaria visits her in her bedchamber and tells her what happened in King’s Landing. Still, the rush of a small victory remains faint and dismal. When she falls silent, tilting her head in that way of hers that signals she can tell exactly what’s wrong, Rhaenyra glances at her face for a split second and thinks she wants to smooth the soft frown between her brows with her thumb.
Shit.
At the very least, Mysaria is of the same mind as her when it comes to Daemon, which is a bigger relief than Rhaenyra knows how to put into words. That invisible connection between them glows gold again, stretching taut and wrapping around her ribs so tightly it becomes almost unbearable not to step closer.
She doesn’t know why she talks, just that she does. Secrets never feel like secrets when she’s with Mysaria. It becomes a truth unburdened with her. She has rarely felt such an opening for vulnerability with anyone before.
When she turns away and Mysaria’s voice comes quiet and trembling, she stills. Perhaps she is not the only one who finds relief in their conversations. She has never heard her this open and honest before—maybe this is why it strikes her so violently in an unguarded place when Mysaria talks about her past.
It is not pity. It is sadness that someone she cares about has had to endure such pain.
“The world is cold and cruel, and there are few in it who are steadfast,” Mysaria says. Her eyes burn with searing intensity in the candlelight. “You, I think, are steadfast.”
Rhaenyra reaches for her almost blindly. Cannot bear the thought of not holding her for a second longer; it comes as second nature to wrap her arms around Mysaria’s slim frame. She feels the hesitation for only a beat before it melts away and two hands cradle her in return.
She would like to say she thought about it here. That this is where the realization struck.
She can only think that Mysaria is soft and warm and holds her like she is something tender, and that is a feeling Rhaenyra hasn’t felt in a very long time—she can’t remember when she last felt precious to someone, worthy of being cradled.
And her heart, her treacherous heart, which has listed sideways every time she was in Mysaria’s proximity these past weeks, now rips loose completely. It wants and wants and wants and there is no stopping it, not anymore.
For once, Rhaenyra thinks she will act on it.
She brushes her nose over the soft skin of Mysaria’s neck, can feel the muscles twitch in response. Heat flares up in her abdomen. The pull is magnetic, irresistible.
On her back, one hand slips down to her waist. The other tightens on her shoulder, a safeguard—don’t pull away from me, don’t pull away from me—and when Mysaria’s lips brush over the junction between neck and shoulder, her breath leaving a slightly damp spot on the skin, Rhaenyra feels like she is falling upward, heady with the rush of it.
They pull back. Rhaenyra takes one look at Mysaria’s flushed face, the glowing embers of her eyes, and bridges the gap between them.
She is slow, careful—hungry, fuck, she’s so fucking starved, and Mysaria responds in kind. The heat of her mouth is enough to make Rhaenyra’s head spin. She pushes closer to her body, wishes there still wasn’t so much space between them, thinks briefly about tearing the laces on Mysaria’s dress but knows she won’t be clear-headed enough to coordinate that, not with Mysaria’s hands on her jaw and her tongue in her mouth.
It is hurried and greedy and demanding. It is tender.
She hasn’t been kissed like this in years. Hasn’t kissed someone like this in years.
The knock on the door doesn’t even register; it is only when the lock turns and the hinges creak that she finds the sense to jump back.
The world feels very, very far away. Rhaenyra listens as though from a distance.
Seasmoke, new rider—it snaps her back somewhat, and some automatic part of her takes the reigns. They are two sides of the same coin, her addled mind thinks, the way they both jump back to the matters at hand. She wonders if it is a front for her, too, then has to look away, because if she takes in Mysaria’s reddened mouth and burning cheeks for a second longer, her resolve will crumble like sand in the wind and she’ll order the guard out to have her way with her until Seasmoke is long forgotten.
As it is, she follows him out into the gloomy hallway. Dragonstone ensconces her in its dark embrace once more, but this time the warmth tucked in her chest doesn’t dissipate. No, it lingers for a long time, pure and electrifying.
⁂
The next days pass in a blur. There is no time to talk.
To have chosen something because she wanted it—to have acted upon that initial desire… it is a thrill that lingers.
The residue of it, however, is unbearable.
She cannot help but lie awake at night and stare at the ceiling, restless with smoldering desire. She dreams of Mysaria, only a few hallways down but still so out of reach—dreams of hands on bare skin and lips pressed between thighs and lazy kisses traded in the dark.
Her mind drifts during council meetings. Only occasionally, because there is still a war to be fought and deaths to be avenged, and yet it is a challenge to drag her mind back to the present every time.
Now that she has allowed herself to want this, it seems she can’t stop.
She wonders why Mysaria hasn’t sought her out, if this comes from a place of regret. But then they pass each other in the hallway and their gazes lock for only a split second and it is enough.
Mysaria comes to bring her a missive from one of her associates the next evening. Tension sparks in the air as clear as lightning, and Rhaenyra’s heart urges her to act on it. Their fingers brush as she’s handed the parchment and her stomach swoops dangerously.
Her eyes flick to the guard at the door. Mysaria stares at her as she reads, then turns away.
“Mysaria,” Rhaenyra calls, and she stops in the doorpost—turns slowly, her chest rising and falling shallowly. The moment stretches thin. At last, Rhaenyra shakes her head and clears her throat. “I would like your help in the library tomorrow.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” she answers, and with a curtsy leaves the room.
⁂
It’s been raining for most of the day, and Rhaenyra can hear it tapping on the roof as she rummages around the library. Mysaria is on the other side of the room, glancing at a book with a deep frown etched between her brows.
They keep their distance. On Rhaenyra’s part, this is done purposely. Whenever she even glances her way, the scroll in her hand is forgotten and all that remains is a low, droning ache in her body. She recognizes this ache as need.
She doesn’t like needing anything or anyone, but with Mysaria, she finds that strangely enough, she doesn’t mind.
They work in silence, up until the moment Mysaria inches closer and glimpses one of the missives on the desk. “Have you spoken to Corlys’ son?” she asks then.
Rhaenyra looks up. “A few days ago, yes. He’s training with the dragonkeepers now.”
“Hm.” She folds her arms over her chest, pacing back and forth a few steps as she thinks. Then she positions herself against the desk. “You think him capable enough to make a difference?”
Rhaenyra straightens. Her back hurts from all the reading and note-taking and plotting. “Yes,” she answers, glancing around until she finds the book she’s looking for, right behind Mysaria. “Or at the very least, I don’t see we have a choice. We’d be fools not to use this to our advantage.”
Mysaria tilts her head in a nod. Rhaenyra reaches past her side—when Mysaria inhales sharply, she stills.
The room goes deadly quiet. The book slips from her grasp, suddenly no longer relevant. She shifts until she’s facing Mysaria directly—thinks neither of them are breathing. Her pulse thuds dully in her ears.
“Have you thought about what to do with Daemon’s plans yet?” Mysaria asks then, and Rhaenyra can feel her breath on her face as she speaks.
“I haven’t thought about Daemon in days,” she answers, and crushes their mouths together.
The kiss is not hungry, it is starving, and it is not tender, it is deprived. She pushes Mysaria up against the desk, uncaring of the paper crumpling and tearing; Mysaria’s hands are on her face, in her hair, messing up the braids that her handmaiden did so carefully this morning.
The skirts of Mysaria’s dress are wide enough that Rhaenyra can push in between her legs. Even the minute space between them is too much—she needs to be closer, gods be damned—so she puts one hand on the small of Mysaria’s back and pulls her closer, while the other slips between their bodies, sliding up until she can cup one of Mysaria’s breasts over her dress.
Mysaria’s movements falter as she stutters out a moan.
The sound is no louder than an exhale, but it's so mesmerizing that Rhaenyra pulls back just to look at her face. She is so, so beautiful.
Then Mysaria nudges her chin to the side and presses her lips to the pulse point on her neck, trailing damp, hot kisses down to her shoulder. Rhaenyra has half a mind to resume her work, her hands mapping out the sharp juts and soft edges of Mysaria’s body, albeit over too much fabric.
One of Mysaria’s hands slides down her back, smoothing over her waist before slowly idling to the front, up and up and up until her palm comes to rest over her breast and squeezes.
“Shit,” Rhaenyra hisses, and reconnects their mouths with bruising force.
She is alight with it, desire and lust and this crazy, infuriating wanting. She pulls Mysaria to the very edge of the desk, hands on her ass, and then grinds her thigh against her core. There’s still too much clothing and Rhaenyra wants to feel her but it must be doing something, because Mysaria moans into her mouth and yanks her closer by the collar of her dress. She swallows the sound, greedy, eager.
Mysaria tilts her hips and rolls them down and it is too much, not enough, fuck, not enough. Rhaenyra is so turned on it hurts, lightheaded with it.
They move in tandem, working off each other’s movements, chest pressed together and bodies curled around one another. The desk groans under their demonstrations, the desperate chase of a high that feels closer within reach by the second. Mysaria bites her lower lip, tugs on it.
She’s so soaked below her smallclothes it should be embarrassing, but Rhaenyra can’t think of anything else when Mysaria’s posture goes rigid and her thighs tense around her waist. “I’m—” she gets out, panting against her mouth. Rhaenyra slides her hand between her thighs—she can’t fucking reach with the skirts in the way, but they make do, wriggling around until the fabric is bunched enough she can press her fingers against where Mysaria's underclothes are warm and damp. It’s the barest brush that does it—her knee twitches violently, her hand digging into her shoulder as she comes.
Rhaenyra thinks briefly, with great delight, that she’s not the only one who must’ve been waiting eagerly for a reunion.
“Let me—” Mysaria starts, but the dull clang of metal armor echoes faintly down the hallway, and their heads snap up.
Rhaenyra tugs Mysaria from the desk as she steps back. She hurriedly fixes Mysaria’s hair, who does the same for her in return, rearranging skirts and collars and wiping spit from their mouths while the footsteps grow louder.
Right before the door opens, she brushes her thumb over the sharp jut of Mysaria’s cheekbone, a delicate gesture. "Next time," she murmurs before dropping her hand and stepping back. She says it mindlessly, certain, because in her mind there’s no doubt that there will be a next time; doesn't see the reaction to her words because she's barely turned away before a guard comes in, bowing his head and telling her Corlys is here to see her.
It is strange, she thinks as she follows after him, how the world keeps spinning like time hasn't reinvented itself under Mysaria's delicate touch.
⁂
War, turns out, is a waiting game. While dragons move fast, armies do not, and gathering hosts of men takes longer than anyone would like. Her council is restless, as is Rhaenyra herself.
She reads about Visenya and thinks about Rhaena and wonders if she’ll ever see her sons again. Late nights offer themselves to morose and melancholy thoughts—she tries to quell them, but little works. The days grow colder and the tension grows heavier.
She sits with Jace, but he is needed in places she is not. He reminds her so much of Harwin, when she catches him at the right angle or in the right lighting, and it makes a dull ache live up, one she forgot she had. When she watches him depart, armed and his face taut with determination, an old fear resurfaces.
Only when she is with Mysaria do these fears temporarily subside. Merely her presence is enough to lull them into silence.
They consider possibilities and wrangle with alliances. Rhaenyra sits through endless council meetings, listening to the same argument over and over again. At night, she dreams and dreams, waking in cold sweat as she tries to remember where she is.
Silly, isn’t it? She’s on Dragonstone. Has been, for almost a decade now. Fortress, cage, tomb. Home—never home.
She grows sick with it, the waiting, the worrying. One of her handmaidens prepares her for bed, but before she can snuff the candles, Rhaenyra tells her, “I need to speak to the Lady Mysaria.”
The girl says, “Of course, Your Grace,” and Rhaenyra paces around as she waits, before finally settling down on a chair. She fidgets with her ring finger, wonders what is taking so long.
Mysaria looks plucked midway through her own preparations to sleep, hastily pulled back together. Rhaenyra thinks she looks beautiful.
“Your Grace?” she starts, a question.
Rhaenyra nods to her handmaiden, who takes her leave and closes the door behind her. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“About what?”
A futile question. About an unspeakable thing, clearly. Something bigger than the both of them; it has taken root, now, won’t easily be shunned. She doesn’t want it to go, to slip from her grasp like so many other good things she lost before in her life.
She gets to her feet. “Well—not talk, not really. I merely… wanted your presence here.”
It is as good a confession as any. A deeper meaning in the words, if only she dared look. For a long, winding moment, they stand across from each other, breaths kept.
Rhaenyra isn’t sure who moves first, just take it takes two steps before they’re tangling together—hands on waists and shoulders and backs, reaching for skin. The wet sound of mouths parting, then connecting.
The kiss starts soft this time, patient. Mysaria’s hands brush featherlight on her face, fingers tracing the lines of her cheekbones and jaw. Tasting her like she has all the time in the world, unbothered and unrushed. The privacy of her bedchamber lends itself to an overabundance of it. Rhaenyra makes a soft, needy sound as Mysaria takes out the single band holding her hair together and combs her fingers through it. Gentle, like she is something fragile.
Then she cups the back of her head in both hands and deepens the kiss. Mysaria nudges her towards the bed, and Rhaenyra lets herself be steered backwards blindly. “I want—” she starts, cuts herself off, tries again; “I want—”
She wants. That’s the entirety of it.
Mysaria seems to understand. They sprawl on the bed and Mysaria fits herself in between her thighs as if the space there was made for her, not breaking the kiss as she starts undoing the laces of Rhaenyra’s nightgown.
It takes too long, the strings tangling together. Rhaenyra reaches too, their fingers clumsily bumping until the dress has come loose enough that she can take it off. Mysaria shuffles back, tugging the fabric over her head, then helping her lay back on the bed. She reaches tenderly for the pale strands of her hair, mindful as she tucks it aside. She stares for a moment. Says, “You are beautiful,” and it contains such genuine emotion that Rhaenyra’s breath catches in her throat.
She grabs Mysaria’s shoulder and tugs her back on top, catching her lips with her own and holding her close with one hand on her neck. The other shifts down, over the elegant curve of her back, tracing the vertebrae of her spine until she reaches her ass and squeezes.
Mysaria moves to her neck, mouth still wet as she kisses down the tendon there—bites down on her jaw, pulse point, collarbone, everywhere she can reach. Greedy, yes, how nice it is to be wanted.
She goes lower, down the sternum and kissing the slope of Rhaenyra’s breasts, hovering for a moment and breathing hot air on the pale skin; goosebumps rise in its wake. Then she dips her head and closes her mouth around a nipple—hot and sensitive and making a breath stutter from Rhaenyra’s mouth. Teeth graze the bud; then she switches to the other, meticulous with it. Not wanting to miss out on a single part, a single inch of her skin.
Rhaenyra props herself up to watch, neck straining. Her lower stomach is burning with desire, flaring to life so violently it’s hard to think through the static in her head.
Mysaria’s hands slide down to the last fabric of her smallclothes, fingers toying with the soft waistband before hooking into it. She kisses her way down, pauses at the bellybutton when Rhaenyra stops breathing. “Let me,” she whispers, glancing up. “I want to.”
Her heart squeezes in her chest. She reaches for Mysaria’s face, brushes her thumb over her cheek.
Mysaria takes the hand, kisses the calloused pad of her thumb; bites playfully, then continues her way down, sliding the fabric over her waist. She puts her mouth on the jut of Rhaenyra’s hipbone and sucks. Her hands are tentative but certain as they brush over her thighs, kneading the flesh before pushing her knees further apart and settling in between.
Rhaenyra feels exposed, suddenly embarrassed—but Mysaria will have none of it, her eyes glittering in the candlelight as she watches, mouth parted. She hums, the only sign of warning before she licks a broad stripe up her cunt. It is—it is—
—too warm and too sensitive and too much—
Rhaenyra’s leg twitches, and Mysaria wraps her arm around it, keeping it pressed down to the mattress.
“Hells,” she gasps, head tilting backwards to the mattress. Her elbow gives out and she sinks back on the bed.
It’s messy and good. Her tongue pushes in between her folds, settles over her clit, sucks hard enough that Rhaenyra nearly comes on the spot. Her back arches from the bed, one hand instinctively tangling in the loose braids of Mysaria’s hair. When she tugs—mindlessly, really—Mysaria hums, and the sound reverberates to a spot deep in Rhaenyra’s abdomen.
“’Saria,” she gets out, half of her name sticking behind her teeth, “fuck—”
She dives back in, tongue inside and then outside and then a kiss pressed on her clit, gentle, before her mouth closes around it again. Mysaria pushes one finger inside without meeting resistance and Rhaenyra comes so hard her heart pounds behind her eyes.
Mysaria slows her movements. When she looks up, her pupils are blown wide and her mouth is wet. Rhaenyra beckons her up, kisses her before she’s even reached halfway, hungry and filthy and grateful. She tucks her into her side, cradles her face in her hands. Thinks belatedly that Mysaria is wearing too many clothes, can’t muster up enough focus to take them off efficiently. She just tugs at the dress until Mysaria laughs against her mouth—she can taste the sound, it’s glorious—and helps shuck out of her nightgown.
Mysaria is all sharp cuts and soft curves. This is how Rhaenyra knows her, too, both while covered and now bared. She traces over the moles and freckles on her chest, bends her head to put her tongue in the hollow of her collarbone. The candlelight paints dancing shadows over her skin. Rhaenyra squeezes, kneads the flesh, takes in the nicks and scars. On the scar on her abdomen, she lingers for a moment, brushing her index finger over the pale, jagged line tenderly.
She looks up. Mysaria is already watching her. Rhaenyra leans in and kisses her, slowly mapping out her way down—she squeezes Mysaria’s hipbone and her thighs part almost automatically, giving her enough space to slide her fingers in between.
They both gasp at the same time.
She is wet—so wet. Slick enough she can't even find any purchase, but Rhaenyra feels around just to explore, letting her fingers slide up and down and Mysaria hisses and tightens her hand around Rhaenyra’s wrist, squeezing.
Then she takes mercy on her and pushes two fingers in, easily, and she is hot and slippery and Rhaenyra is a convert, really, wants to kneel at this altar for the rest of her life.
It doesn’t take long. They kiss sloppy and open-mouthed as Rhaenyra sets a relentless pace, pumping and pushing her thumb against Mysaria’s clit—the sounds are obscene, Mysaria’s thighs tensing and tightening around her wrist until there’s almost no room left to move.
“I—” she gasps, and then her brows knit together as she comes. Tightens like a vice around Rhaenyra’s fingers, and Rhaenyra pulls back to look at her face, the taut expression, the purse of her lips.
After, they lie curled around each other, tired and satisfied. The candles are burning low, flicking irregularly. Mysaria’s hair is fanned around her like a halo, and Rhaenyra props her head up on her elbow to watch her.
Mysaria watches her in turn, tracing her cupid’s bow with her thumb.
Right outside the door, they can hear the guard change. Metal on metal, footsteps approaching and fading. Mysaria drops her hand and clears her throat, moving to turn away. Rhaenyra catches her wrist to stop her.
“Don’t,” she murmurs. “Stay.”
In her gaze is a question. Are you sure, do you want me to?
And Rhaenyra doesn’t think there is a single reality in which she doesn’t want to. Consequences be damned. "Stay with me,” she repeats, and Mysaria’s gaze softens.
They sleep, tangled together in the bed. It has grown lonely in these past weeks—perhaps even months, if she is being honest, and Mysaria fits perfectly, spread across the sheets like this space has always belonged to her.
Rhaenyra dozes, waking every now and then before remembering where she is—who she’s with. On the watery edge between night and daybreak, they wake and kiss in the dark and make love again. Rhaenyra settles between Mysaria’s thighs by touch alone and eats her out until she’s writhing on the bed, panting and keening and trying to be quiet. Mysaria pushes her knee between Rhaenyra’s thighs and Rhaenyra grinds down until she reaches her climax, letting her forehead rest against her shoulder as she catches her breath after.
They doze again after, fully intertwined, only for a short while before the light slips in through the blinds and the day beckons them.
Rhaenyra watches Mysaria get dressed and helps her with the laces. Thinks that she might have had her fill, but it somehow still isn’t enough.
⁂
It becomes a nightly occurrence, of sorts. The sleeping together, at least, not the sex. There is some kind of decorum to be upheld to the lords and ladies here on Dragonstone, even though Rhaenyra thinks often enough that she shouldn’t care.
They are both smarter than that, though.
At night, they touch just to touch. It is nice to be held. Mysaria curls around her and pulls her close, listening whenever Rhaenyra wakes from nightmares or when sleep is out of reach. They talk about fear and anger, and sometimes love, and they kiss in the dark and tether each other to this world through touch.
In the mornings, she wakes by Mysaria’s fingers combing through her hair or tracing the planes of her face. Some nights, Rhaenyra watches her sleep and feels something tender coil inside her chest. It is different, so different.
Daemon offered her security. Mysaria, then, is perhaps the first person in a long time who makes her feel safe. It is a strange thing to be seen and not flinch away at it—with her, it is like being unearthed. To be seen in entirety and know she is still worthy of being held.
Rhaenyra isn’t sure what to call that. Or perhaps she does. In these times, it might be better not to put a name to it.
The days drag on. The nights give her comfort.
She considers and reconsiders her plans for Vermithor. Jace watches her with a tight expression, pleading for her not to take the risk, but they both know wars aren’t won through idle decisions. They must make the dangerous choices or risk the annihilation of their house. She discusses with her council, listens to their opinions.
She silently makes the choice midway through and doesn't tell anyone. She is the queen, after all, and no one can tell her otherwise.
Mysaria is in the library, waiting. She pushes off the desk the moment Rhaenyra walks in—can tell by the mere look on her face what she has chosen to do. Rhaenyra can’t pretend—not here, not with her—that she isn’t terrified. She stops in the middle of the room, her arms listlessly at her sides.
Mysaria walks over and takes her hand in both of hers. Rhaenyra turns, shifting closer, needing the proximity. There is a long silence between them, only the sound of their breathing audible in the room. Then Mysaria rests her forehead against hers, noses brushing gently.
“Do not let their doubt get to you,” she says. “Their small-mindedness is no reflection of you.”
“Isn’t it? They sit on my council. That makes me as much a fool as they are.”
“You are the queen,” Mysaria says simply. Like that is rebuttal enough.
Perhaps it is. “Do you still think me worthy of the title?” Rhaenyra asks then, huffing a humorless laugh. It doesn't cover up the insecurity in her voice.
Mysaria looks up. She lifts her free hand to caress her face. “You are the only one worthy of it. If you do not believe it yourself, then believe me.”
Sometimes she thinks she is a fool for falling for her. Lady Mysaria, the White Worm, who spins her webs and captures those unwise enough to fall into it, who lies and poisons and sells information to the highest bidder.
But it is the same Lady Mysaria who saved her life. Who swore her loyalty to someone else than herself for the first time in years. Who promised her, quiet and genuine, you have me.
Rhaenyra’s never doubted her on that. Maybe she should just let it be this simple for once. Tender is the flesh that has scarred. Tender even more is the hand that touches it with love.