Chapter Text
The shift happens quietly, with the weather.
When their affair first began on Dragonstone, the chill in the air was a comfort. Mysaria’s bare skin against Rhaenyra’s chest made perfect sense then. She curled into the Queen’s warmth like something starved, trembling, and needing—always needing—and Rhaenyra gave without hesitation.
Mysaria is always cold. Even in spring. Even under thick covers. Her fingers are delicate. Her skin goes cool easily, like she’s been carved from shade and marble. But next to Rhaenyra—who runs hot—she warms within minutes. Lulled into a calm she never otherwise reaches.
Rhaenyra finds it sweet. Beautiful.
But come the first hints of summer…
The nights in King’s Landing grow heavier. The fire no longer needs tending. The silks stick to damp skin. Rhaenyra’s natural dragonblooded heat becomes something far more than cozy—it’s scorching. And Mysaria, for all her composure, begins to unravel quietly under the weight of it.
She does not complain, not directly.
The signs, however, begin to show.
The Lyseni rouses in the middle of the night with her side of the bed drenched. She washes twice before noon. She starts requesting chilled wine instead of tea. And then, finally, in a moment of pure desperation, she slips off to find Maester Gerardys.
She does not bring any lady in waiting. She does not make eye contact with any guard on the walk there.
“I am sweating,” she says flatly. “At night.”
Maester Gerardys peers over a scroll. “My lady, the temperature has risen indeed. Are your chambers not to your liking?”
Mysaria exhales through her nose. Grits her teeth.
“They are fine.”
He waits.
“It’s just… do you have something for me, or not?”
“Something for…?”
“For night sweats,” she snaps, before her voice falters. “I—It’s not important. Just… discreetly, please.”
She doesn’t say it’s because I am being boiled alive by the Queen’s body against mine. Doesn’t say I’d rather make myself sick than ask her to stop holding me.
Rhaenyra overhears only a piece of this.
She’s passing by. Stopping to greet another courtier. Hears the tail end of Mysaria’s clipped voice, “do you have something for me or not… For night sweats. ”
It makes Rhaenyra blink. Frown. But she doesn’t ask her Lyseni about it—she means to, swears she will.
That night, Mysaria kisses her like she’s starving. Climbs into her lap without any clothes, all pouting lips and thinned breath. Rhaenyra forgets. Gets lost in her. Worships her girl until Mysaria is boneless, glowing, and clinging again. She’s sweaty and flushed, whispering nonsense into Rhaenyra’s neck.
I’ll ask her in the morning, Rhaenyra tells herself.
She looked fine.
She didn’t bring anything up.
◦ ❖ ◦
Rhaenyra wakes up sometime after the hour of ghosts, midnight, to Mysaria shaking. Her breath is shallow. Her limbs limp and slick with sweat. Her cheeks are red down to the collarbone. Her lips cracked. Her hairline soaked. And she’s murmuring again, but the words are slurred now.
Rhaenyra gently presses the back of her hand to her forehead and jerks back like she’s touched flame.
“Gods, baby—Mysaria—”
Panic. Pure panic. She half-rolls out of bed in nothing but her nightgown, stumbling barefoot towards the chamber's door to then sprint for Maester Gerardys.
Behind her, she feels it before she hears it, barely audible.
“Mmnh? Are you… leaving?”
And Gods.
Gods.
Rhaenyra turns. Mysaria is half-curled on their bed, eyes barely open, face flushed and raw. She looks unwell. And small. And afraid.
Like she knows she’ll be sent away. Replaced by cooler sheets.
Fuck.
Rhaenyra rushes back. Kneels at the edge of the bed, brushing midnight black hair from her burning face.
“No, Mysaria. No, no, never. I just—I was going to find something for you, you’re… You’re burning up, I didn’t realize how—”
Mysaria tries to shake her head. Tries to speak.
“S’just hot,” she slurs. “Don’t want to be cold.”
“You are not just hot,” Rhaenyra says, eyes bright with terror. “You’re feverish. I–I should’ve asked you—I heard you with Maester Gerardys earlier—”
That breaks Mysaria more than anything.
“So you knew?” she whispers. “And you still touched me like that?”
Rhaenyra crumbles. Her voice cracks.
“I forgot,” she admits. “You looked so beautiful, and you wanted me, and I—I forgot what I heard earlier because I was so caught up in you. I’m sorry, Mysaria. I should’ve—”
But Mysaria cuts her off. Barely.
“Please don’t stop,” she rasps. “Please don’t stop holding me. I can’t sleep without it. I don’t want to. ”
It breaks Rhaenyra.
Because Mysaria has never allowed herself this comfort before. She has never had someone whose heat made her feel safe instead of scalded. Even now, she’d rather burn in Rhaenyra’s arms than be left untouched by the woman she’s chosen.
“Please don’t stop,” Mysaria attempts again. “...You feel like home.”
And Rhaenyra just collapses. Not from weakness. But from devotion. She curls up beside her, pulls Mysaria in just barely, in the softest way possible, fingers trembling.
“I’m here. I’ll fix it. I promise.”
And she stays awake. Watching. Worried that holding Mysaria meant hurting her at the same time.
◦ ❖ ◦
The next morning at council, Rhaenyra can’t help herself. She keeps glancing at Mysaria. Looking for signs of high temperature, fatigue, chills, anything that could have been her doing. She can’t focus.
“The season has turned,” the council attendant announces brightly, gesturing at the parchment with a smile. “The Summer solstice approaches—”
And across the table, the Mistress of Whispers narrows her eyes at the attendant like she’s about to assassinate the sun itself.
Rhaenyra, seated at the head of the table, clears her throat quietly and very deliberately does not laugh. She’s watching Mysaria out of the corner of her eye—the way her jaw tics, the way she crosses one leg tightly over the other, arms folded across her chest, radiating pure disdain.
It’s not the weather.
It’s what the weather represents.
Because summer will mean compromise. It means Mysaria will have to put up with constantly changing silks and being covered with cooling sheets. It means Rhaenyra will be monitoring her like she’s a fragile peach about to spoil.
And most of all—just from what she’d seen last night—it means Rhaenyra pulls back.
Mysaria hates it. It’s only been mere hours and she hates how Rhaenyra reaches for her only to pause, hesitating before returning to spooning her. Hates that soft hand brushing over her clavicle, down her stomach, then—pause. A press of knuckles to her cheek then her forehead.
“I am not porcelain,” Mysaria growled just this morning, barely hiding her pout.
“You were sick, nuha prūmia, my heart,” Rhaenyra says gently. “I’m just checking.”
“I can tell, Rhaenyra.”
◦ ❖ ◦
The first few days after those initial overheated nights… it lingers.
Mysaria tries to pretend it’s nothing. She’s practiced at masking every emotion anyways. Keeps her spine straight. Answers questions in clipped syllables. Wears long sleeves even when the day is warm.
But Rhaenyra notices the signs. She notices everything about Mysaria.
Her skin is still flushed, too pink across her cheeks and chest. Her hands have a faint tremor when she pours her tea. Her face is pained when she winces at the midday sun through the window, like it scrapes against a body already raw.
Rhaenyra corners her gently, in private.
Lays a cool hand against her forehead.
Feels fever—worse temperature yet.
She panics.
“Gods, nuha prūmia. What have I done to you??”
Mysaria attempts to swat her hands away. She misses. Too weak to try again.
“You’re sick. Boiling,” Rhaenyra’s eyes squeeze shut. “You didn’t tell me—”
“I’m not sick. Just warm. You’re warm. That’s all.”
But she’s sweating through her robe. And her legs wobble as she stands. When Rhaenyra silently gathers her into her arms and carries her to the bed, Mysaria doesn’t protest. Not much. Just presses her face into Rhaenyra’s collar and shivers.
That’s the worst part—Rhaenyra feels it.
The contradiction.
Hot to the touch, but shivering. Chilled because she is overheated. And that’s when the guilt hits like a hammer.
I did this. She just wanted to be held, and I melted her down to the bone.
Rhaenyra spends that whole night fussing. Whispering apologies. Stroking Mysaria’s hair back from her damp brow. Trying to keep her close but not smothered.
And when Rhaenyra introduces “solutions” the next night—cooling stones, damp cloths, a whisper of distance—Mysaria reacts like she’s been betrayed.
“What is this?” she asks, voice tight with accusation. “You don’t want to hold me like before?”
Rhaenyra blinks. “It’s not that—love, it’s because you overheat. You get the chills. I just—”
“I don’t wear anything to bed,” Mysaria cuts her off, pout forming already. “It helps. The warmth. I need it.”
Her voice gets smaller.
“You used to let me.”
Rhaenyra looks at her and aches. Because Gods, she knows. Mysaria has never had someone want to protect her so much that they would risk displeasing her in order to do so. And to Mysaria, even a sliver of distance feels like abandonment. Feels like the love is pulling away.
But she’s flushed again. Slick with sweat. Trembling as she curls into the blankets despite the open windows. Her lithe body is betraying her and yet, she still clings to Rhaenyra.
So Rhaenyra gathers her gently. Presses her lips to her temple.
“No, Mysaria. Not like that. I’ll always hold you.”
Rhaenyra chooses her next words carefully.
“...But I want you to feel good after I hold you, too. Not just during.”
Mysaria does not respond at first. But she nuzzles closer. Flutters her eyes closed. Still pouting. Still too warm. Still needing.
So Rhaenyra compromises.
She slips behind her. Keeps herself from fully pressing against Mysaria’s back, but wraps an arm around her waist. Threads their legs together loosely. Cools her fingers in water and strokes them along the nape of Mysaria’s neck until she sighs.
And eventually, Mysaria sleeps.
Cooler. Quieter. Still close.
And in the morning, Rhaenyra watches her cheeks—still pink, but not glowing.
The Queen thinks to herself.
You don’t have to burn to be held. You don’t have to hurt to be close. You’re mine. I’ll figure it out.
Even if it means holding her with a cooling cloth in one hand.
◦ ❖ ◦
It gets worse whenever it gets in the way of sex.
Because one night, weeks into summer’s oppressive heat, Rhaenyra’s fucking her. Good. Deep. Slow and possessive, the way that makes Mysaria’s legs shake. Rhaenyra’s hips are snapping with that deliberate drag, her mouth close to Mysaria’s ear, murmuring filth in Valyrian—
And then the rhythm stutters. Just slightly. And Rhaenyra pulls back
Only a fraction—just enough to lean back and gently brush the backs of her fingers across Mysaria’s flushed temple.
Mysaria’s entire body jolts. She stares up, dazed.
“Wha-what—” she pants, voice hitched mid-moan. “What are you—”
Rhaenyra doesn’t answer.
Because she’s doing the impossible.
She’s checking her temperature.
“A-Are you—” Mysaria’s jaw drops, utterly betrayed. “Are you checking my temperature?!”
And the Queen, flushed herself, eyes dark with want but full of concern, just nods. Half a shrug.
“You were getting too pink,” she tries. “Didn’t want to hurt you—”
“You’re inside me.” Mysaria’s voice breaks on a gasp. “I’m moaning. That’s not from a fever that’s… that’s from you!”
Rhaenyra’s face softens, but her hips and her hand, now resting on Mysaria’s inner thigh, remain paused.
“Last time you said that, you had chills the next day—”
“Last time, I lied!” Mysaria huffs. “I did not have chills. I was just tired. You stopped cuddling me for three days!”
Now, Rhaenyra does laugh. Just a little.
“I did not.”
“You monitored me like a sick child!”
“You were a sick child.”
They’re arguing now. Mid-sex.
Mysaria’s legs are still locked around Rhaenyra’s waist, hips twitching upwards desperately, and Rhaenyra’s hand, still on Mysaria’s thigh, coated in slick, itches to press back in. She’s just trying to gauge whether her Lyseni is flushed from near orgasm or actual heatstroke.
It’s a problem.
Mysaria is infuriated.
“I will bite you,” she warns, voice cracking as she whimpers again. “If you stop right now to fetch a cooling cloth—”
Rhaenyra kisses her. Silences her with tongue and heat and the full weight of yes, I’m worried, but I’ll worship you first.
But she does keep her hand behind Mysaria’s neck. Pressed there. Monitoring her temperature like it’s the pulse of the realm itself.
Later, when Mysaria is ruined, dozing, and clinging to her anyway, Rhaenyra murmurs against her hairline.
“You can glare at the sun all you want, my heart. I’m still going to check your temperature.”
Mysaria grumbles. “Hate summer.”
“I know.”
“...Still not wearing anything to bed.”
“You never do.”
◦ ❖ ◦
The relief of that first night when autumn starts its return is palpable. Not just in the temperature—but in the peace. The stillness. The absence of panic.
It starts subtly.
A breeze through the window that doesn’t cling like humidity. The sheets don’t feel like damp cloth draped over sweating skin. There’s a crispness in the air, curling around the corners of their bedchambers like a whispered promise.
And Mysaria—unclothed as always, bare, and nestled into Rhaenyra’s chest—sleeps without shifting. No little whimpers. No flushed cheeks. No damp hair at her temples. Her limbs stay tangled, pliant, soft, and dry.
Rhaenyra wakes just before dawn, the way she always does now. Out of habit. Out of love.
Her hand moves automatically, brushing over Mysaria’s brow, her cheek, her neck. But this time—
Nothing.
No feverish pulse. No damp heat. No low murmuring sigh of discomfort.
Just soft, cool skin. Slightly chilled, even. And a sleepy body curled against her like it belongs there.
Rhaenyra’s breath catches.
She almost doesn’t believe it. Her hand lingers, palm pressed flat against Mysaria’s ribs, counting her breaths. One, two… steady. No trembling. No clenching.
Autumn, she thinks. Thank the Gods.
She’s so lost in the moment of calm that she doesn’t notice Mysaria stirring until the shift of a thigh locking tightly around her hip.
“Mmmnn…”
Rhaenyra glances down—Mysaria’s eyes are still closed, lips parted with sleep. But her voice comes out, low and laced with dreams.
“Didn’t sweat.”
Rhaenyra’s smile tugs at the corners of her lips. She kisses her temple.
“I know, my heart.”
A pause.
Then so small, so sleep-slurred it nearly breaks her.
“You proud of me?”
Rhaenyra stills.
Mysaria’s voice is half-pouting, half-hopeful. Her leg hooks more tightly around Rhaenyra’s waist. Her arms cling. Her face, buried against her shoulder, presses in like she needs to be reassured that she is wanted now that she isn’t sickly and inconvenient.
“Always,” Rhaenyra whispers, stunned at the vulnerability. “I’m always proud of you.”
Mysaria sighs, a soft little pleased exhale. She nuzzles deeper.
And that’s when Rhaenyra realizes—she’s been avoiding this. Morning sex. Pulling Mysaria close. Letting her hands wander. Initiating. Out of fear. Out of guilt. Out of habit, now, for weeks. Ever since summer took hold and her touch could tip Mysaria into a fever without meaning to.
But this morning—
This morning, Mysaria is not burning. She’s cool, and curled against her, and asks if she’s good.
And locking Rhaenyra down with one long, possessive leg.
“You want me to stay right here?” Rhaenyra rasps, voice gone dark.
Mysaria nods against her shoulder. She’s mumbling now.
“Want you to touch… missed it.”
Because now Rhaenyra’s hands can wander. Can slide over those silk-soft thighs. Can dip between her legs and feel the heat that’s meant to be there. Desire. Not a fever. Craving. Not sickness.
When Mysaria gasps, clutches, and pants into her ear, Rhaenyra whispers.
“You feel perfect nuha jorrāelagon. My love. Autumn suits you.”
“Told you I wasn’t too hot,” Mysaria whimpers—dizzy, overstimulated, soothed.
Rhaenyra kisses her. Half reverent, half laughing.
“You were always too hot for me. Since the beginning. That’s the problem.”
And when the morning sun rises over the first day of fall, Rhaenyra is finally allowed to burn again for Mysaria without fear.