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The wind is stronger here
Rhaenyra stands at the Dragonstone battlements, her robes warding off the chill from the winds as she gazes at the horizon. Rhaenyra’s hands are splayed onto the battlement wall, and her eldest and heir Jacaerys stands at her side.
She has the distinct feeling this conversation like others they have had as of late will not go very well.
'They say you struck Lord Bartimos today'
Rhaenyra does not turn toward him or acknowledge him as the event flashes in her mind.
‘A more conventional approach… True, not as sensational and… His.. His numbers were few… But he may yet retake –’ Lord Bartimos rambles walking at her side.
The man cornered her after one of the Council meetings, and would not let her have her time of peace after. She swallowed her irritation and listened to him, her anger sharply rising at every word the man spoke.
Rhaenyra’s composure snapped as she turned to face the man, her palm meeting the Lord’s cheek with the force of her fury.
‘It is my fault I think that you have forgotten to fear me’
A catharsis flowed through her veins as she walked away from him. She did not care at that moment at all the eyes who watched the interaction, who whispered about it in the halls moments after.
'In view of the staff and guard' Jacaerys finishes.
He spoke out of turn.
Rhaenyra kept her thoughts inside. No matter what she said now the action could not be undone, not that she’d want to truly – he deserved it. She would be seen by them as weak now – impulsive, prone to outbursts, even though they would never speak to a man, never mind a King the way they spoke to her, their Queen.
'The household is abuzz with it'
Rhaenyra should care that the event has spread over the household in a matter of a few hours, but as of now, she cannot summon the energy to. Perhaps, it might cause Lord Bartimos to reflect on the way he speaks to his Queen in the future.
'He's lucky I did not have his tongue,' Rhaenyra replies, unable to suppress a flash of anger in her eyes.
Her son Jacaerys watches her reaction amused.
'And what did he say that was so deserving?' Jacaerys questions.
Rhaenyra's muscles tense even further, she is weary of it all – this damn island, of being questioned by every single person, even her son and heir.
'I have tired of being protected, Jace' Rhaenyra states exhausted
'I bring to mind too much their mothers, or their daughters' she continues
Someone they can use. A pawn in their game.
'They must see me a ruler'
They must see me as The Queen.
'And the symbols of authority are not jewels and gowns but the shield and the sword'
Rhaenyra can neither wield a shield nor a sword. She tried asking her father as a wide eyed young girl many years ago. She remembers the seed of hope she clung to as she said the words to her father.
‘The training yard is no place for a Princess’
Rhaenyra can still hear his chuckle as if the request was outlandish. She remembers how her cheeks burned as she exited the room. Rhaenyra took to her Septa lessons with sheer hatred after that, she knew the texts, and yet she pretended not to, for Rhaenyra now knew a cold truth: she could defy the Septa, but she could not defy her father.
She would never be Visenya, a sword in hand striking down her enemies.
'My ruler is my mother… And I do not wish it otherwise'
Rhaenyra is snapped from her thoughts by her son's comment. Jace is a good boy, a fine heir, and one day a fine King. He will have to shoulder the burden she does. Rhaenyra grimaces at the thought of her son shouldering that burden, he should never have to feel that weight, but as the Queen she knows he is capable.
'Will you lead us to war yourself?'
His question is one she has asked herself. The response has been the same in her mind every time.
I must.
'Well for a certainty I cannot remain here, pacing the floors, waiting for defeat and despair to visit me'
Her response was whiny unbecoming of the Queen, she can admit, but it is difficult to respond any differently when despair is all she has felt in the past few weeks and all she can see for the future.
'Oh don't be ridiculous' her son scoffs.
'I'm doing all I can,' Rhaenyra replies in her Queenly firm tone.
It’s clear this conversation is bound to end in strife just like the rest.
'I have directed Lord Mooton to march on Rook's Rest and sent another raven to the Vale to persuade –’ Rhaenyra informs
'We may marshal the strength of the Vale, Maidenpool, and all our allies besides. We will still never match the strength of the Green armies' Jace interjects fire igniting in his tone.
Rhaenyra sighs at his words. Jace spoke true, but that doesn’t mean she liked to hear yet again how poor her position was.
It was all she heard from everybody on this damn island, well, except for one perhaps.
'We need Daemon and his dragon'
Rhaenyra’s anger spikes and she knows it is coming – the same snap she had when she slapped Lord Bartimos.
'May I be free for even one hour of the constant refrain of Darmon, Daemon, Daemon –’ Rhaenyra snarls, her fury erupting from her.
'Your Grace' her Kingsguard interrupts
Rhaenyra stops dead in her tirade freezing at the figure beside him.
'The Lady Mysaria' the Kingsguard introduces bowing his head returning to his post on the nearby steps.
Mysaria bows to Rhaenyra and Jacaerys before she takes a step forward. Rhaenyra is transfixed at the sight of her triumph. Rhaenyra’s previous fury vanishes at the sight.
'My Queen, our gift is sent'
Rhaenyra is still looking at Mysaria who wears a glow of victory – winning suited Mysaria.
'What gift?' Jace's voice is dangerously quiet
Rhaenyra almost forgot he was there.
'Let us hope for clouds over the Blackwater tonight' Rhaenyra replies, ignoring her son's question.
Mysaria smiles – a small smile as a blush creeps up her cheek. It was something the woman didn’t do often as her muscles strained a little to hold the smile for longer than a few seconds. Rhaenyra reflects the same smile at Mysaria, still mesmerised at the sight.
Jacaerys clenches his jaw at being left out of the plan, he is the heir, he should be privy to such things if he is to rule one day. Jacaerys’ eyes flit between the two of them and confusion etches itself on his face as he doesn’t quite understand what is transpiring between the two of them.
The moment is broken when Mysaria steps out of the way as Jacaerys exits with suspicion in his eyes that follow Mysaria as he leaves.
Rhaenyra turns away at his departure, resuming her stance looking out into the sea and waits for Mysaria to join her. After a few seconds, Rhaenyra glances back at her, a silent permission to come to her side before turning her body back.
Mysaria approaches and stands beside her.
She is so close Rhaenyra can smell her perfume: lemon, and honey. Rhaenyra inhales further to put a name to it, but the breeze washes most of it away.
They are alone.
Rhaenyra’s eyes turn from the sea to the woman at her side – her hands, long, tanned and soft, her nose, and her chin. Rhaenyra looks into her eyes that still stare ahead, brown, doe eyes that were sharp in her observations of those around her.
Rhaenyra had been suspicious when she first laid eyes on her, rightfully so, but Rhaenyra honoured her husband's word, and the word of her House. It was the right thing to do despite potentially opening herself to betrayal and losing an asset, but she was firm in her choice.
Rhaenyra did not regret it even as she watched her begin to walk the shores down Dragonstone to her ship to Myr.
Mysaria turned around abandoning her freedom, and her information saved her life.
When presented with a reward she wanted to stay, to serve and Rhaenyra for the first time in some time had been tongue tied unable to figure out why.
She served Rhaenyra very well in the little time she was here, she gave sound counsel and enacted plans that further bolstered support for Rhaenyra. She proved there were other courses besides bloodshed to winning this war – wits, and cunning.
She earned her place in Rhaenyra’s council while the highborn Lords were there because they were entitled to it by birth. Mysaria proved her worth, clawed and scraped to be here where they have not.
Rhaenyra has grown a deep respect for the woman in front of her, and admiration as there is a strength in her Rhaenyra has not seen in many others she has met. Where Visenya’s strength was in blood and violence, Mysaria’s is in her mind – two kinds of strength, each as formidable as the other.
They stay like that for quite some time in silence.
Rhaenyra continues her examination of the White Worm wondering if she might be able to peel back more layers to the cunning schemer, closer to the woman behind the name.
Mysaria.