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As a general rule, Mysaria Saho does not make a habit of courting trouble. She has seen enough of it to last several lifetimes.
Regrettably, trouble appears to be endemic to this city. It is not the first time she thinks it, but the thought returns to her anew as she surveys her newest problem.
Anushka is her name. She’s a pretty thing: dark, voluminous long hair and lovely, doe-like eyes the color of cinnamon. 18 years old—a woman by law, but before her, little more than terrified girl. She came to them under the cover of night. Scared Mina half to death, poor thing.
“Mina tells me you’ve been in some trouble,” Mysaria states plainly.
The girl’s gaze remains resolutely downcast. She’s shivering where she sits, all bruised limbs and borrowed clothes. “Y-Yes.”
A cup of tea—half-finished, long cold by now—sits before her atop the desk. Mysaria’s fingers trace it idly as she asks, “Might I inquire about the nature of this trouble?”
“A man. He…” Wide, terrified eyes meet hers. They’re red-rimmed, brimming with unshed tears. “He hurt me.”
“He forced himself on you?”
“Yes.” The admission seems to break her anew. A tear falls, tracing her swollen cheek.
Mysaria nods. The evidence speaks for itself, but confirmation is not insignificant. “Someone you knew?”
Anushka stiffens. Her gaze falls to the floor. Silently, she shakes her head.
She’s a terrible liar. “I see. And you have come here hoping for… what, exactly?”
This question, at least, seems to be one she’s prepared for. With squared shoulders and tear-stained cheeks, she meets Mysaria’s gaze once more with a resolve she almost certainly doesn’t feel. “They say you help girls like me. Girls who’ve been—hurt.”
A smirk teases Mysaria’s lips. “This isn’t a charity, dear girl. Speak plainly.”
“I know you run the brothels. I don’t want to work there, but I will if that’s what it takes.” She swallows thickly. Mysaria watches with interest as something hardens in those eyes—something wounded yet stubborn.
Mysaria likes eyes. Some call them windows to the soul. She prefers to think of them as weather vanes. They tell you which way the wind blows. “That is not my only trade. This is not news to you, I’m sure.”
The girl shakes her head in lieu of verbal answer.
“So, you want a job—and a room, I’d imagine.”
“Yes.” Determination underscores her tone. “I’m a hard worker. If given the chance, I promise I will show you that.”
Mysaria nods. “Very well.” She doesn’t reach for her laptop. For now, paper and pen will do. “First, I will need some more details from you. Then we can discuss prospective roles.”
Anushka huffs out a breath that sounds like it might be a laugh, but she’s quick to trap it with her hands. Her eyes shine with a fresh wave of tears. “Thank you,” she whispers.
Mysaria permits herself a small smile. Internally, she thinks: I am almost certainly going to regret this.
— —
Not two days later, she finds herself proven right.
She’s in the bath—how right she had been to splurge on a claw-foot tub!—and relaxed in a way she so rarely allows herself to be. Rich scents—mint and eucalyptus—infuse the air. The water is hot, near scalding as it wrings every ounce of moisture from her skin.
Gentle notes, plucked upon strings with fingertips that dance and leap like flames, envelop her in their soothing song. A woman sings—long, soulful notes; uneven, yet rhythmic.
At that moment, a dreadful noise shatters her reverie.
Plink! it goes—the telltale sound of a new text message.
Mysaria has to bite back a curse. She’d left her ringer on. But of course.
She thinks about ignoring it—dreams about it, really. The damage has already been done. The heat now feels stifling rather than comforting.
After exiting the tub and leaving the water to drain, she slips on a bathrobe and retrieves the infernal device.
- Unknown
- We need to talk. -RT9:12 PM
Today
R.T.—Rhaenyra Targaryen: the Queen herself. Her aunt—who shares those initials—would never. Mysaria considers her response for a moment, then messages back.
- Unknown
- We need to talk. -RT9:12 PM
- Mysaria
- Who is this?9:12 PM
Today
It’s a fair question. Boldness—though risky—can do a great deal to forestall scrutiny, deserved or otherwise.
A reply comes almost immediately.
- Unknown
- We need to talk. -RT9:12 PM
- Mysaria
- Who is this?9:12 PM
- Unknown
- The initials didn’t clue you in?9:13 PM
Today
The response draws a huff from her—half amusement, half annoyance.
- Unknown
- We need to talk. -RT9:12 PM
- Mysaria
- Who is this?9:12 PM
- Unknown
- The initials didn’t clue you in?9:13 PM
- Mysaria
- I don’t make a habit of messaging with strangers.9:14 PM
Today
She receives an expeditious reply—in the form of a phone call.
It’s silenced now, thankfully. That doesn’t stop Mysaria from almost dropping the damn thing. She allows herself a brief moment to indulge in a bit of melodrama—pinching the bridge of her nose, exhaling out long and slow—before accepting the call:
“Hello?”
“You picked up.” The voice on the other end is lower-pitched, resonant, and tinged with the faintest note of surprise. It also unquestionably belongs to Rhaenyra Targaryen.
“I don’t like texting.” A question settles on her tongue, but she swallows it down. Rhaenyra, clever though she is, has never shown an aptitude—nor any patience—for verbal jousts or mind games.
“Duly noted. Do you believe me now?”
“I do.” Mysaria drops the robe, putting the phone on speaker and setting it aside. “Strange, isn’t it? We’ve known each other for years, and yet we’ve never spoken.”
“We’re speaking now.”
The lotion—an earthy scent, its edges sharpened with mint—is calming as she rubs it into her skin. Her hands appreciate the mindless task. “Your discernment is truly without equal.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that was sarcasm.”
“Perish the thought!”
“Well, thank the gods for that.” Amusement underscores the woman’s tone, winsome yet fleeting. Her voice bears no lingering trace of it when she asserts, “I’d like to take you to dinner.”
“Awfully forward of you.”
“Are you surprised? I’m not one to mince words. You know that better than most.”
Mysaria, now finished with one leg, starts on the next. “The timing could be better,” she muses. It’s a hedge, but an honest one.
“I understand.” Either she’s a better actress than Mysaria gave her credit for, or she’s truly displeased with the circumstances.
Mysaria bites back a sigh. Whatever game Rhaenyra plays remains unclear—yet it is almost certainly the least of numerous potential evils that distinguish the Targaryen dynasty from all the rest. “My Friday evening is clear.”
“Would it be too forward of me to say, ‘It’s a date’?”
“Forward? No. Disingenuous? Perhaps.” She expects another quip in response, but Rhaenyra does no such thing.
“Then I won’t,” she says quietly. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
Mysaria stares at the phone, its screen now dark, for a beat. Curious, she thinks, even as she snatches it back up to do something she should have the moment that girl showed up at her door.
She dials the familiar number, and waits only two rings to receive an answer.
“Boss! What’s up?” Ven. An over-caffeinated disaster of a human, but their work speaks for itself.
“I need you to look into someone for me—Anushka Mandal. I suspect the surname is fake. The girl’s a terrible liar.”
“Uh-huh. ‘Top of the list’ priority, or something I can get to whenever?”
“Top of the list. I want to know everything about her.”
“Anything specific you’re hoping to find?”
“Any association with the Targaryens. Be discreet.”
“Always am.” A pause. “And get some sleep, boss. You sound kinda grumpy.”
Mysaria refuses to justify that with an answer. She hangs up instead.
— —
Details come three days out.
- Rhaenyra
- Pick you up at 7:00?11:46 AM
Today
Well, perhaps “details” is generous.
Her first instinct is to decline. Were it anyone else, she likely would.
- Rhaenyra
- Pick you up at 7:00?11:46 AM
- Mysaria
- I’ll be at the Inn. What should I wear?11:48 AM
- Rhaenyra
- Something that will make me look twice.11:48 AM
Today
It’s presumptuous—and irritatingly vague—but it’s better than nothing.
Rhaenyra’s dating history—though tame in comparison to that of her kin—is well-publicized. She treats women to fancy, upscale establishments—Italian or French, naturally—with expensive wines and pitiable portion sizes.
When Friday evening comes, she stands before her mirror in a twice-worn gown of floor-length, feather-light satin. It’s Targaryen-red, of course, and despite its length, the plunging backline and bare arms have proven adequate at drawing stares. The scarf-neck style is a particular comfort, she finds.
She is not shy about her scars, but tonight, she is grateful to hide this one.
Her long hair is braided, twisted into an updo. She opts for light makeup: even tones, thin liner, lips just a few shades redder than their natural color. The earrings—slender, tassel-like things that look spun from spiders’ silk—provide the finishing touch.
— —
Over the course of the next hour, Mysaria finds herself in a state of increasing perplexity.
Rhaenyra arrives promptly, five minutes before seven o’clock. A sharp, well-tailored suit, dark as midnight, accentuates her strong shoulders and trim waist. Her tie—red—matches Mysaria’s dress perfectly; her short, curtained hair is tousled, yet stylish.
All told, she looks stunning. The sentiment is reciprocated, if the way she flushes and stumbles through her greeting is any indication.
The first sign of any irregularity is the lack of a driver idling at the curb or security to accompany them. Instead, Rhaenyra leads Mysaria to a sleek but affordable-looking electric vehicle. She drives with ease, as though she does it often—which she does, Mysaria knows. But for an evening out? Unheard of.
She also isn’t driving in the right direction. There are no upscale European eateries south of the Inn. Mysaria bites her tongue when they cross over into Chinatown. She says nothing when they reach its southernmost region, where Chinatown becomes slightly less “China,” and more “Asia.”
Sato’s is known for their incredible fish—and the comparatively steep price point. Mysaria has dined there on several occasions. Clearly, Rhaenyra has done her homework.
She seems to have also rented out the entire restaurant for the evening. The floor is a sea of vacant tables, and a quick head count finds no more than five employees on hand. Hardly surprising, but it does make Mysaria’s skin prickle at the knowledge of just how isolated they will be.
Kimmi—a mixed Korean-Japanese woman with ten years of waitressing under her belt and a memory like a steel trap—is their server for the evening. Watching her interact with Rhaenyra appears like something out of a fever dream.
Other members of the waitstaff disperse with haste the moment they enter. Those who remain make themselves small and avert their gazes. Kimmi does not. Rhaenyra appears somewhat taken aback at first, watching the woman with a curious look in her eye, but she says nothing.
Rhaenyra also appears determined to follow Mysaria’s lead when it comes to ordering. When Mysaria orders a beer, Rhaenyra stops Kimmi with a quiet request for her to “make it two.”
When the beers arrive, she defers to Mysaria to order on behalf of them both. Mysaria does, though she takes care to tack on some options with cooked meat—just in case.
After Kimmi leaves with their menus, Mysaria takes a sip from her beer, watching Rhaenyra mirror her movements. It’s an opportunity to begin probing, and she intends to make the most of it.
“What inspired this selection?” she asks, sweeping her gaze around the restaurant’s interior.
Rhaenyra shrugs, violet eyes sparkling in the low light. “Is it not to your liking?”
“It is,” Mysaria concedes. “And you?”
“It’s… new.” Her words reek of honesty.
Mysaria nods but says nothing more, allowing silence to stretch between them. She sips her beer and contemplates how long Rhaenyra intends to make her wait.
“How was your day?” Rhaenyra asks. Her face remains expressionless, but the question is rushed. Clearly, the quiet has lingered far too long for her liking.
“My morning was long, but I was grateful to relax in the afternoon.”
“And what, pray tell, does relaxation look like for you?”
“It varies. Today, it was music.”
“Playing? Or listening?”
“The former.”
Rhaenyra’s eyebrow twitches. “And your instrument of choice?”
“Biwa—a type of lute, I believe. It is the first instrument I ever learned.” Mysaria smiles thinly. “Are you musically talented?”
“I think you know very well that I am not,” Rhaenyra says with a self-deprecating laugh. Luckily for her, she’s just handsome enough to make it work.
“You seem to think me omniscient! I do not have a crystal ball, Miss Targaryen, I assure you.”
“Just ‘Rhaenyra,’ please.” At Mysaria’s assenting nod, she continues, “And yet, were I to underestimate you, I’m sure I would not live long enough to regret it.”
“You flatter me.” It’s not a flirt, merely an observation. “I confess I find it… perplexing.”
“We may agree to disagree. My kin think you toothless. I think they are fools.” Rhaenyra pauses. Her nails pick at the label on her beer bottle. “I truly am regretful that we have been brought together in this manner.”
Mysaria allows herself a small, disbelieving smile. “You thought to wine and dine me earlier?”
“It beggars belief, I’m aware,” Rhaenyra confesses. A rueful grin curves her lips, but it is quick to fade in favor of a more thoughtful expression. “This isn’t the first time we’ve met, you know.”
Mysaria pauses mid-sip, then forces herself to swallow. “I’m sorry?”
“It was nine years ago. Viserys—my father—still lived. My uncle Daemon—he was always sneaking me out, even when I was small. In Drakonis, he smuggled a dragonspawn into my room. It was the first one I’d ever been close enough to touch. Father was furious, but he could never stay mad for long—not when it was Daemon.” Rhaenyra’s gaze is distant, tinged with fondness.
“He did the same in Libreya, after my father moved us here. It was through his eyes that I first saw this city come to life. One night, on the eve of my 18th nameday, he took me to a brothel. I was mortified, but he insisted. He suspected my preference for women, I’m sure, but he still thought first to take me to one with male prostitutes—perhaps hoping that upon seeing them, my nascent desire would blossom.”
“It did not.” Rhaenyra chuckles. “We left posthaste, and sought out another—with women this time. We were ushered in quietly and without incident. Daemon’s carefree spirit, charming as it was, made him a poor companion. He disappeared quickly with two naked women, leaving me to stare at the floor and wait patiently for an early demise.”
With that detail, Mysaria feels a spark of recognition flare.
Rhaenyra, noting it, lets out a mirthful huff. “I must have stood there for several minutes, so painfully aware of how many naked bodies were walking about—and how much sex I could hear happening in every direction. And then a beautiful woman approached me.”
At this, Mysaria feels the need to interject. “I was just shy of 20. Hardly a woman. And you…” Mysaria trails off, struggling to recall. “You were dressed as a boy!”
“I was.” Rhaenyra ducks her head bashfully. “You were… not.”
Mysaria shrugs. “It’s the uniform.” It’s a joke, almost.
Rhaenyra nods. “You asked me if I was okay. I said I didn’t know. I think I mentioned Daemon.”
“You said you were waiting for him.” Mysaria remembers it well. The boy—Rhaenyra, she now knows—had looked so young and scared. “My shift was ending, so I put on a cloak and took you outside.”
“We had charred squid on skewers. I’d never had squid before.” Rhaenyra’s smile is so broad now, so genuine, it almost pains Mysaria to witness.
Fortunately, they are afforded an intermission when Kimmi returns with an oversized platter, its surface laden with steaming soup bowls, plates filled with raw fish of every color, and trays of vegetables and meat with crunchy, deep-fried coatings.
It barely fits on the table—a perennial problem—but they manage. Rhaenyra does not comment when a fork and knife are placed diplomatically between them, though Mysaria thinks she glimpses a flicker of relief after Kimmi takes her leave.
Mysaria fills both their sauce dishes with soy sauce, adding a generous dab of horseradish for herself. At Rhaenyra’s pout, she relents and does the same for hers.
“So this is—what, a childhood crush?” Mysaria questions archly. She watches Rhaenyra intently through her lashes as she plucks a slice of tuna from one of the plates, dips it lightly in sauce, and eats it. The texture is rich and perfect, a stark contrast to Rhaenyra’s shuttered—yet indignant—expression. “Has the novelty worn off yet?”
“I was 18!” Leave it to Rhaenyra Targaryen to make exasperation attractive. “I simply remember being… touched by your kindness.”
“Mm.” Mysaria dips another slice of tuna and eats it. “The tuna’s very good. You should try it.”
Rhaenyra opens her mouth like she wishes to say more, then shuts it. Her grip is awkward on the chopsticks as she wrangles a slice—only to have it fall into the sauce dish, splashing bits of soy sauce across the table, in what Mysaria can only judge to be a last-ditch attempt at a daring escape. Rhaenyra, to her credit, powers through and ensnares it once more.
Mysaria watches, amused, at the preoccupied expression Rhaenyra wears as she chews. Her lips are a bit pinched—almost certainly a result of the soy sauce bath—but otherwise, she does not appear to take offense to its taste.
When she swallows, Mysaria raises her eyebrows expectantly. “You like?”
“Salty.” Her tone is a bit strangled. With a permanent flush tinting her cheeks, she washes it down with a swig of beer.
“You were quite heavy-handed with the soy sauce.”
“Oh, was I?” she asks in a too-light tone, even as she readies herself to seize another—cuttlefish, this time.
Mysaria doesn’t know when she began to smile, but she’s certainly doing it now. It is for that reason, perhaps, that she ventures to say, “Suppose that I were to believe you when you say you wished to court me. Should that alter my perception of your intentions for this evening?”
Rhaenyra’s smile falters slightly, yet the steel in her gaze speaks only of determination. “Aegon—my half-brother—will come of age soon. The moment the crown became mine, I knew I’d been foolish to covet it. I do not intend to wear it to my grave.”
Mysaria’s hands twitch. For a moment, she cannot speak. “Why are you telling me this?”
Whether it is a lie or the truth, a Targaryen—of all people—knows better than to lay it at her feet. Information is her trade. It is that which she values above all else.
Rhaenyra’s smile returns, but it is strained. “You don’t believe me.”
“I haven’t decided what I believe.” It comes out harsher than she intends.
“I’ve been informed that Aegon intends to take a bride, sooner than late.” Rhaenyra winces. “Your name is among the contenders.”
“That’s ridiculous.” An understatement, all considered. She can think of several disqualifying traits that she possesses, enough to count on each of her fingers, in this moment alone. “Do they no longer screen potential matches for Targaryen royalty?”
It’s a slight jab, but it’s hardly uncalled-for. They refer to Rhaenyra as Queen, after all—and Viserys before her, King.
“They do. Your inclusion is… unpopular,” Rhaenyra concedes with a sour look. It’s impossible to tell if she’s cross with her kin or the situation as a whole. “Aegon doesn’t care. He’s brash, impulsive. And Daemon…”
Understanding settles, cold and heavy, in Mysaria’s gut. “It’s a power grab.”
“I fear so.”
“Fuck.” She says it quietly, knowing that Rhaenyra can hear and not caring. There is no denying it now: Rhaenyra speaks the truth. She’s a poor liar, always has been.
“Yes. Fuck.” Rhaenyra watches her cautiously, as though she is deeply unstable.
Mysaria cannot begrudge her that. It is not far off from how she currently feels.
Fuck.
— —
Mysaria rebuffs every attempt at further discussion of Targaryen succession for the remainder of the dinner. Instead, she returns to the feast laid before them with single-minded determination, and is pleased when Rhaenyra follows suit.
The food is enough to feed at least three people, yet between them, they manage to clean every plate. By the time they have finished, Rhaenyra’s smile is both sated and proud. The mere sight of it infects Mysaria’s chest with a warmth she dares not name.
It is only later that night, as Rhaenyra begins the drive back to Mysaria’s apartment, that she thinks to ask, “You’re not going to ask me about the girl?” It’s a transparency she has never employed before—it burns like acid on her tongue—but tonight, everything has shifted. Mysaria knows better than to pretend otherwise.
“Do you want me to?”
“No.” Aegon is almost certainly the one who laid hands on her. Rhaenyra, no doubt, has been sent to ascertain her whereabouts. The finer details, Mysaria is sure, can be discussed at a later date. They drive in silence for several minutes. This time, however, Mysaria is the one to break it. “I assume you have a plan.”
Rhaenyra’s gaze darts to her, then back to the road ahead. “I have… outlines of a plan.”
Oh, good. “And this plan involves courting me.”
It’s not a question, but Rhaenyra nods. “If I, you know” —a pause, and Mysaria doesn’t need night vision to know that Rhaenyra’s blushing to the roots of her hair— “claim you, then, well... Aegon can’t.” The poor woman sounds like she’s on the verge of imploding.
Mysaria elects to be merciful. “We’ll have to be thorough,” she muses, ignoring the sharp intake of breath she hears from Rhaenyra—as though she doesn’t dare believe what Mysaria is saying. “My network is vast, but your family’s is a close second.”
“Does that mean—?”
“Yes, Rhaenyra Targaryen. You may court me.”
Silence for a beat. Then: “What are you doing this weekend?”
— —