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Rhaenyra sat alone in the Dragonstone library, the dim light of a flickering candle casting long shadows across the stacks of parchment and towering tomes that crowded her desk. Her head rested heavily in her hand, fingers tangling in her silver hair as her brow furrowed over the endless stream of messages delivered by raven—letters from allies, reports of skirmishes, pleas for reinforcements, and grim news from the front.
She hadn’t slept properly in what felt like weeks; exhaustion tugged at her bones, but it was the gnawing worry that refused to let her rest. The memory of her son, lost too soon, clawed at her chest, and now her thoughts were haunted by her remaining four children—their faces flashing in her mind’s eye as she imagined the dangers that might befall them. Every decision, every missed opportunity, felt like it might cost more than she could bear.
Her fingers drummed absently against the parchment, her eyes scanning the words without truly seeing them, as if hoping that sheer concentration could stave off the dread pooling in her chest. The war had claimed so much already, and she feared it would not stop.
Mysaria lingered in the shadows near the doorway, her eyes quietly tracing the tense lines of the queen’s shoulders and the furrow of her brow. She had been trying for weeks to steal even a single private moment with Rhaenyra, ever since their first time, yet the queen seemed always lost in the demands of her crown. Not for lack of effort on Mysaria’s part, but Rhaenyra was consumed—her mind and heart chained to reports, strategies, and the endless tide of war.
Finally, Mysaria’s voice cut softly through the thick silence, gentle but firm: “You’ve been at this for hours… have you even eaten anything today?”
Rhaenyra lifted her gaze slowly, startled. The quiet of the library had been absolute, and she hadn’t heard anyone enter. Her violet eyes met Mysaria’s, a faint flush creeping across her cheeks at being caught in such an unguarded moment.
“I… I’m not hungry,” she said at last, her voice low and tight, almost a whisper, though the weight behind it betrayed her exhaustion. She looked back down at the scattered parchments, but the stubborn ache in her chest made her fingers tremble slightly as they rested on the inked words.
Mysaria’s gaze softened, yet held a sharp edge of insistence. She stepped even closer, until the faint scent of her perfume brushed against Rhaenyra’s senses, and spoke the queen’s name—drawn out just so, full of quiet insistence: “Rhaenyra.”
The sound stopped the queen mid-motion. Her pen hovered over the parchment, her breath caught for a moment, and she finally met Mysaria’s unwavering gaze. “Take a break,” Mysaria said gently, pressing the words into her very bones. “Step away from the parchments, the ravens, the endless tide of messages. Give yourself a few moments… just for you.”
Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, shaking her head ever so slightly. “I cannot,” she said, almost bitterly, the weight of the crown settling heavier on her shoulders with each word.
Mysaria’s hand finally reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from Rhaenyra’s temple. “And what good would you be,” she asked softly, voice low and steady, “if you collapsed here, alone, under all this?”
Rhaenyra’s violet eyes lingered on Mysaria’s face for a long moment, drinking in the steady warmth and quiet strength she offered. Then, with a slow, almost reluctant sigh, she closed her eyes, the tension in her shoulders easing just slightly. “…Alright,” she murmured, her voice heavy with fatigue.
A small, genuine smile tugged at Mysaria’s lips, relief flickering in her dark eyes. She watched as the queen pushed back from the desk, rising from her chair with a slight stiffness, and ran a hand through her disheveled hair, trying to smooth away the signs of her long hours of worry.
“Thank you,” Rhaenyra said softly, her tone sincere but edged with the faintest hesitation, as if admitting a rare vulnerability.
Mysaria shook her head, the corner of her mouth tilting into a knowing smile. “You don’t need to thank me,” she said, her voice gentle yet firm, as if the gesture itself was reward enough.
Rhaenyra met her gaze, a wry little quirk of her lips betraying the stubborn streak that refused to fade even in exhaustion. “I know,” she admitted, “but I thank you anyway.”
The silence stretched between them, a strange, fragile thing that neither seemed to know quite how to break. The air hung heavy with unsaid thoughts, the crackle of the candles filling what words could not.
For all her experience—years spent learning the rhythm of bodies, the art of touch, the secrets people whispered when they thought themselves unseen—Mysaria found herself disarmed. She had been a whore for most of her life, had learned to read hunger in a glance, to coax desire with a smile. Yet here she stood before a queen, and for the first time, she couldn’t summon a single trick to bridge the space between them.
It was baffling when she thought about it. Rhaenyra Targaryen was not like any client she’d ever known—there was no transaction in her touch, no demand in her gaze. The queen didn’t see her as a body to be used or a secret to be bought. She saw her. Truly saw her. As a person. As something human.
And that, Mysaria realized with an unfamiliar ache, was precisely why it was so difficult. Because this—whatever existed between them—wasn’t about payment or power. It was about trust. About the soft, trembling thing that lived somewhere beneath duty and desire.
Rhaenyra shifted slightly, glancing toward her as if sensing the turmoil beneath her calm façade. And Mysaria, the White Worm, who had outwitted lords and royals alike, found herself momentarily lost for words.
For a long heartbeat, neither spoke. Then, with a small, weary exhale, the queen broke the silence. “Would you… join me for a meal?”
The question was so simple, yet it seemed to ripple through the room like a tremor. Mysaria blinked, momentarily taken aback. Of all the ways Rhaenyra could have dispelled the tension, this—an invitation, not an order—was the last she expected.
“Of course,” Mysaria said after a pause, her voice softer than she intended. A faint smile curved her lips, one she couldn’t quite suppress.
Rhaenyra’s answering smile was tired but real, a flicker of warmth breaking through the steel of her composure. “Good,” she said, her tone lighter now. “I’ll have the cook prepare something. Meet me in my chambers in a candle mark.”
Mysaria inclined her head in a graceful bow, the candlelight sliding over the pale silk of her sleeve. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
When she turned to leave, she kept her stride smooth, measured—every inch the calm, poised woman the court knew her to be. But beneath that cool exterior, her heart betrayed her. A small, traitorous flutter stirred in her chest, as though something within her had been quietly waiting for this.
She pushed the feeling down as she reached the door, reminding herself of all the reasons she shouldn’t feel it. And yet, as the heavy wood closed behind her, Mysaria could not shake the warmth that lingered in her chest, nor the faint ghost of Rhaenyra’s smile that seemed to follow her into the corridor.
The flicker of candlelight cast soft, wavering halos across the table between them. A simple meal had been laid out—roasted fish, dark bread, a bowl of figs and cheese—but the plates sat mostly untouched. Mysaria sat gracefully on one side, her posture composed, while Rhaenyra rested back in her chair, one hand wrapped around her goblet of wine.
The queen exhaled heavily, the sound bordering on a sigh as she took a slow sip, eyes fixed somewhere distant beyond the rim of her cup.
“What troubles you?” Mysaria asked, her voice low, the smooth cadence softened by genuine curiosity.
Rhaenyra hesitated before setting her cup down, the faint clink echoing in the quiet chamber. “Guilt,” she said finally, her tone heavy with weariness.
Mysaria tilted her head slightly. “Guilt?”
“Yes.” Rhaenyra’s fingers brushed along the stem of her goblet, tracing its edge as though to distract herself. “Because I can sit here and enjoy a meal such as this… while the people of King’s Landing starve.”
Mysaria’s gaze remained steady. “That is not your fault, Your Grace.”
Rhaenyra’s lips curved into a wry, humorless smile. “Is it not? The Greens may have usurped my throne, but I ordered the blockade. It is my command that keeps food from reaching the city.” Her eyes flicked up to meet Mysaria’s—tired, searching, and heavy with self-reproach.
Mysaria leaned forward slightly, her tone calm but firm. “The Greens chose this war when they stole your crown. They knew the cost. Every action carries its consequence, and now they reap what they have sown.”
The queen said nothing for a long moment. The tension in her jaw eased, though her eyes still shimmered faintly with something unspoken—doubt, perhaps, or sorrow for the lives entangled in her war.
“You bear the burden of a realm’s mistakes,” Mysaria continued softly. “But you are not the one who lit the fire. You only fight to survive it.”
Rhaenyra’s shoulders slumped slightly, the edge of her breath loosening, as if Mysaria’s words had drawn the venom from her guilt. The queen managed a small nod, her gaze dropping to her untouched plate before she reached for the bread and tore a piece from it.
“Perhaps,” Rhaenyra murmured, half to herself.
Mysaria tilted her head, watching her quietly for a moment before speaking. “Please eat,” she said gently. “And try not to worry—for a few moments, at least.”
A faint, reluctant smile ghosted across Rhaenyra’s lips. With a soft sigh, she reached for her fork, stacking food onto her plate with a kind of absent determination. She took a slow bite, then another, washing it down with a measured sip of wine. The warmth of it bloomed down her throat, loosening something tight in her chest.
Her gaze drifted upward, settling on Mysaria with quiet curiosity. “Tell me,” she said after a moment, her voice low but edged with genuine interest. “Why do they call you the White Worm? And Lady Misery?”
Mysaria arched a delicate brow, the corner of her mouth twitching with amusement. “You’ve never heard the stories?”
“I’ve heard stories,” Rhaenyra replied, setting her goblet down with a soft clink. “Whispers, rumors—but I’d rather hear the truth from your own lips.”
For a heartbeat, Mysaria’s expression softened, the usual veil of mystery slipping just slightly. The candlelight painted gold along her pale skin and dark hair as she leaned back in her chair, a glint of humor dancing briefly in her eyes.
“The White Worm,” she began slowly, “was never a name I chose. It was given to me by people who didn’t know what else to call a girl they couldn’t catch. I learned to move unseen, to listen when others spoke too freely. I was quiet… patient. And like a worm, I learned to live beneath the surface of their world, feeding on what they thought worthless.”
She paused, the faintest flicker of amusement curving her lips as her fingers brushed over the sleeve of her robe. The soft white silk caught the candlelight, shimmering faintly with each movement. “And,” she added, voice low and wry, “it just so happens that white is my favorite color.”
Rhaenyra laughed softly at that, the sound low and unguarded, surprising even herself. It was a rare, fleeting thing—music breaking through the strain that had long settled over her like a cloak. Mysaria’s smile widened at the sight, faint but genuine, her eyes warming in quiet satisfaction.
“I am glad to amuse the queen,” she teased lightly, though there was no mockery in her tone—only a tender fondness that lingered between them.
Rhaenyra shook her head, still smiling. “You do,” she admitted, her voice softer now. Then, tilting her head slightly, she added, “But tell me—what of the other name? Lady Misery.”
The question hung in the air, gentle yet weighted. Rhaenyra’s curiosity was not that of a ruler interrogating a spy; it was the curiosity of a woman reaching toward another, eager to understand the shadows behind the smile.
Mysaria’s expression shifted—her smirk fading into something quieter, more reflective. The candlelight caught in her eyes as she lowered her gaze, the corner of her mouth curling faintly. “Ah,” she murmured. “That one is less charming.”
Rhaenyra’s lips curved into a knowing smile, a glint of humor breaking through the quiet weight of the room. “Less charming names,” she echoed softly, her tone threaded with amusement. “I know a thing or two about those.”
Mysaria glanced up at her, and the queen chuckled lightly, lifting her goblet in mock salute before taking a slow sip. The wine caught the candlelight, deep red swirling like blood in glass.
“You forget,” Rhaenyra went on, setting the cup down with a soft clink. “They’ve called me half a dozen things since my crowning—‘the Whore of Dragonstone,’ ‘Rhaenyra the Cruel,’ ‘the Pretender Queen.’” Her smirk was sharp, but her eyes were tired. “One grows used to unflattering titles.”
For a brief moment, the two women shared a quiet understanding—two figures shaped by rumor, both surviving in worlds eager to tear them apart.
Rhaenyra leaned back in her chair and gestured lightly with one hand, her rings catching the flicker of the candles. “So, go on,” she said. “Tell me how you earned yours.”
Mysaria’s smile returned, small and sharp. “They say misery loves company,” she began, her tone thoughtful. “And I was never short of it when I first came to King’s Landing.”
Her gaze drifted past Rhaenyra for a moment, as though seeing the city—its alleys slick with rain, its taverns thick with smoke and secrets. “I came with nothing but a foreign name and a will to survive. So I listened. I watched. I learned which tongues wagged too freely after wine, which hands lingered too long over coin. I traded what I heard for what I needed—shelter, silver, safety.”
She let out a quiet breath, the faintest edge of a smirk returning. “And before long, I knew more about the city than most. The people whispered that I brought misery wherever I went—that those who crossed me found ruin soon after. So they gave me a title.” Her eyes flicked back to Rhaenyra’s, dark and gleaming with wry amusement. “Lady Misery.”
Rhaenyra tilted her head, studying the woman across from her. “And what do you prefer to be called?” she asked, her voice soft but edged with something curious—almost intimate.
For a moment, Mysaria said nothing. The question seemed to catch her off guard; it wasn’t often anyone cared what she preferred. Her expression gentled, and she leaned back slightly in her chair, fingers brushing along the rim of her goblet as she considered her answer.
“I prefer,” she said at last, her accent curling like smoke around the words, “that Your Grace simply call me by my name.”
Rhaenyra’s lips curved, slow and deliberate. “Mysaria.”
Mysaria’s mouth twitched in the ghost of a smile. “Just so,” she murmured.
Rhaenyra took another sip of wine, her gaze never wavering. “Then, Mysaria it is.”
The last of the wine was soon gone, the plates cleared to the side, and the quiet between them had grown companionable—soft, steady, like the lull after a storm. The candlelight burned low, tracing gold along Rhaenyra’s cheekbones as she set down her goblet with a gentle clink.
“Thank you for joining me,” she said, her voice warm but faintly weary. “It was… pleasant, to share a meal without talk of war for once.”
Mysaria inclined her head, a faint smile ghosting across her lips. “The pleasure was mine, Your Grace.”
Rhaenyra rose from her seat, smoothing her cloak with slow, deliberate hands. The motion drew Mysaria’s eyes unbidden—the subtle grace of it, the quiet authority that lingered even in so small a gesture. When she stood as well, the air between them seemed to shift, something unspoken pressing against the calm.
For a moment, Mysaria only watched her, a question forming like a whisper in her mind before it finally broke free. “May I ask something?”
Rhaenyra turned toward her, brow faintly furrowed. “Of course.”
“Why did you not send for me?” Mysaria asked, her tone steady but laced with something softer beneath—something close to hurt.
Rhaenyra blinked, taken aback. “What do you mean?”
Mysaria’s voice was quiet, but there was something beneath it—something raw and uncertain. “Why have you never asked me to come to your chambers?” she said, her dark eyes steady, searching the queen’s face for something she couldn’t name.
Rhaenyra frowned, glancing around as though expecting to find an answer in the room itself. The golden light of the hearth spilled across the walls, painting warmth against stone. “We are in my chambers,” she said, a note of confusion threading through her voice.
Mysaria let out a soft sigh, the kind that carried both patience and disappointment. “Not like this,” she murmured. “I meant at night.” Her gaze lingered on Rhaenyra, calm but probing. “You haven’t sent for me. Not once.”
The words settled heavily between them.
For a long moment, Rhaenyra said nothing. Then realization dawned—slow, dawning color rising to her cheeks. She glanced away, suddenly intent on the rings adorning her fingers, turning one absently against her skin. “I…” she began, her voice faltering for once. “I did not want to assume anything.”
Mysaria’s gaze softened, her head tilting slightly as she studied the queen’s flushed face. “Did you not enjoy our night together?” she asked quietly, her tone teasing at first, but laced with something tender beneath.
Rhaenyra’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Of course I did,” she said too quickly, her words tumbling over themselves. The admission came with a deeper flush that bloomed high on her cheeks. Her fingers fidgeted with her rings again, twisting them one by one as if the motion could anchor her.
“I did,” she repeated more softly this time, her voice dipping. “But…”
Mysaria arched a brow, stepping closer. “But?”
Rhaenyra exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders betraying the careful control she tried to maintain. “You told me your history,” she said. “How people used you—how they saw only what they wanted to take.” Her gaze flicked upward, meeting Mysaria’s for a fleeting second before darting away again. “I didn’t want you to think I was the same. That I only…” She trailed off, shaking her head as if the words themselves felt too small for the weight behind them.
Mysaria remained silent, watching her with quiet patience.
Rhaenyra swallowed, her thumb rubbing over the edge of her ruby ring. “I didn’t know where we stood after that night,” she continued softly. “And I didn’t want to make you feel… pressured. Or wanted only for what you could give me.”
For a moment, Mysaria simply looked at her, something unreadable moving behind her dark eyes. Then she exhaled softly and shook her head. “You think too much, my queen,” she said gently. Her voice had lost its edge; it carried warmth now, threaded through with quiet affection.
She stepped closer until the space between them thinned to a breath. “If I had ever felt you meant to use me,” she continued, “I would not be standing here now.” The ghost of a smile touched her lips. “You forget—I have spent my life learning what people truly want. You never once looked at me with hunger alone.”
Rhaenyra’s breath caught. The flickering light gilded the curve of Mysaria’s cheek, the pale silk of her robe, the cool self-assurance that never quite hid the tenderness beneath.
“What did I look at you with, then?” Rhaenyra asked quietly.
Mysaria’s smile deepened, softer this time. “As if I were… someone worth looking at.”
The words hung between them like a confession, delicate and trembling. Then, slowly, Mysaria lifted a hand to Rhaenyra’s cheek, her fingers cool at first against the queen’s warm skin. She cupped her face gently, her thumb tracing along the sharp line of her jaw as though memorizing it by touch.
Rhaenyra didn’t move, only drew in a shallow breath as Mysaria stepped closer. The faint scent of jasmine and salt clinging to her,
Mysaria’s gaze flicked from Rhaenyra’s eyes to her lips, her breath brushing warm against them before she finally closed the distance. The kiss was tentative at first—testing, searching—but Rhaenyra sighed into it, the sound low and almost aching.
Her hands found Mysaria’s waist, fingers splaying over the silk of her robe, drawing her closer until there was no space left between them. Mysaria’s lips moved with quiet purpose, slow but certain, as if to remind the queen that she was not something fragile, but something real.
Encouraged, Mysaria deepened the kiss, her touch growing bolder as her fingers drifted toward the fastening of Rhaenyra’s robes. The faint brush of intent was unmistakable.
Rhaenyra inhaled sharply and pulled back, breathless.
For a heartbeat, they simply stared at one another—Mysaria’s dark eyes searching, Rhaenyra’s wide and unguarded, her chest rising and falling as though she’d run a great distance rather than taken a single step away.
“What do you want from me?” Rhaenyra asked quietly. There was no accusation in her voice—only sincerity. “Truly. I need honesty.”
Mysaria studied her then, the practiced confidence she wore so easily slipping away. The moment stretched, fragile and exposed. Finally, she spoke, her voice low and steady.
“I want to stay,” she said simply. “Tonight.”
Rhaenyra stared at her for a long heartbeat, violet eyes searching Mysaria’s face as if weighing truth against fear. Then, without another word, she leaned in.
Their lips met again—sure this time, deliberate. Mysaria answered at once, the kiss deepening as if she had been waiting for permission that never truly needed to be spoken. The world narrowed to warmth and breath and the quiet sound of their shared inhale.
Rhaenyra’s hands rose instinctively, threading through Mysaria’s black hair, fingers curling gently at the nape of her neck. The silk of Mysaria’s robe brushed against her knuckles as she drew her closer, grounding herself in the simple reality of her.
Mysaria guided them backward with a slow, deliberate pressure, her movements sure and practiced, until the backs of Rhaenyra’s knees collided with the edge of the bed. The queen sank down onto the plush velvet, her breath hitching in her throat as she looked up, her violet eyes wide and dark with a mixture of anticipation and vulnerability. The candlelight cast long, flickering shadows against the stone walls, framing Mysaria in a halo of gold as she stood over her.
Mysaria stood before her for a moment, the golden glow of the hearth painting warm edges along her silhouette. Her fingers drifted to the laces of her robe, beginning to loosen them with practiced ease.
But before she could untie the first knot, Rhaenyra’s hand shot out, closing gently around her wrist.
“Wait.”
Mysaria stilled at once.
A flicker of confusion crossed her features as she looked down at the queen. “What is it?”
Rhaenyra hesitated, suddenly looking far less like a queen and far more like a woman who had carried too much grief for too long. Her fingers loosened but did not let go.
“Could you…” She paused, a faint flush creeping into her cheeks. “Could you sleep with me tonight?”
Mysaria blinked.
“I was rather hoping to do just that,” she replied, amusement softening her voice.
A quiet laugh escaped Rhaenyra as she shook her head. “No, I mean only sleep.”
Realization dawned across Mysaria’s face. “Oh.”
The single word carried genuine surprise.
Rhaenyra ducked her head, suddenly fascinated by the folds of her own sleeve. “It isn’t that I don’t…” She faltered, then huffed softly at herself. “Gods, that sounds worse.”
Mysaria’s lips curved upward.
Rhaenyra groaned quietly and pressed a hand to her forehead. “What I mean is—I am exhausted. Truly exhausted. I haven’t slept properly in weeks. I do not think I would be very good company tonight.”
Mysaria arched a brow, dark eyes glinting with mischief. “Your Grace, I could do all the work.”
For a moment, Rhaenyra only stared at her. Then a startled laugh escaped her lips, light and warm, chasing away some of the heaviness that had clung to her all evening.
“I do not doubt that,” she admitted, shaking her head as a faint flush rose to her cheeks.
Mysaria’s smile softened at the sight.
The queen looked away for a moment, fingers twisting absently in the velvet blanket beneath her. When she looked back up, there was something hesitant in her expression—an uncertainty Mysaria had rarely seen in her.
“Will you stay?” she asked quietly.
The teasing vanished from Mysaria’s face at once.
“I will stay.”
And just like that, Rhaenyra smiled.
It was not the proud smile she wore before her court, nor the sharp grin she wielded in council chambers. This smile was smaller. Softer. The smile of a weary woman who had finally been granted a kindness she scarcely dared ask for.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth as the tension between them melted into something gentler.
Mysaria stepped behind Rhaenyra and carefully began to unweave the intricate braids from her silver hair. One by one, she loosened them, letting pale strands spill freely down the queen’s back. The silver caught the firelight, gleaming like molten moonlight between her fingers.
Rhaenyra closed her eyes.
It was such a simple thing—someone tending to her without expectation, without duty attached to it.
No servants bustling around her.
No maesters.
No council.
Only quiet.
Mysaria worked patiently, her touch gentle as she combed her fingers through the soft tangles left behind. When the last braid was undone, Rhaenyra’s hair cascaded freely to her waist, softer and wilder than the carefully arranged style she wore throughout the day.
The queen rose, crossing the chamber to one of her carved cedar chests. She lifted the lid and withdrew a long sleep gown of pale grey linen embroidered faintly at the sleeves.
After a brief hesitation, she searched a little further and drew out another.
Mysaria paused, surprised.
Rhaenyra held it out with a small, almost shy smile.
The gesture was so ordinary.
And somehow that made it extraordinary.
Mysaria accepted it carefully, her fingers brushing against Rhaenyra’s for the briefest moment.
The fire had burned low by the time they finished preparing for the night. One by one, the candles were extinguished until only the hearth remained, casting the chamber in soft amber light and long, dancing shadows.
Outside, the waves crashed against the cliffs of Dragonstone in their endless rhythm.
Inside, the bed felt impossibly large.
Mysaria slipped beneath the covers first, settling against the pillows. A moment later, Rhaenyra joined her.
There was a brief hesitation.
Then, almost unconsciously, the queen shifted closer.
And closer still.
Until she tucked herself against Mysaria’s chest, resting her head just beneath her chin, one hand curled lightly in the fabric of her gown.
The position was unexpectedly vulnerable.
Not a Queen.
Not a dragonrider burdened by war and grief.
Just Rhaenyra.
Exhausted.
Lonely.
In need of comfort.
Mysaria went still for a heartbeat, surprised by the trust of it.
Then, carefully—as though afraid the moment might shatter—she wrapped an arm around her.
Rhaenyra let out the softest sigh.
And for the first time in many, many nights, she allowed herself to simply rest.