Chapter Text
No one really understands the bond between a rider and their dragon. Maesters have tried to study it, their efforts rebuffed by the crown. The knowledge of dragons rests solely with those interlinked with them, unable to trust any of their secrets. Even the dragon keepers, people born into the order raised around the magnificent beasts, lack a true knowledge of the bond between a dragon and their riders.
Theories and ideals have been conjured and shared, reinforced by seeing the Targaryens and Velyraon interact with their own dragons. Yet even those who have the bond, who have merged themselves with the fire-breathing creature, still don’t fully understand everything. The knowledge lost through the generations as dragons and riders dwindled after the doom.
So, it’s not a surprise that Rhaenyra missed it at first.
Following Seasmoke, Vermithor and Silverwing, claiming the only three dragons unclaimed in the world were the Cannibal, Sheepstealer, who, from what the letters Rhaena has sent, is hiding in the Vale and the most secretive dragon Grey Ghost. The pale grey dragon that prefers solitude over anything else. Skittish in nature, flying away at the sight of humans nearby, never mind other dragons.
However, after the other dragons were claimed, the sleek wild dragon started flying closer. Rhaenyra noticed Grey Ghost flying near the beaches of Dragonstone when she and Mysaria would take their daily strolls. Starting out as a mere dot in the distance, growing closer and closer with each passing day until the dragon flies overhead, batting out its wing to them in greeting before vanishing back into the clouds.
The wild dragon was an enigma to many. No one knows when the dragon was born, which clutch it came from, its gender or anything about the winged beast other then it’s colour, a love for fish and a desire to be left in solitude. Rhaenyra's curiosity piqued, watching the dragon circle them time and time again. Her first though that maybe, like Seasmoke the grey dragon was tired of waiting for a rider to find them, setting off to find one for itself.
Maybe compelled, like Vermithor was, to follow Rhaenyra in the war. However, she quickly dismissed this idea as the dragon never sought her out when she was alone. Only when she was with Mysaria. The thought made her ponder everything. Addam, Hugh and Ulf proved that you didn’t need pure blood to bond with a dragon; no status of power is needed as a dragon picks their rider based on who they are.
Many believe that a dragon shares the characteristics of its rider. The bond spilling over, making the dragon more human-like with a personality and traits. And a rider with more animalistic qualities. Daemon and Caraxes are a good example of this. Grey ghost avoided people and liked hiding in the clouds. Smart and cunning to launch attacks into the water and avoid other dragons bigger then it. Like the Cannibal who is always on the prowl for an easy meal. Draped in white and grey, earning its name from its selective colouring and personality.
Sound familiar.
Like a woman who hides from everyone, lurking in the shadows, picking up secrets. Using their own smarts and experience to avoid gaining too much attention and build a network of her own spies under the crown's nose. Outsmarting those of Dameon and Otto with ease on a regular basis. Being branded with the name the White Worm for her infamous white dresses and nature of burying herself away from the Highborn when they come looking.
When you stop looking at everything like you understand it, open your mind up, you might start to see new things that get overlooked by others.
The Grey Ghost and The White Worm were too similar to be coincidental. The fact that Grey Ghost only came close to people when Mysaria was around adds more evidence to her theory. It shouldn’t be possible. No one without Valyrian blood should be able to forge a bond with a dragon. And as far as the two women are aware, Mysaria holds not a drop of Valyrian blood. Her lineage traces back to Yi Ti, not Valyria or any of its dominions. A separate vast empire with no need to mix.
It doesn’t mean that there isn’t a chance, maybe someone in her bloodline was a bastard of one of the Dragon Lord families. Gods know there are a lot of them. And blood is blood. As weak as it may be, there is always the chance that Mysaria holds the tiniest drop of Old Valyria in her veins. Just enough for Grey Ghost to sense it, or maybe it’s because she doesn’t hold any dragon blood that Grey Ghost is interested in her. It’s Mysaria herself who intrigues the dragon, luring it in for capture.
After all, Mysaria did manage to do the same with Daemon and herself. Drawing them in before enclosing their heart within her grasp. Though she cannot speak for Daemon, Rhaenyra knows the allure all too well, how irresistible it seems being around her. How every part of her urges to be closer, how her own blood sings when in her mere presence. So, she can understand why Grey Ghost felt a similar calling. She may not understand the course, but she knows the feeling all too well.
Having a saddle commissioned for a dragon they do not fully know the size of, nor the dimensions, is somehow not the most mind-boggling thing she ordered while having Jace and Baela train Addam, Ulf and Hugh. No, the most insane part of her thinking was how to safely test her theory without putting Mysaria in immediate harm.
She will not have another Ser Steffon and Seasmoke incident.
Naturally, it did not take Mysaria to catch on that something was happening with her. At first, she was able to hide behind the pretence of Alicent’s offer. Another thing that caused a divide within her council as many, including Jace, Baela and Mysaria, do not hold the former Queen’s words in high regard. They suspect it to be a trap or something of an equal distraction. Each of them taking her aside to remind her of how often Alicent has said one thing or done the other. Mysaria’s tale of her manse filled with women, children and babes being sealed and burnt down at Alicent’s order, a determinant to the growing confidence in her own succession.
Rhaenys had advised her to listen to Alicent, to seek peace, not war. Yet it was Mysaria who bluntly reminded her that the war would not have come to fruition if not for years of work via Alicent Hightower. That even if she does honour her word, which she highly doubts, no one will accept Alicent being allowed to walk away without fitting punishment. Alicent, being a woman, might save her from execution, but it also takes away the Wall as an option. If all the other members of the council are to be set for death, Alicent should not be spared simply because she is a woman.
The whole debate had left her feeling unsteady once more, wondering if she was putting too much stock in the girl she had once lain in the Godswood with.
So instead of thinking about their agreement and awaiting Daemon’s return to set their plans into motion, Rhaenyra had thrown herself into the mystery with Grey Ghost. First, she had tested it by flying with Syrax all around Dragonstone, seeking out the shy dragon, catching glimpses of it here and there. However, living up to its name, Grey Ghost disappears just as quickly as it appears. Syrax had given chase on more than one occasion, only for them to pull up into the clouds and the grey dragon to completely vanish. Neither Arrax nor Seasmoke of similar colouring to blend into the clouds and use them to hide, as well as Grey Ghost.
She and Mysaria had then walked along the battlements, and guess who flew in the distance, circling them as they walked.
Still, she has a pretty good sense that Grey Ghost wishes to be claimed by Mysaria; however, that does not mean that Mysaria wishes to claim a dragon herself. It is a lot to ask of someone, not to mention that if Mysaria does ride Grey Ghost, she would be expected to fly into battle like the rest of them. It’s bad enough that she has to send Baela and Jace; she refuses to risk Mysaria as well.
“You have been ruminating, my queen.” Rhaenyra lets out a deep-seated sigh as she leans against the dark stone overlooking the Blackwater. She is not surprised that Mysaria managed to track her down; the older woman seems to have a strange intuition when it comes to locating her. Especially when she does not want to talk to anyone.
The night sky long since engulfed the light of day, ushering in a cover of darkness over the island. One that was comforting as it allowed her a sense of freedom to let her guard down and walk without the pressure of a thousand eyes and one tracking her every move and decision. To let her mind really think about everything.
Pushing off the cold surface, Rhaenyra fully turns around to face Mysaria, who is standing at the top of the stairs, awaiting to either be allowed into her confidence or sent away. Her mask ever present, not openly eagerly hoping for one way or the other. Though Rhaenyra likes to think she knows Mysaria well enough to see the gaps and her yearning to understand why her Queen has suddenly distanced herself from her. Even if they have been seen together, walked together, the words spoken between them since their argument over Alicent’s offer have been sparse and tightly held.
Instinctively, Rhaenyra crosses her arms over her chest, a barrier between them, one Mysaria notices almost as soon as it happens and equally tenses in preparation to be discarded or brushed off once more. Clenching her own jaw at her frivolous actions, Rhaenyra tries to claw away from the delicate tension between them. “Mostly as a distraction from what many have called my own incongruous hopes.” Her words meant to realign with Mysaria coming out far snappier and dipped in bitterness to be anything other then an insult towards her lady.
A vacuous expression all Mysaria returns to her, as Rhaenyra feels all the more tempted to smash her head against a wall. Whether by luck or because Mysaria can read her just as easily, her Mistress of Whispers must see the dejection and embarrassment at her own words for Mysaria’s shoulders drop in tension and closes the distance between them. Almost greedily, Rhaenyra soaks in her presence, absorbing as much ease and calmness as possible. “This distraction, what does it entail?”
Twisting so that both of them are relooking over the gently rolling waves of Dragonstone, she honestly tells her, “A theory, one that might be mad.”
“Madder than bastards riding dragons.” Rhaenyra cannot help but flinch at how accurate Mysaria’s words are. “My Queen.”
Throwing caution into the wind, Rhaenyra relays her theory in the fullest. Tired of this space between them, and hoping the truth might be a start to bring back their closeness. “The dragon Grey Ghost has taken to following you. Only coming into sight when you are around, staying longer and longer. I can’t help but wonder-“
“I am not its rider.” Mysaria decisively cuts in. Halting any further explanation, Rhaenyra could hope to muster. “Nor am I so willing to throw my life before the dragon fires like those before.” The firmness in her voice drops to something more chiselled in softness then she has yet heard from the dark-haired woman before. “Not even for you.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you to,” Rhaenyra tells her delicately, not meaning it as an insult. “It was just an intriguing thought that serves my mind more rest than everything else. Almost a dream of what it would be like to have..." Rhaenyra pauses her words, pressing on edge before she takes them back. "You are not someone I would risk.” Following Mysaria’s openness, she admits to something as well. Not to the extent she almost gave, but something close. “Not even for a throne.”
Silence between them as they both ponder the extent of the other's confession. The balancing of a line they have crossed once before but never discussed, never brought up or hinted at before. Instead, they let the air around them shift and settle. Neither daring enough to broach the subject, pretending nothing has changed between them, while acutely aware of how the kiss changed everything.
When the haunting whispers of a dragon’s roar rain down from above as a blur of grey soars overhead, letting out its own unique sound, one Rhaenyra has never heard before but oddly fitting of the dragon in question. A sombre, almost whining sound as low and harmonises with the wind, quiet and gentle, almost nervous in quality as Grey Ghost flies past them. Said dragon has never made a sound before now. Yet it does.
Rhaenyra’s eyes glance to Mysaria, who, unaware of this, watches the dragon with a different type of appreciation. The view before her was far more appealing than the endless push and pull of water. Taking Mysaria’s distraction with Grey Ghost as an opportunity to openly gaze in awe at the sheer beauty of Mysaria. A sight she has not allowed herself to enjoy as the rift lay between them, and not wanting to make her lady believe she cares little for her mind, thoughts, and beliefs and desires her body above all else.
“You’re staring,” Mysaria utters without breaking her contact with Grey Ghost.
Blatantly being caught out, Rhaenyra hears herself say. “How could I not?” Dark brown eyes snap towards her own violet ones. Small hues of honey reflecting the dim flicker of torches, reminding her of the stars that shine above them. “You mesmerise me.” She knew it all those years ago, flying to Dragonstone to confront Daemon, knew it when she was first brought into hr solar and has felt it flourish under each meeting since. Her word stepping over the boundary they have upheld for so long.
“We can’t.” A sliver of brokenness taints Mysaria's voice as it wavers with Mysaria taking a step away from her, eyes severing as she deploringly focuses on the ground instead. Overheard Grey Ghost cries out once more, adding to the poignant mood budding. Another crack forming between them.
“I know.” Because she does know. “But knowing doesn’t stop it.” She has tried to no avail. “I don’t want to fight anymore.” She’s tired of fighting; everything she does nowadays is a battle, and she has no wish for Mysaria to be yet another one she must endure for the sake of propriety.
There is almost a breach of hope in Mysaria’s words. Looking for a resolution, a foreseeable outcome that does not hinder their efforts and everything they are trying to build. “What happens if we do?”
“Maybe we find happiness, maybe we find dissolution.” Rhaenyra genuinely does not know. Both seem as likely as the other. “Sometimes the risk pays off.” It’s more hopeful then true. But nothing is really certain in life.
Mysaria breaks away from her, a quiet rejection on her lips as she slips away into the castle. “And most of the time it does not.” Rhaenyra lets her go. Despite wanting to chase after her, she knows this is not something she could force. Mysaria has to be willing as she is. To risk everything is no small thing, and the despicable truth is that Mysaria risks more than Rhaenyra does.