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Chapter Text

The year is 2018, Rhaenyra Targaryen is twirling a pen between her fingers with deft precision, preparing to sign her codename to a file that would gather dust in the store rooms. The store rooms were less rooms, and more layers upon layers of basements, dug lower than the Tube stations.

Rhaenyra herself had only been down into the depths twice; she didn't care much for the basements. They stank of dirt and dust, and the staff that manned them had almost morphed into moles as the years went on; eyes beady, fingers bent like claws A very dark disposition.

“Here you go,” her handler plopped the file down in front of her, and waltzed to the other side of the desk, where her station was. “It wasn't your finest work,” she commented, pinning her black locks back from her slender face.
“I'm sure they'll cope,” Rhaenyra replied, dryly. She uncapped her pen and signed the line, eyes darting over the file with vague attention. “There's an error here. He wasn't a ‘political official’. He was a genocidal maniac.”
“Yes, well, differences aside, he was still running for office.” The dark haired woman replied, and refitted her black earpiece. They shared a smile, and Rhaenyra tossed the file back to her.

Rhaenyra's ‘handler’ was a very slim woman, with jet black hair and a naturally secretive aura. She could simultaneously be picked out of a crowd in an instant, but also go unnoticed in some of the smallest crowds in the country. Her real name was Mysaria, her nickname ‘the White Wyrm’. She was smart, manipulative and gorgeous - a fact not lost on Rhaenyra.

“Have you heard about this big briefing tomorrow?” Rhaenyra leaned back in her chair, and twiddled her thumbs. Their office had tinted windows, and was considerably nicer than most others, due in large to Rhaenyra's success.
“I've heard whispers,” her coworker's eyes narrowed.
“You're always hearing whispers,” Rhaenyra quipped, putting her feet up on the desk, brown brogue shoes freshly polished and shining.

Rhaenyra's silvery blonde hair was cut close to her scalp, the sides almost entirely shaven, and the top left with a two inch long, straight covering. Rhaenyra wore it flattened to her head. It wasn't how she would choose to have her hair styled, but part of this job meant you didn't necessarily get to choose your appearance. Your appearance was often chosen for you.

She was heavily tattooed, her arms covered and the tail of a dragon creeping out from under her midnight coloured shirt collar. Often, these had to be covered by the makeup department. Rhaenyra had been told not to get any tattoos, nothing that could link her to her work. But, as she often did, she ignored the orders with vim. She was one of their best employees, they'd do almost anything to keep her on their payroll. As such, her skin was inked with individualistic drawings.

Once upon a time, a silver nose ring had decorated her nostril. She'd had to remove it when she was promoted into this job, so now there was just a small hole on her left nostril. She wanted to have it reinstated, one day, when she left this job.

“What are you doing tonight?” Rhaenyra asked, raising her eyebrows suggestively.
“Not this again,” the woman's thin lips spread into a grin. “I'm going to have a bath and submit a request for a new partner.” Her accent was slightly French, only serving to make her already dry tone sound even more parched of interest.
“You wound me,” Rhaenyra put a hand to her chest, her lips curved into an alluring smirk.

Next to her, was a pile of case files she was supposed to look through, with a view to delegating those she discarded to others. Rhaenyra was not leadership material, so even if she tried, she didn't think her coworkers would heed her delegations. They viewed her as a cocky little upstart, only in the department because of her family's station.

They weren't wrong; she was cocky. And perhaps an upstart.

She doodled on a neon yellow post-it note, creating little tornadoes on the paper until she received a kick under the table. She spun in chair just in time to hear the knock. “Sorry to interrupt… whatever you're doing,” the brown haired woman looked upon the pair, with scrutinising eyes.”You're wanted, the both of you. In meeting room four.” She pushed her glasses up her nose, peering over the cat eye frames at them.

Neither Rhaenyra nor her handler moved. “Now.” The woman accompanied this with a tut, and an eye roll. Rhaenyra could've sworn she heard mutterings about ‘youths today’ as the secretary hobbled off.

Meeting room four was the unimportant meeting room - Rhaenyra was sure this would be something about expenses being submitted incorrectly, or the cleanliness of their office. Her coworker looked nervous, fiddling with the badge around her neck incessantly. “Chill out, it'll just be about parking permits or one of us took too long for lunch,” Rhaenyra was too casual, about everything. She often treated the whole organisation as if it was below her, as if she was meant for something greater.

“Come in,” the voice called, when the black haired woman tapped her slim fingers against the glass. “Ah, yes. You don't need to sit down, this will be quick.”

The woman behind the desk had her chestnut hair pulled into a tight bun on top of her head, wearing a well fitted red suit with a crisp white shirt. “This whole thing really is below me, I have to admit… the Strongs want your office.” She pushed her glasses up onto her head, and rubbed her forehead. Rhaenyra chuckled.
“And I want a pay rise. Tell ‘em to-” she was jabbed by her companion, “put a formal request in." She corrected her course swiftly.
“This is a formal request,” she spoke with authority.
“Well, request denied… by me.” Rhaenyra folded her arms across her chest defiantly.
“Oh, and you're the final authority, obviously.” The woman rose from her desk, and looked out upon the office floor.
“I was going to deny it, anyway. They don't have the numbers to need such a space.” Rhaenyra nodded, and raised her hand to salute.

“Stay back,” the woman instructed, before the door opened again. “Rhaenyra.” It wasn't often she heard her real name within these walls. The other woman excused herself, and the pair turned to each other.

“You're not making many friends,” the woman said, bluntly. Rhaenyra laughed.
“I'm twenty eight, I've been here five years. I don't think I need more friends.” She met blunt with blunt. The woman smiled, tiredly.
“Rhaenyra. I'm warning you because I like you, and I liked your father. It's time to think about if this is what you really want. Things are… shifting.” The woman looked off, as if into the future. Rhaenyra furrowed her eyebrows, confused by the whole interaction.
“Alright. Thanks for the warning. Am I dismissed?” The atmosphere had shifted in a way that made her shoulders tense uncomfortably. A sense of foreboding fell over her - what could that possibly mean?
“Dismissed.” The dark haired woman sat down in her cushy chair, and returned to her laptop without further word.

“That was fuckin’ weird,” Rhaenyra exhaled, upon reentry to her office. “Like meeting with a prophet.” Her colleague cocked an eyebrow, curiously.
“What? Did she warn us all of our deaths?” She joked, tapping away on her keyboard. Rhaenyra scraped a hand over her hair, the way she always did when that bubble of anxiety popped within her.
“Said things are ‘shifting’ - could mean anything. New government… new cafeteria menu… someone getting the sack… return of the lizard people? Fuck knows.” Rhaenyra had to let it go in one ear and out of the other, until she knew more. They laughed, and returned to their work.

At five p.m., on the dot, Rhaenyra took her helmet from the corner under her desk. “Want a lift?” She offered, zipping her leather jacket, securing her phone in the pocket.
“On your death trap? No, hard pass.” Her coworker always stayed late, trying to tidy up Rhaenyra's messy notes and files. Such was her job, as handler.
“Aw, one day you'll say yes.” Rhaenyra's lips formed that grating smirk. “See you tomorrow, for this big briefing.”

“See you,” was all she heard as she left the office. People didn't tend to greet others in passing, here. The nature of the work meant there was a constant competitive strain between them all. On her way out, she waved to Larys Strong - a handler, with greasy brown hair. The wave wasn't friendly, it was meant to tell him that again, she had won. His expression changed when she waved, from as relaxed as it got, to pursed thin lips and beady eyes trying to find his brother.

The summer air was warm on Rhaenyra's skin. Their building was hidden in plain sight, in the centre of London. From the outside, it simply looked like a black glass tower block, perhaps holding some insurance firms or accountancy corporations. Those who knew, had badges hidden in inside pockets, to swipe when they arrived on the third floor.

The third floor was listed at ‘Regency Insurance’, with a plain featured secretary. Nobody ever gave it a second glance.

The central location of the office meant Rhaenyra was jostled as soon as she left, shoulders barging desperately to get to their oh-so important next location. Rhaenyra exhaled frustratedly, and put her heavy black helmet on her head. The inside smelled vaguely of her shampoo, and cigarettes.

Her bike was parked off street, around the corner in the lanes behind the tower block. The golden metallic sheen remained as clean as ever, glittering in the summer light. It was one of many motorbikes hidden in the lane, but the rest were pitch black and sleek. Made for quick escapes, with bulletproof tires and number plates that could be switched at the drop of a hat.

Rhaenyra mounted hers, and set the engine to roaring. Her flat was about twenty minutes out of the city, a large loft in Islington. She lived there alone, rattling around the high walls like she was in a pinball machine. So often, she went out.

Rhaenyra knew she was attractive, with enough scars to make her look dangerous, but a particular way with words that made her appear soft and romantic… when she wanted to be. And women loved the bike, they were like a moth to a flame.

On her way home, she stopped by her gym. She flicked her keys around her fingers as she approached her locker.

There was a gym in the office, but she despised it. It was always full of gawking men, grunting and snarling as they lifted the most meagre of weights. It made her feel sick, these sweaty beasts leering around as if they were even slightly attractive. And the smell, as if nobody in the entire department had ever heard of ‘deodorant’. Rhaenyra went twice, mainly to kill time, but hadn't been back since the last incident where a machine hadn't been wiped down.

Her gym was pink on the outside, neon signs of flamingos. It wasn't explicitly a female presenting only gym, but the pink would ward off men who grunted and gawped. Often, at the times Rhaenyra visited, it was empty.

When she found her locket, she changed into some black shorts and a black vest top. She stuffed her red duffel bag back into her locker, sliding the key into the well-used silver lock and waiting for the catch sound.

Her arm was inked with various designs; little doodles of castles, a large detailed gate with a winding path, and a lovers initials that she intended to have covered. Rhaenyra had paid four separate tattoo deposits to have them covered, but always decided just to add a new one, instead. The most recent had been a sun and moon, on her left hip. It had hurt, she didn't have a high percentage of body fat, so at times it had felt like the needle was carving directly into the bone.

Next time, that'd be the one. It would stick. She'd cover the ‘M.T’ with another castle, or perhaps a cliche quote to remind her that whirlwind romances often didn't deserve permanent recognition on skin.

She ran on the treadmill for half an hour, at an impressive pace without breaking a sweat. She was required to be fit for her job. But she enjoyed being muscular, it offered her an insight into intimidation. She didn't look as intimidating as her coworkers. Harwin Strong was over six foot tall, with arms as thick as tree trunks and a glower that could turn you to stone.

Rhaenyra was nearly six foot, with a sharp jaw and arms that were slender, but strong. She was fast, faster than any of her coworkers. She was also obsessed with winning, with being the best, which offered a level of stupidity the others didn't grant themselves. She was willing to do more dangerous things, to put her life on the line. Perhaps because she didn't have much, in her life. Perhaps because she just wanted to outshine her uncle.

Her biceps tensed as she brought the weight up to her chest. Her ears were filled with the sounds of soft guitar, and whispered lyrics. A unique choice of song to empower her whilst she strained her body to achieve her desired physique, but Rhaenyra had never subscribed to the need for heavy, bass reliant music whilst she exercised, she found it only gave her a headache.

Her arms began to ache around the fifteenth set of sixty kilogram weights. Her brow had a thin film of sweat, she racked the weight and wiped her hands across her forehead with a shaky breath. Her limbs felt like jelly. It was a good time to call it quits, otherwise her hands may give way on the black handles of her motorcycle, snapping at the elbow like twigs.

Rhaenyra's evenings were lonely, since M.T took her heart and stomped on it, in front of her. She sought company occasionally, but never devoted enough attention to it. Wife, kids… it wasn't for her. She didn't want it, and in her line of work it wasn't accessible. Sometimes the idea of retiring in the country with a pretty woman appealed to her, that she should get out whilst she was still alive… not yet completely corrupted by the tendrils of psychopathy that took root with her job.

Her flat was chilled, and almost cavernous to the naked eye. Her furniture was sparse, dark wood tones that did little to lighten the space. It had large floor length windows, but the blinds were caked in dust from their rare openings. There were no plants, no life could thrive here. As evidenced by its occupier, who visited as if it was a hotel and she was a mere passer-by.

Rhaenyra Targaryen painted the picture of someone thriving, someone elated with all aspects of her life. But she slept alone, or with a stranger she'd see hide nor hair of again. She was arrogant, smarmy, unserious, attractive and successful. And, so cripplingly alone. If she died tomorrow, the only person that may shed a tear would be her handler, the White Wyrm.

Chapter Text

The office was abuzz with rumours of a visit from the Royal correspondent. Rhaenyra didn't care for the Royals, Queen Cersei and King Robert and their brood of spoiled, good-for-nothing children. She found news of them tedious, and in her ideal world, they'd disband the monarchy as a whole.

The White Wyrm looked at her, with a bit too much focus. “What?” Rhaenyra was affronted by the staring.
“You didn't feel like making an effort for the briefing?” She averted her gaze back to her computer screens, a ghost of a teasing smile on her lips.
“It won't be anything important,” Rhaenyra wafted a hand flippantly. She had dressed in her usual attire: black cargo trousers, tight on her legs and adorned with plenty of pockets, and a white t-shirt. She kept a shirt in the office to pull over for serious meetings. “I was expecting to be in the field today, until that email.”

An email had arrived in her inbox at seven thirty a.m., warning of a big meeting with an important person - Rhaenyra had already left the loft by that point, in her field uniform. Her combat boots were heavy on her feet, her cargo trousers tucked into them neatly. Like she was taught, leaving no chinks in her armor.

“Oh, of course.” After snapping her fingers, the Wyrm handed Rhaenyra a file. “There's the information on him. Gregor Clegane. Huge. I think Meleys will advise you to take a second.” Rhaenyra scoffed at her words, and opened the file.

He was huge, and charged with the attempted assault of a Spanish princess, Elia Martell. He himself was a British national, hence the involvement of ‘Regency Insurance’. Rhaenyra perused the file leisurely, the Wyrm had provided her with an insight into his daily movements. Which gym he trained at, to upkeep his gratuitous physique, his route home. Where the CCTV cameras along his pathways cut out. She raised an eyebrow, and slipped it into her desk drawer. “Should be easy enough,” She commented.

Big guys like that never suspected her, always thought if - or when - their time came, it would be in a bloody brawl between two men. “What's the timeline on this one?” She picked up a black biro, making it dance between her fingers. Mysaria made some kissing noises as she looked around her computer.
“Meleys ordered it by the end of the week, as clean as possible. Clegane is already known to us, he's a serial offender.” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, her eyes still fixed to the screen. Rhaenyra nodded in the affirmative, and stored the knowledge away for now.

With the people like him, the men who felt unassailable, she always did it in their own homes. Just to remind them how insignificant they are, not even worth an outside squad. How their walls are penetrable… their skin, just that. Skin. They were no different to everyone else, when a bullet buried in their chest.

“I'll dispatch after the briefing. Your movement traces on him suggest he doesn't leave the house until it's dark… seems paranoid.” Rhaenyra's eyebrows were arched, her hands folded in her lap.
“I think he's been tipped off, he never really opens his curtains or uses his phone. He's ex-forces, probably knows someone in our department.” The Wyrm's brown eyes met Rhaenyra's own sleet coloured irises, in a non-verbal transmission of knowledge.

It was commonly known that there was an informer among them. All denied knowledge, obviously. To admit it would be a death sentence, with the release of death not granted until the perpetrator had spent a long time rotting in the basements, revealing exactly the extent of the betrayal. It wasn't Rhaenyra, and it wasn't the White Wyrm. It wasn't Meleys, either. The rat tipped off random people, with no pattern to their secret spilling. No links to be found. It was clean, and completely random.

Rhaenyra had experienced this two months ago, when she arrived outside the house of a man who had claimed he was going to send a package of anthrax to the Royals, with a pretty little bow on top. She'd snuck in, only to find the house empty and a note reading: ‘You can't catch me’.

His taunt had been correct, annoyingly. They couldn't catch him, the breeze had not carried any whispers of his whereabouts.

The deduction was either incredibly well-timed paranoia, or a tip off. Which seemed more likely… That this not very clever man would decide, on a random Tuesday afternoon, to disappear forever… or that someone told him to. She knew which seemed more feasible to her.

“So we think he's expecting me?” She looked at the clock, and then back to her handler.
“Yes. Expect resistance. Meleys wants you in a body cam, and an earpiece, linked to me.” Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, an exasperated sigh escaping her lips - Meleys was often overcautious. Moreso with her, than the other agents. Loyalty to her father, she assumed.

Her father had worked here, too. Before his illness. Never one for the field, he was high up in the Intelligence sector. A peacekeeper, by all accounts. Always trying to mitigate the most nuclear situations.

Meleys' warning yesterday lingered in Rhaenyra's thoughts - if she looked around the office properly, she really did not have any friends. Harwin Strong, perhaps. If she could break him away from that creepy little brother of his. Her uncle envied her prowess, so they didn't speak. Mysaria was a dear friend. If Meleys were to leave... she would have nobody in power, looking over her and administering warnings before she did something stupid.

“Pff, okay,” Rhaenyra reached into her drawer to grab her emergency shirt, which was creased in a way that would surely earn her a slap on the wrist. She buttoned it up, smoothing the imperfections with her hands, as if that would do anything. “Briefing time,” She straightened her watch on her wrist, and leaned against the open door whilst the Wyrm grabbed her notebook and pen.

“Christ, Mysaria, it's not a lecture,” Rhaenyra jibed her, as they followed the crowds into the darkened room. On the far wall, as a projector screen. There was no image projected, and the quiet hum of conversation suggested that, for once, the pair were early.

Rhaenyra chatted to Harwin, a tall man with brown curls that he often confined to a bun. He was known as ‘Breakbones’, a pseudonym Rhaenyra was always impressed by. As they chatted, his brother and handler, Larys tried his best to listen in. Their conversation was broken by taps on the microphone, Meleys stood in front of the black lectern, accompanied by a tired looking man, and the Head of Service. The HoS was known as Blackwater, a short man with greasy black locks stuck to his scalp. Rarely smiling, often completely morally reprehensible.

“Good afternoon, Agents.” Meleys spoke - Blackwater never spoke, just stood over her like a bad omen. “As I'm sure some of you are aware,” nobody was aware, they all looked at each other suspiciously, “there has been an urgent matter, regarding the Royals. There is a… threat, of sorts, to their safety.” Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed sceptically, she could see that Rhaenys did not agree with the words that were leaving her thin lips. “I'll hand you over to the Royal correspondent, Ser Otto Hightower.”

They all turned to the man with the bad posture. To her left, Larys Strong was leaning forward in his chair. She looked to Mysaria, who rolled her eyes. He was always trying just a bit too hard.

“Good afternoon. I'll keep it short. Recently, the Prince found himself embroiled with a young girl… he… misread her intentions, and now she's left our employ. We've tried money, she's not interested. Our concern is that she might feel it poignant to go to the press…” He was choosing his words very carefully, Rhaenyra noticed. Selecting them from folders in his brain he'd titled ‘acceptable’. “I fear, to keep the Prince's name clear, we need further… more hostile action.”

Rhaenyra had cocked her head, as if she didn't understand. “Thank you, Ser Otto.” Meleys took over the lectern again, her eyes met Rhaenyra's in a silent warning which she didn't yet understand. Her fingers were clasping the black painted wood tightly, Rhaenyra could see her knuckles turning white. “The Agents selected are Silverwing…”

When Meleys's eyes fell on her again, she understood. Her own eyes widened in shock, her gut flipping like an inaccurate gymnast. “And Syrax.”

This was the change they were expecting, the prophetic warning from yesterday. Some trigger happy little Prince assaulted a young member of the serving staff, and it was their job to put her in the ground so his name wouldn't be tarnished. Rhaenyra wanted to laugh where she sat, out of sheer shock, but instead she nodded. “Please stay behind. Without your handlers.”

Silverwing was the code name of a short man, with scraggly blonde hair and an aroma of stale beer. Rhaenyra wasn't sure exactly who he fellated to have a position in this department, but he must have done a good job of it.

The briefing continued, but Rhaenyra’s ears were ringing. This felt wrong, this felt bankrupt and criminal. She killed bad people, men like Gregor Clegane.

Not a young girl, who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, with the wrong boy. She looked over to Silverwing - whose real name was Ulf - he was snickering with the man next to him. Meleys kept talking, going over some sort of drill that would be happening in the next week. She met Rhaenyra’s eyes, her look was baleful, it made Rhaenyra’s heart sink.

Rhaenyra had joined this department fresh from bootcamp, full of promise. The department were affectionately called “the Dragons”, a name earned by the fact their goal was to destroy anything they touched. They weren’t a ‘fix it’ department… they were a ‘bury it’ department, a ‘turn it to ash’ department.

‘Syrax’ was her codename, allotted to her when she joined. Meleys - also known as Rhaenys Targaryen - was her fathers cousin, and acting Captain of the Dragons.

Rhaenyra never thrived in academia. Never one for sitting still, or keeping quiet. She had done well here. She was discrete, fast and undiscerning.

Now, she was discerning. She looked to Mysaria, whose face was painted with deep concern. Rhaenyra couldn’t let the others see her falter, or they’d be on her like vultures on a two day old corpse in the desert. “And lastly… the clean up squad are not your personal servants, when you call them to a scene, don’t make them tidy up your lunch. You know what they’re for.” Meleys ended, her voice carrying around the room, scolding every occupant individually.

They all stood, and saluted. The Blackwater slunk out through a backdoor, into his office. His office didn’t have an inward facing window, only outward. He wasn’t often in the building, prone to sulking around the city, wishing he’d never been promoted.

“Syrax, Silverwing, forward.” Meleys ordered, once the room emptied. She looked at Rhaenyra, and then the stout man named Silverwing. “Ser Otto will be guiding you on this matter, along with my Lieutenant.” Her jaw was tightly wound, and she looked at the correspondent with pure hatred. Rhaenyra knew of the Lieutenant - lots of murmurs, none of them good. By all accounts, a wretched man.

“I don’t think we should be murdering little girls in their beds, so this is where my watch ends. Do the job, if you must.” Meleys walked from the room, her blazer billowing behind her. Rhaenyra watched, in admiration. That would surely not go unpunished.

“I did request a woman's touch,” the man sneered, looking Rhaenyra up and down with a disapproving shake of his head. “Perhaps you might… gain her trust, take her to a secure location. Make her feel… safe.”
“Then I can do the man's work,” Silverwing’s voice was not what Rhaenyra had expected - a higher pitch, wavering and desperate to impress. Rhaenyra scoffed.
“Yes, I suppose it is man's work… murdering little girls, in their beds.” Her words obviously caught both men by surprise, as they stepped back.
“Agent… Syrax? Should I request someone else, or are you capable of putting emotions aside, to do your job?” Hightower tried to appear intimidating, but Rhaenyra stood tall, shoulders square and eyes unmoving.
“I’m sure I can squirrel away my stupid little woman's emotions to murder a girl because-” Rhaenyra was cut off by the reentry of Meleys. She stood to attention.

“Syrax will be perfectly capable of completing the task, Hightower. She's our best.” Her tone was cutting, she stood by Rhaenyra’s side.
“Good. I don’t want any hiccups.” He obviously felt outnumbered, with the return of the older woman. Meleys was a more formidable opponent, and his only ally was picking dirt from under his fingernails.
“Dismissed, Agents.” Meleys moved, she was next to the brown haired man. She watched Rhaenyra go with a glimmer of pride in her eyes.

Rhaenyra was in turmoil; Meleys seemed to expect her to continue the job, to murder an innocent girl because some boy decided he had a right to her body. And her partner was a bumbling fool, keen to impress other men by belittling women. As she walked away, she turned to look through the briefing room window. Meleys was saying something to the taller man, her face close to his. Rhaenyra's could almost see the daggers in her words.

When she got back to her office, Mysaria was staring into space. She looked like a blank canvas, an emotion yet to be painted onto its surface. “You okay?” Rhaenyra sat down in her chair, resting her head in her palm.
“Is this what we’ve come to? Murdering innocents because some inbred-” Rhaenyra shushed her.
“Let’s go for a drink tonight. We both need one.” She stood, and stretched her spine. She felt each vertebrae clicking. “The Rusty Bicycle? Seven?”

They’d arranged enough secret meet ups that they understood the code - they would meet at the Gateways Inn, in Chelsea, at six p.m..

Rhaenyra had to put the assignment out of her mind, banish it to a far corner until they received the green light. “Can you fit me? I’m going for Clegane,” she unbuttoned her shirt, and pulled her t-shirt over her head. Mysaria slipped a bullet proof vest over her bound chest.

This was almost a kamikaze mission - perhaps, if Rhaenyra messed this up enough, they’d dismiss her from the girl murdering mission. Give it to her uncle, or Breakbones, or Seasmoke. Anyone but her, really. It felt like her own personal form of torture, going against everything she stood for.

The armoury was located on the top floor, spanning as wide as two rooms, walls lined with guns and gun accessories. In the walk-in safe were the explosives, kept in padded boxes with code locks. In the cupboard to the left, were all the melee weapons. Rhaenyra always kept a dagger strapped to her ankle. “Pistol, silencer.” She handed in her ID badge, once swiped, she was furnished with a silver pistol and polished silencer. The armourer would store her ID number on a system, along with the code of the weapon she’d taken.

It was not an infallible system - Rhaenyra had guns in her loft, claiming they’d been lost in a scuffle. She had a few explosives, too. They were easier to fib about - if used, they wouldn’t be returned, anyway.

Clegane lived in a rougher part of town, and if Mysaria’s intel was correct, he’d be stirring for the day. But not leaving his house, yet. He’d be stomping around in his run down terraced house, undoubtedly planning some sort of racially motivated protest with his cronies. This would be a satisfying one, given her newest victim was not even eighteen. This man had attempted to assault a Spanish princess, he was forty two, and had previous convictions. An all around waste of oxygen.

It was time to return the oxygen to its rightful owners: anyone, but him.

“Leaving base, heading towards Peckham. Going for in and out, one bullet. Clean up standby for two hours time.” She spoke into the earpiece, double tapping the hard plastic surface to turn her microphone off.
“Roger,” she heard the voice of the Wyrm in her ear, just before she started the engine of a sleek black bike.

Against her will, her brain created images of this young girl she was due to murder. Would she be thin, impoverished? Would she cry, bargain for her life? It made her stomach churn. Usually, she didn’t see the dispatching as murder.

At a red light, she pulled the tinted vizor of her helmet down. The sun had begun to beat down on her, the black leather jacket acting like the walls of a sauna. Nothing warmed you like bulletproof vests, nothing chilled you like the orders to bury a girl who had not committed a crime.

Rhaenyra removed her helmet, resting it on the back of the bike. She kept her jacket on, and tapped the earpiece twice. “Arrived. Making entry.” The street was deserted, most houses had some form of detritus outside, the air thick with the smell of marijuana. Rhaenyra’s adrenaline began to pump as she reached for the lock pick in her pocket.

After a cursory glace through the window, she picked the lock with ease. “Entered.” She kept her microphone on - there was music playing in the house, somewhere, which had surely drowned out the sound of her arrival. Loud guitar riffs, just like Rhaenyra hated. Her hands moved to the harness over her shoulders, which held her silver pistol. She removed it from under her jacket, holding it in her hands outstretched. Her finger sat on the trigger neatly, it would take very little motion to release a round.

The house was nothing more than a converted garage - the front door opened to the living room and kitchenette, with two rooms stemming off the northern wall. Food wrappers and empty cans made for a minefield of sorts.

To signal this room was clear, she made a swiping motion in front of the camera lens. At the office, Mysaria sighed with relief.

The music lowered in volume, and Rhaenyra heard footsteps. She launched herself against the wall, next to the doorway of the closest room. She had no indication of where he was.

He walked out of the doorway she was stood beside - he was huge. He’d ducked his head to make entry, his closely shaved hair still touching the top despite his crouching. Gregor Clegane seemed completely unaware of his surroundings, as he lumbered to the fridge. His footsteps were so loud, that she knew hers would be drowned out, if she moved with him.

Rhaenyra moved herself from the wall. Mysaria was in her ear, telling her to shoot now. Then, Meleys’s voice, ordering her to fire the round now. She ignored them both.

Silently, she tiptoed up to him, and pressed the barrel of the gun against the base of his spine. He turned, at once, and smacked her with an ice cold beer can, square on the side of her head. He was slow, his movements as graceful as a mammoth. Rhaenyra was temporarily stunned by the blow and staggered backwards. Her finger pressed on the trigger, delivering a shot to his thigh. He collapsed, yelping and trying to put pressure on the hole. She felt blood trickle from her forehead, tasting the iron on her lips.

Just as it looked like he was going to rise again, she rammed the sole of her boot into his face. She could feel bones breaking beneath her foot. He shouted, and tried to grab her ankle with an unsteady hand. She was quicker than him, even with the gash on her head seeping plasma. She delivered another kick, this time with the steel toes, to his cheekbone. She heard the crunch. He resigned himself, and his head fell onto the wooden floor with a 'thud'.

“Gregor Clegane?” She kneeled next to him, the silencer pressed between his coarse eyebrows - the indent it left would be nothing, compared to the bullet she would deliver. She cocked the gun, making sure he heard the clicking sound. He nodded.

Blood was dripping onto the floor - hers, from the gash on the right side of her face. She tapped her earpiece twice - something she would later claim was a technical error. “This is for Elia Martell,” she made sure to look him in his crystal blue eyes, he didn’t look remorseful. She didn't want him to, it was always easier when they didn't believe they'd done wrong. His cheek was shining purple, his nose streaming blood onto his lips.

She would give him no time to plead, no time to beg for mercy. Only a death, quicker than he deserved. The bullet buried into his skull, his jaw falling slack against the floor.

In her ear, Meleys was ordering her back to base, now. Mysaria was quiet, but Rhaenyra knew she’d be pleased. It was cathartic, in a borderline psychotic sense. She tapped her earpiece with her left hand, her right holstering the pistol. She spat some blood onto the floor, over his bruised corpse.

“Target deceased.”

Chapter Text

To kill someone like that, to spit your blood over their dying body, was callous. Cold, soul destroying. Rhaenyra filtered through the London traffic, her brain resembled Clegane's floor. Littered.

There was no point rationalising it, telling herself he was a bad guy and he had it coming. That was the whole reason her department were involved. He's a bad guy, a raping, raving pseudo-fascist with a taste for violence.

She'd felt it, too. A taste for violence. When she pulled the trigger and watched the little silver speck burrow a red hole into his thigh. That surge of power, that rush of adrenaline, like lava through her body. Each time she felt it, the lava burned away a bit more of her being. Each trigger she pulled took a bit of her with it.

She could see herself, in the bullets that burrowed and the gashes she made. Oozing away, the sweet girl she'd been. The womanising maniac of her youth, handing out roses and kisses like they were breath mints. It was seeping away, before her very eyes.

It didn't come as a surprise, though. To kill someone else meant to kill a part of you, that once thought life was sacred and smiting was for God's only. Was Rhaenyra a God?

No, she wasn't. There was blood pooling in the bottom of her motorcycle helmet, staining the fabric irreparably. Her head was pounding, her vision blurring. The force of Clegane's blow had been stunted by her own adrenal response. She could feel it now, though. Like someone was running a bassline through her head, her brain contracting and pulsating.

A bit of pain was better than the other feeling. Better than staring ahead, wondering if you'd ever feel anything again.

Taking someone like Clegane off the streets offered a modicum of relief. He was a power hungry, vicious man. Now, and precisely now, he'd be in the back of a van… off to be incinerated in the countryside, his ashes scattered into the wind. Never to be whole again, bits of him across the country. Elia Martell was in Spain, in a Palace, surrounded by caring hands and adoration.

This would bring Rhaenyra some solace, in the small hours, when the ghosts of her actions rose from the floorboards to snarl at her.

She kept her helmet on, the pressure from the foam had stopped the bleeding a while ago - she was left with a throb, as if her skull was going to burst. She stumbled from her bike, towards the office. Her vision was bleary, seeing double or triple of everything there was meant to be. She groaned as she walked, her footsteps unsteady.

In the lift, she collapsed onto the floor, limbs crumpled and limp, and eyes drooping like she was having some sort of aneurysm. Her helmet cushioned the further blow to her head, the floor was cold on her exposed skin. In her head, were images of little girls asleep in their beds, Gregor Clegane looming over them with a bullet protruding between his eyes.

Machines beeped around her, her headache was little more than a niggle. Her eyes felt heavy, and when she tried to raise her arms, she found they were restrained. Rhaenyra’s eyelids opened, it took a while for the pupils to adjust to the lighting - bright white, like someone was shining a torch directly into her eyes. The restraints were blue wires, with sticky pads on her skin to monitor her vital signs. There was an IV running into her skin, administering fluids whilst she slept.

“Concussion,” a French accent told her, she squinted and looked for the source. “You’re lucky it’s nothing more.” Rhaenyra recognised the room, with its clinical white tiled walls and aroma of bleach. She was in the medical wing, two floors above her office. She groaned, and shut her eyes again. Touching her fingertips to the dressing on her head reminded her what had happened, the dressing was dry and the area was tender. “You should have pulled the trigger when ordered!” Mysaria poked her in the ribs, to punctuate the severity of her words.

“Oh, shut up, can’t you see I’m dying?” Rhaenyra looked around, the wing was empty. The beds sat in neat rows, their machines turned off. Rhaenyra’s were beeping steadily, telling the medics they could stay in their office.
“You’re not dying,” Mysaria expired, and sat back in the teal armchair. The cushions were coated with plastic, so she squeaked as she moved. “It could have been much worse, though. You’re an idiot.” She rubbed her forehead, as if Rhaenyra had given her a headache.
“Oh, no. Don't call me an idiot, I'll never recover.” Rhaenyra reached for the cup of water on her bedside table, and took a sip. It was tepid, much to her annoyance.

The sliding doors opened, and Meleys appeared, with a face like a clap of thunder. She’d undone the first few buttons of her shirt, presumably through the stress Rhaenyra had caused.
“Tell me, Syrax, when your superior orders you to release the trigger - what do you do?”

This question was loaded - if Rhaenyra replied with enough insolence, she may be released of child murdering duties.

“Ooh - tough one. Probably just… wait a few minutes?” She held her chin in her fingers, like a philosopher pondering the mysteries of existence.
“Do you think this is a game?” Meleys’ voice told Rhaenyra that it was not, in fact, a game.
“No, I don’t. Games are fun, this is a fucking misery. But do you think we should be used for killing-” Meleys raised her index finger to her lips, her eyes set on Rhaenyra like lasers. She stopped talking.
“Disobey me again, and you'll be discharged.” Meleys looked around, casually. She was scoping for cameras, but to the unknowing eye, she was summoning a medic.

“Unhook Syrax, she’s fine… she’s still insolent. Concussion didn’t make her clever, it would seem,” the medic switched off the machine, and set their fingers to removing the sticky pads from her skin, they pulled on the fine hairs of her arm painfully.

“Oh, gee, don't spare too much concern.” Rhaenyra looked at the two women with disdain, pushing from the bed. Her legs were wobbly, and the ache in her head increased momentarily when she stood. With her hands out for balance, she walked towards the sliding doors.
“Syrax,” Meleys’s exasperated voice rang out through the empty room. “You're on the Royal op, now.”

Rhaenyra stopped in her tracks, her head hanging. Oh good. Little girl killing, just her idea of fun. “Does Silverwing not have anything he needs to finish, first?” She turned on the spot, her fingers raising to the bandage again. He was so useless that he had no other assignments, he’d just been waiting for Rhaenyra to be freed up; Meleys shook her head, and looked around again. She walked over, their faces inches apart.
“Rhaenyra, he's on this because he has no morals. If you falter, he'll do it.” Her voice was hushed, and Rhaenyra could smell coffee on her breath. “Either do it first… or not at all.”

Not at all? Was that an option? “Why are you being so cryptic?” Rhaenyra whispered, Mysaria had approached them now. She never gave away anything with her expressions.
“I can't go into detail. You must try, Rhaenyra. To get her out.” Meleys handed Rhaenyra a business card, which she instinctively tucked into the pockets of her trousers. Meleys stepped back. “Dismissed. Find Silverwing, there's a car prepared for the two of you.” She once again appeared hard faced, and stoic. Rhaenyra’s heart was racing, what did this mean? Was there an option to get her out?

With Mysaria by her side, they walked down the corridor and got into the lift. Rhaenyra felt paranoid, like there were eyes everywhere all focused on her, ears primed to pick up whispers in the wind.

The elevator landed on the floor, doors opening with a ping. It felt like all faces were on her, trying to see deeper than just her skin, as if they wanted a visual of her organs writhing inside of her.

In reality, they all looked up because the elevator made a noise, and they were no better than cats when a car entered the driveway. They didn't care, in fact, they were probably jealous she had been given the assignment.

The business card was burning a hole against the fabric of her bottoms - she needed to see it. She looked at the time: it was past five p.m., usually a time she was making her way home. Rhaenyra had no idea where Silverwing's office was.

“Syrax, in here.” A male voice called, the voice was gravelly and unpleasant on the ears. With a heavy sigh, she stepped into the open room. “And the Wyrm, too.” The voice beckoned, and Mysaria followed.

It was Meleys’ second in command, a man low enough to proudly associate himself with this task. “Meleys has delegated this to me,” he smiled, too pleased with himself. Shortly after he tapped his keyboard, the man named Silverwing appeared. He was wearing ill-fitting khaki trousers, and a black t-shirt. Rhaenyra looked him up and down with disgust.

“Syrax, you have the charge,” the man's voice was low. Rhaenyra nodded in the affirmative. “White Wyrm, you're handling… Silverwing is without a handler, for now.” Rhaenyra cast him another look of disdain, but he was staring at their superior. “It's an extraction. Go to her house, get her to come with you to the barn, and then deal with her quietly.” Rhaenyra had many questions - what of the girls family? What of her friends and people who would worry that she'd disappeared?

“Cleanup are on site, at the barn.” The man rested his tattooed fingers on the table, his expression smug and irritating. “Questions?”

In her first few days at the organisation, she thought cleanup were there to prevent police involvement. But as time went on, she learned the police were aware of their movements… and feared them. The Dragons were a death sentence.

The cleaners were there in case family members decided to sniff around, hire private detectives. They set up scenes, misinforming relatives and friends that the victim had simply ran away, or sometimes killed themselves. And then, when it was reported to the police, the police discarded the report under the guise of ‘well, they told you where they were going!’ or ‘there's a suicide note’. Rhaenyra never thought of the impact on families, all the men she had killed were terrible and often alone in the world.

She thought of this girls family, until it felt like she might throw up on the desk before her.

Rhaenyra wanted to fire about nine different queries at him, but this was Meleys’ warning in the flesh. Things were changing.

“No, Sir.” The simpering man spoke first, looking at Rhaenyra with an ugly smile. Rhaenyra scoured at him.
“Syrax?” She bit the inside of her cheek, the pain stifling any impulsive decisions she may make. “No? Good.” He turned to look at Mysaria, with his beady eyes. “Fit them, and take up station. Bodycams, mics.”
“Yes, Sir.” Mysaria's words were the last uttered in that room.

“I hate him,” Rhaenyra whispered angrily to Mysaria. Meleys’ second in command was a bitter man, nefarious and plotting. Simultaneously, incapable of hiding a plot, as he was wont to sneer. He was a recent addition to the team, promoted up from the military. He didn't have a nickname, but sometimes Meleys could be heard uttering his surname through gritted teeth: “Thorne.”

Naively, she had thought she'd at least be permitted home before moving on to the next killing - she had suffered a concussion, which could only be made worse by the stupidity of her partner. This could only mean that the situation was more urgent than she'd anticipated, that they wanted the rug lifted, and this poor girl swept under it as soon as possible.

Mysaria fitted Silverwing first, holding her breath as it was evident the man had not seen the inside of a shower for quite some time. “So, this is it, then! Like buddy cops.” He grinned, shoving his knuckles against Rhaenyra's arm.
“Fuck sake,” She muttered, her head in her hands. She turned away whilst Mysaria switched on his bodycam.

Tentatively, she removed the business card from her pocket. The edges were frayed, the cardboard black with a golden… octopus? Squid? “Mys, a word?” Rhaenyra waited until her handler had sent Silverwing from the room, to go and grab his personal belongings. She hoped it included a can of deodorant.

“What's this?” Mysaria studied the card, turning it between her fingers.
“That's a kraken,” She answered Rhaenyra's question with a baffled frown. “There's a number, if you hold it to the light.” To demonstrate, she held the card to the ceiling. The light pushed through the card, to reveal a telephone number. Rhaenyra frowned.

“Whatever it is… it's too late, I'm sure.” Mysaria kept hold of the card.
“I don't know… I'll call them, whilst you're heading to the house.” Her brown eyes were staring out of the window that faced the office floor. “Stall him, Rhaenyra. He's stupid.” Mysaria ran the wire along Rhaenyra's muscled arm. “You're not actually going to kill her, are you?” Mysaria whispered it into her ear, as she fitted the earpiece into the drum.

Rhaenyra didn't have an answer. Mysaria fiddled with the small piece of plastic. “Stall him. Meleys will have a reason for giving you this… maybe they can help get her out.”

Rhaenyra wanted to shout - nothing in particular, but just shout. In her heart of hearts, she knew she couldn't kill an innocent girl. But to save her would be to risk her life, and she wasn't a hero. She was just a girl, playing God.

Rhaenyra still had her bulletproof vest on, weighing her down. Mysaria fitted the bodycam over her chest, and Rhaenyra pulled her shoulder harness on. She hadn't returned her pistol, it still hung in the holster. It felt much heavier than usual.

“Good luck,” Mysaria kissed her cheek, their eyes meeting. There was a deep sorrow in Mysaria's gaze, she was wordlessly pleading with Rhaenyra to be merciful, be selfless. Be an Angel, not a God. Rhaenyra was mute, her lips sewn shut by dread.

She bent down, retying her laces tightly. When she rose, she left the darkened room. Once her feet passed the doorway, she found herself thinking this might be the last time she sees this carpet, in all its boring grey glory.

Rhaenyra scanned the floor, trying to find her supposed partner. He emerged from Thorne’s office, and she beckoned him over with a single index finger. Like a well-trained dog, he was before her in seconds. “Don’t stand there like a lemon, downstairs, now.” It was gratifying to take her rage out on this man who seemed like he was born yesterday.

Mysaria fiddled with the card some more, scribbling the numbers down. It was definitely a phone number, the area code was not recognisable, though. Mysaria checked the blinds of her office, making sure they were closed. On her second screen, she could see Ulf and Rhaenyra getting in the car.

She unlocked her desk drawer. It looked normal, a mess of paper clips and post-it notes with various messages scrawled. With her left hand, she reached under the drawer, where a burner phone was strapped.

Untraceable, registered to an address in Canada. The device beeped as Mysaria input the numbers. It rang once, twice. “Kraken Services. Are you in need of rescue?” Mysaria looked the card over, in the light, hoping the person on the other end was patient. She looked for something to say, some codeword. In the bottom left, was Meleys’ writing, small and almost ineligible.

“‘We do not sow.’” She said, little more than a whisper.
“Understood.” The woman replied. Her voice was deep, her vocal chords shrouded in the same mystery as the nature of her business.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra drove them - it seemed the girl didn’t live in central London, but further out, venturing into Berkshire. It was some commute she did, just to serve a family who didn’t care if she lived or died. Literally.

“Bit of music?” Silvering reached his stubby fingers over to the radio.
“No.” Rhaenyra glared at him. He was a woeful excuse for an agent, no doubt instated by the Lieutenant. “You understand that you’re just here as a witness, right?” Her tone was biting, her fingers gripping the steering wheel tightly. This caused him to laugh bitterly.
“I’m here because you’re a girl, and you won’t do it.”

She looked at him in the mirror, her eyes trying to judge if he thought he was being funny… or if he was genuinely absolutely insane. Her smile was dangerous, her teeth shining like blades. He smiled back, and batted her arm again, as if it was all a big joke. It satisfied her deeply to see the fear wash over his face, like white paint on concrete. He put his hands in his lap, and didn’t say a word for another twenty minutes.

Mysaria was walking through the corridors, having told Meleys she was taking her lunch break whilst Rhaenyra and Ulf made their way to the girls’ abode. She was jittery, her eyes looking around every corner until she was out in the streets. She had her lunch bag in her hands, as part of the in depth disguise. Her feet carried her to the parking garage just left of the building, she unlocked her car and sat in the driver's seat.

“Are you still there?” Mysaria spoke into the small brick-like phone.
“Yes,” the voice replied.
“I was given this card by Meleys,” Mysaria paused, “is she known to you?”
“Yes,” she replied, succinctly.
“There’s a girl… she’s due to be executed today. We need her extracted from a barn.” Mysaria wanted to spare as much detail as possible.
“How many agents? Where’s the barn?”

Mysaria explained it was two agents, one very competent who will hopefully - somehow - be aware of their interruption… and the other, less so. Much less so. The woman was silent on the other end.

“I owe Meleys a favour… several, in fact. I’ll do it. Alert the competent one.” The voice had lifted a few octaves.
“Who do I say is coming?” Mysaria furrowed her eyebrows, her mind already moving to the next task of alerting the competent one, without raising suspicions of the incompetent one.
“Asha… tell the competent one to stall, I’m at least four hours away.” The woman hung up shortly after, and Mysaria stared at the device blankly.

Asha… why was that name familiar? It looped around Mysaria’s mind until someone knocked on the window of her car. She jumped inches high, banging her head on the felted roof. It was Meleys. Mysaria opened the door from the inside, and the dark haired woman joined her.

“Did you call them?” She asked, immediately. “Don’t play dumb - your lunch is untouched.”
“Yes, she said she’s going to be there in four hours… What's she going to do? Is she going to kill Rhaenyra?” Mysaria was picking at her fingernails worriedly. Meleys shook her head.
“Did you recognise her name? Asha…” She watched Mysaria’s expression, for a hint of recognition. “Asha Greyjoy?”

That did sound familiar. “A pirate?! We’ve sent a pirate to go and help Rhaenyra save this little girl?”
“She came up on our radar years ago… she applied for a job here, but Blackwater rejected her because she wasn’t quite up to par,” Meleys was staring into space.
“Meaning he didn’t want to sleep with her,” Mysaria clarified.
“Then, she started sinking ships. Ships of actual pirates, men moving women across the borders for their own personal usage. She’d take the women, return them home, or find them somewhere safer.” Meleys continued. “Blackwater ordered me to put her down. I didn’t - I claimed she outsmarted me. She owes me.”

“It’s all well and good - but how are we going to let Rhaenyra know? And how are we going to explain the extraction?” Mysaria felt the stress weighing her down, she looked to the older woman for guidance. The older woman didn’t meet her gaze, and twisted her wedding ring around her finger with slender, but wrinkled fingers.

“I’m going to take the hit, Mysaria.” Rhaenys smiled, an expression weaved with melancholy. “The organisation is going down the drain, anyway. I’m not long for it, and I’d be blamed regardless, if it went wrong.” Her tone was wistful, her eyes still facing forwards. “I’m going. My husband is waiting for me, on a ship off the West Coast. They’ll send someone for me in two years, maybe three. If they find me.”

Mysaria struggled to take it all in - the self-sacrifice, the knowledge that if not now, then later, Rhaenys Targaryen would die at the hands of her own agents. To save one girl. “This isn’t the organisation I joined… it’s full of hitmen, now. Not agents. I’m going to take my money, and my husband, and enjoy life. I’ll inform Rhaenyra, then you can blame it all on me.”

“See, the thing is, I’m no nonsense. I shoot first, ask questions later,” the man had been blabbering for ten minutes now, trying to get Rhaenyra to engage in some form of conversation.
“No, I mean that’s great - really happy for you.” Rhaenyra forced a smile, with the same dangerous gleam as earlier, “Can you find someone - anyone - to tell, who would give even one speck of a shit?”

His face dropped, the smile being replaced with a stroppy scowl. Rhaenyra felt that earlier satisfaction fall over her, her fingers loosening their iron tight grip on the wheel. They were still a few miles out, she was sure she’d shoot him before they arrived.

And she had to stall, somehow. She had to stall him, buy herself time whilst she worked out how to help their would-be victim.

The barn was further away from the city than the girls house, located in essentially the middle of nowhere. Once they’d collected her, they would be in the car for one hour and twenty minutes… and they couldn’t discuss the mission, because that would tell the lamb she was being taken for slaughter.

Meleys and Mysaria still sat in the car, neither talking. Mysaria had almost entered a phase of grief, for the mentor she hadn’t lost, yet. “Link me to Rhaenyra - they should still be driving.” Mysaria reached for the pack in her pocket, the little radio that linked to their earpieces. She checked the code on the back, ensuring the words found the right drum. Mysaria took the back from the radio, and flipped a switch - the recording device automatically built into each set.

Mysaria had learned a few tricks in this job. Things nobody would glance at twice - such as a break in recording, when driving through the city. Equipment inspection rarely ever took place, anymore. There was so much of it, and so many agents, that it would take half a week.

“Rhaenyra, don’t react.” The voice of her superior radiated into her brain, she kept her eyes on the road. “We have made contact with someone who will meet you at the barn, to extract the girl.” Meleys waited, trying to give Rhaenyra time to soak it up before she continued. “You MUST feign ignorance, you must let yourself be beaten by her. For the girl.”

Rhaenyra knew what this meant - she’d thought that this morning, going to Clegane’s with a reckless frame of mind, was a kamikaze mission. Now, she was listening to Meleys dive headfirst from a plane, falling through the air to splat on the floor. She ground her teeth, wanting to argue back, to tell her one girl wasn’t worth her career - her life.

That was the nature of Meleys, though. Not a martyr; she wasn’t doing this for praise or recognition, in fact, she’d go down as a traitor if this worked out. She was doing it to stand in the way of wrongdoing, one last move as a Dragon, not a Captain. “She’ll be at the barn in four hours - her name is Asha.” There was a thick pause. “You’ve served me well, Rhaenyra. Your dad would be proud.” The woman said, her voice stoic. “I’m going, with Corlys. We’ll run, for a time. They’ll find us.”

Rhaenyra fought to keep her expression plain, her eyes dry and on the road. Her knuckles had turned white around the wheel, and her hatred for the man next to her was boiling over the pot. Someone as honourable as Rhaenys Targaryen would be on the run, whilst this runt of an agent would live freely. All because he was willing to kill a child, and Rhaenys wasn’t.

“Signing off.” Meleys said, into the microphone. Mysaria studied the woman, as she got out of the car. “Make sure you tell them it was me - if it reaches the tribunal. I’ll be long gone,” Rhaenys’ smile wasn’t sad, this time. It was happy - she’d be sailing the seas with her husband, forgetting the faces of the people she’d burned.

Mysaria felt inspired by her bravery, and hoped Rhaenyra felt the same. Rhaenyra was impulsive, though. Ruled by her emotions, slave to her whims and momentary wishes. This caused Mysaria to fiddle with her badge, as she made her way up to the office. Rhaenys had gone, left through the car park entrance, into a black cab.

That would be the last time that anyone in London saw Rhaenys Targaryen.

“Arriving,” to an untrained ear, Rhaenyra sounded stoic. But, every day for the last five years, Mysaria had heard Rhaenyra’s voice in her ear. She wasn’t stoic, she was enraged. This would be dangerous. Mysaria watched as they left the car.

Rhaenyra knocked on the door, to the surprise of her partner, who had retrieved his lock pick.
“Put that away, you fucking clown,” Rhaenyra spat, quietly.
“Sorry,” the man fumbled, shoving it in his pocket again.

The plan for if the parents answered was to flash fake police badges, and say they were taking their daughter for an interview under caution.

Much to Rhaenyra’s horror, the door was answered by a small girl - smaller than she had imagined - with a blonde plait down the side of her head. Judging by the bags around her eyes, and her pallid skin, it was their girl.

“Tamsin?” Rhaenyra posed the word kindly. The girl nodded timidly, and looked at Ulf sceptically. She was clever, obviously. Anyone with two brain cells would cast aspersions on the buffoon that stood beside her. When she looked at her partner, it seemed he was staring into space, his finger on his earpiece. “We’re here to take you somewhere safe. From the Prince. Go and pack a small bag.”

The bag detail was not part of their brief - Rhaenyra had added it on a whim, trying to offer the girl a chance to take some home comforts with her, wherever this Asha was going to take her. Now, her partner was mumbling to himself. “What?” Rhaenyra turned, and he widened his eyes in surprise.
“Oh-” he was stammering, trying to find an explanation. This set blaring alarms off in Rhaenyra’s body… he’d obviously been given different instructions.

Mysaria was watching his paranoid behaviour on her monitor, eyes squinting. She stood up and approached the windows, prying the blinds apart to peer out. Otto Hightower was leaving the Lieutenants office, shutting the door behind him.

She’d set the devices to recording, again. To alert Rhaenyra now would mean trouble. She could cover one missed minute or so, when they were driving. There would be no explanation for a missed minute whilst they were stationary at a front door. Mysaria felt nauseous, praying to whichever God that might listen that Rhaenyra had spotted the oddness of his demeanour.

Rhaenyra had, but she had other priorities at present. The girl reappeared, a backpack full of clothes, a soft toy peeking from the top. “Where are we going? Why am I having to be kept safe?” She questioned, as Rhaenyra saw her into the car.

They joined her, and pulled away from the street quickly. Rhaenyra looked at the man beside her, who was twitching and looking around like a frightened deer. Whatever instructions he’d been given, he wasn’t up for it.

They drove in silence - Mysaria couldn’t warn her, and Rhaenyra had to stick to the plan as they’d discussed it with Otto Hightower. Meleys’ sacrifice played on her mind, she had to make sure the girl got out, or else it was all for nothing. She wondered where Rhaenys would be now - on the ship, perhaps? Sailing off with a glass of wine in her hand?
“T-minus thirty minutes from landing,” Mysaria said into the microphone, watching their GPS draw closer to the pinpoint on the map. It was agonising, to know that he was under different instruction. Primarily because she didn’t know the instruction, therefore was unaware of how it would affect their plans to save the girl. Mysaria knew that whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

Rhaenyra’s lungs had begun to constrict in her ribcage, that familiar feeling of manic energy resurfacing. An hour and ten minutes ago, she was told that Asha would be meeting them in four hours. She had to keep Silverwing away from the girl, one on one, for two hours and some odd minutes, after they reached the barn.

The girl was quiet in the background, chewing her nails and staring out of the window. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, but you could see there was no innocence left in her. It had been snatched, by a boy who was told he was more than he actually was.

“We’re nearly there, Tamsin,” Rhaenyra said, in a soothing voice. The girl offered a weak smile. Silverwing stared at her, as if to scorn her for her kindness. Rhaenyra wanted to stop the car, unsheath her pistol and blow a hole into his head. He repulsed her, to her very core.

“Arriving,” Mysaria said - she must have delivered the message to Silverwing, as well. He nodded, stupidly. As if the handler could see them.
“Here we are,” Rhaenyra looked around the fields - there was nothing, not so much as another car. Just a clean up van, stationed a bit further down the road. Tamsin wouldn’t pay any attention to it, it just looked abandoned. The sight of the white van caused Rhaenyra to swallow… she didn’t want to imagine a situation where they had a use here.

“Get in, then,” Silverwing ushered the girl in hurriedly, looking around him. His tone was aggressive, and the girl shuffled into the barn with great haste. For a second, it looked like he was sizing Rhaenyra up. She ran her tongue over her dry lips. If it came to it, she could take him. He was sloppy and a drunk on his days off. It would be as easy as flicking a fly away.

The girl could see their guns now. Rhaenyra could see the panic in her eyes and the tremble in her hands as she clutched her bag. “I’ll sit with her, you stand watch,” she ordered. The man lingered in the doorway, facing out to the vast expanse before them.

“If- if this is about what happened, I didn’t mean it…” the girl’s eyes were fixed on Rhaenyra’s gun. “He was just playing… I made it up.”

Mysaria was watching on her monitor, tears swimming in her brown eyes.

Rhaenyra was speechless, there were no words she could say to comfort the younger girl. She had suffered a horror unimaginable, and if Rhaenyra didn’t stop it, she’d die with her last few memories being of that moment.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Rhaenyra whispered. Ulf wasn’t paying attention, anyway. “These aren’t for you.” She smiled, and clicked the safety onto the gun.

It was perhaps against her best interests to do that, given the shifty behaviour exhibited by her ‘partner’. To add to his shiftiness, he was shuffling restlessly in the doorway, his finger on his earpiece. Rhaenyra debated just shooting him now, and claiming he was tweaking.

Mysaria could barely stand to watch - this mysterious woman, Asha wouldn’t arrive for another hour or so, if at all. She found herself mumbling: ‘shoot him, shoot him’ to the air in front of her.

Rhaenyra watched him shifting his weight from foot to foot. She chewed the inside of her cheek, anxiety broiling within her. She could feel it, in the atmosphere… the tension, heavy and stifling. Someone would pull their trigger first, Rhaenyra just hoped it was her.

“Syrax, there’s a car… over there.” The man turned, eventually. He was as white as a sheet. Rhaenyra didn’t rise to his false claims.
“Okay - so watch it,” she commanded, her hand on the grip of her pistol. She could see his plan, now. Formulating in her own head, like images on a corkboard. He wanted her to get up, and then he’d shoot the girl. Rhaenyra wouldn’t budge, not now, or ever. She took the safety off. She did wonder why she was still on the mission, if he had orders to kill the girl instead of her. Perhaps, in case they'd misjudged her, and she was in fact a child killer.

Had she made it that obvious she wasn't going to do this? Had Meleys set this up, instated her on the mission purely because she wouldn't kill a child? Rhaenyra wasn't savvy in this way, she couldn't find the motive behind her being here. In the doorway, Ulf White was turning red.

“I’m fucking trying,” she heard him exhale, and tap his ear piece twice.

He was the least discrete agent she’d ever encountered - she could see right through him, as if he was a sheet of ice made from filtered water. His microphone would be off. She couldn’t ask him what his orders were, he wouldn’t be able to say and it would just scare the shivering girl even more.

This was a good-old fashioned waiting game.

She set her jaw, and turned her attention back to the young girl. “Cold?” Rhaenyra asked, the warm air couldn’t penetrate the wooden walls of the shack. She reached for her jacket, across the floor. Her eyes were still on the other agent, she knew he could feel them on the back of his neck as he reached a hand around to rub the skin. Rhaenyra draped the leather over the girls shoulders, her lips forming a forced smile.

Her heart rate had slowed, but was still higher than it should be. This was not going to end well.

It was time to act, now. He had his fingers on his earpiece again, and was seemingly going for a leisurely stroll outside of the building. Rhaenyra was sure she could lift the girl, and run. Hightail it to the car, and take her to safety herself.

Ulf White returned, with his pistol in hands. Rhaenyra rushed to her feet, and put the girl behind her. “You don’t make it out of this alive, if you pull that trigger,” she warned, calmly.

Rhaenyra took her pistol from its home, she smashed the butt against her chest as hard as she could. The force made her step back, her body covering the girl's own completely. Glass from the camera lens spilled onto the floor.

Mysaria lost Rhaenyra’s point of view, and switched to Ulf’s. “It’s the orders…” He replied, weakly. He wasn’t even a good villain. Rhaenyra could hear the girls shaking breaths.
“Put that fucking gun down, now, you stupid prick,” Rhaenyra had hers aimed at him. All receptors in her body were screaming at her to protect the girl. For Meleys, and for the sake of just doing some actual good, for once. Not evil disguised as good. She should just pull the trigger - but then what? If she shot him now, she'd be killed herself by the end of the day.

He walked towards them - a rookie error. “Back up, NOW!” Rhaenyra shouted the warning, she should shoot, really. She exhaled, her finger on the trigger.
“I’m not going to shoot you… just her.” He said, as if he was bargaining with her. As if she was scared of him.

Before he could take another step, the butt of Rhaenyra’s gun collided with his face, causing his nose to crack and spew blood. She swept her foot around his ankles. He landed with a thud, settled dust rose around him.

Mysaria watched, as Rhaenyra looked into the camera. Rhaenyra didn't look like herself, she looked menacing and terrifying. Her eyes held nothing, her lips had curled into a snarl. Then, she jumped backwards as shining metal hit the lens of the camera. Silvering’s view, trashed. Mysaria was left blind.

Otto Hightower and Thorne came barrelling into the room: “What’s going on? That blithering idiot isn’t answering his earpiece.”
“We’ve lost view,” Mysaria said - the cameras were recording… but she could get rid of the footage, she could claim the cameras were malfunctioning. Nobody would know until they saw the remains of the cameras. Even then, they could cover it… say they were malfunctioning, and they crushed them to prevent hacking.

But Mysaria knew that either Rhaenyra or Ulf would die in that barn. The feeling settled on her like a spider's web, no matter how much she tried to brush it off, she could still feel it on her skin.

“Well, for fuck sake woman, get it back!” Otto bellowed at her, spittle flying onto her screen. She couldn’t.

In the barn, Rhaenyra had her gun pointed at Ulf, bleeding and rolling on the floor. She’d kicked his standard issue pistol away. “Stand up, now,” she kicked him in the gut. Tamsin had secured herself in a corner. Holding his stomach, blood filling his mouth, he rose from the floor.
“They’ll discharge you… or worse,” he spat blood onto the floor, breathing heavily through his mouth.
“I’d rather be discharged than murder a little girl,” Rhaenyra pointed her gun to the back of his neck, and walked him to the far corner of the barn.
“If I don’t do it - someone else will,” he was desperate now, he knew he was dead regardless. Syrax was not a word associated with mercy.
“No, they won’t. I’ll kill them, too,” Rhaenyra shoved him roughly against the wall. She turned her focus back to the blonde girl, who was shaking where she stood.

She should have patted him down. Every night since this one, those words haunted her. He pulled a small revolver from his pocket, and fired once. His aim was poor, the bullet grazed her shin, taking some of her trousers with it. He fired again - this time, he wasn’t aiming for her. She heard the yelp behind her, and the sound of a body hitting the floor. Her breath caught in her lungs, painful and constricting.

Aiming was no problem - it was always easier to find your target when you weren’t breathing. Her hands were still, she discharged three bullets. One landed in his thigh, then she moved the gun higher, nicking his kidneys no doubt. The last hit the muscle of his shoulder. She wanted him to still be alive, in agony and lungs filling with blood. Three wounds, almost like punching holes in paper. In a neat row.

He fell to the floor, again. Rhaenyra ran to the young girl, her hands pressing on the singular bullet wound. He was a terrible shot - it had landed in her stomach… she could be saved. Only, there was nobody that could save her. Rhaenyra had no means to summon an ambulance, and limited medical training herself.

“Okay, breathe slowly,” Rhaenyra’s eyes were welling with tears, she pressed down on the wound as hard as she could. “You’ll be fine, darling,” Rhaenyra said, pulling the girl's head into her lap. She leaned over, the blood spilling around her hands.

In the corner, Silverwing was spluttering, begging for it to be ended. A pleasure she did not want to grant him, but would have to. Rhaenyra wanted to get up, to storm over and smash his head to the floor. The rage she felt burned through her, like petrol in her veins. When she looked down to the girl, and the blood spilling through her fingers, the rage turned blue. There was no point killing him, the mission was failed, anyway.

“I’m going to die,” the girl muttered, Rhaenyra could see the colour draining from her skin. She was going to die… it had all been for nothing.
“No, sweetheart, you’ll be fine… someone is coming,” Rhaenyra looked out of the doorway. Nobody was coming, not yet. The room was spinning.

The girl died in Rhaenyra’s arms, her blood spilling onto the straw covered floor. Rhaenyra’s heart seemed to have stopped beating, stilled by rage and sadness.

When the last sliver of life left the girl's eyes, Rhaenyra gently placed her down on the floor, her leather jacket over her face. Shakily, she hobbled over to the blond man. Her leg was beginning to hurt, now. The graze didn’t seep blood, like the wound of the girl, but the flesh had been opened.

She loomed over him. “Look at me,” she ordered. It took a great deal of strength, but he did. Rhaenyra felt devoid of any sort of humanity. “You killed a little girl. And you lie here, pathetic and begging for mercy?” She kicked him in the shoulder with her unscathed leg, he screamed as her boot made contact with the wound. “Where was her mercy?”

“Orders…” he spluttered, his teeth stained red. “Please…” She kicked him again. Rhaenyra could hear cleanup getting out of their van, unloading buckets and heavy chemicals. They must have heard the scuffle. She kneeled down, just like she had with Clegane, in front of his eyes. The barrel of the gun was over his heart, this time. “You killed a little girl, Ulf White. In cold blood. You are lucky to receive this mercy.” She pulled the trigger, and pushed up from the dusty ground. Her cheeks were stained with tears, her trousers bloody and ripped. She hobbled from the barn, her jacket left on Tamsin's head.

“There’s two bodies.” Rhaenyra informed the hazmat wearers. There was no point in telling them that one of the bodies was a former agent. They’d learn that within seconds. Rhaenyra could almost see her soul floating in front of her, waving goodbye as it departed for Hell with soulless eyes.

She had failed Meleys. She had failed herself, and the White Wyrm. A little girl lay dead, in a barn, in the middle of nowhere. Rhaenyra hadn’t stopped it. She should have patted him down.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra took off the shattered camera, and threw it to the ground. Limping, she made her way to the shining black car. She climbed in, with a ragged exhale. Her leg wasn’t throbbing, it was more like a permanent sting. As if a wasp lived on the surface, repeatedly jamming its pointed stinger into the flesh.

She watched, through the tinted window, as they removed a small body on a yellow stretcher. A sob might break through her, if she allowed it. Instead, she gritted her teeth. Next, a larger body was removed. Rhaenyra started the car, and drove through the field.

Mysaria’s office was dark - the two men were muttering to each other, debasing the character of Ulf White, and saying that Rhaenyra did this on purpose - that Rhaenys put her up to it, and that’s why she disappeared. They weren’t wrong.

Mysaria wondered if her agent was still alive, if the girl was still alive. Or were they both lying cold on the floor? No, if they were, Ulf would have made contact with Thorne. He would have had to say ‘dispatched’ or ‘target deceased’. Thorne had spent five minutes furiously shouting into his earpiece, with no answer.

“This couldn’t have gone worse!” Hightower was screeching now, the entire floor trying to see through the small gaps in the blinds. “Your department is supposed to be the best!”
“Well, they’re not my fucking department,” Thorne replied, baring his teeth. “Where’s Meleys? This is her fucking department!” He stormed from the room, and Mysaria heard ten pairs of hands tap aimlessly on their keyboards.

The Royal correspondent paced her office, occasionally glancing at her screens to see if a camera became live, to receive confirmation that a little girl had been murdered.

As Mysaria sat there, with no news, no voices in her ears, no images on her screen, she felt the nail being hammered into her coffin. She couldn’t do this job anymore. If the prospect of a little girl living made a commander so enraged, it wasn’t for her.

Rhaenyra was an hour or so outside of the city, her leg pulsating now. She wanted to go home, and await the bullet that would be delivered to her head when they found out about Silverwing. The feeling of failure had taken any will to live from her body, there was nothing for her on this Earth.

Failure was not something she was accustomed to. The feeling made her skin crawl, her lunch rise in her throat. The pain in her head had reactivated, her eyes drooping shut as she drove. She veered into a field, and just about managed to pull the keys from the ignition before she fainted.

Mysaria was pacing now, as well. It had been six hours since they’d heard from either Syrax, or Silverwing.

Just as she sat in her chair, Breakbones tapped his knuckles on the glass. Mysaria grunted, to grant him entry. He sat down in what would usually be Rhaenyra’s chair. Her stomach dropped from her body, her eyes instinctively filling with tears.

“Two fatalities,” he said, “Silverwing, and an unnamed girl.” His words bought her some relief. “Syrax is missing…” he added. They’d become friends, Rhaenyra and Harwin - a fact Larys Strong resented.
“Missing is good, missing is not dead.” Mysaria had meant to think it, but the words had escaped into the air.
“Mysaria - she killed him. She must have killed Silverwing, unless the girl somehow turned and Rhaenyra put her down… but, they found her with Rhaenyra’s jacket over her head.” Harwin frowned, deeply. He looked older, in this light. Frowning, worried wrinkles on his forehead. “This is serious shit.”

Mysaria knew it was serious shit, of course she knew. She’d had a part in orchestrating the failed rescue of the innocent.

“Do you think they’ll… put her down?” Mysaria couldn’t bear to think about it. Rhaenyra was annoying, she was arrogant and relentless in nature. But she was her only friend in the world. Harwin’s frown became stronger, and he shrugged his shoulders.
“Rumour has it the cameras ‘malfunctioned’... who knows. She may just be discharged. She could plead that he turned on her, or the girl shot him.” Harwin pushed off from the chair, forgetting his own strength as it careered into the glass window with a ‘plonk’.

In her chest, her ribs ached and her heart struggled to move blood around her body. The office was abuzz, when Harwin left her room. People weren’t usually in the building past eight p.m., but the floor was full. Morbidly, someone had completed a coffee run to fuel the gossipers.

Discharge was hopeful, at least. At the end of the day, the target was dead. Nobody would miss Silverwing, he was a useless letch. Mysaria ran her tongue over her lips, and turned back to her computer. She had to act, to do everything to save Rhaenyra… wherever she was.

Rhaenyra was pulled from the car by strong hands. Unfamiliar, but gentle with their force. Her eyes didn’t open, but she heard the voice. She felt hands patting her pockets, looking for something.

“That’s the one,” the voice confirmed, and Rhaenyra heard her badge fall on the ground next to her. “Get her up, and in the van.”

Rhaenyra thought they might remove the pistol from the holster, but they didn’t. She was shoved into the backseat, trying her best to appear limp and unconscious. The voices whispered, and the engine started.

She felt the vibrations under her, for a while. She was sure she was being dragged to the basements, to confess her sins before they ended her misery. When hands started slapping her cheeks, she realised that wasn’t the case.

“I was told you were the competent one,” her eyes opened to see a woman over her, irises nearly as black as coal, and hair shaved at the sides. “I’d hate to see what the incompetent one looks like.”
“Dead,” Rhaenyra muttered, pushing herself away from the woman’s touch. She felt weak, her throat dry and leg red and inflamed. Her headache had gone, at least. She supposed fainting released some of the pressure.
“And the girl?” The woman sat back, leaning against the door.

It all came flooding back; the bullet that missed, and the one that landed. Her shots to Ulf, her last words to the rasping fool. “Dead, too,” Rhaenyra’s voice was little more than a breath escaping. “Couldn’t save her,” she tried to look around, but it was too dark. The short haired woman had punched the door. They were rambling down the road at some speed. “Who are you? How do you know about Tamsin?” Even the use of her name made Rhaenyra’s stomach churn.
“Friend of Meleys’, I’m Asha.” It actually came as a surprise, that Rhaenyra could be made to feel even worse than she already felt. It caused a smile to break out on her lips.

“So, Asha, what are you going to do with me?” Rhaenyra ran her tongue over her smiling lips, her arms folded over her chest.
“Take you home - we’re not here to kill you,” she answered simply.

They rode in silence, Rhaenyra stared out of the window dolefully. The sky had darkened completely, the office must be in turmoil. Surely, by now, they’d know that Ulf White was dead. The mission had been a success, ultimately. Rhaenyra would be spared, for that reason alone. The girl would be erased by now, every piece of evidence relating to her existence, scrubbed from the surface of the Earth.

A long time ago, Mysaria had snuck Rhaenyra’s house key from her pocket, and made a copy. Now, as she let herself into the flat, she felt crippling sadness. It was like a showroom, in an abandoned furniture store. The furniture matched, but there was nothing on it. No personality, no soul.

It was ironic, really. Mysaria considered Rhaenyra as one of the biggest personalities she knew. And here she stood, in her cold flat, with not a single belonging that would make you say ‘oh, yeah! That’s Rhaenyra!’.

She didn’t turn the light on, she didn’t want to scare her if she was making her way home. She just sat on the sofa, which was still in mint condition - probably never used.

When Mysaria had left the office, the deduction was that Rhaenyra would be dismissed. Ulf had obviously got a few licks in, otherwise Rhaenyra would have returned sooner rather than later - meaning it was a fair-ish fight.

Mysaria waited for hours, until a key slotted into the lock. She reached for the small pistol she kept in her bag - there wasn’t a verdict on if Rhaenyra would be allowed to live, yet. Perhaps this was Breakbones, or Seasmoke, here to put her down.

Rhaenyra was escorted in by a tall woman, who flipped the light on. “Woah - woah!” She called, raising the hand that wasn’t supporting Rhaenyra. Mysaria lowered the gun, and approached with haste. Rhaenyra’s head was bleeding again, and her trousers had been ripped open at the shin. Mysaria hooked an arm under Rhaenyra’s other side, and slammed the door shut behind them.

Rhaenyra laid back on the sofa, her head in her hands. “Who are you?” Mysaria probed.
“Asha - I take it you’re the White Wyrm?” She studied the smaller woman, with an eyebrow cocked.
“Yes.” Her gaze darted to Rhaenyra, who let out a groan as she lifted her leg onto the sofa.
“We failed, too,” Asha looked to the floor, her lips pursed.
“We all failed,” Mysaria blinked slowly, her eyes growing tired. “Thank you for bringing her back.”

The woman left another business card, and took her leave without further word. Mysaria went to the kitchen - she opened all the cupboards to find a glass, but all she found was a plastic half-pint cup from a beer festival. She ran the tap, filling the vessel and returning it to Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra sipped the cold liquid, letting out a sigh as she felt her throat take the moisture gratefully. “Fucked it up, should’ve patted him down.” She was almost unintelligible. It was a bit like seeing your teacher outside of school - she wasn’t used to seeing Rhaenyra so torn apart.
“It wouldn’t have mattered… you’d be dead, instead,” Mysaria sat on the floor next to her, fiddling with the hem of her white slacks. Rhaenyra chuckled - it was a chilling noise, in the darkness of this room.
“None of it fuckin’ matters, really,” she said, touching her fingertips to the wet bandage. “They’ll come for me in the morning, and you’ll have a fresh faced agent Syrax across from you, tomorrow.”

Mysaria didn’t deign to answer that, she found nihilism an unattractive trait

When the morning came, knuckles assaulted the door. Rhaenyra sat up, it was like the church bells tolling. This was it, her doom, contained in a silver bullet. Mysaria rose from the armchair, and made her way to the door. She peered through the peephole. “It’s Blackwater,” the revelation made Rhaenyra’s heart fall from her chest.

She would sit up straight, and take the bullet with pride. She’d failed, anyway, so what did it matter? There was nothing left for her, here. Mysaria let the man in. Rhaenyra realised she’d never actually heard him talk, so when a thick East London accent filled the room, she was shocked.

“Right, so. You killed Silverwing?” Rhaenyra was peering at his attire - a black shirt, black slacks. No visible weaponry.
“Yes, Sir,” Rhaenyra answered, a lump forming in her throat.
“And he killed the girl, as was the intent of the mission,” words like ‘intent’ didn’t sound natural when they left his tongue. “So, we’re squared away, then.”

Rhaenyra choked on air, and looked to Mysaria. “Will I get to keep my job?” Rhaenyra was walking on clouds, until he turned the vacuum on.
“Don’t be fucking daft,” he chuckled, sitting down on an armchair in front of her. “You’re dismissed - dishonourable discharge, killing another agent. But, we can’t prove he didn’t attack you first… and we can’t prove these were your actions. Meleys has disappeared, leaving me to clean up the shit… you’re the shit, by the way,” he cleared up - Rhaenyra didn’t need the clarification. “I don’t want you killed… Hightower does. Thorne, too, I’d imagine. I’m a fan of your work, though.”

Rhaenyra was grateful to keep her life. But the words he followed with made her wonder if she deserved to live: “You’re a proper killer, the autopsy has it that you shot him three times, in non-deadly zones… impressive.” His eyes fell to the graze on her leg. “If you ever want to go… freelance… Call me.” He tossed her a business card, and slicked his black hair back against his scalp.

On his way out, he stopped by Mysaria. “You’re fired, too. Good job deleting the footage, though. Clever move. You can call me, too. If you fancy a foray into crime.”

When the door shut behind him, they looked at each other. “What the fuck was that?” Rhaenyra stared, flummoxed.
“We’ve been… let off.” Mysaria studied the business card. It seemed everyone but these two had decided to go independent with their skills. The Commander of the Dragons was a freelance mercenary by night, if this conversation was anything to go off.
“Fucking hell,” Rhaenyra squeezed her eyes shut, tilting her head back. Mysaria smiled, stunned by the whole interaction.

They were both unemployed, relieved of their duties in the same breath. Being a Dragon came with danger pay, and long hours. Both had accrued rather large sums of money - primarily from never having the time off to spend it.

For Mysaria, the future could have been bright; she was incredibly skilled in her field, and charming to boot. When Rhaenyra thought of her future, she couldn’t picture anything other than a swirling blackness.

Rhaenyra took the Blackwater’s words to heart - she was a true killer. She’d killed two men in one day, in a very similar manner. Cold, staring into their eyes and hoping they felt fear when they looked upon her.

In the weeks that followed her dismissal, she found herself plotting with Mysaria. What if they went ‘freelance’? It gave Rhaenyra purpose, something to think of when the lights went out and her brain told her she should be dead, instead of that young girl. Mysaria had pondered it, with their combined funds, they could afford to not earn money for quite some time.

And, it wouldn’t cost much to set up… all they needed was a computer, a building and a gun. No bodycams, this time. No earpieces. No paper trails. No records.

The agency would be different - more like a charity. They found a warehouse, off the beaten track. All they needed was word of mouth to spread like wildfire, burning through the town until it found someone in need of assistance.

Mysaria got in contact with the people she’d affectionately named her ‘whisperers’. These whisperers were stationed in clubs, in public offices, in other more… classic… charities. They were all people she had crossed paths with in her time in the Dragons, who felt the streets could benefit from a bit of cleaning. Who felt the justice system was letting people - women, mainly - down.

It took months. They were dismissed in July of 2018, and it wasn’t until nearly midnight on a Thursday in October 2018 that someone set foot into their warehouse, timid and echoing her words off the tin walls: “Hello? I’m hoping you can help…”

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra sat bolt upright in the chair, looking to the wall opposite her. The warehouse was empty, and dilapidated. In the middle of the concrete floor was Rhaenyra’s desk. A black painted wood, with two chairs on the side that Mysaria’s window overlooked. They’d had the window changed from dirty glass, to a two-sided mirror.

Formerly used for iron-works, the warehouse still had a faint aroma of metal. Probably from the shavings that littered the floor. They had a fridge, just off the desk. They would offer any potential customers a bottle of water, complementary. A friendly touch, meant to gain trust.

It had been a long few months. Rhaenyra had gone along with Mysaria’s plan, in a haze of grief. She had always viewed herself as protective, a force of loyalty… when she tried to protect, instead of destroy, it had ended terribly. She had come to terms with the fact that she was meant to destroy - a Dragon by name, a Dragon by nature. Although, no longer a Dragon by employment.

But this didn’t mean she was against trying to build on her skills as a protector. She wanted to be like Meleys, a force to be reckoned with and protector of those who had nobody else. She wanted it so badly. It seemed unobtainable.

They had adopted their code names again, in this warehouse. Going out on your own did not offer the same level of police protection as working for the Government did. And, it seemed it was a competitive field. They had, after all, stolen the idea from the Dragons Head of Service. A foolish move, Rhaenyra had thought when it had first been floated.

In the back of the warehouse, was Rhaenyra’s personal gym. She had improved her physique greatly since her dismissal. Her stomach was toned, chiselled muscles visible under the skin. Her arms were hard to the touch, and her legs thicker and hardy. Her hair had grown out, it reached her ears now. She kept it brushed back, swept away in a messy fashion. She’d never much cared for her hair, but Mysaria had told her it looked good when it was longer. She’d debated dyeing it red, but Mysaria had also told her that it would look incredibly terrible.

So, back to the voice. When Rhaenyra heard it, she looked to the mirror without a second glance. Behind the mirror, Mysaria pulled up the police database she had bribed access to. This was a precautionary measure - to make sure they were dealing with the right side of the story, access any reports the person had put in.

“Hello?” Rhaenyra called back, placing her hands on the table in front of her. On her thick thigh, was a gun, strapped to the muscle with a black silencer on. The lights flickered overhead, and Rhaenyra found her hand creeping towards the weapon. The metal was cold under her fingertips, as she slowly removed it from the holster.

“Hi,” the voice was quieter than a whisper, high in pitch. “I-I got your number, from a poster in a bathroom.” The girl was tall, slender with a long sheet of ginger hair falling from her scalp. She was pretty, pale with blue eyes. “Are you like… a superhero?” She asked, standing in front of the desk.

Rhaenyra laughed, just once. “No, no. Take a seat.” She pointed to the pink chairs Mysaria had procured. Rhaenyra loved the colour pink, but she wasn’t sure they were appropriate for a hitman’s office.

“My name is Sansa,” she had her hands in her lap, twiddling her thumbs.
“Hi, Sansa. You can call me ‘Syrax’.” Rhaenyra offered her a smile, she could see the girl was fearing for her life. “What can I do for you?” Her hand moved away from the gun.
“I- I don’t know, really.” Her blue eyes looked around frantically. Rhaenyra deployed a bit of patience.
“Which part of our poster stood out to you?” She questioned, reaching into the desk drawer.

Mysaria had made a few posters, to dot around public bathrooms. In the women’s loos, mostly:

’Is he too persistent? Does he ignore your refusals? Call this number for support!’ The posters were purple, and when they called the number listed, Mysaria would answer, and give them the address. They had obviously received a few prank calls, too. Where boys had found their posters in the bin, and thought it would be funny to call and pretend to be a damsel in distress.

She remembered Sansa’s call - it had been in the small hours. A boy had been following her home every day for weeks on end, the police wouldn’t do anything as he hadn’t yet touched her or sent her any letters. He stood outside of her window, watching until her brothers would wake up. Her brothers had warned him away once, but they were in the military, and gone for long stretches. Plainly, she felt unsafe, and had been failed. This was the only criteria needed for their more forceful method of assistance.

“He’s too persistent.” Rhaenyra nodded as she spoke. “He follows me, at night. I work in a haberdashery, sometimes I work later than normal. He follows me home, and stands outside of my window. I shut my curtains, but I can feel him looking at me through the walls.”

Rhaenyra listened with intent. The girl's hands were moving as she spoke, gesturing nervously. Rhaenyra could see the small tremor, her fingers shaking when they rested. “Okay, Sansa.” She smiled. “Do you want him to be warned?”
“Yes, I told the police but they won’t do anything. I don’t want him hurt… I just want him to leave me alone.” The girl was frowning, now.
“Done.” Rhaenyra stood up from the chair, and cast Mysaria a look through the mirror. “Did he follow you here?” Rhaenyra asked, as she reached for her jacket. It was black suede, the closest to leather without being leather.

She had replaced her fallen garment, but she found that each time she looked at it, she was reminded of Tamsin’s body. On the floor, cold. It took four instances of these flashbacks before she built a bonfire outside of the warehouse and tossed it into the flames.

“I couldn’t bear to look… I don’t know. I didn’t hear him.” Sansa stood, too. Rhaenyra made a signal to Mysaria in the mirror. She pulled up the CCTV of the industrial park, looking for a man. There shouldn’t be anyone but these three on the grounds at the time, so he would be easy to spot. There was nothing, nobody trawling the estate.

“Just let me get my keys, I’ll take you home.” Rhaenyra’s lips turned into a kind smile, and she pushed through the door to Mysaria’s office. “Well? Is he out there?”
“No sign… police report says he has black hair, blue eyes, stocky build. Surname is Bolton by the police’s estimates.” Mysaria threw Rhaenyra the keys to her car. “Rhaenyra - part of this deal is that you do exactly what you’re asked. She said just a warning, so you’ll just warn him.” Mysaria’s tone was authoritative, and Rhaenyra held her hands up defensively.
“Chill out, Mys. I’m not going to kill him. I need to follow her for a few days, first. See if he even exists.” Rhaenyra took her gun from its strapping, and dramatically placed it on Mysaria's desk. Their eyes met, Rhaenyra's were darker than usual.

Mysaria recognised it, she'd seen it through Ulf White's bodycam. The sea grey irises were almost empty, there was no feeling swimming there. There would be blood spilled, whether it was tonight, tomorrow, or the day after. Rhaenyra couldn't resist the rush that came with closing eyes forever.

Mysaria had managed to poach a couple of cleaners from the Dragons, who had links to the required chemical suppliers and a corrupt crematorium owner. The very same crematorium that the Dragons used. She knew she could cover up a certain amount, but Rhaenyra had been slightly off kilter since Tamsin. She had been wildly unpredictable and apathetic at the best of times… but now, Mysaria couldn’t even hazard a guess as to what her next action would be. This would prove a good test: how much could Mysaria cover up, and how quickly? And just how much of a lost cause was Rhaenyra Targaryen?

Rhaenyra opened the door for Sansa, never forgetting her inherent chivalry. “So… what will you do to him?” Sansa's voice was trembling, whilst Rhaenyra typed her address into the GPS.
“Nothing, I'll just warn him.”

Rhaenyra was aware of this monster within her, that sucked the emotions from her eyes and the feeling from her skin. Every time she picked up a gun, or her knuckles collided with skin, she felt the emptiness swallowing more and more of her. If she became truly empty, would anything stop her? It seemed unlikely, the monster was eating her from the inside out. She fed it, every time she hurt another person.

She knew this, but couldn't bring herself to care.

“Does he ever talk to you?” Rhaenyra was scanning the streets, her hand on the wheel loosely as she drove. Each finger had a ring on it, black tungsten with rubies or sapphires. They would serve as aesthetically pleasing knuckle dusters.
“No, he just watches. I think he likes that it scares me.” Sansa was looking out of the windows, too. Rhaenyra noted she couldn't have been much older than Tamsin, a thought that made her lungs hurt.
“I see,” was all Rhaenyra said, as she pulled over outside Sansa's house.

The girl was frozen in her seat, staring blankly out of the windscreen. “He's there,” She said, quietly. Rhaenyra squinted. She could see a figure, at the far end of the road. He had a black hoodie on, his hands shoved in the pockets. Rhaenyra couldn't make out his face, he had positioned himself behind the streetlights.

Rhaenyra got out of the car first, slamming the door loudly. He didn't move… he was brazen. She walked around to Sansa's side, and opened the door. The girl didn't move. “Sansa, go indoors. I'll sit out here all night. You'll be safe.”

It felt harrowing, to utter that promise again. But this time, Rhaenyra had more power. Sansa Stark would be safe - she had to be… this had to work.

Stiffly, Sansa moved and unlocked her door. She ran in, not giving Rhaenyra a second glance before the door was slammed.

She would drive around the block a couple of times, giving him time to forget about her. Then, she would return on foot. He was merely dabbling with stealth, Rhaenyra could imitate a shadow, if she chose to.

In part, she hoped tonight was the night he'd choose to act. So she could bury someone, in her convoluted form of vengeance. Killing him would mean she had saved a girl, at last. Maybe the pebble of Sansa Stark would fill a small gap inside of her being.

So, she parked her car four roads away. Her boot had a false bottom. When lifted, there was a selection of shiny tools. Rhaenyra chose a dagger, this time. It would be easier for Mysaria to disguise a stabbing in the dead of night… if it came to it, of course. She had to remind herself she wasn’t out for blood.

She alerted Mysaria on her burner phone, to say she'd be watching Sansa's house. Mysaria replied in acknowledgement.

This whole thing scared her. The idea of the business was good, and when they’d not had any serious customers it was brilliant, theorising about how to help those who needed it. Now, Rhaenyra was in the field. A loose canon, angry and disjointed by her one failure. Something to prove, with no care how she proved it. Mysaria should go home, and sleep. She didn’t want to move, for fear she’d arrive tomorrow morning and find Rhaenyra had killed this boy.

Rhaenyra took care to make her footsteps as quiet as possible. She walked on the other side of the street, until she stood on the opposite end to the boy. He had crouched by a bush, his hoodie blending with the dark leaves to enmesh him. He knew some tricks. Rhaenyra was watching him, his hands reaching into his bag.

It was selfish, but she hoped he retrieved some sort of weapon. She would press the blade to his spine, walk him to her car, and dispose of him viciously. Instead of a weapon, he removed a camera. Rhaenyra watched as he pressed the button several times, before stuffing it back into the bag. So he was just a stalker, obsessed with a girl who wanted him to just go away. Rhaenyra stifled a yawn into her hand, and settled against a wall. It would be a long night, watching a man who was just watching, too.

What a fall from grace this was. Rhaenyra wondered what she’d be doing now, if she took up the Blackwater’s offer. Would she be storming a drug den single handedly? Would she be aiming a sniper at the head of some crime lord? It would be more action than this, anyway. A real use of her skills. Something she was used to, instead of sitting idly.

Rhaenyra still had the card, in her loft, on her dresser surrounded by empty vodka bottles. She couldn’t betray Mysaria like that, though. They were loyal to each other, friends as well as coworkers.

Rhaenyra’s feet had started to lose feeling, her fingers red from cold. She put so much work into her physique, but she was not immune to cold. She shoved her hands into her pockets, forming tight fists. He was still unmoving, and all the lights had gone off in Sansa's house. The streets were still, not even an exhaust audible in the surroundings. He must be bored, of watching nothing.

Around three a.m., the boy got up from his position, and started to move. Rhaenyra had been lulling to sleep in her alleyway, the cold had made her skin ghostly white and her chest painful. She would be grateful for the movement. She watched him turn off the street, before she set off to follow.

She hoped he heard her, and was unsettled. The way he’d made Sansa scared, every night for however long he’d been stalking her. The ground was damp, but not frosted. Her footsteps would be disguised well. She was around six car lengths behind him, she wondered if he had headphones in. Not once did he look behind to see if he was being followed.

They had been walking for fifteen minutes, and Rhaenyra’s feet had just started to ditch the numbness. He had stopped in front of a black metal staircase. At the top of the stairs, was a heavy looking black door. He fiddled with his keys at the base - Rhaenyra ducked behind a wall, although this only served to make her look a fool, as he still didn’t look around.

It irritated her that he thought he was so unassailable. Just like Gregor Clegane, and all the others she’d buried. She watched as he climbed the stairs, trying to catch a glimpse of what was behind the door. It was a hypocritical feeling, as she herself often felt unassailable.

The building looked to be a shop, with a red front. Just next to it, was a haberdashery with blue signage. Rhaenyra’s sigh was heavy. So that’s how he knew her, he lived above her place of work. Sansa can’t have ever twigged that, otherwise she would have simply switched jobs.

She made her way back to the car, cursing herself for standing out here for four hours.

Mysaria’s burner vibrated on the desk, and she picked it up. Rhaenyra was en route to the warehouse. The relief was palpable in her body, this surely meant she hadn’t killed anyone and had either scoped the boy out, or issued a warning.

Rhaenyra arrived thirty minutes after her text, cold and annoyed. “Was a waste of fucking time, he just took some photos.” She said, without greeting the dark haired woman.
“You made her feel safe… that’s not a waste of time,” Mysaria replied, gathering her bag and coat. Rhaenyra nodded, but she could see that the blonde did not fully believe that was a worthy cause.

Rhaenyra did, somewhere, deep down, believe it was a worthy cause. But, selfishly, she’d rather he’d been a leering creep who tried to gain entry, so she could end his life. It was a fine line she walked - wanting to protect, to help and offer her skills to the defenceless. That was the streak of true good in her… in everyone, perhaps.

But she’d been moulded by her old job, but the idea that killing could be good, too. Yes, it was good to make Sansa feel safe. It would be better if she had nothing to be scared of in the first place. She didn't feel warmth from the protection of Sansa Stark; she wasn't sure she wanted to feel the warmth. It served her better to feel completely detached.

“C’mon, I’ll give you a lift home,” Rhaenyra twirled her car keys around her fingers, and flipped the light switch on her way out. She opened the door for Mysaria, and shut it behind her. The night air was fresh, damp and earthy. She inhaled as much as she could, trying to feel human… like she wanted to breathe. Tomorrow night, she would visit this Bolton boy, and administer a warning. Just a warning.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra barely slept, as evidenced by the black bags that adorned her eyes. After she dropped Mysaria home, she returned to the loft. She pushed the door open, the darkness inside proved only to depress her further. She flicked the light switch on, and for a second, she could see a body on the floor in front of her.

After squeezing her eyes shut as hard as she could, she opened them. There was no body, no puddle of blood. Just floorboards, dusty and old. She pinched the bridge of her post as roughly as she could, and shook her head, as if shaking the thoughts from her brain.

Her bed matched everything else about her… cold, uninviting. She threw her jacket to the floor, and stripped down to her underwear and sports bra. It would be futile to put her head on that crumpled pillow. Rest did not settle over her. She had started to wonder if the saying ‘no rest for the wicked’ was correct. She was wicked, and she was plagued by consciousness.

Mysaria was having a scarily similar time… that look in Rhaenyra’s eyes had given her a fright. She had appeared unhinged at that moment. Her jaw had been tight, her eyes lifeless and chilling. Like a black hole appearing in an ocean, swallowing everything around it greedily.

She was sitting up in her silk pyjamas, staring into space and thinking of ways to make Rhaenyra Targaryen enjoy life. To show her she was more than a weapon, to show her that making someone feel safe could be as fulfilling as ending the cause of their unrest.

Rhaenyra liked to cut problems off at the source, whatever it took. When she’d received orders to kill that young girl, her first thought was that surely it’d be easier to put a bullet in the young Prince’s head? He committed the crime they were desperate to cover up… it made more sense that he should be the one who paid the price for it. He was obviously a disgusting character, raised to think he was above everything.

Killing Silverwing had offered a little solace, she had avenged the girl. But, not Meleys… wherever she was… whatever she was doing. Rhaenyra stared at the ceiling, listening to cars go past her loft. She wondered if she should go to that boy's flat now, in the dead of night. Tie him to a chair, scare him into leaving Sansa alone with blades and threats.

Not threats,there was no alternate universe where he didn’t perish… they would be more akin to promises.

Oddly, the fantasies of scaring the boy sent her off to sleep. Not a restful sleep, but a sleep no less. Her eyes fluttered shut, and her limbs went limp at her sides.

Rhaenyra didn’t wake until the late afternoon - the sleep was most welcome, and she looked at everything through a clearer lens. As she showered, she looked down to the scar on her leg. The graze, now reduced to little more than a patch of pink skin. She was covered in scars - one on her abdomen, where someone had fought back with a dagger. It was about three inches long, and thin. Almost like a pink pencil line on her pale skin.

Her back had a series of small scars, from falling on barbed wire during her time at bootcamp.

Her time at bootcamp was merely a formality due to her family’s position, but it had provided her with new knowledge. Like, not to fall on barbed wire, or sleep with your bunkmate, or engage in a relationship with your practice handler.

Margaery Tyrell had been a trainer at the camp, new to the team and delightfully appealing. Rhaenyra was young, charming and promising. It was always on the cards that they’d gravitate to each other, find each other in the sea of nothingness. But they were both sharks, desperate to tear their prey apart in pursuit of their own hunger. Margaery and Rhaenyra had never truly loved each other - Rhaenyra wasn’t sure she’d ever truly loved anyone - but they were stupendously attracted to each other.

Rhaenyra should have seen the red flags when she sat in the tattooist's chair, and Margaery just watched with that ravenous smirk.

It had ended in tears, the way it was always going to. Sharks don’t mate for life. Margaery had cheated on Rhaenyra, and Rhaenyra had cheated on Margaery, with her bunkmate.

Her bunkmate was Obara Sand, a girl who would die shortly after being put in the field as a Snake - the poison division. Their intention was to blend into political offices, or other Royal families. Undercover, at all times. No cleanup, the deaths they caused were meant to be speculated upon.

Rhaenyra didn’t know that Obara had died - once you became a snake, you were subjected to the bushes forever. News did not travel regarding the deaths of Snakes, not like Dragons. Dragons went out in blazes, Snakes found holes in the ground and buried themselves.

Now, Rhaenyra was neither a Dragon nor a Snake. She was just Rhaenyra Targaryen, a person seemingly good for nothing but killing.

She lurched the lever of the shower, the water stopping with a jarring creaking sound. With a shake of her head, she discarded excess water from her hair. She stepped out of the glass cubicle, and trod over to the mirror. With a wet hand, she swiped the condensation off the surface. Her gaze drifted to the pink reminder of the death of Gregor Clegane, that adorned the skin above her eyebrow. She remembered the headache - a skull splitting throb. It made her wince, just to think about that day. And yet, she thought about that day relentlessly.

She wore what she always wore: black cargo trousers, tucking into combat boots, with a white t-shirt and her suede jacket. A knife, forever strapped to her shin. Rhaenyra smelled of mint, and sometimes cigarettes. Her shower gel was scented with tea tree oil, and her shampoo the same. The smell reminded her of fresh things, clean and untampered. Not her, basically.

The cigarette between her lips remained unlit for some time, whilst she tried to see where she’d thrown her car keys last night.

The car had been a purchase made for the business. Black, unidentifiable with the badge removed. The number plate would be switched regularly. Rhaenyra still had her bike, but she couldn’t bring herself to ride it. The version of her that had last ridden it was a stranger, now.

Mysaria was already at the warehouse, having taken her own car for the day. Rhaenyra would surely be in the field again tonight, and Mysaria couldn’t sit and wait like a neglected housewife. She had to trust that Rhaenyra would stick to their agreement, to just do what you’re asked to do. Obedience was not a difficult concept for her, but for Rhaenyra, it seemed as complicated as learning hieroglyphics in fifteen minutes only.

Rhaenyra arrived a few hours after her, when the sun had set. She placed a tray of coffees onto the main desk, and flopped down in the chair. Mysaria could smell smoke on her - it repulsed her, sometimes. But she stomached it.

“Sleep well?” Mysaria asked, innocently. She took a cardboard cup, and sipped. There were few professions where coffee would be consumed at six thirty p.m.
“For once, yeah,” Rhaenyra did look like she had slept, as opposed to her usual exhausted appearance.
“Good,” Mysaria tapped her fingernails against the cardboard. “What’s the plan?”

Rhaenyra leaned back in her chair, the suspension groaning under her weight. “He lives above her place of work… I’m going to go back to Stark’s house - on foot. And follow him back.” Her eyes gave nothing away, there was no hint of emotion that Mysaria could analyse. “Scare him a bit, and watch her house for a few days after.”

It sounded good - administering justice in a helpful way, productive and sparing his life. “Good. That’s good. It’s fair.” Mysaria put a hand on Rhaenyra’s shoulder. She wanted to shrug the touch away, scared of the effect it may have on her. She didn’t, she permitted herself a moment's warmth.

“No guns, Rhaenyra,” Mysaria added the last clause a thirty minutes later, when Rhaenyra was fitting her shoulder harness. She rolled her eyes. “He’s just a boy, he’s not military trained.”

How irritating - she was right. He was just a boy, on the surface. Rhaenyra didn’t remove the harness, but didn’t holster her pistol, either. To show her irritation, she didn’t say another word. Childishly, she just left the building, and got into her car.

She remembered the route to Sansa’s house, the direct passage she’d taken before with the girl in the passenger seat. This time, she needed to take a different one. So she drove around a bit, and parked the car in an alleyway she’d found about five miles away.

The decision to follow on foot was woeful, in hindsight. It was cold, and the clouds above looked as if they may part and spill an oceans worth of water onto her as she walked. Sansa’s house was in view, a light on upstairs, the curtains drawn. Rhaenyra’s eyes fixated on that little green where he’d committed his creeping last night.

Part of the problem was that Rhaenyra didn’t know if Sansa was at work, in the house.. She could be tied up in his room, for all she knew. The idea made her lips turn into a frown. She fiddled with the idea of abandoning this, and going to wait at his flat.

The more she turned the idea over in her head, like a coin between fingers, the more sense it made. So, she took off. Droplets began to fall from the sky, wetting her hair as she walked. With her cold hands, she slicked it back. She could feel the sheathed dagger pressed against the skin of her shin, taunting her, coaxing her to violence like a siren to a weak-willed sailor.

She could update Mysaria after the fact, after he was scared of his own shadow. If he was just a boy, he’d heed the warning and stay away. If, in two days' time, Rhaenyra still saw him lurking around the girls house… he’d be dealt with in a manner befitting of his behaviour.

Her shoulder harness felt empty, without a gun fastened to the brown leather straps. She felt lighter without it, but wildly unprepared. The black staircase was ahead of her, the lights of the upstairs floor illuminated the newspaper-clad windows. Very suspicious behaviour, for ‘just a boy’.

She wondered if he would be alone in that flat - there was no way to know. She could only take a punt. Knock on the door, scope it out under the guise of… what? She had no fake police badges.

Rhaenyra was seeing holes appear in their business model. It was well-intentioned and noble, but impractical. She had to do what she thought would yield the best results, she could explain it away to Mysaria if something caused a bit too much mess.

It was nearly midnight by the time she made a decision, having left the warehouse at seven fifteen p.m., she had been watching the flat for a while with no signs of movement.

Until the door opened. A short, grey haired man came down the stairs, the door shut behind him by pale hands. The man got into a car as grey as his hair, and drove away.

Rhaenyra started into a light jog, towards the stairs. The rain shrouded her in mystery, blurring the camera lenses that Mysaria would try to hack, later.

She could feel it, inside of her. That monster, gnashing its jaws, snarling to be fed. And, the universe provided it with food. Just as she reached the top of the staircase, the lights went out. And the door creaked open. The hooded figure was fiddling with a zip on his backpack, when Rhaenyra's forearm pushed him back into the house.

She entered after him, and slammed the door shut. “Bolton, is it?” Rhaenyra flipped the catch down on the lock, and reached for the dagger strapped to her shin. It meant pulling her trousers from her boots, but the boy was too terrified to move whilst she did this. She even had time to tuck the trousers back in - an arrogant move, she could almost hear Meleys’ scorn in her ears.

“Answer me,” Rhaenyra twirled the dagger in her fingers, just like she did with a biro. The blade caught a bit of light from a gap in the newspaper, gleaming. The blade was clean. If Rhaenyra followed orders, it would stay that way.

“Yes. Bolton. Ramsay Bolton.” He stammered, walking backwards.
“Good! Good.” Rhaenyra nodded, her smile shining like the dagger in her hands. It was taking hold, the feeling of power and soullessness. “And tell me… Ramsay. Why do you follow Sansa Stark home?” Rhaenyra was looking through the darkness for a light switch.

“I- I… I like her.” Rhaenyra thought, if she listened hard enough, he was trying to sound innocent. His voice was bizarre, croaky and high.
“You like her, so you scare her?” Rhaenyra saw the white box on the wall, and flipped the switch upwards. The lights took a while to warm up, the bulbs buzzing as they illuminated.

The flat was dilapidated, but broadly, innocent. Video game posters on the wall, two wardrobes next to each other, a sofa that looked as if it had seen the fall of the Berlin Wall. And the boy was not a boy. He was a grown man, with a spattering of black facial hair and unsettling blue eyes. “I just think she's pretty.” His eyes landed on the dagger that Rhaenyra was playing with.

“Is that why you take photographs of her house?” Rhaenyra gestured for him to sit down in the wheely chair by his computer, the cushion cover ripped and filling falling from the hole. He obliged.
“I just want her to notice me,” something wasn't right about his cadence.
“So buy her flowers,” she looked around the flat more, when her fingers touched the doorknob of a wardrobe, he spoke again.

His brow had broken into a sweat. “I can't, she'll never go for someone like me.” Rhaenyra already prepared her answer, and found his response to the potential wardrobe opening very interesting. She pulled the door open, and said: “So, leave her alone.”

It must be noted that it’s never advisable to turn your back on your prey, lest they flee, or decide to become the predator.

There was not an inch of wood visible, pictures of Sansa covered every surface. It made her grimace. “You're a sick bastard,” she shut the door, and went back to twirling the knife in front of his face. Taunting him, twisting his life like it was a baton and she a circus performer.

“What are you going to do to me?” His hands were shaking on the arm rests, as Rhaenyra put the point of the knife under his chin. She lifted his face with the blade.
“The woman you terrorise is merciful… she wants me to warn you.” Rhaenyra hated this. She wanted to drive the blade in, not spend two days staking out a house in case this pervert decided to ignore her.
“I'm warned,” he muttered, a bead of sweat trailing down his face.
“Oh, no. Silly boy. No, you're not.” Rhaenyra kept the knife in position, but moved behind him.

“Look at Sansa Stark, take another picture of her house… go anywhere near her, and I'll come back. I'll sneak in, Ramsay Bolton, and slit your throat while you sleep.” With each word, Rhaenyra felt herself teetering on the edge of insanity, she felt crazed. The boy nodded meekly.
“I'll- n-never see her again,” he stuttered, trying to crane his neck away from the pinching of the blade.
“Smashing,” Rhaenyra clapped him on the back, and took the blade away.

In a most grievous error, a hearty chuckle filled Rhaenyra's ears. She looked down at him.

The human brain is capable of insane complications of emotions, wires crossing over one another in hazardous ways. Rhaenyra Targaryen simultaneously felt all emotions at once… and none. She hated this boy, this plump lipped, pallid little unimportant speck of dirt. She didn't even know him, aside from his proclivities for lurking.

As she looked down at him, she felt envy, too. He was so brazen, so unfamiliar with how quickly death can snatch your world out from beneath you. Whether it's your death, or someone else's… or a death you caused. She wanted to scare him, to make him soil his trousers. He truly believed that he would be allowed to live.

If she scared him enough, maybe she might feel something definable, too. Maybe she'd feel pity, or sympathy. Something other than a gaping void or powerful rage.

The orders were to warn him, to scare him away from ever going near Sansa Stark again. Then, her eyes widened, and she grabbed him by the collar of his hoodie. “Come on, Ramsay Bolton,” She shoved him forwards, eyes almost daring him to run. “We're going for a drive.”

Just before her hand lifted the catch, she pressed the blade to his side. “Try to run, and I'll bury this dagger, to the hilt, in your kidney. It’ll hurt, and it will take a long time for you to die.” He acknowledged the threat, his throat constricting as he swallowed.

Rhaenyra walked behind him, very closely, with the dagger pressed to his back. To people lingering in the streets at this time of night, it may look like they were lovers, arm in arm. One with eyes wide, and hands shaking. The other, with a clenched jaw and a look that could melt metal.

To Rhaenyra, she was an executioner, walking him to the chopping block. She knew his crime, but she had quite worked out exactly why that meant he had to die.

She unlocked the car, and in the darkness of the night the orange flickering light was almost blinding. He was shoved into the backseat, the same way you’d throw a dirty jumper into a washing basket. His head was knocked on the way, Rhaenyra hoped he would succumb to concussion - that would make her big reveal even more intimidating.

“If you try to jump from the car whilst it’s moving, I’ll run the tires over your head.” She stuck the keys into the ignition, without so much as a look at him in the mirror.

In the back of the car, Ramsay Bolton was petrified. Anyone who had ever watched any sort of murder adjacent movie knew that a second location was never good. He also ‘knew’ that Rhaenyra was just a woman, and as a boy, he’d been conditioned to think they were naturally better fighters. So, stupidly - and, this was truly an incredibly moronic assumption - he thought he had a chance of survival.

He watched as Rhaenyra placed the knife on the passenger seat, and fiddled with the contents of his hoodie pocket. To enact his plan now would mean death, as the car would career into a wall and kill them both upon impact. He had to bide his time.

Chapter Text

The drive was forty minutes long, and Rhaenyra hadn’t bothered to alert Mysaria. Earlier in the day, she had decided that she would not wait around in the warehouse, that she would go home and put some trust in her coworker.

And here she was, hours after Rhaenyra had left, in the warehouse. She was looking around the space, in Rhaenyra’s gym, in her desk drawers. It was fascinating to see a person so broad have so little to represent them. Mysaria couldn’t name a single thing Rhaenyra Targaryen enjoyed, other than cigarettes, women and seemingly… murder. It tugged on her heartstrings.

Mysaria had been in bootcamp at the same time as Rhaenyra, and had known the woman Rhaenyra was entangled with. During their time at bootcamp, Mysaria and Rhaenyra never crossed paths. But from a distance, she had watched the muscled blonde smile and charm her way through every single altercation. She had watched her become a natural with a gun, break cardio records in the gym, and flirt with anyone who may have looked at her.

At first, Mysaria had thought she hated Rhaenyra - found her too grating, her smile offensive and her low voice even worse. As time drew on and they grew up, Mysaria realised she was actually rather fond of Rhaenyra. But, Rhaenyra never paid her any attention. Perhaps, because Mysaria never gave Rhaenyra the attention she so craved.

When they both entered the Dragon’s, Mysaria realised her crush was misplaced. She and Rhaenyra would never work; Rhaenyra craved fire and blood, fury and passion. Mysaria craved safety, softness and a relationship as relaxing as sailing down a river on a sunny day. Rhaenyra had started flirting with her, soon after they were paired. It was endearing, and almost healed the part of her that felt scorned by the blonde. But, she batted it away. It would never work, it would be like trying to tame a volcano. They weren’t for each other - Mysaria wasn’t sure there was anyone out there for either her, or Rhaenyra.

“Where are we going?” He knew the question wouldn’t be answered, but still uttered it anyway.
“McDonalds,” Rhaenyra replied, dryly. She knew where they were headed, and they were around twenty minutes away. The location would surely be desolate at this hour, the lights turned off inside the walls and the car park empty. Rhaenyra knew where to stand, to not be visible on their security cameras.

She had visited this location in the days that followed the barn in July. She’d sat here from sunrise to sunset, waiting to see ashes in the wind. To apologise to the remains of Tamsin Waters, and say ‘fuck you’ to Ulf White one last time. Mysaria had told her the location of the crematorium a while ago, but she’d never had cause to care. Now, it would serve as the perfect place to scare a boy who seemed to think of death as a vague concept.

Ramsay was shifting in his seat, his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. He was clutching two items for dear life, trying desperately to silently remove a cap from a bottle. Rhaenyra hadn’t noticed, her eyes on the road, and mind flashing through images of waiting in the fields nearby.

She had never seen the ashes, so she had apologised to the stars, instead. If there was a heaven, surely someone like the girl would be up there. Looking down, twinkling the constellations in acknowledgement. Just like she had told herself she should have patted Ulf down, she apologised to the stars every day, too. She was yet to see the stars twinkling in response.

Rhaenyra didn’t even believe in those concepts, either. But at night, in the dark, she craved forgiveness in some form. So she could feel how she did when she was younger: full. Full of promise, of charm, of skill, of anything. She’d take sadness, even. She felt dead, or angry. All the time.

She took a dark lane, speeding down. Ramsay gripped the handle on the door, his cheeks somehow paler than before. Rhaenyra pushed the pedal as far as it would go - all in the interest of fear. She took a sharp turn, exhaling quietly as the car skidded to a stop. In the distance, lit by floodlights, was the crematorium. Nicknamed ‘the Red Keep’, the walls were constructed of red brick. There were four very tall chimneys, thin and towering. There was no signage.

Rhaenyra exited the car, and walked round to his side of the door. She took him by the hood again, and dragged him from the car. His hands fell from his pocket. Her strong hands dragged him to the bonnet of the car. “This, is where you’ll go.”

He looked bewildered, as he looked upon the red building. His hands had returned to his pocket. The noise of being dragged over the grass had concealed the sound of the cap being removed. A wet patch was appearing on his hoodie, but the darkness shrouded it. He stepped back, and cast a quick look at the car.

Rhaenyra stood in front of him, her hands in the pockets of her trousers. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to try something. “What is it?” He squinted to see, whilst his hands removed the rag from the pocket. It was dripping green liquid onto the floor, and if he didn’t act now, he himself would pass out.

“It’s the crem-” she was cut off. His arm was around her neck, his hand trying desperately to put the rag over her nostrils. She shouted, and kicked backwards. Chloroform - she had five minutes, at best. He was struggling against her strength, the rag breaking contact with her nose repeatedly.

She was beginning to feel weaker, her heart rate slowing dramatically. With a growl, she crouched down. His hand followed, but it was a poor judgement call from him. He felt powerful, he could feel her body weakening in his hold. Ramsay Bolton thought he had won.

Then, he was on the floor, his back aching and head sore from landing on hard ground. The grass was wet, his jeans soaked through at the back. In a sloppy movement, she had lifted him over her head and slammed him against the Earth. Ramsay groaned, and tried to roll over.
Rhaenyra looked at the car, the knife was on the passenger seat. She inhaled lungfuls of fresh air, trying to wash the chloroform from her air supply. She kicked Ramsay in the stomach, making sure he stayed down whilst she retrieved the knife. He yelped, and curled into a ball.

The wrath was unparalleled, every muscle in her body tensed. She grabbed it, and slammed the door. It was a warning to him that she was coming back. He tried to stand, but he was winded by the force of her throw. Ramsay Bolton felt fear. Not a little bit scared, like he had felt when Rhaenyra entered his house. She could see it in his eyes, the tragic understanding that now, his life was over. It made her smile.

“Go on, get up and run,” Rhaenyra’s grin faded to a smirk. Ramsay had thought he was a darkened soul, scary and looming. In front of him, Rhaenyra looked like the God of Death, her knife shining in the lights from the car.
“Please- I won’t go near her,” as far as begging went, it was fairly meagre.
“I couldn’t give a fuck,” she grabbed him by the hair, and tugged him upright. “You interrupted me.”

He had no hope left in his body, as far as he was concerned, he was already dead. “I was saying… that this is the crematorium. We used to call it the ‘Red Keep’.” Rhaenyra had the knife pressed to his back, her words snarled into his ear. “Do you want to go in there?”

Was this administering justice, or was this just offerings of food to a ravenous, never-sated beast of regret and rage? She didn’t care, either way.

“No- no, please, please,” he was crying, tears falling from his eyes. Something inside of Rhaenyra piped up… pity? She loosened her grip on him for a second, and took a look at him. He was sobbing, his trousers stained on the front, the odour of urine caused her to scrunch her nose. This wasn’t justice, this was wanton destruction.

Then, she remembered the chloroform in his pocket. If it hadn’t been her, it would have been Sansa Stark. Her life would have been ruined by this boy. Rhaenyra’s life was already ruined. “Run, Ramsay,” Rhaenyra shoved him away, and let the knife fall to her side.

He was shocked by the sudden mercy, a nervous laugh leaving his lips. His nose was dripping snot, as he turned to look at her.

She could stomach the laugh, but his eyes weren’t remorseful. Just like Ulf White, and Gregor Clegane. Rhaenyra herself was not remorseful, either. She let him run for a few paces, his feet tripping over themselves. Then, she threw the knife. It had been years since she’d thrown a knife, and the only light was that of the car's headlights. He’d barely made it past the boot of the car, before the knife burrowed into his back, just beneath his shoulder blade. The blade was six inches long, and would have nipped his lungs, with any luck.

As he heard boots slamming on the wet earth, the grass rustling, Ramsay let out a sob. “Please- I’ll never-” he coughed, “I’ll never see her again.” Rhaenyra removed the knife.
“You’re right,” Rhaenyra turned him over, his blood mixing with the dew from the grass. “You will NEVER see her again,” she met his fearful gaze, and swiped the blade over his neck. Just once, but firmly and quickly. He gasped, and clutched at his throat. He couldn't close the gash, the blood dyed the grass beneath him. It coated Rhaenyra's hands, as she released his sodden hoodie.

When his eyes shut for the last time, Rhaenyra looked at the scene in front of her. She stared. The rage subsided, and she felt nothing. He had begged and pleaded, and ran. He had been slaughtered. Rhaenyra’s only thought was how she would explain this to Mysaria - at least they were close to the crematorium.

At the warehouse, Mysaria was pacing. Her stomach was twisted and painful, her hands jittering - she was waiting for Rhaenyra to return, to say she’d just warned him and to offer her a lift, as she always did.

It was a bitter realisation: that Rhaenyra wasn’t capable of just warning. The death of Tamsin had turned her, in some ways, she was no better than the men she had killed. She was guiltless, she felt untouchable… or, didn’t care if she was touched. Nothing was more dangerous than a Dragon with no rider, no controller. Meleys had managed to keep Rhaenyra on a leash, but Meleys was gone. Off in the sea, in the breeze. Mysaria was no Meleys.

And the Rhaenyra that Meleys had controlled had not yet felt the searing grasp of failure. That version of Rhaenyra had never tried to protect - only to destroy. Mysaria couldn’t imagine how it felt, to have your first failure be associated with something you truly wanted to succeed at. She had really wanted to save Tamsin, to get her out alive.

Her phone rang on her desk. Mysaria knew, in that moment, that Rhaenyra was a lost cause. This would not be a social call, Mysaria would have to send out their cleaners to the boys flat.

“What is it?” Her tone was resigned, she was just waiting to hear how much damage there was. She was not prepared for the answer.
“The boy is dead - he tried to chloroform me, at the Keep,” Rhaenyra’s own voice was robotic.
“At the Keep? Why were you there?” Mysaria had already used her pager to send word to the cleaners to gear up.
“I took him there to scare him.” Rhaenyra’s answers were practised, harrowingly quick.
“How bad is it?” Mysaria had sat down, her head resting on her hand.
“Two knife wounds…” The silence held them hostage, until Rhaenyra made an off-colour joke. “At least we’re already at the disposal site.”

Nobody spoke for a while, Rhaenyra was staring at the boy's corpse. She wanted it to make her feel something… anything.

“I have to go, and tell the cleaners where you are.” Mysaria squared her shoulders, and tried to feel authoritative. “Syrax, wait with the body and then come back here.”

The use of her nickname was like activating a sleeper agent, and Rhaenyra confirmed she would follow the orders. She sat back in the passenger's seat, eyes fixated on the bloody blade by her boots. She picked it up - it would return home with her. The blood had dried, and she could see her reflection in the small gaps of shiny surface,

An hour passed, the clouds had cleared and the temperature dropped. Rhaenyra was exhausted, her body heavy and sluggish. When the cleaners pulled up, she was still staring at her reflection in the knife. The image had started to contort, she looked like nothing more than a collection of scars with hooded, dead eyes. Rhaenyra nodded at them - she recognised them from her Dragon days. Not by name - the cleaners didn’t have names. They inspected the body, shining torches on the blood stained grass. Rhaenyra squinted, and held her bloody hand up to block the light. She shuffled over to the drivers seat, and pulled the passenger door shut.

In the wing mirror, she could see the cleaners hosing off the grass with a jet washer. The blood would be soaked up in the porous ground, the very lifeforce of Ramsay Bolton reentered into the atmosphere. Her hands were crusted with blood, the bruises on her knuckles from punch bag training covered by oxygenated blood - brown, tacky. The same reckless driving that carried her here took her back to the warehouse.

When she lifted the metal grate to enter the tin building, the light was a shock to her system. Mysaria was leaning against the desk, her mouth ajar when Rhaenyra stood in front of her.

To tell the truth, Rhaenyra looked like a dug up corpse. Her trousers mud stained, her hair laced with blood and her hands filthy. Her jaw was set and tight, and an unlit cigarette hung from her lips. It was a sorry sight, and Mysaria’s lips grimaced.

“What happened? Tell me every single detail, Rhaenyra,” she ordered, pointing to the chair. Rhaenyra didn’t sit, she just pulled the lighter from her pocket and lit the white stick. She inhaled deeply, and pushed her hair back. More red transferred to the blonde strands.

“I went to his flat, instead of waiting for him to show up at Sansa’s house.” Mysaria started, but Rhaenyra gestured for her to be quiet. “He had pictures of her all over his wardrobe. And he wasn’t scared enough, he wasn’t sorry.” Rhaenyra sat on the desk, one leg hanging off, dangling in the air. “So, I took him to the crem. I was explaining to him what it was, and he tried to use chloroform on me.”

“So, he was going to take Sansa?” Mysaria prompted, and Rhaenyra nodded. That was a small respite… Sansa would be safe, now.
“So, I killed him.” Rhaenyra couldn’t meet her eyes - Mysaria could see a liar miles off.
“How?” She stood, pushing up from the chair. Rhaenyra still wouldn’t meet her eye, and took a deep drag of the cigarette. She let the smoke out from her lips, and Mysaria wafted it away from her face, angrily. “Tell me, Rhaenyra.” She needed to know just how much of a lose cause her business partner was.

Rhaenyra knew there was no point in disguising it, the cleaners would give a report with photos. They’d see where the rag was dropped, versus where he was found dead. Rhaenyra had the dagger strapped to her shin, again. “I was still trying to scare him, so I finished what I was saying about the crematorium. I felt… pity? I don’t know. I let him go, shoved him and told him to run.” It was scary to hear someone talk as if they’d watched it on TV, rather than lived it in their own body. “Then, I threw the knife at him… when I remembered that if it hadn’t been me, it would’ve been her.” She hoped the little detail would make the story more palatable.

Mysaria thought she might vomit. Rhaenyra, in the fluorescent lights, covered in blood and smoking like a chimney, looked like a psychopath. She’d seen it in training, the eyes devoid of anything. The retelling was like she was reading a book, reciting a script… not like she had killed someone mere hours ago. She wasn’t shellshocked, she didn’t have a thousand yard stare.

“He begged, he begged to be let go.” Rhaenyra uttered the words in the hope they would make her feel guilty. Not so she would regret her actions, but so Mysaria would lay off her. It was unfortunate, but she felt the same amount of nothing. “I slit his throat, in the grass.”

For the first time ever, since they’d met in their office all those years ago, Mysaria was scared of her partner. She took a few steps back.

Chapter Text

“What?” Rhaenyra was unsettled by the noiseless environment. Mysaria had backed away from her, almost flush with the wall. Rhaenyra looked down at her hands, “it’s just blood, Mys.”

The blood wasn’t the problem. Blood was just a liquid, and could be washed away with water and soap. The problem was deeper than the surface, it was in Rhaenyra. It was in her, burrowing a home like a parasite. Sucking Rhaenyra Targaryen into its void, like dust into a vacuum.

“Mys, what is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Rhaenyra forced a smile, and pushed from the desk. Ash dropped onto her wet boots.
“I have,” Mysaria walked through to her office. Her hands were trembling as she took the keys from her desk, and her belongings. Rhaenyra was confused, her arms folded across her chest. The blood would be hard to get out of the suede… Rhaenyra would just bin it, and get another. Wasteful, but

Mysaria approached Rhaenyra, her coat on. The touch was so tender that it almost made her recoil, but Mysaria’s hand was on her cheek. “You’re lost, Rhaenyra,” she whispered. Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes, and put a hand on Mysaria’s waist. Rhaenyra had never touched her before, her waist was small. She smelled of cherries, and black pepper.
“I’m fine, Mys,” she replied, chucking the cigarette to the floor. Her smile was unnatural, eery.
“You need help, really,” she rubbed her thumb over Rhaenyra’s pronounced cheekbone.

Rhaenyra broke the touch, and stepped back. “Mysaria - he tried to kill me, if I’d let him live he would have just reported us.”
“Good… we never should have started this.” Mysaria fiddled with the keys in her hands, the jangling causing Rhaenyra to grit her teeth. “I’m out, Rhaenyra. You’re lost.” Rhaenyra still felt nothing, a scary pit of emptiness inside of her. “You’ve not been the same since Tamsin.”
“Don’t say her fucking name!” Rhaenyra snapped, through gritted teeth. Mysaria flinched, and made her way to the door.

“Mysaria, listen,” she took the slender girl's hand, it was warm to the touch. Rhaenyra’s own was cold, like holding an ice cube. She felt something, as she watched her walk away. If Mysaria walked through the door, right now, there would be nobody. Not a soul in the world, who cared about the life of Rhaenyra Targaryen.

Mysaria stopped, her hand in Rhaenyra’s. It was desperation she was feeling. She pulled Mysaria flush to her body, and pressed her lips to the Wyrm’s. Her black hair tickled Rhaenyra’s face, and her hands were cupping her elbows. Rhaenyra’s hands held her face, her knees bent slightly to reach down. Mysaria kissed back, Rhaenyra tasted of smoke and iron. Fire, and blood.

When they broke apart, Mysaria’s lips quivered into a miserable smile. “Once upon a time, that would’ve worked.” She put a hand on Rhaenyra’s flat chest. Rhaenyra’s eyes met her own - this time, there was a glint in them. A visible emotion, miniscule and hiding behind blankness. Fear.
“Why can’t it work now?” Rhaenyra’s hands were still holding her face.
“You’re not the same person you were, when that would have worked.” Mysaria’s voice was trembling, like someone was fiddling with the volume dial. She kissed Rhaenyra again, one final press of lips against each other. Rhaenyra felt warm, for a minute. She could feel her thumbs becoming wet from Mysaria’s sadness.

“Goodbye, Rhaenyra,” she slipped the keys to the warehouse in the others’ pocket. Rhaenyra’s hands were still in the air, where Mysaria’s face had once been. They dropped to her sides, and she looked around the room. There was nothing, some furniture and bottled water.

It was a split second decision, messy and stupid. She picked up a chair, and launched it at the double sided mirror. The glass littered the floor, the shards crunching under Rhaenyra’s foot as she took her gun from Mysaria’s desk drawer. Mysaria’s computer still sat there. To break it would be to break Mysaria, in a way. The computer symbolised her. Rhaenyra left it, and slammed the door. With the lights out, she pulled down the shutters and locked it.

They had a long lease on the warehouse, but it would sit abandoned for months, even a year.

Rhaenyra got into her car, The sun was starting to rise, creeping out from behind buildings to cast shadows on the pavements. She whispered, quietly. Her apology to the stars, late and aimed at the sun, this time. Nothing twinkled in response, no rays of light reached her in her car.

In the loft, she slammed the door and watched the curtains billow in the breeze she’d caused. The blood on her hands had started to crack, and her hair was stiff and dyed in patches. She trudged through to the bathroom, and shed her clothes on the spot. Dirt flaked onto the white tiled floor, to live there forever.

Blood and dirt swirled into the drain, and Rhaenyra watched vacantly. The hot water stung her flesh, and filled the room with a cleansing steam. She lathered herself with soap, and scrubbed the detritus from under her short fingernails.

To live in such unfeeling turmoil was surely worse than just being dead, she reasoned. Maybe she should die, maybe she should have dived in front of the second bullet.

That would be pointless, too. He would have just shot Tamsin straight after, and then he would have lived. He was scattered in the atmosphere, and she was here, scolding herself in the shower.

The nothing she felt, the gulping monster inside of her - it wasn’t nothing, it was just too much to feel all at once. And more poignantly, too much to acknowledge. If she acknowledged it, it would take her out. Judge, jury and executioner… her own subconscious. It was guilt, it was failure, it was anger. It was lost potential, it was loneliness. It was a lack of purpose.

When she had heard Meleys in her earpiece, she had felt purpose. She could have made a real change, a light among the darkening of eyes and the ending of lives. But reality, as it was wont to do, beat it from her. Ulf White, Otto Hightower, Alliser Thorne… they took that purpose from her, and left her worse than they found her.

To a point, it was the nature of her job - a fact she knew, she knew it after she first pulled the trigger. But, as Tamsin died in her arms, she could see her soul bleed from her and give a wave as it departed for the gates of Hell.

Some day, something or someone may give her purpose again. But for now, she was no longer Rhaenyra Targaryen… just Syrax, breathing her fire with poor aim. Destroying as much as she could.
She rested her head against the tiled wall, and let the water wash blood from her hair. After a few minutes, she stopped the shower and stepped out. She wrapped a towel around her waist, and walked into the bedroom. She swiped a bottle of vodka from her dresser, and flicked the lid off.

On her bed, she soaked the sheets with the clean water dripping from her body. She took a big swig of the harsh liquid, and swallowed it. It coated her throat with warmth, and sent a rolling buzz through her veins.

Her sigh echoed from the exposed brick walls, bouncing around like a coin landing in a piggy bank. Another big gulp, and she laid back on the bed. The sheets were cold on her wet skin, which had prickled with goosebumps. What now?

The monster would need feeding, her rage would need an outlet. She’d need a reason to be out in the dead of night, whispering apologies to balls of gas in the sky. She poured more vodka into her mouth, swilling the virtually flavourless liquid around her gums, letting it burn her tongue.

She let it fall to the floor, the sound of liquid glugging from the mouth of the glass bottle. She didn’t care - the one thing she had plenty of was money. She could buy a vodka distillery, and still have money to burn. She shut her eyes, a comfortable buzz mixing with the tiredness that came from throwing knives at a boy who had pleaded for mercy.

She scooted herself up the bed, her sopping hair on the pillow.

Tomorrow, she would have to find an outlet, or she may burst. The Blackwater’s words played in her mind, and she wondered if he’d remember her… if he’d still welcome her with open arms, to whatever his organisation was. Killing, she knew that… but who?

Rhaenyra’s eyes were staring at the bricks, trying to count them in the hopes of boring herself to sleep. Blackwater would know she wouldn’t kill children - even in her angriest, most sadistic state, she couldn’t kill kids. He would play to her strength, as any good commander would, surely?

She was on brick number ninety, when her eyes shut.

In the morning, her head hurt from the vodka and the dehydration. She filled the only cup in her house with water, and downed it swiftly. The burner phone she’d used for Mysaria was on the marble countertops.

Her hand swiped the Blackwater’s business card from the black sideboard, and she picked up the plastic device. It rang, and rang, and rang. She rolled her eyes, and chucked the phone back onto the countertop.

She had a mouthful of water when the phone buzzed loudly.
“Who the fuck is this?” She’d recognise that accent anywhere.
“Syrax,” she threw the cup in the sink, the water splashing onto the counter.
“Oh? Did your little business not work out?” His tone was annoying… mocking.
“No. Turns out I wasn’t supposed to kill people,” Rhaenyra mirrored his nonchalance. His laughter was booming.
“Well, if that’s what you’re after… turn the card over, and meet me in an hour.”

The Blackwater took the call from his office in the headquarters, looking out onto the city. Syrax would make a shining addition to his small team. He had her as virtually moralless, sans for killing children. He had taken her as he’d seen her; professional, but hot-headed. Impulsive. Her bodycam footage of the death of Gregor Clegane - a man on the Blackwater’s books - had been impressive. Her first assignment was lined up… another one of his personal employees, and on the Dragon’s black books. Someone had to get to him before the Dragon’s did, and he’d already foiled their plan once.

If the Dragon’s got to him first, he would reveal all about the Blackwater’s business. It would be an easy sell to Syrax - the man was loathsome. He had more recently killed a child, needlessly. The Blackwater and his associates were mostly employed by drug dealers, traffickers… anyone who needed someone executed, without drawing it back to themselves.

This guy, the doomed one, had drawn too much attention to the Blackwater and his missives. His order had been to capture the leader, and take him to a second location for questioning. He had, instead, barrelled in and mowed down the entire family. A hapless idiot. Soon to be dead.

Rhaenyra dressed in one of her many pairs of cargo trousers. Her jacket was ruined, stained with blood. She frowned and searched her clothing - she had very little. Eventually, she resigned herself and pulled a grey sweatshirt over her head.

The keys to her bike glared at her from the dresser, the battery must be dead inside of it.

Rhaenyra took the car, but made a note that she needed to ditch it sooner rather than later. Mysaria would have cleaned the scene, scrubbed any evidence she could, but it was better that she didn’t have the vehicle parked outside of her loft all day.

The address led Rhaenyra to a pub in Camden, seasoned drinkers outside in the cold with their pint glasses running empty. She raised an eyebrow, and squinted at the sign. ‘Blackwater Bay’. It caused a grin to form on her pink lips… hiding in plain sight. Clever. She parked on the side of the road, and locked the car. The men outside cast their glances upon her, as if they trying to work out if she was in fact a woman or not.

An aroma of stale beer, smoke and sweat filled her nostrils unpleasantly, her lips pursing to prevent it from entering her mouth. In the corner, people were smoking as they chatted. They didn’t look like the men outside, though. They were clad in all black, boots and holsters on their thighs. Two men, with their straw coloured hair tied in buns - identical, staring right at Rhaenyra.
There was another man, rat faced and peering. He had a pathetic goatee on his chin, and a thin line of facial hair above his dry lips. He was sat next to a tall man, with ginger hair falling to his neck. He had broad shoulders, and hazel eyes, he was polishing an axe in his lap. Interesting - not really the weapon of a hitman. These must be a few of the people in Blackwater’s employ.

“Syrax?” A woman’s voice caused her to turn. The woman was pretty, with hair the same colour as a flame and freckles on her cheeks. She was polishing a glass with a dirty rag - a pointless endeavour. Rhaenyra nodded, and leaned against the bar. She pushed some of her messy hair away from her face.
“And what’s your name?” She met the woman’s eyes, with her signature smirk. The woman grinned, her crooked teeth shining in the light.
“You wish,” she commented, sliding the glass under the bar. “He’s in the back.”
“Thanks, ‘you wish’,” Rhaenyra replied, and made her way through the gate on the side of the bar. She heard the woman’s giggle as she departed.

She could also feel sets of eyes on the back of her head, and hear their whisperings. She hoped they were scared of her, or trying to work out why she was here. She was here to take their job, if her assumptions had been correct about their own statuses.

The back rooms smelled a bit nicer, of aftershave and metal. Rhaenyra followed the path laid out before her - a corridor, with a series of rooms that looked as if they may actually be used for running a pub. There was a room with dull metal barrels stacked high, some fixed to the wall. There was another room with shelving, glass bottles and cans threatening to crumple the wood under their weights.

Then, there was a room at the back, with a code lock and a bolt. Rhaenyra knocked, once and then a subsequent four times. This was the code she’d been taught in bootcamp. “In,” she heard through the thick wood.

There he sat, behind a desk. Dressed as he always was - black shirt, black trousers. Hair slicked back. “Syrax,” he smiled. Rhaenyra looked at the paperwork in front of him - order forms for a brewery. It was all so ridiculous that she smiled.
“Do the Dragons know you’re a pub landlord?” She sat down on the hard wooden chair in front of his desk, and he shook his head with a small smile.
“No… they don’t know I’m the insider, either,” he shuffled the paper, and shoved it into a desk drawer. Rhaenyra’s eyes widened at the admission, and she folded her arms across her flat chest. “So, it didn't work out with your little… charity?”

“No.” She wanted him to do the talking, to lay his cards out across the chipped surface before them.
“Well, that’s good news for me.” He pulled open the drawer closest to the floor, and flipped through the contents whilst humming a melodic tune. His hands were calloused, and tattooed. He placed the file on the table. It was thick, and bound in black card. Rhaenyra tried to peer at the tab on the top.

“Before I give you your first assignment… I think it’s important I explain a bit, about our organisation.” The Blackwater picked up a mug, Rhaenyra could smell the whiskey from here.
“We’re not protectors of the innocent, Syrax. We’re not here to put down men because they committed crimes… we’re here to work for the men committing the crimes. We don’t draw attention to ourselves, we don’t dive in front of bullets…”

Rhaenyra was only half listening. “We collect bounties, sometimes. We take down drug lords and their men. We’re guns for hire,” she didn’t care, her foot tapping restlessly on the floor. She just wanted to know where her hired gun would be aiming. “I can see you couldn’t care less - grand.” He smiled.

Blackwater was all too pleased with the women in front of him; she had that look in her eyes that he’d seen in some of his best men, they didn’t care where they were aiming. As long as they got to pull the trigger.

In Rhaenyra’s brain, she had washed her hands of her morals. What was the point, ultimately? Nihilism coursed through her. It was all just a bit of fun, now.

“This is Meryn Trant. He drew attention to us. I want him dead.” Bronn pushed the file over, and Rhaenyra flicked it open. The man in the picture had a pug face, dark hair and deep set saggy eyes.
“Consider it done.” Rhaenyra scanned to find his address.
“Nobody will care if this man dies, so you can do it in his home. He’s known to authorities, and we have men on the inside. Ten grand?” The greasy haired man shoved the file away, and left his desk. Behind him, was a large black cabinet affixed to the wall.

“Ten grand?” Rhaenyra squinted.
“Yes, as payment for your services.” Blackwater opened the doors. Inside were stacks upon stacks of banknotes.
“Whatever. I’ll collect it after.” Rhaenyra rose from her chair. “Do you have any weaponry?”

At this, the man’s cracked lips fell into a large grin. “Go and see Ygritte, out the front. She’ll take you down.”

Ygritte was the name of the freckled beauty Rhaenyra had tried her luck with mere minutes ago.

“Ygritte,” Rhaenyra walked behind the bar, where the ginger was pulling a pint for a thin dark haired man.

It was fascinating, that even in this sea of nothing she felt, she was still able to flirt and charm. She didn’t want Ygritte, per se, but she wanted to see someone weakened by her. It was no different to holding a knife to her throat - she’d still be folding at the knees.

“You learn fast,” the woman said, resting a hand on her hip. She was wearing a loose grey tank top, and black jeans with rips on the thighs. Rhaenyra’s eyes fell on the pale skin exposed.
“There are other things I can do quickly, too,” Rhaenyra approached her, her sultry lips forming a sly smile.
“What, like pissing women off?” Ygritte fired back, her own mouth grinning.
“Fair enough,” Rhaenyra could see that this Ygritte would not fold at the knees. “I need to see the armoury.”

“Armoury? Terribly posh,” Ygritte slung the dirty rag over her shoulder, and gestured to the large ginger man to take over behind the bar. She led Rhaenyra out of the back door, to a hatch in the floor. “In you get.” She pointed.

Rhaenyra did a double take, before wrenching the hatch back. It made a loud groaning sound, like rusty metal straining. It revealed a staircase. Rhaenyra stepped down - she could smell the guns. A specific smell, not too different to the pub. Iron, and smoke. “There’s a code?” She stopped at the foot of the stairs. An automatic light had come on, revealing a heavy door. Her boots thudded on the concrete floor.

Ygritte sidled in front of the blonde, and Rhaenyra could smell her perfume. It was faint, but sweet. Her thin fingers typed the code in. Rhaenyra’s breath was snatched from her when the girl pushed the door open. They had more guns at their disposal than the Dragon’s did. Machine guns, sniper rifles, walls of pistols and daggers. Even some crossbows, and throwing knives.

“Weapon of choice?” Ygritte held the door open for Rhaenyra, who stepped in.
“Just a pistol,” Rhaenyra had her own holstered under her jumper, but she had wanted to scope out the firepower of this company. It was massive, she hoped to never be on the other end of their ire.
“Boring,” Ygritte took one from the wall, and tossed it to Rhaenyra. She caught it, and took a clip of bullets from the table next to her.
“Oh? You prefer to axe your victim to death?” She turned the pistol over in her hands - it was black, like everything with this organisation.
“No.” Ygritte took the crossbow down, and aimed it at Rhaenyra. There was no bolt loaded, and the string sat taught in the middle of it. Rhaenyra grinned.

It was quite a sight, her orange hair falling wildly around her face. The light hit her eyes in a way that made them look like storm clouds swirling dangerously. “You're not just a barmaid?” Rhaenyra fitted the loaded clip to the pistol, and made sure the safety was on before she shoved it into the waistband of her boxer shorts.
“No,” Ygritte put the crossbow back in its place, and turned to look at Rhaenyra. “You've been given Trant?” Rhaenyra nodded. “Take a set of keys and a helmet, the bikes are round the corner.” Ygritte pointed to the wall behind Rhaenyra.

She grabbed a black helmet, it was lighter than her own. The keys had the number seven drawn on, she pocketed them. “See you in an hour, Ygritte.”

Ygritte raised her eyebrows challengingly, she both respected the arrogance, and despised it. She gave Rhaenyra a wave as she exited the hatch.

Bike number seven was red, with chopper-like handles and a well used seat. The engine spluttered, and then roared, like a lion awoken from slumber. She smiled, and set off to the address.

Meryn Trant was on his dirty sofa, a bottle of whiskey in hand and his TV blaring sports. In front of him, was a selection of women. They were being paraded before him, like prize lambs. An older woman described their talents, to which he grunted and pointed at the smallest one. The mistress escorted the others from the house, through the back door and the broken gate. It was selfish, but they all felt relieved. Meryn Trant was not a kind patron.

Rhaenyra Targaryen was two minutes away, armed to her teeth. She didn't feel rage, she didn't know enough of his crimes to be enraged, yet. There was no adrenaline, just an almost robotic purpose.

Chapter Text

She rode past the house once, scoping it out. Worn down, chipping paint, a window open upstairs. Much to her intrigue, a steady line of four women were filtering from a passage that seemed to lead behind the house. Rhaenyra stowed her bike away a three minute jog from the house. She kept her helmet on, to obscure her face.

She hadn't bothered to ask if the Blackwater had provision to erase national security cameras, perhaps an oversight.

Her boots were quiet on the tar path that led to the man's garden. The garden itself was overgrown and spilling at the fence posts, thistles and nettles brushing against her trousers. His neighbours all had their windows closed, and curtains drawn. Rhaenyra had complete coverage. She pressed her ear to the muddled glass panes of the back door. She couldn't hear any footsteps, only the sounds of a TV blaring.

These men always had their volume too loud, as if the whole world was interested in what media they chose to consume when they weren’t terrorising society.

She wrapped her fingers around the door handle, and felt no resistance as it opened. She reached for the pistol in her waistband, turning the safety off and raising it. The door opened to the kitchen, stinking of rotten food and buzzing with flies as if someone was already dead inside these walls. But no pug faced man.

As soundlessly as possible, she removed her helmet. There was one spot of countertop not covered with litter, so she placed it there. The sun bounced from the vizor casting a light on the grease stained wall. The only noise was that of a sports commentator, shouting about unjust referees.

Rhaenyra made her way through the hallway, stepping over discarded shoes and bottles. There were two doors, both looked exactly the same. But behind one, she could hear the rumble of the television louder than before.

Her boot collided with the door, forcing it open with a bang.

Meryn Trant had just began to unbuckle his belt when the door was thrust open. The girl screamed, and made a motion to run. With a growl, he reached out a chubby hand and snatched her arm.

“I'll kill her,” he snarled, his arm around the girls neck and hand on the side of her face. Primed to jerk, and snap the bone that kept her head upright.

There it was, rising with great speed like water filling a sink. Rage. Another man, choosing to use a woman as fodder.

Rhaenyra had the gun pointed at him. In her peripheral, she could see a knife. “Meryn Trant, I presume?” The goal of talking was to waste time, to distract him into loosening his grip.
“Who's asking?” He seemed incapable of communicating in anything other than snarls and grunts.
“Well, me… obviously.” Rhaenyra replied, with a shrug of her shoulders.
“And who do you work for?” He pulled the girl against him, tightening his grip on her.

Rhaenyra couldn't let him kill her. She looked young, skinny and poorly nourished. “Someone who wants you dead,” She replied. Her eyes met the girls own, they were large and brown. Sorrowful and scared. Rhaenyra had no kindness in her eyes, but there was a look of determination. “I presume there's no shortage of options.”

Meryn Trant had no weapons on him, his only defence was to threaten the life of this young woman and hope the executioner before him had a soul.

“Blackwater? Dragons?” Trant looked out of the window, his eyes wide with panic.
“What do you think, Meryn Trant?” She spotted a chink in his armour. He was terrified of the Blackwater. “Maybe, if you look hard enough, you'll see a sniper… on the roof, across the road.”
“You're lying!” And yet, he still looked to the opposite roof, his sallow eyes thin as he peered.

Her eyes met the girls again, and Rhaenyra nodded. She took a step forward, crushing an empty can.

He bellowed, “Come any closer and I'll snap her neck!”
“I'll save you a job.” Rhaenyra raised the gun, and pulled the trigger. The girl's scream was blood curdling, but no bullet left the barrel.

But it worked, he released his grip and Rhaenyra grabbed her by the arm and stowed her away behind her back. “Whoops, safety was on,” her smile was condescending, and Trant tried to lunge for her. He was fat, and sloppy. Rhaenyra dodged it with ease, and shoved him back to the sofa. He growled and tried to stand again.

The monster was tearing at her insides.

“I should let her kill you, really.” Rhaenyra put the gun against his stomach, and shoved him back down to the sofa. “But she's not like us… she won't do it. Even though you would have killed her, if it meant you got to live.” He was looking at her with pleading eyes, then he looked at the girl. Rhaenyra used the barrel of the gun to turn his gaze back. “Don't look at her, I don't want her haunted by your ugly face begging for the rest of her life.”

She looked back at the girl, who had found her clothing and pulled it back on. “Go, now.” She commanded, and her order was obeyed. Rhaenyra knew that she would have to lie about her to the Blackwater. Otherwise, he’d order her killed. And even worse, order Rhaenyra to do it herself.

The girl wouldn’t spill the secrets, though. Nobody would believe her, and she was mute from the horrors she’d endured.

She looked at him, her gaze emitting wave after wave of repulsion. “You’re an ugly fucker, aren’t you?” She taunted, poking him in the chest with her gun.

She had been warned about this many times by Meleys - she was wont to taunt, to sneer and look down her crooked nose at those she was charged to kill. It had started arising more as she became known as one of the best. She didn’t do it in her first three years, but arrogance had grasped her with its shimmering gold talons.

“I could kill you, if I wanted to,” Trant sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.
“Aw, go on then.” Rhaenyra stepped back, and put the safety on her pistol. He looked alarmed, and rose to his feet in a most untidy manner. Rhaenyra’s laugh was mocking, bitter and sharp. He swung for her, but missed by an embarrassing distance. “It’s almost like you don’t want to.” She raised her leg, the sole of her boot imprinting on his blubbery stomach. He fell to the floor.

Just like the balls of gas she apologised to every night, she was running hot. Her teeth were grinding against themselves, her knuckles white as she tugged him from the ground. He managed to punch her in the stomach, but the impact was weak against her muscles. “I said,” she shoved him backwards, he staggered and fell again. “Fucking kill me.”

The words were meant to act as intimidation, to remind him he was a mortal toiling with the God of Death on a bad day. But as she heard them, it was like she was begging now. Somewhere, Rhaenyra Targaryen wanted to die. He stood, and she removed the gun from her waistband. He grabbed the knife just as she flicked the safety off.

Rhaenyra stared at the blade… there was an urge to just let him swipe at her. There was an even stronger urge to let him get close, to let him think he would emerge a victor, and then smite him where he stood.

Instead of either, she shot him before he was even an arms length away. One shot, between the eyes. Clean.

Rhaenyra hadn’t felt like herself for years, and in the rare moments she did feel something… it was anger. Or sadness, but then even that turned to anger. Flirting evoked nothing, sex evoked nothing. Fear turned to anger, too.

She shoved the gun into her waistband, and picked up her helmet. She returned it to her head in a swift movement, and reentered the outside. The sky was clear, the October sun shining but not offering any warmth.

The pub had filled even more when she returned, the tables all crammed with people speaking in hushed tones. They stopped, when Rhaenyra walked in with her helmet dangling from one hand. Her eyes were cold as she looked around. The only notable newcomer was a man with lots of strong features, none of which seemed to match. Thin lips, wide set brown eyes, tufty chestnut hair. A smarmy expression.

Ygritte was still behind the bar, her smile warm. Rhaenyra didn’t mirror the gesture, and just walked through the little gate. She knocked on the wrought door from earlier, and waited to be beckoned.

“Well?” Blackwater had a small tumbler of peaty smelling whiskey in front of him.
“Dead, bullet between the eyes in his living room,” she reported.
“Any witnesses?” Lying to him would cause her little anguish.
“No. A man that ugly?” Rhaenyra didn’t sit, but stood near the doorway. Blackwater had a look of pride, and put a backpack on the table. Rhaenyra unzipped it tentatively, almost worried it might contain the head of the witness.

Cash, and mountains of it. She slung it over her shoulder, and waved goodbye. “I’ll be in touch!” He called behind her. And he would. He’d only known one other person to be as effective as Rhaenyra, as efficient and clean.

If she wasn’t so hollow, sparing the girl's life might have felt good. Rhaenyra made her way back into the pub. More eyes were on her, and she clenched her jaw.

“Smile would be nice, love.” She froze on the spot, her palm just about to push the door open. She turned, Ygritte was frowning at the grotesque man in the corner. Rhaenyra tilted her head, to look at him. He was beaming proudly.

“Oh?” Rhaenyra grinned at him, and he bobbed his head in approval. “Really glad you liked that,” she approached his table, where he sat with other dark haired, rough looking men.
“Syrax,” Ygritte’s Northern voice chimed out, but she didn’t have enough power to make Rhaenyra stop.
“You’ve got a pretty smile,” the man winked, and Rhaenyra’s grin broadened.

He was obviously absolutely senseless - this wasn’t a grin, this was a dragon, baring its teeth before a stream of fire escaped. Rhaenyra picked up his glass, and took a sip of the malty liquid. “Hmm, delicious,” she looked at him. For a supposed hitman, he was dense.

The glass was smashed against the table in seconds, and a shard pressed to his throat. There was a scuffle behind her. People pushing their stools and craning their necks to watch. Ygritte’s loud sigh could be heard, as if this was a common occurrence. Nobody made motions to help him.

The man had lost all colour from his skin, his eyes as open as they could be, and on the shard against his skin. “Is my smile pretty, now?” She queried. His friends had all scarpered, and he was alone in his booth.
“No,” he replied, hastily.
“Good,” she answered, and took the shard away. “Next time you talk to me, I’ll carve you a pretty smile.” The touch was light, but the point of glass was dragged across his cheeks in a curve. He turned green.

The shard was dropped onto the table, and she gave Ygritte an apologetic smile. Blackwater had emerged from his den at the noise, and was leaning in the archway. He had stars in his eyes, when she looked at him. As if he adored her very being.

The others were gawping, slack jawed with expressions that varied from disgust, to horror, to impressed. She left before anyone else could say anything to irritate her. The murmurs were audible from the street, but Rhaenyra didn’t care. She was doing a job, not making friends. She didn’t know how to make friends anymore.

Rhaenyra decided to keep the bike, and abandon the car in the street. It would be stolen eventually. This was not a nice area of London, and she didn’t want it darkening her driveway anymore. She wasn’t made for cars, she was made for open air. Soaring down roads, an exhaust roaring behind her.

She didn’t go back to the loft, she went to a bar on the outskirts of the city. She ordered a martini, and nursed it. The bar wasn’t busy, but there was a steady flow of new faces entering and old faces leaving. She ordered a second from the bartender, and returned to her table in the corner. She rested her head on the palm of her hand, and stared off into the distance.
It was in these moments that she accessed the last miniscule shreds of herself, if only to try desperately to eradicate them. To remind herself that this was it for her. She wasn’t made for love, friendships or happiness. She was made to be swallowed by rage, to taunt and mock and lord her powers over those who she - or others - had adjudicated must die.

She thought of her childhood, before her parents died, playing in the meadow behind her house with her cousin, Jeyne. They would climb trees and make daisy chains, and say they would be friends forever. Jeyne had moved to a different country, and likely wouldn’t recognise the Rhaenyra she would meet today.

Rhaenyra wondered if she should move to a different country, get a job as a farm hand and pretend she’d never played God. But then, what was the point? There was no point, she’d be called back to it. It was the only thing she knew. Her only relationship had been based on the decimation of each other, she didn’t know how to love. The thought was discarded quickly.

The sky had darkened, Rhaenyra stared at the stars as she rode through the streets. Her apology was silent today, transmitted through gazing like invisible radio waves.

The loft was as empty as ever, and she had no blood to wash from her body. So she just took her clothes off, shed the skin of a killer, and counted the bricks on the wall until she fell asleep.

Rhaenyra wasn’t living - she was waiting. Waiting for her time to end, waiting to be overpowered. Waiting to feel that fear she inflicted upon others, to remember all the happy times from her life as they flashed before her eyes.

Chapter Text

The silk shirt, or the cotton blouse? The job was low level, perhaps beneath Mysaria, even. But she wanted to make a good impression nonetheless. Her bony fingers took the silk shirt from its hanger. She hadn’t seen Rhaenyra in two weeks, the longest they’d ever gone without seeing each other.

It was odd, an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach when she thought of Rhaenyra Targaryen. She didn’t want to remember her as the soulless, pistol-whipping life-stealing machine she had become. She wanted to remember bootcamp Rhaenyra, flirting and beaming. Happy. That was Rhaenyra, not what she’d left in the warehouse. It made her angry, too. Not Rhaenyra’s fashion of rage, a more human anger. Resentment, perhaps? That someone could allow themselves to become so pitted out, like a wrinkled olive.

She wondered where she was now, too. Probably in a bar, drunk. Or worse, pointing a barrel at someone’s head. Mysaria couldn’t give her purpose… a bitter, egg sized pill to swallow. But it was true. Even if Mysaria had gone along with the kiss, had fallen into her arms the way she once wanted to, it would end the same way… just more painful. Plus, she didn’t love this version of Rhaenyra. Not in that way, anyway.

She buttoned the shirt over her flat stomach, and brushed her hair back one final time. The air she left behind her smelled of roses and mouthwash. Her living room was fitted with all white couches, luxurious and barely used. There were fresh flowers on her kitchen island, in an iridescent vase that cast rainbows on the walls when the sun caught it. It was warm, it was clean, and it was hers.

Her shoe rack sat by the front door. Mostly, practical shoes. Trainers, some boots for the few times she’d gone into the field with… her agent. She plucked a pair of black heels from the bottom row. They were polished, gleaming brightly at her as she slipped them on. Her ankles wobbled a little, and she felt her toes pushed against each other in the point of the shoe. It was only for a while.

Cars keys were retrieved from the golden dish on the shelf by the front door, and she was out into the world with a fresh outlook. She was naturally pretty, with high cheekbones and a perfect cupid’s bow on her top lip.

The route she was taking gave her a daunting sense of deja-vu, following the roads through to the centre. In front of her was her old office. Mundane from the outside, full of murdering borderline psychopaths on the inside. It intrigued her to know if the Blackwater would be there, or if he would be manning his other business.

The destination was further away though, and purer in intention. People know of this organisation, and the work it did. Nobody knew of the Dragons, unless they were one, or expecting a visit from one. No, the building Mysaria was heading towards had tall iron gates, and men with guns positioned outside.

She pulled up on one of the men, who asked what she was doing here. When she said she had a job interview and showed him the letter, he granted her access and told her to report to reception. She thanked him, and drove towards the car park.

MI5 wanted you to know where they were, so you know that they were watching. There was some lurking in the shadows, but most of their work was carried out in broad daylight. Mysaria wasn’t here to work with the spies, anyway. She had applied for a position in their bootcamps, training the next generation of intelligence gatherers. No blood, no missions… just monotony, sweet and simple.

The white Mercedes was stowed away in the far corner of the car park, in a valiant effort to retrain her ankles to tolerate heeled shoes before she had to walk in front of her interviewer. The letter in her bag detailed that she would be interviewed by Samwell Tarly, a trainer himself of some experience. She had a few pre-interview jitters… who wouldn’t? But broadly she was confident. It was a job slightly below her previous station.

The building looked like an old palace, given to MI5 for their usage. Columns of Roman marble, and heavy wooden doors at the top of marble stairs. Decadent, and well oiled. It didn’t make a sound as it opened for her. Inside, there were rows of guards. The floor, black and white chequered marble, and the reception desk spanned the length of the floor. Perspex glass in front of it, bulletproof no doubt. If someone made it through the guards outside, they would surely meet their doom here.

“Hi, I’m here for a job interview,” Mysaria squared her shoulders.
“Name?” The man asked, fiddling in a box for a visitors lanyard.
“Mysaria, it’s with Samwell Tarly,” the man had bushy eyebrows, which he furrowed as he pulled up something on his computer.
“Okay, I’ll call an escort for you,” he handed her the badge, and pointed to the comfy looking chairs across the way.

The chairs were positioned by another row of guards, all steely faced and looking ahead. Behind them were metal detectors and a few x-ray machines. Mysaria admired the caution… the Dragon’s office could be invaded by anyone, if they knew where it was. Unlike here, though, they wouldn’t be taken for questioning as to why they were breaking in. The moment the beasts caught sight of an unfamiliar face, they’d be burned on the spot.

Mysaria waited for five minutes, she turned her head when the machine behind her beeped. “Mysaria?” The owner of the voice was a shockingly tall woman, with her blonde hair cropped and swept over her head. Like Rhaenyra’s, but cleaner, and neater. It made Mysaria’s lips curve into a smile, she nodded and stood.

The woman had an important looking badge, and eyes so blue it was like staring into sapphires. She looked strong, like she could lift Mysaria with one finger and spin her around with ease.
“I’m Brienne,” the woman extended a large hand. The handshake looked silly, really. Mysaria’s own hand was almost completely enveloped by the other’s. “Follow me.”

Brienne waved a hand to the guard at the metal detectors, who let Mysaria pass even though the machine blared at him to stop her. Brienne led them to an elevator, and pressed a button on the fifth row. Mysaria marked this as odd, as the letter told her that she would be seen on the ground floor. She could hear the blood rushing through her body, her ears turning red. This couldn’t be good news.

“Don’t worry,” the woman said, she had to bend her neck to look at Mysaria. Mysaria pursed her lips, and watched the red indicator light glow as they moved through the building. The elevator went up one floor, but then went sideways. Mysaria’s eyes widened, and she reached for the cool metal bar on the side of the wall.

When the doors opened, she saw rows of desks. Many rows, each line had at least ten people seated in front of multiple screens. Headsets on, no talking… just watching. She caught glimpses here and there - people watching train stations, palaces, airports. Some were muttering into their headsets, advising to go left or right in however many yards. This didn’t seem like the home of the bootcamp trainers.

Now, she was more than ‘job interview’ jittery. She was scared, her hands fiddled instinctively with the badge around her neck. Just like she used to, before everything crashed down. Maybe that’s what this was about - maybe the Blackwater had somehow blacklisted her from all Government agencies. Even though the Dragons were a small subsection, and broadly known as ‘break glass in case of emergency’.

Most of the Dragons’ cases were because MI5 couldn’t manage it themselves, for whatever reason. Or because the Royals ordered a quicker job than MI5 could offer. MI5 had to answer to real judges, they weren’t the judges themselves. They had to be subjected to audits, to standards and human rights laws. The Dragons? No. The Dragons did what they wanted. Mysaria had sussed that out early on, and only watched as the god complexes grew around her.

“Through here,” Brienne gestured to a glass door. Inside, was a white haired man behind a desk. His smile was kind, and his beckoning even kinder. Mysaria was a cynic by nature, and nurture, so this only served to unrest her more.

She stepped through, and the woman named Brienne took the seat across the desk. A double interview. Oh, good.

Mysaria lowered herself into the seat, and folded her hands in her lap. There was no desk plate that read ‘TARLY’, instead a shimmering medal of service on the wall, a honour bestowed upon ‘Ser Barristan Selmy’.

“I see you’ve deduced who I am,” the man said, switching the monitor of his computer off.
“Yes,” Mysaria’s voice was quiet, she was wringing her hands out in her lap. “Will I not be seeing Samwell Tarly?” The white haired man shook his head, and put his hands on his desk.

“In truth, Mysaria, we’re a little bit confused,” he looked to Brienne - Mysaria had deduced her to be his second in command, a formidable ally, she was sure. Brienne had a scar above her eyebrow, meaning the hair grew with a slash at the end. “We’re not really sure why the famed ‘White Wyrm’ wants to be a teacher?”

Mysaria furrowed her dark eyebrows, and looked between them both. Her cynicism had been poorly placed. “Famed?” She repeated the word with a small chuckle.
“We know of you, yes. A former Dragon tamer,” Brienne was almost admiring her, the attention made Mysaria blush.
“Former… is the crucial word,” Mysaria could feel the sapphire’s boring into her, but continued. “They got a bit too trigger happy, for my tastes.”
“You were paired with Syrax?” Barristan had a file in front of him. It wasn’t meant to intimidate, but it did.

The question felt like a punch to the ribs, and Mysaria chewed the inside of her cheek. Paired with Syrax, in love with Syrax, a friend of Syrax. It seemed she could not exist without the shadow of stupid, arrogant, blood-thirsty Syrax. “Yes… she was fine, at first. But the job got to her, as it gets to them all.”

Both agents looked at each other, and nodded. “We are privy to a certain amount of knowledge of the Dragon’s movements. Syrax was a wildcard, by all accounts. We’re glad you could recognise a lost cause, and extract yourself.” Selmy’s wrinkled lips smiled, he had deep smile lines on his face, his skin tanned as if he lived in Croatia… not London.

“Forgive us for our assumptions,” the woman’s voice was deep, and bounced off the glass walls of the office. The entire building was similar to the Dragon’s, but lighter. The staff seemed lighter, the literal lights were brighter. “We can’t help but think your skills are better placed.”

Mysaria knew her talents were better placed, that she had a real knack for prying the lives of people open and selecting information like databases were a vending machine, and she had the master key. That was the whole point of applying for this low level job, though. A fact seemingly lost on the commanders. She didn’t want to do that anymore. She didn’t want to be associated with an agent who could dismiss her and ignore her orders.

Being a handler was exciting, sometimes risk heavy and often astonishingly interesting. Mysaria wanted to take her pension, safely, in twenty years time. Find a villa in the South of France, and retire. Maybe take up writing again, or painting. Die of old age, full of wine and soft cheeses.

“We won’t put you in the field, if you don’t want to be in there… but we could use you, behind the scenes.” Selmy spoke again, he was tapping his fingertips against the desk.
“Behind the scenes?” She pressed, sitting back.
“You see, it’s not often a Dragon is released into the open air… even less so that a Dragon tamer is freed up.” Brienne took over the pitch. “You’re the best of the best, you were hand selected from hundreds in the camp. We’d be fools, to let you waste away in bootcamp.”

Mysaria studied them both with sceptical brown eyes. It would be good to be in the fold… she loved secrets, perhaps more than anything else in her life. And what if Rhaenyra was on their radar for something? She could warn her, or perhaps convince them to help her… somehow. But Rhaenyra aside, it appealed to her to be a puppet master. To pull the strings on a small team, making their arms and legs jump as it suited her.

“What would I be doing?” She questioned, and shifted so her legs were crossed over one another. Her tights were an argyle pattern, not a single stitch out of place.
“Whatever you wanted,” Selmy shrugged his shoulders, “you could command a team, you could just work in intelligence, you could work on our biggest project yet.” He gave Brienne a knowing smile. Mysaria’s own lips twitched upwards. ‘Biggest project yet’ sounded full of promise! Exciting and mysterious.

“I’ll consider it,” she said, curtly. It was pertinent to leave them hanging in the balance of her answer, if they wanted her badly enough, they’d reveal the project and spill their secrets.
“Lovely. We expect an answer by the end of the week,” Selmy stood, and shook her hand. His hands were calloused, presumably from weaponry. Mysaria took her leave of the room, and back towards the lift.

Selmy and Tarth looked at each other. “We’re taking a big punt here,” he rose from his desk, and rubbed his forehead.
“It’s fine - we don’t know that Syrax has gone there, we don’t even have evidence that it exists.” Brienne rose, too. She shoved her hands in the pockets of her tailor-made slacks. “If you think about it, it’s insanely stupid. A network of hitmen, supposedly working for the head of the Dragons. The ramblings of a now-dead man,” Brienne had her hand on the door.
“Doesn’t that make it more likely? Trant is dead, killed in his own sitting room.” Selmy sat back down, and turned his monitor on.
“It could all be a bunch of nothing, Barristan. She was a wildcard, not a psychopath.” Brienne could see the heaviness on the older man's shoulders.

“If we take the Wyrm on board, and it turns out Trant was lying about this whole network of psychotic mercenaries, then no harm done… we have one of the best intelligence gatherers in the country,” Brienne let out a big sigh, “if we take her on board, and there is a network of mercenaries… some of the names we suspect… then we might have an in.”

Selmy looked at his second in command, and pursed his lips tightly. “But where do we start?”
“Get her in, keep it normal… for a month or two… and then, set her to work… properly.” Brienne left the room swiftly, and Barristan cast his gaze to the streets outside. As if the mercenaries would be on the streets, waving at him.

Chapter Text

In the weeks that would follow the death of Meryn Trant, Rhaenyra had proved herself a valuable asset to Blackwater Bay. She’d collected money to the rough amount of two hundred thousand pounds, seventy thousand of that she’d pocketed for herself. For her efforts.

The Blackwater had raised her through the company - an act that left her even more despised than before. She had been given delegation rights, and a salary. It had become expensive to pay her for every individual killing she enacted. She didn’t often delegate, though. Unless she felt the adversary unworthy of her bullets.

“Syrax, I’ve got one for you,” Blackwater strode into the office as Rhaenyra was polishing the same knife she’d used to close the eyes of Ramsay Bolton. He slammed the recently produced file onto the table. Rhaenyra looked at it, it read ‘CRASTER’.

The file proved a horrifying read, a man keeping his own daughters for his personal use. “Who ordered this?” She shut the file, and allowed the rage to take hold.
“One of the daughters, she escaped years ago and has tried to free the others. They’re on a farm, miles away. She can’t get them out,” Blackwater sat down across from her, and folded his hands over his stomach.
“How’s she paying?” This didn’t matter to Rhaenyra, she’d mow down the man for free.
“Well… she can’t. It’s your choice. I can’t pay you for it,” he sat back.

This was a test. He wanted to see if Rhaenyra was in it for the money, or if she was just a loose cannon desperate to kill as many men as possible. When she nodded, and stood up, he had his answer. She wasn’t in this for the cash, she was in this because she’d messed up the Crown case, because she had cared once upon a time and had been punished for it.

She was on a rampage - which he was profiting from. The concern for him was that she may turn on his staff, the way she’d turned on Ulf White. If she decided to care again, she would be lethal to his organisation as a whole. He had already had to hide files from her, men deciding to have their wives killed or mistresses silenced.

It was frightening, her hatred of men. But he knew from his line of work, it was not misplaced.

“Syrax,” he stopped her before she left the room. She turned, and he could almost see Craster’s dead body in her eyes. “You can’t care.” He said, bluntly. Rhaenyra scowled at him.
“Thankfully, I don’t.” She wasn’t lying, she didn’t care. If she couldn’t save the girls, it wouldn’t be her first failure. If she could save them, maybe she could go a day without wanting to bury herself. He dismissed her, and she was out on the roads without another word.

Craster’s Keep sat forty minutes outside of the border of London. Her hands were clad in leather fingerless gloves, grasping the handles tightly as she weaved through the motorway traffic. Her vizor was down and it seemed as if the world was covered with a sepia filter.

Rhaenyra never saw beauty in anything, anymore. Not even the rustling rust coloured trees, or the sun filtering through the gaps where the leaves had shed for the year. It all bored her. It would bore her to tears, but her body didn’t seem capable of forming them, anymore.

She went into every dispatch like a kamikaze mission, longing for someone to put her down. She wanted something big, some big blaze to consume her and spit her bones out. She could utter one final apology to the stars, and slip away to join them in the sky. Instead of this, instead of breathing for the sake of breathing. She had killed some bad men, and in her time at Blackwater Bay, she’d killed good men, too. She couldn’t tell the difference anymore… to someone, she was a bad person. It all seemed grey, nowadays.

On the open roads, she sped up significantly. Her pistol was against her chest, the silver against the clean white of her t-shirt. She had a cut on her cheek, acquired two weeks ago. She had dodged too late, and a signet ring had dragged down her face. It stung occasionally, and would scar in an ugly fashion.

Rhaenyra never paid much attention to her appearance, her hair had grown shaggy and had streaks of grey through it now. She was still attractive, but less of a smooth skinned model. Rugged, scarred and marked by her work… and her recklessness. The cut could have been avoided, but she wanted to know how bad it would hurt to be hammered with a thick metal ring. It hurt quite a lot, but not enough.

She could see a farm in the distance. It held no livestock, no animals or tractors on the grounds. So what exactly did they farm? The idea made her reopen the cut on her lips as she frowned. She could hazard a guess at what they farmed, a disgusting assumption. It did make her nervous to think about what the women would do, with this man dead. And he would be dead, in about fifteen minutes.

She got off her bike, and was met by a small man at the door. “Who are you?” He queried, walking forwards. There was a cricket bat in his hands… Rhaenyra didn’t think he wanted an innings.
“Depends - what’s your association to Craster?” Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, and rested her helmet on the back of her bike.
“I’m his grandson,” the boy answered. He placed the flat side of the bat in his other hand.
“What are you standing guard for?” Rhaenyra unzipped her black bomber jacket, but didn’t take it off. The boy looked confused by the question… it obviously didn’t take much. “You’re not his grandson, either. In our files, your ‘grandad’ is about forty five. You’re what… thirty?”

“What does it matter to you?” He squinted, but he knew he’d been caught.
“Tell me why you’re standing guard,” Rhaenyra leaned against her bike, she was almost sure this guy would not present much challenge.
“He pays me to stand watch. In case people like you come sniffin’ around,” He dropped the tip of the bat to the floor.
“And you chose… a cricket bat?” Rhaenyra scoffed, and shrugged her jacket off.

The bat fell to the ground when he saw the pistol. “How much do you care about Craster?”
“I don’t, I don’t care.” He raised his hands, and fell to his knees. Praying to the God of Death.
“Good, you won’t mind if I go in there and kill him, then.” Some guard he was, as formidable as a strawman. The man shook his head. “I can’t have a witness though,” Rhaenyra frowned, and took her pistol from her holster.

She wasn’t entirely sure what to do with him - he had been privy to the mistreatment of these women for however long, without doing anything. At the same time, he seemed to hold no loyalty to the balding man inside the house. She walked past him, her pistol in hand.

To buy herself time, to make a decision, she rammed the butt of the gun against his head. He fell to the floor unconscious, a trickle of blood falling over his ear. She cocked the gun, and opened the front door.

Four women were on the other side, and Rhaenyra raised a finger to her lips to silence their screams. They didn’t scream, though. They just looked hopeful, and stood aside to grant her safe passage. “Upstairs,” one of them whispered, as she returned to her sweeping.

It was a chilling sight, each room seemed to have a few women in, cleaning or preparing vegetables. None of them batted an eyelid as she moved through the house with a gun in her hands. She still found herself creeping, but there was no point. His daughters were happy for him to be killed, enough torture had been endured for them to be numb to the idea of murder.

As she reached the landing, a slender girl pointed to a dented door. Rhaenyra nodded in silent thanks, and opened it.

The man was splayed on the bed, his chest rising and falling as he slept. Rhaenyra slammed the door behind them, and he shot up. He shouted something about ‘stupid bitch’, which made Rhaenyra smile.

“I don’t think you meant that for me, Craster,” she said, walking around the room. The floorboards were spotless, as were the shelves and window sills. He obviously worked his daughters to their bones. There were no family photos, no clothes on the floor. It was like Rhaenyra’s loft - devoid of happiness. The man looked at her blankly. His bald head was shining in the sunlight that filtered through the window.

“Nothing to say?” She mocked, pausing at the foot of the bed. Craster rang a bell, a bothersome gesture that caused Rhaenyra to tut. “Your slaves aren’t coming, Craster. They led me here,” she shrugged her shoulders, and he got off the creaking bed.
“Do you want money? Do you want a girl?” He bargained, trying to find a t-shirt on the floor to cover his hairy chest.
“No,” Rhaenyra sat in a chair in the corner, her gun pointed at the man. “Girls aren’t property, Craster.”

He had no response, and just sat back down on the bed. “Gilly, wasn’t it? I’m just trying to keep them safe,” Rhaenyra saw no sincerity in his misery.
“You’re the danger though, aren’t you? You’re a fucking creep,” Rhaenyra pushed herself from the chair, and walked towards him. He was much larger than she was, but slow. “You’ve imprisoned them, they want you dead.”

The guy didn’t answer, didn’t refute or smirk, It was boring, just like everything else. “This is very dull,” she put the barrel to his forehead. She thought he might bite then, but he just stared ahead, as if he was the victim. As if he was the one imprisoned, his own life stunted by someone who is supposed to love him. The nerve was boundless. She wanted to make him cry, but as she heard a little girl's voice outside, she just pulled the trigger. The silencer stifled the noise, and all that could be heard was the thud as his body slumped.

She hid the gun as well as possible, and left the room. Just across, against the wall, was a girl who couldn't have been more than eight. “What were you doing with dad?” She asked, her brown eyes wide and curious.

It evoked a feeling inside of the cavern that was Rhaenyra Targaryen. Guilt, swimming inside of her like a piranha. “What’s your name?” Rhaenyra looked down at the child, her own eyes baleful.
“Nelly,” the girl answered. Rhaenyra put a hand on her shoulder, and crouched down.

As she looked into the child’s eyes, she felt human. For the first time in years, she felt human. It was overwhelming, it made her want to fall to the ground and sob. “My name is Rhaenyra,” she said, her voice wobbling like someone was shaking her by her shoulders.

This little girl represented everything Rhaenyra had allowed to be swallowed - childlike curiosity, zest for life, a true power. The power of innocence, the power of feeling everything so strongly. She could feel the fabric of the girls fleece under her fingertips, scratchy. She could feel the air on her skin, and smell the fresh herbs they grew downstairs.

Rhaenyra couldn’t say, though. She couldn’t say ‘I killed your dad’. Instead, she said: “Wanna come see my motorbike?” And watched as the girl’s baby teeth shone into a smile. Oh, to be so distractible. So unaware of the true nature of humans, so unaware of why someone completely random would be in your house, in your fathers room. Nelly didn’t yet know why someone would want her father dead.

The child took Rhaenyra’s hand in hers, as they left the house. The women downstairs stopped their tasks as she reappeared with the child. Rhaenyra looked at them all, through this new lens of humanity. It was painful, to see the cheeks sallow and eyes as hollow as her own had been, minutes ago. “It’s done, you’re free,” her voice was wobbling again.

To feel so much all at once felt like a death sentence. Rhaenyra couldn’t do it, she needed to go back to the blanket of numbness she was accustomed to. Her hands were trembling around the childs as they went outside.

She had forgotten all about the crumpled man, and gasped when the child opened the front door. He was gone, though. Fled into the fields no doubt. She sighed in relief, and Nelly looked up at her. “Wow, cool bike,” Rhaenyra watched her brown hair flying behind her, her trainers kicking up dirt.
“Yeah? Wanna sit on it?” She followed her over, and pulled her jacket back on. The women gathered at the door to watch, with sad smiles. Nelly’s nod was furious, her cheeks dimpled as she beamed. Rhaenyra lifted her, and placed her on the leather seat.

She yearned for it, the childlike happiness. The innocence, assuming the world was exactly how it looked. No black-clad people lurking in the background, with guns strapped to them. All claiming they were doing the right thing, putting bad people away or playing God. Rhaenyra could see the face of everyone she’d killed looming in front of her, and the face of the one person she’d wanted to save.

Nelly pretended to rev the engine, making the noises herself. Rhaenyra’s lips broke into a genuine smile. Not a forced one, not condescending or smarmy. It felt odd, like the muscles hadn’t been used recently. They ached as they moved. Rhaenyra looked up to the clear sky.

Maybe there was more out there for her, if she could keep feeling. If she just drove away from London, away from the city and the smog and the people who hid in shadows. Then, she felt the weight of the gun in her waistband and the cold dagger against her shin. If she didn’t lurk in the shadows here, she’d lurk in the shadows somewhere else.

This feeling of happiness - this feeling of feeling, scared her more than any threats to her life. It was untamed and offered a most unwelcome feeling: hope. “Right, Nelly,” she lifted the girl from the bike, and put her helmet back on. “It was good to meet you, but I have to go.” Rhaenyra patted her shoulder, and looked at the women in the doorway.
“It was nice to meet you too, Nyra,” Rhaenyra clenched her jaw under the helmet, and was grateful that the vizor was down.

A singular, stinging tear rolled down her cheek. It was tepid, at best, but it felt like hot oil.

Chapter Text

The feelings, thick and swarming her like hornets; stinging her eyes with memories of happiness, with jealousy, with anger and with sadness continued for the entire journey back to the pub. Her cheeks were wet, and she couldn’t even pinpoint exactly why her tear ducts had chosen to reactivate at that very moment.

She felt hate, too. For herself, mostly. And for the wasps that stung her eyes and her heart, filling her lungs with buzzes of emotion and stifled sobs. She wanted to find each metaphorical insect, and burn it over an open flame. It was too much, all at once. She needed an outlet, and fast. Before the wasps burrowed a home inside of her.

She had wanted to feel for so long now, but she had forgotten what it truly meant. Shaking hands, tear stained cheeks, sharp jabs in the lungs. A heart that felt like it was bound by barbed wire. Craster had done unpleasant things, he had decided women were his property. He was a bad man. Why did she feel bad about killing him? Meryn Trant had evoked no feeling from her, and Ulf White even less. Ramsay Bolton had been like kicking a can down the road.

It wasn’t about killing him specifically, though. It was about freeing that houseful of women, and looking a young girl in the eye after you murdered her parent. Nelly didn’t know her dad was a bad man… she just thought he was dad. Rhaenyra knew she would have learned it later on, though. She would have learned that her dad was a cult-ish maniac with a penchant for manhandling.

Rhaenyra pulled up at the pub, to find Blackwater talking to Ygritte in hushed tones. All eyes turned on Rhaenyra as she entered… save for one pair. The pair of wide set eyes that belonged to Karl Tanner, the man who would receive a pretty smile from Rhaenyra, if he ever spoke to her again. She made a point of looking at him, the tips of his ears turned red. He didn’t raise his eyes to meet her, just stared at the beermat in front of him.

Thankfully, her cheeks had been dried by the inside of her helmet. She just looked normal, scary and alert. Blackwater clapped her on the back, and had Ygritte pour her a whiskey.

For the stout man, this had now become about keeping your friends close, but your enemies closer. He looked at Rhaenyra and saw the downfall of his organisation… All it would take was her catching wind of the other side of the business. The side that made the most money, the side that was a lot more morally bankrupt.

She had undying loyalty to her own gender, to women as a whole. It was admirable, she championed her species. But she was dangerous to his species. Deadlier than any sort of plague, than any of his other employees. She looked her victims in the eye as she rained fire on them. He had seen it, he had seen Gregor Clegane on the floor.

“Dealt with?” He asked, looking at her. She nodded, and sipped the whiskey. Expensive in taste, peaty and notes of cinnamon. “Good, good.”
“Was easy, he didn’t even fight,” Rhaenyra downed the rest of it, and Ygritte filled it. There was something unsettling in her eyes, but Rhaenyra didn’t care enough to pry.
“You sound disappointed?” Blackwater prompted, his accent disregarding the ‘t’ sound in the word. Rhaenyra turned the glass on the surface of the bar, listening to the base scrape against the unvarnished surface.
“I do prefer it when they fight back.”

The feelings had dulled down with her return to the pub. It served as a cold bath, reminding her what she was… what she did. Perhaps, she thought bleakly, if she stayed here long enough she could return to her numbness.

It had been silly, to want to feel. Nelly had reminded her how impossible life felt when you cared. How difficult it was to even weave through traffic, when you cared about what was around you. Just as she had yearned to feel, she now yearned to stop feeling. As soon as possible. She wanted the monster back, gnashing its jaw and eating her from the inside out.

“Got anyone else?” She downed her second tumbler of whiskey, and looked to the Blackwater for an answer, her eyes expectant. The man looked at her as if he was staring into the barrel of a gun, himself. He put a toothpick between his yellowed teeth, and shook his head.

Rhaenyra did not paint the image of a spritely twenty eight year old. Her skin was colourless, her eyes almost crazed and sandwiched between black bags, scars and bruises. Her knuckles were coloured purple and black, and her fingernails short from a combination of biting and breaking.

She didn’t even look scary, anymore. Just pitiful. Haggard, worn out. Death on legs.

“Go home for the day, Syrax,” Blackwater tried his best to sound concerned, kind. In reality, it would be a blessing in disguise to have her out of the building. He would be sending Tanner and his crew out on a hit that would surely have Syrax’s blood boiling if the whispers reached her ears.

Rhaenyra didn’t want to go home… She didn’t have a home. She had a loft, as decrepit as her. The sigh she emitted was tired, weary. It seemed, for today, Rhaenyra Targaryen was doomed to feel. She took her helmet from the bar, and stormed out. Except, storming required energy. She trudged out, whilst everyone except Karl Tanner watched.

There was nowhere for her to go, other than her loft. She couldn’t handle the idea of strangers peering at her in a bar, and she didn’t have the vim to attempt to bring a girl home to warm her body. She parked her bike outside, kicking the stand with some strain. It wobbled, and Rhaenyra realised that if it fell, she wouldn’t have the power to pick it up.

Everything, and I mean everything, hurt. As if the feeling had ripped through her body like a tornado through a house made of straws. Torn her tendons, ripped the ligaments in half and bruised the very veins that pumped her blood. In the back of her mind, she hoped to shut her eyes for the last time… for the pain to overpower her, and take her away to the very stars she looked at every night.

Not tonight, though. Tonight she couldn’t drag herself from her bed to stare, and if she had managed it, she would have sobbed uncontrollably. Rhaenyra was inside her own head, frantically scooping the feelings and trying to shove them away. It was akin to taking a mop to the ocean.

She was irritated at her boss for dismissing her so publicly. Drawing attention to her torn state, lowering the chances of the men being scared of her. She didn’t care about their respect, about being liked… She wanted them to look at her with wide eyes, as if she may singe them with her breath.

Rhaenyra reached for the bottle on her nightstand, and took a long, slow gulp. The clear liquid offered sleep, fitful and dehydrating, but sleep nonetheless. She hoped, if she woke at all, that she would feel nothing.

At the pub, Ygritte was loading glasses into the dishwasher. Blackwater was crowded around a table with Tanner and his unnamed cronies. Ygritte suspected this was why he’d sent Syrax home; it was well-known that the blonde would refuse to murder women, point blank. So all femicide had gone under the cover of night, lest she catch wind and turn. Blackwater had retold the story of Syrax and Silverwing, the three shots like a hole puncture had landed on his skin.

And they all knew of Gregor Clegane, anyway. And Meryn Trant. And now, Craster. Killed in his bedroom. Ygritte wasn’t scared of Syrax, though. She could identify a lost soul where she saw one, she could see Syrax was clinging to anything that stopped her from thinking. Murdering men stopped her from thinking, it would seem.

Karl Tanner looked up at the commander, with a frown. “You wouldn’t actually let her cut me, would you?” He sounded like a boy, petulant and insecure.
“Do you want an honest answer?” Blackwater picked up his whiskey glass, and Tanner nodded. The honest answer was terrifying, and could lose him the respect of his men… but he didn’t need that, anyway. He could kill them all, if he decided to. He swirled the honey coloured liquid, the stones clinking against the glass. “I don’t think I could stop her, if you pissed her off enough.”

Karl Tanner’s frown only deepened. “She can’t be that good, if she was dismissed.” This caused his superior to dole out a patronising laugh.
“I dismissed her myself, you twat,” Bronn took a sip, and put the glass down. He noticed the wince that occurred every time he put his glass down. “She’s a machine, when she wants to be. Teetering on the edge of an actual psychopath. Braver than the lot of you,” he pointed to the gang of mildly ugly men. They all scoffed, or sneered. “I can’t be held responsible if you piss off a Dragon.”

The men all muttered and mumbled. “She’s not actually a Dragon, though. She’s just a girl.” Tanner was sulking, ultimately. He fancied himself for her role, delegating and pocketing cash as he pleased. Instead, he was subjected to nothing more than descending on innocent women because their husbands wanted their inheritances, or their mistresses instated with little disruption.
“I saw the way you shat yourself when she had you by the throat. Do you fancy your chances?” Pathetically, the man puffed out his flabby chest.
“If it was a fair fight, yeah… I could take her,” Karl Tanner was an idiot, this was known. But he was digging himself a hole here.
“Interesting… well, you’re bound to fuck her off again… so I guess we’ll all find out,” Blackwater finished his drink, and walked away from the table. “Off you fuck, go kill whatever her name is.”

The men all shuffled from the room, and the sound of six motorbikes starting at once made the man cover his ears. It was just him and Ygritte, now. “He’s chatting shit, he wouldn’t stand a chance.” Ygritte smiled at his words. She had developed a soft spot for Syrax… She still didn’t know her real name. She wasn’t sure the woman in question knew her real name, anymore.
“What was she like in the Dragons?” Ygritte had her hands resting on the edge, her slender pale arms dressed in a woollen jumper.
“Arrogant, suave… dangerous, still. But not so…” The man faltered, his hand gesturing whilst he searched for the word.
“Empty?” Ygritte went for the nicer word.
“Mental.” Bronn settled for, and slicked back his hair. “Right, gotta go show my face at the office. Some midnight sting going on.”

Rhaenyra woke the following day, around eleven a.m.. She had slept for nearly sixteen hours, in the end. She padded to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on her face. Her reflection looked different; cheeks tinged pink from the assault of water, bruises faded. She turned her head to the sides, waiting for her neck to click. She brushed her teeth, and combed her hair back.

Looking inside of herself was not on the cards, she didn’t want to. She would ignore whatever was inside of her, good or bad. Rhaenyra dressed in the same clothes as yesterday, they were clean enough. They smelled of cigarettes, whiskey and petrol. An abrasive odour, but she hadn’t done washing in months. She either just bought new versions, or wore the old ones again.

In a miserable attempt to cover her stench, she spritzed a bit of minty aftershave on. With a cigarette between her lips, she left the loft. The air outside was crisp and refreshing, the sky cloudless and the sun shining. There was frost on the ground, glittering in the sunlight that would eventually melt it. A cruel jape.

Rhaenyra didn’t end up lighting the cigarette, it was still between her lips when she arrived at the pub. She unlocked the doors, to find herself the only one there. Ygritte wasn’t even behind the bar, with her sympathetic gaze. Rhaenyra furrowed her eyebrows, but still strode to the bar to fill herself a glass of water.

She could almost feel her brain reactivating with the hydration. Each time she drank water, she wondered why she didn’t do it more often… and then, she never did. Rhaenyra put the glass down, just as the doors pushed open. “You look better,” Blackwater had managed to light his cigarette this morning, the smoke rising to join the stains on the ceiling.
“Yeah,” Rhaenyra took hers from her lips, and tucked it behind her ear.
“Don’t reveal too much,” he positioned himself at the bar. It was evident he’d just come from the office, as his top button was still done up.
“Do you care?” Rhaenyra cocked an eyebrow. Blackwater smiled, and shrugged.
“No, I suppose I don’t. Why are you here so early?” He felt the need to talk, to fill the space. He had come here on the promise of a fruitful endeavour. A bounty, not just a hit. Competitive killing, worth millions. Rhaenyra filled her glass again, the brim felt cool against her cracked lips.
“D’you care about that, either?” The man's grin broadened, and he shook his head.

“There’s a chap coming in, just send him through to me. I’ll need to leave with him, big day at the office.” Rhaenyra couldn’t remember a single time he had had a busy day at the office, she could have counted on one hand the amount of times she saw him around the floor. But, she said she would send the man through, and drank more water.

Just water in one's stomach evokes nausea, as it turns out. Rhaenyra couldn’t remember the last time she ate, but she must have, otherwise she’d have the death she so craved. She grabbed a bag of peanuts from the hanging plastic tree, and ripped it open. They were stale, but she swallowed them anyway. Rhaenyra took her mobile phone out, but there was no point. Her only contact was Mysaria, who had left her alone in the dead of night.

A martyrish way to look at it, selfish and as if Mysaria owed her friendship.

She scrunched the packet of nuts, and threw it to the bin. The doors were pushed open, and she looked up. A tanned man, with black stubble on his jaw and cheeks. His lips were dark pink, plump and unsmiling. His hair fell down in greasy black waves. His words - “Morning, love,” - already started him on the wrong foot with Rhaenyra.

He looked stressed, with tense shoulders and tired eyes. Rhaenyra didn’t answer. “Here to see the landlord,” he added. Rhaenyra gestured to the passage next to the bar, wordlessly. The man frowned, as if he was displeased with his reception. “Criston Cole? Here about the bounty?”

What bounty? If there was a bounty, surely Rhaenyra would have heard of it? She was Blackwater’s best soldier, and she didn’t care about or need money. Why not assign it to her? Her eyes flickered with fire, a small hearth of rage opening. “Do you speak?” The man continued, his voice raising. Rhaenyra cocked her head. He had severely misjudged this situation, but she wanted to know why the Blackwater didn’t approach her about this bounty. So, she needed to let the man pass by. With any luck, she would get to see him later. Sheath her dagger in his neck.

Rhaenyra left the bar, and stood toe-to-toe with him. He was irritating. Whining and waiting for attention, like a neglected dog. She smiled at him, broadly. “Sorry, just this way,” she gestured again to the gate, and he tutted and followed.

Perhaps Blackwater wanted to find out if the guy was serious, and then assign her the job. Perhaps he himself didn’t know the nature of the order, or how many others would be aware of the job. Rhaenyra was clever, but she wasn’t astute enough to determine why he wouldn’t have just told her. She watched as the Blackwater let him into the office.

Chapter Text

“I’m in a bit of hot water,” the man sat down, his hands folded in his lap.
“Can you pay?” Blackwater didn’t see any point in continuing this meeting, if he couldn’t.
“Not immediately, but that’s the point,” the man held a finger up, as if to silence the commander.
“Can’t kill her if I can’t pay my men,” he shrugged his shoulders, and checked the clock.
“You can pay them, after you’ve killed her. Have my house as insurance, or something.” Criston Cole’s voice was low, and remorseless. “She has stacks of cash, she won’t give it up and her dad made me sign a prenup… the only way I get the money is if she dies.”

“And why do you need this money?” This would determine the likelihood of Bronn sparing a man - and it would have to be just that, a man - for the job.
“I’ve found myself… indebted. To a company. For some consultancy, in another country.” Bronn laughed audibly. That was not a valid excuse to have your wife killed.
“Building works? You’re willing to kill off your wife, for some business consultancy debt?”

The man went quiet, and clenched his jaws. “I pay them, or I die. Besides, she’s a misery. Never happy.” Bronn could see the attempt at guilt, but he had obviously already made his peace.
“What was the consultancy?” This man's tragic story intrigued Blackwater, all his excuses seem to just fall a bit short. He half debated letting Syrax in to hear it, and splatter the walls with the seemingly inept brains of this man.
“Does it matter? My point is, you kill her and you can have however much. She was left millions, and maybe a house. She’s hidden it from me. Privileged bitch,” he spat the last two words, his spittle flying across the desk.

It was tempting, the idea of letting Syrax see this man. The idea of millions was more tempting - he could quit both his day job and his night job. Pay whoever he sent out of pocket, and keep the millions for himself. But first.
“How many others have you set out?” Bronn’s eyes were dark and inquisitive. Scrupulous.
“Four individuals, and the company themselves have sent people out.” Criston looked vacant.

Four individuals were doable, but the company was daunting. He would need to act quickly. More to the point, he would need to keep Syrax away for a period of time. It would be a difficult course to navigate in time constraints, but for a million pounds on top of his already stuffed coffers… Blackwater was willing to try.

“If we take care of her, and you don’t pay up… you understand we’ll get you, too?” Bronn stood, and took a dagger from his desk drawer. The man swallowed, and nodded. “And I have one person in particular who would delight in gutting a man like you.”

“Understood.” Criston Cole stood, his shoulders were muscled and broad. “But you should know, I have training, too. I will pay, but don’t think I can’t fight back if you decide to get a bit too cocky.”
“Okay, Mr. Training. Do it yourself.” Bronn put the knife down, and pulled his coat over his shoulders.
“I- I can’t. They’ll catch me. You can’t do it in our house, either. Has to be outside.” He chewed on his thumbnail. Bronn nodded, and outstretched a hand. Criston’s hands were clammy, and his shake weak.

If they killed the woman and he paid up, it was all sweet and squared away. If they killed her and he didn’t pay up, it would result in him being visited by Rhaenyra Targaryen. As was the Blackwater’s plan, anyway. He was assuming Rhaenyra would not peer behind curtains, or speak to strangers on the street. He was assuming she just didn’t care enough to pry.

They had another conversation, a succinct exchange of information. Where the woman - Alicent - would be at various points in the day, where she parked her car, which tube stations she used. Bronn made a note to look on the systems in the office, and determine blind spots in her route. He would send Tanner, first. If he was killed by another hunter, it was no loss. Bronn expected a certain number of casualties, if other hunters were trying to reap the rewards of killing Alicent Hightower.

Rhaenyra was outside, smoking a cigarette. The doors opened next to her, and both men left. The stranger got in his car which he had parked on the double yellow lines outside, and sped off. Blackwater looked at Rhaenyra, and she looked at him. In his eyes, she could see concern. In her eyes, he could see curiosity. “It was a load of shit, in the end,” Bronn unlocked his own black four-by-four, and got in. He rolled the window down, his arm resting on the door. His tires screeched down the road.

Rhaenyra was left slightly baffled by the whole interaction, but her apathy allowed her to discard the concerns. If it was actually a waste of time, the man would have left with a black eye… or, not at all. Bronn didn’t let those who knew the nature of the business turn up, waste his time, and leave.

She took a long drag of her cigarette, watching the smoke be taken away with the breeze. She looked down the street, the roads were uneven and littered with potholes. The pavements were dirty, with patches of gum just waiting for an unsuspecting victim. The flower baskets above her head had long since died, she suspected they perished when Guy Fawkes made his way beneath the House of Parliament.

“Do you work here?” Against her will, she jumped as the melodic voice rang out.
“Fucking hell,” she shuddered, dropping her cigarette. She sighed as she watched the embers die. “Why?” Rhaenyra squinted to look at the woman.

And what an error it was, to look at this woman. Rhaenyra, who had been willfully ignorant of beauty, was suddenly struck by a bolt of awe. Auburn plaits, either side of her face, tied with black thin elastic ties. The sun made it look like the embers from Rhaenyra’s cigarette were running through the strands. She was olive skinned, her round eyes a deep brown hue. So deep they could look black, but the rays of light made them shimmer.

Rhaenyra’s heart had risen to her throat, the beating organ stopping her breath. “Oh-uh,” Rhaenyra had forgotten the question, and had to bite the inside of her cheek really hard. When she landed back on Earth, she assumed her usual demeanour. “Yeah, I work here. Why?”

The woman was studying this ragged person before her, flat chested and battered. Like she fought for a living. Her angular jaw, hollow cheeks and blonde hair. The scar above her eyebrow, and the rings on her fingers. Lots of them, it looked like some were caked in blood. Alicent chose to ignore this, it must have been a trick of the light. “My husband was just in there, I watched him leave with that… greasy looking man.”

Rhaenyra tried to keep her expression plain, but let her tongue leave her lips to wet them. “Oh?” She prompted.
“He’s been acting weird, so I followed him here… I guess he just fancied a drink… at midday.”

It was a curious set of circumstances. “Men are weird,” even uttering those words proved difficult. Rhaenyra was flustered, but trying her best to appear hard. She suddenly felt painfully aware of her own dishevelled appearance.
“Insightful,” the woman said, turning. Rhaenyra watched her boots click down the path, somehow avoiding all the sticky gum, as if it wouldn’t dare touch her.

Rhaenyra watched her for a few seconds, and then she dipped back into the pub. It was certainly a curious instance. If the meeting really had been a ‘waste of time’, why was the man allowed to leave unscathed?

Her gun was in parts in front of her, a detailing cloth between her fingers as she reconstructed it carefully. It always stopped her from thinking, as she needed to use all brainpower to remember where everything went. It was a myth that women were good at multitasking. Rhaenyra Targaryen was not… but perhaps, also, not a woman. Beyond being born in a female body.

Inside of her stomach, was a scratchy feeling. Not a tearing of nails, like the emptiness. Just irritating twitching, like a broken sprinkler. Spurts of cynicism, random and ill-timed. Something just wasn’t sitting right, it was similar to the feeling she’d had when Ulf White started shuffling in Tamsin’s front garden.

With her gun refixed, and shining, she stepped into the Blackwater’s office. There was a file open on his desk, titled ‘COLE’. It was empty, except for an address and a few car parks. Rhaenyra scratched the back of her neck - this didn’t tell her anything. Blackwater had denied taking the case, and even if he had accepted it, she would just be guessing that it was on this woman…

And yet, Rhaenyra found herself affixing her gun to her shoulder and pulling her helmet on. She
would just go to the address, just to scope it out. She was sure it was nothing, that Blackwater had told her the truth, or that the bounty was on someone else… some rival business owner, perhaps. Rhaenyra had seen some abhorrent stuff in her time, but surely nobody was depraved enough to order a hit on their own spouse.

Just as the thought passed through her brain, it was followed by the memory of Tamsin Waters. People were depraved, when it came to saving themselves. A final check of the dagger strapped to her ankle, and she was heading off towards Kensington.

She told herself she didn’t care about the woman as an individual, it had nothing to do with a quick glimpse of beauty. It was the moral standpoint, one of the two morals she had remaining: no women, no children.

And the ‘no women’ moral did not stem from misogyny. It stemmed from the idea that a man felt entitled to a woman’s life, because they could overpower them physically. Rhaenyra, whilst she wanted to be put in the ground, would never actually allow herself to be overpowered by a man. It went against everything she stood for.

The commander would be at the office for a while, and Rhaenyra could return to the pub hours before he intended to, if he intended to at all.

Blackwater was in his office, his actual office, twiddling his thumbs. He was a figurehead, more than an acting captain. Thorne had replaced Meleys, a man as corrupt as the commander himself. He was trying to think of ways to distract Syrax, whilst his men were dispatched on the Cole woman. This was assuming he got there first, too.

It was one woman, the only resistance would be other people trying to claim the prize. He needed to get rid of as many of them as possible, really. It was a shame he couldn’t send Syrax on this mission, it would be perfect for her up until it came to the part that earned their money.

He knew that the death of another person she was charged to protect may just push her over the edge, but what did he care? His plan was in place, all he needed to do was hope that she fell for it and didn’t pick up on their interaction this morning.

Rhaenyra was parked outside of a large, pale blue townhouse. There was a green bicycle resting against the windowsill, and Rhaenyra could see a woman's shape moving behind the lace curtains. It bought her some reassurance, at least. The woman was at home, safe. The only person lurking behind trees was herself.

Despite this, she watched for four more hours. She left her bike, and paced up and down the road. Not once did the curtains twitch. At one point, the man returned home and slammed the door behind him. An inconsiderate behaviour that made Rhaenyra wince. She could only imagine how the pretty woman must have felt when the noise radiated through their house.

After four hours of watching, Rhaenyra’s phone buzzed with a summons back to the pub from Ygritte. One thing the Blackwater kept up from his Dragon persona was that he didn’t summon people himself, that was beneath his station.

“Syrax,” the man greeted her with a smile, and a clap on the shoulder. She offered him a forced smile, but it appeared more like a disdainful grimace. He pressed a whiskey tumbler into her hand, his rough fingertips touching her cold skin. It made her cringe, to be touched in such a raw manner. To be batted or poked over layers of clothing was fine, but not on her skin.

It all seemed awfully chummy, to Rhaenyra. She looked around, and everyone seemed to be minding their own business. It didn’t seem as if ears were trying to listen in to their conversation. Even Ygritte was busying herself, refilling clips for the armoury. It was like everyone had been put into non-playable character mode, waiting for an activation phrase.

“How’s things at HQ?” Rhaenyra propped herself up on a barstool, sipping the expensive liquor. She could always tell when he was going to ask something of her, as he reached for the very top shelf. It tasted sweet, and the singular ice cube offered a coolness.
“Oh, you know… same shit, Larys Strong is still a weird little fucker,” he ran his finger around the rim of his glass. Rhaenyra’s lips formed a smirk. Larys Strong was a weird little fucker, but sometimes she did think of Breakbones. A good man.
“Nothing new, then,” Rhaenyra ran her tongue over her lips, swiping the whiskey residue.
“No,” he looked at the others, before getting down from his stool. “A word, if you’ve got time?”

Rhaenyra cocked her scarred brow, and nodded. “You’ve not given me anyone to kill, so… yeah, I’ve got time.” Her thoughts were cast back to the olive skinned woman with the naturally downturned lips, and her repugnant oaf of a husband. It was incredibly unlikely, given Blackwater’s earlier secrecy, but she hoped the man had taken a hit out on himself and Rhaenyra had been chosen to fire the bullet.

Chapter Text

“What’s this about, then?” Rhaenyra plopped down in the uncomfortable chair, the wood groaning in protest to its usage. Bronn’s skin looked greasier than usual, she could see sweat patches under his arms. It wasn’t particularly warm in the pub, the windows were always open to let the smoke join the constant London smog.
“That fella, this morning… his wife is in a spot of bother,” Blackwater had intertwined his fingers, elbows on the desk. Rhaenyra’s sleet coloured irises were half hidden by her squint.
“Right…” She gestured for him to continue.

“Someone has put a bounty on her, something to do with a man she used to work for, or knows… something like that. Anyway, he can’t stop it, and he doesn’t want to die in the process.” Lying was a difficult art to master - you had to give enough detail that it was believable, but leave gaps so it didn’t seem as if you were overcompensating. Blackwater had a minor inclination that Rhaenyra may find the whole thing lacking in credibility. “When he came this morning, it sounded like a crock of shit. We’re not bodyguards.”

Rhaenyra couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. “What’s changed your mind?” She felt lost without an earpiece in, without the Wyrm’s voice telling her that the words were false. Rhaenyra wasn’t trained to spot lying.
“If there are other men after her, we can remove some competitors from the market.” Bronn released his hands from the grasp, to shrug his shoulders dramatically.
“So - what? You’re charging me with the protection of this woman?”

“Alicent, her name is Alicent,” Bronn knew that adding this detail would bring Rhaenyra even more on side.
“How many men want her?” Rhaenyra rolled her shoulders back, and clicked her knuckles individually.
“He said four, and a company from abroad.” Suddenly, something clicked in Rhaenyra’s brain.
“If he knows about this - why isn’t he taking her away? Does she know?”

Shit, shit and more shit. Blackwater clenched his jaw, his facial hair hiding the tensing muscles. “He can’t protect her, he’s just some little weasel. He’s more concerned with his own life,” another crucial point that would garner Rhaenyra’s support.
“How does he know? That these men have been sent for her?” Rhaenyra twisted one of the rings on her index finger. The gaps were appearing, and spreading.
“I didn’t ask,” Blackwater went for simplicity. “He’s offering to pay, I just take the money and say I’ll put my best gun on it.”

It made sense, that he wouldn’t ask for specifics - why would he? He’s a business owner, not a detective. Rhaenyra was hiding things, too. Like her meeting with Alicent this morning, and her knowledge of the files existence. “So… what? Extract her, take her to a safe house?” Rhaenyra was standing up now, pacing the office floor.

Blackwater smirked in the low light - he had nailed this. He would emerge victorious, with millions of pounds in a suitcase as he fled into the sunset. Syrax would take care of the competitors, in her reckless ways.

“Whatever you feel like. I don’t want to hear from you until they’re all gone.” The greasy haired man hoped that this would mean in two or three weeks, he’d get a phone call. Confirmation of the deaths, and then Rhaenyra would fall back… in this ideal plan. In this plan based on Rhaenyra ‘Syrax’ Targaryen following orders.

Rhaenyra’s stomach was fluttering unpleasantly. It was all too familiar - extracting a girl from the danger of mercenaries. She paced the floor, twisting her rings around her fingers until she thought of a plan. The Blackwater may have been watching, he may not have been… Rhaenyra didn’t pay any attention. Her brain threw up images of the redhead with the Bambi eyes, and the sharp tongue. So many of them it felt as if Rhaenyra lived inside of a memory card, every wall covered with blurry photographs.

It had to work. She could get Alicent out, she could stow her away and pick off the men one-by-one until she would never be plagued again. The gaps in the Blackwater’s explanation were sewn up by threads of hope. No, not hope… hope is too positive. Threads of stubbornness, of arrogance. Never again would Rhaenyra Targaryen fail a woman she was charged with the protection of.

“Fine. I’ll need a car, and some guns.” Rhaenyra looked at him expectantly. The Blackwater grinned with satisfaction. Rhaenyra truly wasn’t interested in the financial side of things, it was plain to see. Not once had she queried how this was being paid for, or if she would be paid.

If the discussion was a knitted blanket, there would be squares missing from every row. Rhaenyra was looking right through the gaps, powered by a need to prove herself again. Powered by vengeance and arrogance. This time, the girl would live. Even if Rhaenyra died, Alicent would live. She knew it, deep down. It charged through her like a stampede of bulls over scorched Earth. Syrax would not lose again.

The Blackwater was too busy basking in his own successful scheming to note that Syrax hadn’t asked for the address, or any additional information on the woman.

Rhaenyra was given a black BMW, with a boot full of money and weapons. She went back to her loft, and packed a duffel bag with her various identical items of clothing. At the front door, she paused to cast a look at the loft. A farewell of sorts. Rhaenyra hoped she would never step into this space again, this cavern of anguish that stunk of vodka and ash. This was her final mission.

Her plan of attack - or, protection - was to follow Alicent for a while. Live out of her car, until she saw danger befall the redhead. Then, she would take her to a safe house. Hitmen nowadays must have access to security cameras and phone tracking, surely? Besides, they were not going to be on the run… the aim was to be found. But Rhaenyra had to bait them from the walls cleverly, and safely.

It made her happy, in a sense. To know that if this Alicent survived the next few months, she herself could die knowing she did her best. And if she died saving her, then at least she didn’t have to live through her own failure… again. As she shut the door to the loft, her brain cast itself to Meleys. This was for her, too. In a sense.

Meleys herself was just off the Amalfi Coast, drinking Aperol Spritz whilst her husband played the piano to her. Nobody had found them, in the months since July. Both her and Corlys slept with guns at their sides, like Bonnie and Clyde… but happier.

Rhaenyra was in the car, parked outside of a pharmacy in Kensington. She would go the rest of the way to Alicent’s house on foot. It was dark outside, now. The stars were covered by clouds. Rhaenyra couldn’t apologise to clouds, she would have to wait.

It would have been polite of Rhaenyra to hope that no action befell them this evening… but Rhaenyra was broadly mannerless, and wanted to strike the first of many down. To set the ball rolling down the hill, to have this woman returned to safety as soon as possible. The monster was not fed from hope, it was fed from slaughter.

This mission did not change Rhaenyra’s numbness in a long term sense, all it did was offer a potential deadline to the emptiness. The rage would still take hold when it needed to, to put men in the ground and crack their bones under the soles of her boot, the butt of her gun. Rhaenyra sat on a bench in a park that Alicent’s house overlooked - there was no movement, the lights were off. Perhaps the woman wasn’t even in, perhaps she had already been struck down in a field somewhere.

Rhaenyra’s face glowered in the darkness at the prospect - she didn’t even have any knowledge of her movements, to check her usual haunts and spots. She was blind, in a park watching a seemingly vacant house with a stomach ache from apprehension.

It was nine p.m. by the time something inside the house moved. Rhaenyra had since collected her car, and parked it directly in the street. A black BMW was not out of the ordinary in Kensington. A hallway light came on, and a silhouette was visible in the small circular window on the front door. Curls.

Rhaenyra heard her, before she saw her properly. “You’re such a wanker!” The shout radiated through the street, and the door slammed. To her surprise, she grinned broadly. A sharp tongue, aimed at the man who deserved it most. Rhaenyra quietly watched the woman go down the road, before she got out and followed. She tightened the pistol in its holster, and turned all her rings so the gems were facing forwards.

A few paces behind was enough, there were few things as alert as a woman on the streets at night. It was a jarring effect, but once again Rhaenyra felt all too aware of her own appearance. She fixed her hair, the blonde locks were swept back, but some persistently fell over her face. Her boots were dirty, and her trousers creased. Curtly, she told herself to pull it together and focus on keeping Alicent safe.

It seemed that the woman was just walking. Rhaenyra didn’t know if this was a usual route for her, and more irritatingly, she didn’t know how long the other hitmen had been aware of this woman. Perhaps someone had already mapped out her routes and was primed to striking. It would be appalling if Rhaenyra died before she even killed the first threat, so she forced her ears to pick up on everything.

The woman walked fast, her faintly muscular legs carried her at great pace. Her curls were loose now, bouncing with each step. In her wake was the smell of herbal tea, and a ghostly hint of red wine. Intriguing. Evidently they had rowed, and she had stormed out to escape his disgusting personality. Rhaenyra tried to get a read on the woman from this distance, and from the back. But, that had never been her department. Mysaria always did that, and then Rhaenyra just killed them. The only time she had spotted it was because Ulf White had ticked in front of her, she had watched his obvious descent into madness.

It felt a bit like leaving the house with no shoes on in the middle of winter, not having Mysaria’s incredible knowledge at her side. She hadn’t missed it for Trant or Craster, they had been easy jobs - in and out killings. This was starting from square one, on her own. Rhaenyra was not a good judge of character… otherwise, she would have seen the Blackwater lying through his stained teeth.

The thought of Craster made her think of little Nelly, in that house with the women. If they were still in that house. There was a sharp pain in her lungs, but Rhaenyra put it down to the chilling cold invading her system. She sighed quietly. It seemed this woman would never stop walking.

They did laps of the locale, two or three, before the woman retired home. Nothing, not so much as a dustbin rumbling suspiciously for the entire journey. There had been points where Rhaenyra had ducked behind walls as the woman turned her head, but that was the extent of the action.

She watched as all the lights turned off in the house, and listened as a key was turned in a lock. It was a gloomy feeling, but that would be it for the night. The backseat of the car was cold to the touch, and the ceiling offered no bricks to count. There were no half-empty vodka bottles to swig from until the alcohol poisoned her to sleep.

Her stomach rumbled, a noise that caused her to widen her eyes. The actual hunger came with the realisation that she hadn’t smoked a cigarette since this morning. She sat up, and cast a look at the house with tired eyes. The doors were locked, it wouldn’t matter if she disappeared for a few minutes to find some food, surely?

Rhaenyra clambered over the parking brake into the front seat. She started the car, and turned the heating on full blast. The car was quiet, fitted with noise stifling equipment for the sake of stealth. She tapped her fingers on the wheel as she drove. Hunger was a feeling that humans had - was this mission, although nothing had happened yet - turning Syrax human? Or was it as plain as not having had a cigarette in nearly twelve hours?
Rhaenyra turned left at the end of Alicent’s road, towards the parade of shops she’d parked outside earlier. It was a four minute car journey, everything would be fine. Nothing would change in this time - it wasn’t as if anything suspicious had arisen whilst Rhaenyra had been there.

Rhaenyra arrived at the shops, and took a wad of cash from the boot. The kiosk was lined the cigarettes, and alcohol. Coaxing her to enforced numbness. She selected a salad, and some rather unhealthy snacks. In a meagre attempt at healthiness, she grabbed a rather foul looking protein bar. The cashier nearly fainted when the fifty pound note was placed on the counter. He had to call his manager out, to go through a whole process including a black light pen.

Pink lips created a thundery frown, and she started to feel nervous. What if, in this pursuit of sustenance, someone had broken in and slain Alicent in her bed? If the fates were kind, they would have slain Criston Cole, too. She couldn’t afford to think like that.

There had been nothing out of place whilst she’d spent the day there, no shifty figures cloaked and shrouded in the darkness. Nothing overt to worry about.

Nobody was watching Rhaenyra watch Alicent… that would be silly, and obvious. Wouldn’t it?

Except, she hadn’t noticed the blue Jeep parked three spaces behind her. The occupant, a man in his forties, had opened his door quietly when Alicent had left her house. He had swung his legs around to get out, when he noticed a blonde person emerging from a BMW and tightening something under her jacket. He had used the noise of their door shutting to shut his own, and resign himself to his driver seat. He had lowered the seat to the floor, to avoid catching any eyes.

Chapter Text

The owner of the blue Jeep watched as the BMW returned. Whoever it was, they were as eager to keep watch as he was. He polished his blades, and went over his plan.

Rhaenyra ate the salad hurriedly, like a woman possessed. She crunched down the slightly soggy vegetables, and took a big gulp of an energy drink. It was sweet, caffeinated and bubbling as it went down her throat. The salad did little to fill her stomach, so she ate the protein bar. Somehow less pleasant than limp leaves, it tasted like someone had once wafted a lemon over it and called it a day in the flavourings department.

The texture was stodgy and unpleasant, nonetheless she scrunched the wrapper and threw it in the back. It was midnight now, and the sounds of drunken people returning from their nights of drinking and japing started to fill the brisk atmosphere. Rhaenyra watched them with disgust - she didn’t mean to be disgusted, but they were so happy jostling each other and rattling bags to find keys.

She was in a probably stolen car, full of guns, sipping an energy drink in the dead of night. The words snaked their way through her brain, as she always did when she looked upon happy people: ‘not for you’. She crushed the can in her hands, and cast it aside to join the others in the backseat. Rhaenyra put her chair down as low as it would go, and tried to sleep.

When morning came, she would undoubtedly end up walking twenty thousand steps to chase Alicent. One of the only perks was that she’d be chasing swirling wafts of sweet shampoo. Rhaenyra wished she’d showered again before staking out the townhouse. Perhaps tomorrow she could return to the loft for a time, once Alicent was tucked away in bed. Rhaenyra looked out of the window, and tried to count the fence posts until she was bored enough to shut her eyes.

At five forty, Rhaenyra was awoken by a front door opening. The first one of the morning. Through bleary eyes, she watched Alicent descend the steps from her house and pull the metal gate open.

The owner of the blue Jeep had left his car some time ago, and was waiting seven minutes away, armed with a dagger and a plan. Rhaenyra waited until she was a few paces away. She took her gun from its housing, and checked the clip. Silver bullets, stacked upon one another. In the mirror, she fixed her hair. The grey strands caused her to frown, she looked old before her time. Not facially, though. She was wrinkle-less, not even deep smile lines on her cheeks. She adjusted the chains on her neck, so the clasps sat under her hair.

Rhaenyra followed a few paces behind, unaware of the man around the corner, two streets away.

He watched on his mobile, through his dash cam, as Rhaenyra left her car. It was working out well for him, so far. He seemed able to predict her movements. What he couldn’t predict were her intentions. Was she here for the money, or to stop him? Soon, he would find out.

Alicent’s trainers made no noise on the perfectly clean pavement, her headphones over her curls played acoustic tunes into her ear. In her travel mug was a steaming cup of tea, with a nip of honey to soothe her sore throat. The sore throat was not illness related… It was Criston related. The man did nothing but rile her up, nagging about the money she’d been left by her old boss. She wished he had never found it.

Alicent’s walk took her down some less than desirable parts of Kensington - which in Kensington, just meant a few standalone garages and small industrial buildings. She always stepped carefully, even the poshest parts were not without criminals looming around corners.

She inhaled the fresh morning air deeply, but mostly she just inhaled the steam from her mug. Her pilates studio was ten minutes away, and she was four minutes into the journey. The sun had not yet completely risen, a dusky filter still shrouding some areas in darkness.

Rhaenyra found herself checking her breath in her cupped hand - it was gruesome, of course. She huffed and shook her head - that wasn’t what this was about. This wasn’t a pick up, it was a protection order. Alicent was beautiful, though. The most beautiful woman she’d ever seen, perhaps. By-the-by, obviously. She had a job to do.

A weird feeling twisted inside of her, and she turned to look over her shoulder. There was nothing, but she decided to walk a bit closer to Alicent. Alicent had headphones over her ears, and wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings. A risky manoeuvre. Rhaenyra noted that the air felt too still, eerie and foreboding. She reached for the gun in the waistband of her trousers.

Her lips felt dry, and her tongue did little to wet them. She kept the gun in the pocket of her trousers, only the butt visible to outsiders. It reassured her to have a weapon so close at hand. Years in the field had left her with ‘Spidey senses’, but the Dragons referred to them differently. In the department, they were called ‘common sense’. Everyone was out to get you, and if they weren’t for you, it was someone else.

She gently slapped her cheeks, trying to wake herself up. Alicent turned a corner, and Rhaenyra followed about two metres behind.

It seemed harmless - large metal fences, small tin buildings with lights off and car parks empty. Alicent was in front of her, walking. It seemed she was wary of this location, as she had begun to turn her head to look around. Rhaenyra turned her head, too.

But when she turned back, Alicent was gone.

Shit. Rhaenyra broke into a jog, her gun in her hands now. She looked down the corners.
“There! See, I told you - you’re being followed!” A man's voice, in a hushed shout, could be heard from behind one of the metal fences. He had a hold of Alicent’s forearms. Alicent took her headphones off, and looked at Rhaenyra. She didn’t seem to recognise her - Rhaenyra was less bruised, this time. “Come with me, I’ll get you to safety,” the man said. Alicent looked bewildered, her head cocked.

Rhaenyra looked at the man - blue hair, tied back into a braid. Odd looking, ultimately. A chiselled jaw. He was lithe, with blue eyes that shone even in the dim light. “Alicent, don’t go with him.” Rhaenyra approached, her gun in her hands but her hands in the air.

“What- what the fuck is going on?” Alicent broke herself free of the man’s grasp. Rhaenyra let out a small breath.
“Alicent, come over here,” Rhaenyra said, imploring the redhead to just recognise her.

If she could recognise Rhaenyra, she would surely hide behind her and let Rhaenyra put a bullet in this man’s chest. “How the fuck do you know my name?” She replied, looking between Rhaenyra and the man.
“She’s been watching you - I live around here,” Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes… This guy was devious. “I watched her all night, she was parked outside of your house.”

Alicent’s heart was racing, her brain frantically trying to place the blonde. She looked familiar, but different at the same time. It was impossible, she could not draw a match. The man must be correct, too. Otherwise why would she be here? Why would she know Alicent’s name? Alicent looked at her, up and down.

Angular jaw, scar above her eyebrow. Gun in her hands. Gun in her hands?! Alicent backed away from her.

Rhaenyra could see the panic in Alicent’s eyes at the sight of the weapon. The man didn’t seem to have an exposed weapon; a ploy to lure Alicent away. His knife was strapped to his left wrist, obscured by his black shirt sleeve. Rhaenyra could see the outline under the thin fabric. She just needed Alicent to recognise her.

If Rhaenyra shot this man where he stood, Alicent would run, and then what if there was another version of him around the next corner… she needed Alicent to trust her, somehow. Rhaenyra sighed, and put her gun back in her waistband. Alicent watched her click the safety off with dewy brown eyes. She looked at the man.
His eyes were almost electric blue, chilling to stare into. His left ear was full of piercings and his hands tattooed messily. Alicent felt dizzied, looking between the two assailants. The man took her arms again, as if to drag her towards the building. Rhaenyra watched Alicent be dragged away, and let a small growl out.

This man was good, maybe even better than her. It was deeply, deeply infuriating. Alicent looked over her shoulder again, just before the entrance to the building. Rhaenyra couldn’t chase, he’d just remove whatever weapon he had and kill her. No, Alicent needed to realise who to trust by herself. As terrible as it felt.

“I work here,” Rhaenyra called, her voice carrying across the concrete. In the still air. The man stopped, his brows drawn as he tried to work out what that meant. Rhaenyra smiled, weakly. Pleading, almost. That was it! The one outside of the pub. She looked at the man. She didn’t recognise him at all - he didn’t live round here. How did he know her route to pilates? She shook herself of his grip, and that’s when the blade visible through the gap in his cuff caught the light.

“Nearly had you,” his thin lips broke out into a horrifying grin. Alicent launched her mug at him, the scalding tea forcing his eyes shut whilst she ran to the safety of this blonde. The blonde was advancing at great pace. Rhaenyra Targaryen was breathing fire through her nostrils, her gun out again. In his stumbling, he had fished the dagger from his sleeve and was swiping haphazardly, to create a forcefield around himself whilst he recovered. “Stay behind me,” Rhaenyra took Alicent’s arm, and met her eyes.

Alicent was going to throw up, it was all too much.

The smart thing to do would be to kill him on the spot, in the deadness of dawn. Rhaenyra presumed he had chosen this spot as he was aware of the lack of camera coverage. The building he was taking Alicent into had a car inside, presumably his own. Rhaenyra snarled, and swiped him around the ankles. “Good effort,” she said. He was on the ground with a groan, but he wasn’t like the usual men she fought.

He had purpose, too. He rubbed his eyes, and rose immediately. They were bloodshot, and watery. But he was strong. Rhaenyra went to slam the butt of her pistol against his head, but he caught her arm and twisted it, it was pinned behind her back.

This was the most alive she had felt in years. Alicent was retching in the background, watching these two complete strangers battling over her.

Rhaenyra didn’t whimper in pain, she grunted and threw her head back. It collided with his nose, a sickening crunch as his nose broke. Rhaenyra was free of his grasp, fishing for her other gun under her t-shirt. Before she could retrieve it, a blow landed on her cheek. Hard, but not hard enough. Her teeth had bitten the skin inside, and she splat blood onto the floor.

Alicent couldn’t move, she didn’t want to look at these two beating each other senseless. She wanted to run, to lock herself in her house and rock backwards and forwards in a corner. She didn’t understand.

The man grinned, too. A battle of two people who would have fascinated Narcissus himself. Rhaenyra managed to dodge his next blow, his nose streaming with blood must have put his balance off. She kicked him square in the rump, and he shouted as his face scraped against concrete. “Look away,” she told Alicent. Alicent couldn’t bring her neck muscles to move. Rhaenyra straddled him, and landed punch after punch on his once clean face. With an angry grunt, he threw her off. The concrete was hard against the back of her head, her skull felt like it may break under the force. His hands found her neck, trying to squeeze with as much strength as he had.

He was missing one of his two front teeth, his nose was broken and he had a gash on his head from hitting the concrete. This had to be his last effort.

Rhaenyra could feel her lungs gasping. She raised her hands to prise his hands from her neck, but his grip was strong. His fingers were bruising the skin, her windpipe beginning to cave in under his might. Her mouth was filling with blood, her smile stained red.

Now this was a fight, an equal matching. Rhaenyra Targaryen’s lot in life, though, meant she did not think this was an equal match. She would win.

She managed to get a grip of his shoulders, and flip their positions again. He was on the floor, winded from the stone colliding with his spine. He was still conscious, somehow. Rhaenyra temporarily forgot all about Alicent, and stood up. “I think it’s time you and I had a chat,” she lugged him up to her height by the collar of his shirt.

Arrogant, stupid, smarmy Rhaenyra Targaryen. She reached into her pockets, and threw car keys towards Alicent. She didn’t catch them. “Black BMW. Go, get in it, and bring it here.” She looked back at the man with a swollen face. “We won’t be long.”

The man was also stupid, and egotistical. He still thought he had a chance - at killing them both. He allowed himself to be dragged into the empty building. He was winded again as he was thrown back on the floor. A stray shard of glass burrowed its way into his palm, as he tried to shield his face from the ground.

“Who,” Rhaenyra delivered a kick to his stomach, “Are,” she kicked him in the spine, “You?” She ended the question by pulling his face up by his hair, a pinching sensation but overshadowed by the pangs in his back.
“I’m going to kill her, and you,” he said, his lips oozing blood.
“Not what I asked,” the beast was feasting. Rhaenyra slammed the butt of her gun down on his head.

For a split second, the man thought that perhaps, he had lost.

“Do you want me to ask again?” Rhaenyra's voice was croaky. She lifted him, and threw him against the bonnet of the car. She had lost some strength in their scuffle. He shook his head. Rhaenyra turned to make sure Alicent had gone.

It took more energy than he had, to lunge forward and get her head in a hold. It would take even more strength to actually snap her neck… strength he didn’t have. Rhaenyra swallowed - was this what it was like to fight her? Relentless comebacks, in spite of bleeding and bruising? It was exhausting.

“Don’t know when to quit, do you?” She leered, she could feel his hands tighten around her head. It seemed his own strength had bled away from him, literally. “Go on then, do it,” she taunted. He snarled in her ear. Snapping a neck is one of those things that looks way easier than it is, like making a chocolate fondant… but there was no oozing centre, only snapped bone. He tried to twist, but it was weak. Rhaenyra could feel his blood trickling down her neck.

At her own peril, she slammed them both back into the bonnet of the car. Her own spine screamed in pain as it was bent out of place. He groaned, and slumped to the floor. “Now, we’ve settled that you’re going to fucking lose,” Rhaenyra had her gun under his chin. Her back hurt, and her throat felt bruised and ached like she'd been ran over. “Tell me who you are.”

The man shook his head, and Rhaenyra granted him the pleasure of one punch to her cheek. Well, she didn’t grant it, she just couldn’t dodge it in time. It was harder this time, she could feel her eye swelling and her head wobbling on her shoulders. “Is the gun not convincing enough?”

Rhaenyra was enjoying this, in a psychotic sense. She hadn’t heard Alicent arrive with the car - She was watching, in horror. The blonde seemed to be mocking him. It did nothing for her nausea. Alicent wasn’t even sure why she had followed the orders of this abhorrent, murderous stranger.

Rhaenyra kept asking who he was, but he kept refusing to say. Refusing to say anything, in fact… other than: “If I don’t get her, one of the others will.” Was he one of the men from the company? “Fucking answer me,” Rhaenyra had her face inches from him. To her shock, he spat in her face. And then, he punched her in an upwards motion. Blood filled her mouth, and she landed back on the ground.

She should have pulled the trigger, five minutes ago.

Alicent locked the doors of the car, and ducked under the dashboard. The man delivered a kick to Rhaenyra’s head. Harder than her kicks, her eyes closed against her will. She could hear screaming in the background as she tried desperately to cling to consciousness. How had he done it? After all her blows?

She heard him pull himself to his feet with a groan, but before her were the fields by the Red Keep. Then, the screaming got louder. ’Open your eyes, open your eyes, open your eyes.’ Rhaenyra didn’t recognise the voice in her head, it could have been Meleys, it could have been nobody. It could have been her own, for all she knew.

She followed the order, in the way she only did for Meleys. Her eyes opened, and everything seemed eight shades brighter than before. The screams belonged to Alicent inside the BMW.

Her legs were shaky, but she was on her feet. Staggering. The man was desperately tugging at the door handle, his fist risen in the air ready to collide with the glass. His face was unrecognisable, his blue hair tinged purple from the blood leaking from his scalp.

He was distracted by Rhaenyra rising, though. His shoulders sagged, and he reached for the dagger. “Persistent little fuc-” one shot, two shots, three shots. All administered to wherever Rhaenyra could see on his body. Alicent’s screams stopped, he hit the ground.
“Didn't answer my question,” Rhaenyra mumbled, and trudged towards the car.

Rhaenyra laid down in the backseats. “Can’t drive, head hurts,” she rubbed her forehead, her eyes drooping against her will.
“Where do I go?!” Alicent’s hand was still covering her mouth, her gaze fixed forward so as to not look upon a corpse.
“Just get us out of here,” Rhaenyra managed, rolling over onto her side and pressing her head against the cool leather seats.

The body of Daario Naharis would be found by a jogger two hours later, the police would be unable to identify his body. There were no cameras on the site. They would start an investigation, but it would be discarded.

Rhaenyra was counting on the Blackwater to abate any police inquisition: and he would. Daario Naharis would be buried in an unmarked grave, as nobody knew where he was from or his name. He belonged to an organisation called the ‘Second Sons’, mercenaries littered all over the Mediterranean. Men who had ‘died’ at a young age, only to be living under false identities. He was one of many, who would come to find Alicent Hightower. Just like Rhaenyra, deemed the best in his organisation.

Chapter Text

Despite her internal monologue about following strangers who had guns and knives and fists harder than steel, Alicent drove them away from the site. It was as if she was outside of her body, watching herself steer the car away from the crime scene.

That man… he was going to kill her. If it hadn't been for the unconscious woman in the back of the car, Alicent would be dead. But how did the unconscious woman know that Alicent would be in danger? Why was she following her in the first place? The woman's cheek was heavily bruised, tinted purple with little burst blood vessels visible under the almost translucent skin. She looked unwell when she’d seen her outside of the pub… she looked even worse now.

Her fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly, anchoring her to the chair as if the ridiculousness and terror of the events would lift her into the air, like two hundred helium balloons tied to her wrist. She didn’t know where to go, she didn’t know the roads very well. Alicent moved on foot, or in a cab. Rarely in a car on her own, or with her husband, owing to the fact she couldn’t stand him and his constant misery. Alicent hated nihilism.

She found a supermarket, and parked the car in the farthest corner. And ‘parked’ is a loose term, here. She drove the car forward through empty spaces until a bush was touching the bonnet. The woman in the back was asleep, or dead. Alicent wasn’t really sure. Her hands were shaking as she reached out a finger, to jab her ribs. There was very little covering the bones, Alicent could feel the hardness immediately.

Rhaenyra jumped, and swung her arm wildly. “Fuck off,” she mumbled, rolling over to lie on her back. Alicent recoiled at the words, her arms folded across her chest.
“You fuck off - what was all that? Who are you? Why were you following me?” Alicent took the keys from the exhaust, and threw them at the woman. She groaned and covered her eyes with her bloodied hands. “Fucking answer me!” Alicent shouted, poking her again. “Fine. I’m going.” She opened the car door, and found herself in the fresh air.

Rhaenyra sighed. She just wanted to sleep off this hangover… it was a hangover, right? Either way, she wanted to sleep it off. She couldn’t even really remember who the woman was, in the car. Her head hurt, her spine ached and her face was bruised in a most unattractive way. Alicent. That was the woman’s name.

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra called, weakly. The redhead hadn’t shut the door behind her. She stood, staring out at the car park. She could see the man, in all the bushes, with that evil cheek-splitting grin. “Alicent!” Rhaenyra raised her voice a little, but couldn’t move her body. Alicent got back in the car, and slammed the door. She stared back at the woman in the backseat, sleeping on her own rubbish.

“What the fuck is going on?” Alicent’s voice was wobbling, like she might cry.
“‘M here to protect you,” Rhaenyra managed, rolling over to open one eye. The other one didn’t feel like it would open. Alicent’s eyebrows were knitted so intensely that they were going to give her a tension headache.
“From what? Protect me from what?” She knew the answer. From men like that. But what did men like that want with her?
“Just… shhh. Need to sleep.”

How irritating this woman was, with her perfectly windswept blonde hair and husky voice. Troublesome. Alicent wanted to tear her own hair out - there was no explanation for anything! And no sign of one, as the woman rolled over again and went to sleep. Alicent couldn’t look ahead, in the bushes. She might see his face again, his teeth shining and blue eyes staring. So, she stared at the unconscious woman until her neck begged to be relieved of its uncomfortable position.

Miles away, in the centre of the city, Mysaria was entering the retired palace for her eighth day at her new job. Which didn’t yet have a title, it would seem. Her security clearance had taken a while - some things had to be overlooked, such as the large gap in her CV between July and November. So far, it had been a lot of meeting new people and hanging around with Brienne, learning the systems and who to report what to.

It was all a lot more open than the Dragons had been, everyone knew everyone’s movements and nobody walked around with a gun strapped to their thighs. Except for the guards. She swiped her badge before entering the lift, her white travel mug warming her cold hands as she rose through the floors, and then moved horizontally. It always made her stomach churn, but she hoped she would get used to it.

Brienne met her at the door, with a large smile. “Morning,” the woman said, her own travel mug was plain steel. Mysaria wondered what her drink of choice was - she didn’t seem like a herbal tea person, or even breakfast tea. Black coffee was Mysaria’s conclusion. She found her way to her desk, which was positioned just outside of Selmy’s office. They both seemed to be on her at all times, asking her questions.

She wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt - it was rare that a Dragon was released into the air, and the tamers usually died with them. Anyone else, anyone without such a skewed view of the world, would see it as natural curiosity. But as the days went on, Mysaria was beginning to suspect they were into something a bit more nefarious. They asked her about Meleys, Blackwater and Syrax. Mysaria told them the bare bones about Meleys, she genuinely didn’t know anything about Blackwater - that she was prepared to share - and as little time was spent on the topic of Rhaenyra Targaryen as she could manage.

Her anger towards Rhaenyra had subsided somewhat. MI5 would be a good place to live if you wanted to know who was alive, who was dead, and who was marked for death. Thankfully, Rhaenyra’s name or face had not yet appeared on any of these logs. This morning, a man was found shot dead in Kensington. The news had broken, but there wasn’t any information on who he was, where he was from. There were no CCTV cameras, either.

Mysaria’s stomach had twitched in an uncomfortable way, like she’d tightened her belt too much and her insides were squished. She had to assume it was what the police were saying - there was no reason Rhaenyra would kill a random man in the streets. Plus, as Mysaria knew but wasn’t sharing, there was a whole network of mercenaries. And, just plain old gangs.

The police had ruled it as homicide due to gang related warfare. When the TV blared it, Selmy had beckoned Brienne into the office and drawn the blinds. “It must be them, Selmy.” Brienne paced the floor.

Brienne was an ex field agent - never a Dragon, too dishonourable for her. She was responsible for the arrests of some of the biggest terrorists in the country. Now, responsible for tracking them. “Hmm, it is odd.” Barristan agreed, watching the news clip again. There was seemingly no information, or someone had hidden the information willingly. “It could just be gang nonsense,” he reasoned, stroking his white beard as he thought.
“She’s not giving anything away,” Brienne gestured to Mysaria’s desk. “I know she knows more! It’s driving me insane. She talks about Syrax in such a neutral manner, I can’t tell if she’ll cooperate.”
“We don’t know that Syrax is part of this, it could be a dead end.” Selmy stood, too. “If it is Blackwater, he would have let them go himself.”
“Dragon’s don’t get ‘let go’,” Brienne added. Selmy nodded.
“Unless their talents are wanted elsewhere.”

It was an interestingly drawn conclusion, one that meant the Wyrm was lying to them both.

“Give her more time, put more pressure on her. She’ll crumble.” Selmy sat down again, his eyes staring at the article on the death of this mysterious man.
“And if she doesn’t?” Brienne had gotten to know Mysaria over the last few days. She was strong-willed, and as closed as a book could possibly be. There wasn’t even a cover on the book, to indicate the contents.
“Then… we improvise.”

Mysaria watched Brienne leave the office, and return to her own. It was odd, like they had a mission for just the two of them. Mysaria made a decision, there and then, to memorise all questions about Blackwater and Syrax. She wasn’t angry at Syrax, she pitied her. She wanted nothing more than for her to find happiness somewhere, to stop treating herself like she was just a ravenous beast.

She missed her, too. Rhaenyra, not Syrax. Mysaria was sometimes teary-eyed at her last memory of Syrax, bloodied and smoking. The questioning had gone past curiosity, and reached suspicious levels. And it was irritating that she didn’t seem to be here for her own merit, but more because they were after Syrax or Blackwater.

In the supermarket car park, other vehicles had begun to enter. Alicent had been sitting in the driver's seat for four hours now. Her legs were stiff and the woman in the back did not seem to be moving. It was ten, and surely her boss would have noticed she hadn’t arrived by now. Criston would have left the house in his car. Alicent had tried to process the events of this morning, but they just confused her. And scared her, too. Her hands hadn’t stopped shaking.

“Urgh,” the noise was drowned out by cans and wrappers falling to the footwell of the car.
“Oh - thank God, I thought you were dead.” Alicent turned again, her eyes wide. Her hands were still shaking. Rhaenyra didn’t answer, she just rested her head in her hands. It was like someone had taken to the inside of her head with a sledgehammer. “Do you… want some paracetamol?” Alicent asked, innocently.

Rhaenyra looked up, and laughed. The sound took the redhead by surprise, and she looked offended. “Fine! I was just offering.” Rhaenyra kept laughing, until she put her hand over her mouth.
“No, no. I’d love some paracetamol, if you’ve got some,” she touched her hand to her cheek. It felt firm to the touch, and agonising. Alicent began to rifle in her tote bag, taking out her post pilates breakfast and various other pieces of equipment. A mobile phone, a bottle of water, a banana.

Rhaenyra took the banana, and tore the skin off whilst Alicent searched for the tablets. Chewing hurt, like she’d just had several teeth extracted. But she ate. She pressed the button on the door, and threw the skin from the window. “Here,” Alicent handed her the box of tablets, and the bottle of water. Rhaenyra popped four, much to Alicent’s horror, and swallowed them dry. “Drink some water, you freak,” Alicent pressed the bottle against the blonde, and turned away.

What an utterly bizarre morning. She hoped that perhaps in a few minutes, her eyes would open and she’d be in her bedroom. With blue walls and soft bedding. She and Criston hadn’t shared a bedroom in quite a few years. Not in a car, with a battered gun-wielding blonde who had eaten her mid-morning banana, and then littered the skin.

Rhaenyra took some water down, and sat back in the seat. “Where are we?” She looked around, but her vision was obscured by her swollen eye.
“Sainsbury’s,” Alicent answered, plainly. Rhaenyra laughed again.
“You’re pretty shit at this getaway stuff,” she mocked, sipping more water. Alicent turned, her face like thunder and eyes swimming with tears.

Alicent hated that she was an angry crier, but she was fuming, now.

“Well perhaps I didn’t expect to have my life threatened on my way to fucking PILATES!” She shouted, Rhaenyra was certain the voice would have carried all the way to Edinburgh. “And now what? Huh? I’m in a car with a PSYCHOPATH who MURDERED A MAN A FEW HOURS AGO.”
Rhaenyra shushed her, looking around wildly through her puffy eyes. “Don’t FUCKING SHUSH ME!” Alicent had tears running down her cheeks, her hands were shaking like a plane in a storm.

Rhaenyra didn’t have a single clue of how to help. It wasn’t that she felt numb, in fact she felt a little bit of sympathy for the redhead. But she had never, ever, witnessed such an outburst of emotion. “Sorry for saying you’re shit at getaways?”

The wrong thing to say. Alicent shouted and threw her hands back, pummelling Rhaenyra’s chest. It tickled, but then started to hurt. Rhaenyra took Alicent’s wrists to stop her. “Alright - that’s enough!!” She held them in place. The big brown eyes were bloodshot, the tears still falling. The look they shared was indescribable.

“Or, what? You’ll kill me, too?” Alicent snatched her wrists free of Rhaenyra’s grip. She regretted it, because that was the first time they had stopped shaking all morning.
“No,” Rhaenyra tightened her jaw, and let her own hands fall to her lap. The question offered Rhaenyra a rare insight into just how she was perceived - a psychopath. Incapable of human emotion. She felt human emotion, now. Her cheeks flushed red in embarrassment.

It had been a while since she had interacted with another person like this. The last one had been Tamsin.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Alicent.” Rhaenyra sat back, and rubbed her forehead. “I’m here to keep you safe.”

Alicent didn’t understand what she was being kept safe from, exactly. But her energy had been depleted. “I’m going to get in the backseat, and go to sleep. And when I wake up, I’ll be at home with my stupid idiot husband. Get out.” She opened the door, and Rhaenyra stumbled out, and into the front seat.

What a fascinating personality Rhaenyra had been saddled with.

Rhaenyra pretended to not hear or see Alicent’s sobs in the backseat, she just lulled her head against the window and stared at the cloudy sky. The glass was like an ice pack for her soreness, and she fell unconscious again. She dreamed of the fields by the crematorium, sitting on the bonnet of her car pointed at constellations she used to beg for the forgiveness of. There was somebody next to her, not visible. A haze of red, fiery and flickering. It was peaceful.

Alicent’s dreams were not peaceful, they were filled with blue hair and the sight of life leaving someone’s eyes. She was scared of the woman in the car, scared of someone who could end her life without blinking. The fear poisoned her dreams.

Chapter Text

She was still in the car when she woke up. She tapped the screen of her phone - she had slept for two hours. The blonde was asleep, too. Alicent watched her chest rise and fall to ensure she hadn’t died of some sort of head injury in her sleep. “Oi,” Alicent prodded the woman’s shoulder gently. Her wrist was snatched in a grasp. The blonde looked much more alert now, her eyes opened and her fingers vice tight on her wrist. Alicent gasped, and tried to wrench free.

“You are a fucking,” she snatched her hand away, rubbing the red skin. “You’re a fucking psychopath.” She said, shoving Rhaenyra hard.
“Sorry,” Rhaenyra was frowning, and punishing herself internally. Stupid, stupid instincts. “Are you hurt?”
“Am I hurt? No, I’m not made of china. Just would be nice to not be assaulted,” Alicent pulled the cuff down over the wrist.

They both sat in silence for a while, Rhaenyra fiddled idly with the car keys and rested her head back. She was still sort of sleepy, the uncomfortable sleeping position did not aid her ailing bones. At least the headache had mostly subsided, and she didn’t seem to have any bones broken. She was hungry, though. “So it’s not a dream,” Alicent sounded miserable. She felt miserable, too. Mostly, she felt completely confused. Why was anyone trying to kill her? She worked for a non-profit charity, a women’s shelter. It must have all come down to the money she had been left… and the house.

It was never her intention for Criston to find out about it. She had worked for a very old, very rich man. Who never wanted Alicent to be a penny short, since her dad had estranged himself from her. He was childless, and left Alicent a rather large fortune, and a manor house in Norfolk. She didn’t know what to do with it, she had planned to just donate it to the non-profit… but then Criston overheard her discussing it with her boss. He was always struggling for money, he had been discharged from the military due to an incident with a girl. A loathsome creature, really. Alicent thought he wouldn't be loathesome enought to place a bounty on her head... Alicent was wrong.

“Afraid not,” Rhaenyra replied, her voice sounding less sleepy. Hauntingly apathetic, though.
“So - what? I can’t go home? This is it now, people are trying to kill me?”

The words left her lips, but she almost couldn’t believe it. It was so unbelievable that she found herself going along with it.

“I’ll take you home, you can pack a bag… essentials! No fucking… pilates mats.” Rhaenyra wafted a hand, and started the car.
“Right… and then, what? I will spend however long with you until it’s safe? How did you know I was going to be… killed.. Anyway?” Alicent furrowed her eyebrows sceptically.
“I know people in high places who told me to look out for you,” was all Rhaenyra said. Alicent rolled her eyes - she hated mystery.

“Put your seatbelt on, I didn’t get my head bashed in just for you to die in a car accident,” Rhaenyra scolded the redhead, who looked annoyed as she clicked the belt on. Rhaenyra, for once, put her own on. She made a note to return to a shop, and fill the boot with food. When she looked at Alicent, she saw someone who ate stuff like quinoa and lentils. Rhaenyra, when she remembered to eat, ate as much protein as possible before she indulged in chocolate.

Her muscles were a feat of scientific wonder - she did not have a diet to uphold them, and yet Alicent Hightower was staring at them from the backseat. The arms, subtly toned and scarred. Alicent was trying to stick an age to the blonde before her. Her hair was streaked with a few strands of grey, was she in her thirties? No, her face looked way younger and her attitude screamed petulant teenager.

“You didn’t get your head bashed in enough, clearly,” Alicent grumbled, and looked out of the window. Rhaenyra’s grin revealed dimples on her left cheek, just below a scar. Cute, in a ‘might kill you’ way. The blonde was impressed by the reposting, by the stone faced level of just… coping… that Alicent displayed. Most people would crumble under this, become a ball of nerves and covered in their own sickness.

Alicent had thrown up, when Rhaenyra and the man had fought tooth and nail. She could still taste it on her breath. “Will your husband be there?” Rhaenyra asked, as she stopped at a red light. Alicent checked the time again, it was still before five p.m.. Criston would be out… she didn’t particularly care to say ‘bye’ to him, anyway. “No, I shouldn't think so.”

Rhaenyra was trying to be more observant, to pay attention if a car seemed to follow them for a bit longer. She caught a glimpse of her reflection - heavily bruised, and not in a sexy way. In a grotesque way, that would undoubtedly draw attention to her. It wasn’t the type of bruising you could pass off as tripping over a step. She looked like she’d been pushed from the top step by a giant.

In the current light, Rhaenyra looked more recognisable to Alicent. She had been thoroughly battered when they’d first met. And smoking… she didn’t seem to be smoking, now. Although, she supposed in between the fighting and then fainting, there wasn’t much time for it. “Are you coming in?” Alicent posed the question, as Rhaenyra pulled up on the street. She had security cameras in the house, and her phone hadn’t told her there was any movement. By all accounts, it would be safe.

Rhaenyra shook her head, “I’ll stand by the door,” she opened the car door for Alicent, a chivalrous gesture that did not go unnoticed. The house looked just as Alicent had left it, this morning. Her keys were shaking in her hands… or, her hands were shaking. Rhaenyra wasn’t paying much attention, she’d turned to face the street and lean against the fencing.

Alicent was almost frozen to the top step, her key in the door but not turning. “Uh,” she couldn’t face it. What if that man was behind the door, dagger in hand primed to bury in her stomach? Rhaenyra didn’t turn, and just started impatiently tapping her foot on the floor. “I’m, uh,” Alicent hadn’t noticed that she was whispering, her fear made her voice barely audible.

She stood down from the stairs, her keys dangling from the lock. “What? What is it?” Rhaenyra turned on her feet, her pale hand on the gun in her waistband. The door was shut, but Alicent was as white as a sheet, staring at the panel of wood. “Is there someone in there?”

“N-no. No. I’m just… scared.” Alicent felt pathetic, admitting fear in front of this woman who had defied her own body just to defend her life. A virtual stranger. Rhaenyra squinted - she didn’t mean to.
“Oh- yeah, okay. Makes sense.” Rhaenyra said. Alicent chewed her fingernails, and tried to level her breathing out. It did make sense - her life had been threatened and nearly claimed, by someone hiding in her locality. Who wouldn’t be scared?

Rhaenyra wouldn’t be scared, but then Rhaenyra was usually the one lurking in someone’s locality waiting to claim their lives. “I’ll go in, then when I say it’s clear, I’ll signal.” Rhaenyra forced her lips into a kind smile, but to Alicent it appeared more like a baring of teeth. Regardless, she stood aside and waited.

The house was almost certainly what Rhaenyra had expected - spotless, clean-smelling and decorated with neutral tones. She didn’t raise her gun as she searched, if someone had broken into her home to kill her, they weren’t very clever. Rhaenyra could see the cameras in the corner of each room. On the first floor, was a room she presumed belonged to the husband. It was dirty, the air foetid and clothes all over the floor.

Alicent’s room had the largest windows, and looked out onto the street. Rhaenyra could see Alicent shifting her weight from foot to foot in the front yard. It was good that she was scared, it meant she wouldn’t do stupid stuff. Rhaenyra tapped the window, and Alicent looked up. She didn’t move, her feet glued to the spot. With a ‘tut’, Rhaenyra jogged down the stairs.

“C’mon, princess,” she mocked. It was heartless, but at least it provoked a different feeling inside of Alicent: annoyance. Rhaenyra hung around in the kitchen, grazing at the fridge. She ate some fancy cheese, and another banana. Alicent was rifling around upstairs, Rhaenyra could hear just one set of footsteps on the floorboards as she rooted through the cupboards. A box of protein bars, which she grabbed.

Alicent filled a moderately sized holdall - toiletries, moisturisers, clothes and her beloved teddy. She also took her favourite tasselled blanket, and a picture of her mother from the seventies. She realised that a lot of her clothes were broadly inappropriate for a life on the run - especially her pyjamas. Alicent was prone to a flowy nightgown, usually made of satin or linen. Wouldn’t serve if she was living out of a car.

Downstairs, Rhaenyra was still filling herself with the contents of Alicent’s fridge, she had eaten some strawberries and some soft dried apricots - a rather foul snack, but all that Alicent had in the way of sweet treats. She had deduced that there would be no McDonalds stops on this trip, a most depressing fact. And then there was the added query - where were they going? They needed the hitmen to be able to find them, otherwise this could take years.

“All done,” Alicent reappeared with the holdall. Rhaenyra was frowning - she had no idea where they would be going next. There was a glass by the sink, and the fridge door was open. “When you’re finished, we’re supposed to be going on the run.” Rhaenyra couldn’t let on that she didn’t have a clue where to go, that would only unnerve Alicent even more. To annoy the fear out of Alicent, she took her time eating a strawberry.

“You’re a really shit protector,” she quipped. The words found Rhaenyra with a similar sensation to a kick in the teeth. She slammed the fridge door, and left the house. The car engine hummed to life, and she waited for Alicent to join her in the vehicle. She had been a shit protector, it wasn’t something she needed to be told by other people.

Alicent didn’t note the behaviour as abnormal for her unnamed bodyguard. She didn’t know enough about her to determine if it was odd. “What is your name?” She put her seatbelt on, a call she was grateful for as the driver sped off into the street. Rhaenyra didn’t answer, just kept staring ahead as she drove. The traffic was starting to pick up, and she wanted to leave the city as soon as possible.

There would be more places to disguise bodies in the countryside, and any hitman worth their salt would be waiting for them to leave the city, too. She wondered if they somehow knew Alicent was being protected, or if they were none the wiser and would send their lowest performers to murder an unassuming woman. That would make it considerably easier, but way less fun for Rhaenyra.

“I’ll just speak to myself, shall I?” Alicent’s words were huffed.
“Or… don’t speak at all,” Rhaenyra was biting - cold, like the wind outside. The comment - although Alicent didn’t know any better - was still playing on her mind. It felt like someone had removed her stomach, twisted it in a vice grip, and put it back in. Alicent didn’t know anything about her, she didn’t know of Tamsin and Rhaenyra’s toxic need to just protect someone she was ordered to.

She was seething as she drove, her fingers were on the wheel so tightly that they would leave indents if removed. Alicent was recalling all the ‘damsel in distress’ movies she’d watched, where the damsels fawned over their protectors and saviours. Her protector was sullen, ill-tempered and arrogant. There was nothing to fawn over, all she had seen was fury. Although, it was nice that she went in the house first to check it out. But then, she had grabbed her wrist so tightly that it hurt when she just poked her in the shoulder. Then again, she had saved her life.

The architecture changed the farther out of the city they went, it had switched from townhouses and marble to almost abandoned storefronts, and gangs of teenagers standing on the edges of streets. The sun had started to drop, and the streetlights had come on. Rhaenyra’s rings glittered in the orange haze, and Alicent found herself staring at the veined hands. Bony fingers, bruised knuckles, yet strong enough to drag that man a few metres and launch him against a car.

The silence continued until they saw the ‘You Are Now Leaving London’ sign. They must have been in the car for an hour, or more. Rhaenyra was still hungry. She had started to chew the inside of her cheek, partly from the loss of nicotine and partly from the seething rage at Alicent’s offhand and uneducated comment. She knew she couldn’t actually be angry at the redhead for it, she didn’t know it was plucking the most sensitive string of Rhaenyra’s soul… or, the remnants of it.

She hoped that when they pulled up at the petrol station three miles away, there was someone waiting. Someone she could mash into a pulp, return their flesh to the Earth. Unfortunately, there was nobody. “Do you want anything?” Rhaenyra asked, but she didn’t give Alicent time to answer before she shut the door and walked off.

She was tall, Alicent noted. Slender, too. Perhaps that’s why her muscles stood out more.

Inside the shop, Rhaenyra made sure to stare down the people who stared at her bruising. She rampaged around the aisles, grabbing whatever looked slightly appealing. Bottles of water, paracetamol, sweets, biscuits, some plasters, a toothbrush and toothpaste. For Alicent, she grabbed a box of granola bars and a little pot of pineapple. She could have the unhealthy stuff if she wanted, but Rhaenyra was almost banking on her not wanting it.

She had filled the car with petrol, too. Rhaenyra didn’t even listen to the man read out the total in a tired tone, she just threw four fifty pound notes down, and walked out with her carrier bags. She opened the other backdoor, and threw them in next to Alicent. Alicent jumped at the intrusion, and sighed when she saw the rings glittering in the bright white floodlights.

Unobservant, for a former secret agent. That’s where the White Wyrm had done her a service. Back at the petrol station, Rhaenyra had pulled the cover from the car as she plugged the gun in. She hadn’t noticed it. It was smaller than a ladybird, and as black as the car itself.

Chapter Text

They drove in silence for another hour. In truth, Rhaenyra didn’t have a clue where she was going to take them. She had no camping equipment, and camping seemed stupid. They’d be sleeping in the car, wherever they landed. She supposed she could get them a hotel somewhere… that might work. Just a cheap one, off the motorway or something. She was frowning, something Alicent noticed.

“Are you going to tell me your name?” She asked, as she rooted through the bags. She took out a chocolate bar, read the packaging and threw it back into the bag. “How do you eat this stuff and still have strength to pummel men?” She was thinking aloud, Rhaenyra’s frown faltered for a second.
“It’s all in the rage,” Alicent treated this like a joke, but the shadow in Rhaenyra’s eyes as she looked at her in the mirror told her it wasn’t.
“Funny,” she found the box of granola bars, and the pot of pineapple. “Considerate, too. What a hero.” Alicent opened the box, and took a bar. “What is your name?”

Rhaenyra didn’t want to tell her her real name, the name saved for friends. Not family, she didn’t have any of those left. But then again, she didn’t have any friends, either. “Syrax,” Rhaenyra could feel the sleeping beast stirring in the pit of her stomach. At this point, she was more ‘Syrax’ than she had ever been ‘Rhaenyra’. Alicent scoffed.
“I know my life is somewhat - allegedly - in your hands… but what kind of name is that?” Alicent chewed a bite of the bar, it tasted of strawberries and cream. Pleasant enough. She still struggled with the idea of being hunted by a series of hitmen, but at the same time, wasn’t willing to risk the obviously very adept protection the blonde offered. “Is that like… your secret agent name?”

Rhaenyra laughed, now. With her cheeks dimpled, and eyes crinkling, Alicent thought she looked quite handsome. “It was, yeah,” Rhaenyra switched the beamer headlights on as they drove down a lane, the car jumping over potholes. Alicent looked surprised, as if she thought Rhaenyra was having her on.
“You were a secret agent?” She opened the pot of pineapple, taking the little wooden fork from the side.
“Yeah,” the answer was so casual that she couldn’t have been lying. “Although… less ‘espionage’ more ‘bare faced murder’.”

Well, that explained a lot. “And your agent name was ‘Syrax’?” Alicent prompted, placing a piece of room temperature pineapple on her tongue.
“Yep,” Rhaenyra didn’t really want to open herself up for more prying. Her face fell back to its usually expressionless gloom.
“Is it worth asking how you knew about all of this, again?” Alicent wanted to save herself the oxygen, if she could.
“No,” Rhaenyra replied, one arm resting on the door. Bent at the elbow, holding her head. The pressure of her palm on her cheek made her wince.
“Noted,” Alicent resigned herself, and finished her fruit. “Where are we going?”

That’s what the other woman wondered, too. The one in a bed and breakfast, near Kensington. She had been staring at her laptop screen for some time, watching the little dot move.

“Honestly? Not a fucking clue,” Rhaenyra conceded, pulling up the navigation system on the screen in the car. They were approaching Peterborough. Rhaenyra hadn’t even paid any attention to road signs.
“No, do you know what? That’s really good. I’ve always wanted to be rescued by someone with no plan.” Alicent was tired, and grouchy.
“Alright, princess. Next time, you can have your pick of all the people willing to be strangled for you,” Rhaenyra chided, with a tense jaw.

Alicent was growing to hate that nickname. “Fuck off.” She replied, looking out of the window. “Pull over.” She ordered, like Rhaenyra was a cabby. Weirdly, Rhaenyra followed the order. Alicent got out, and was followed.
“Fuck are you playing at? Get back in!” Rhaenyra shut the door, and looked up and down the road. There were no cars on their side of the road. Alicent opened the boot, and sifted through her holdall.

Rhaenyra made a ‘grrr’ sound, when it turned out all Alicent wanted was a blanket. “Really? You made me stop for a fucking blanket?” In the unflattering floodlights, Alicent still looked beautiful. It almost made Rhaenyra forgive her stupidity.
“I’m tired,” Alicent wrapped it around her shoulders, and stretched her legs.

The woman watched the dot stop, just as she was polishing the scope for her rifle. It was a main road, two hours away. It would just be a stop-gap, she was sure.

“Oh, right. Well that makes it alright then, doesn’t?” Rhaenyra opened the door for Alicent. Alicent rolled her eyes, and got in.
“You know, in all the damsel movies, the knight usually isn’t such a dickhead,” Alicent put the bags on the floor, and laid across the seats.
“Yeah, and-” Rhaenyra’s speech trailed off. There wasn’t a comeback, really. Alicent fit the bill perfectly - beautiful, graceful movements and unwavering stubbornness. “Just shut up, please. I’m trying to think of a plan.”

As far as a pairing goes, they were well matched. Rhaenyra had her work cut out for her with Alicent, a fact that would only make her fight harder when the next opponent arose. And they would, in less time than perhaps Rhaenyra thought. Alicent was sleeping in the back of the car, her exhaustion smothering any discomfort she may have felt. She was gorgeous, even in sleep. Gratingly so.

She was prettier than Margaery - Rhaenyra had tried to stuff these thoughts down, to feed them to the void. It rejected them, for some reason. She was sharper than Margaery, too. Also that was a close one - sometimes her words had been like literal thorns on Rhaenyra’s skin. Alicent’s words weren’t malicious, they were exactly what you’d expect from someone whose life had been absolutely decimated in the space of twenty-four hours.

In fact, Rhaenyra thought that she was coping exceptionally with it all. Rhaenyra was tough, she could take a bit of verbal abuse. And it wasn’t like she was innocent, either. The ‘princess’ comments were purposeful, intended to rile Alicent up. She was enticing when angry, a vein popped out on the right side of her neck. Of course, Rhaenyra knew a certain distance had to be maintained. She intended to die, or just die trying on this mission. This was a finale for her. Her blaze of glory. Not a time to be mooning after pretty redheads.

The woman watched the dot move again. She had another tab open. A broader map, showing all the destinations on their way. The day was drawing to a close, they must be tired. She had placed the tracker at the woman’s house, when the bruised one ushered the prey in under the guise of safety. The threat wasn’t inside, it was outside. In the park across the road. She had run over, and placed the tracker. It had obviously gone unnoticed, as it was still on the car.

She wondered how much more could go unnoticed. Unlike Daario Naharis, she did not intend on ever actually meeting Alicent Hightower. Her plan was a more traditional take on killing: set up her rifle on a rooftop, let the red dot fall to the woman’s forehead, and pull the trigger. She just needed them to stop somewhere. She knew that if the blonde one found her, she wouldn’t make it out alive. She had watched the incident with the blue haired man, he had only nearly bested her - and she wasn’t much cop at hand-to-hand combat.

Rhaenyra drove for a while longer, her fingers tapping on the steering wheel. Despite the fact she was tied to Alicent, she felt weirdly free. She wasn’t killing for the sake of it, she had killed for the woman slumbering behind her. For her life, for the sake of her. One down, however many more to go. Alicent let out a small groan in her sleep, Rhaenyra turned to make sure she was okay. A weird instinct, perhaps weirder than following the orders.

They reached a sleepy town, not a single person walking the streets in the small hours. That was good - that was promising. Off the beaten track. Rhaenyra parked the car outside of the large building. She looked around - across, another hotel. Black fire escape stairs up the left side, and a flat roof. Their hotel contained seventy rooms, and was adorned by a decal of a sleeping moon. A chain of hotels, undiscerning and money-hungry. Rhaenyra drove down to the underground carpark.

The boot, full of guns and money, could cause a problem if anyone decided to go snooping. Rhaenyra doubted anyone in this town was capable of thievery, it seemed like the type of place where people came to die. She got out, a motion that caused Alicent to wake up. Rhaenyra removed the two holdalls, and a clip of ammunition. She was tired, and hoped she didn’t need to use it. But it was always better safe than sorry.

She opened the door by Alicent’s head. “C’mon, princess. We’ve got a hotel.” Rhaenyra waited for the redhead to shuffle out. Her curls were messy, and her eyes swollen from tiredness. It made Rhaenyra’s lips twitch upwards.

They made it three and a half hours away from London, before they stopped at a hotel. The woman had plenty of time to get there. They would sleep, and she wouldn’t. She would set herself up somewhere, and wait to claim her money.

“Do you have any rooms with single beds?” Rhaenyra asked the desk attendant, who looked like he would rather be chewing glass than working. He shook his head. They couldn’t not share a room, Rhaenyra couldn’t let Alicent out of her sight. Not like she had this morning… or, yesterday morning.
“Fine, just a double, then.” Rhaenyra said.
“King,” Alicent corrected, brushing a hand through her curls. Rhaenyra rolled her eyes,
“You guys are cute,” the attendant said.
“Yeah, and you’re enthusiastic about your employment… now, if we’ve finished lying to each other.” Rhaenyra chided, and took the room key. She put some notes down, and picked up the bags. First floor, ideal for quick escapes.

Alicent followed, her feet felt like slabs of concrete under her. “Get in,” Rhaenyra gestured to the open lift, and Alicent yawned as she entered it. They moved up one floor, and Rhaenyra peered at the card. Thankfully, their door was a few paces forward on the left.

A front facing room, ideal for their purposes. Rhaenyra drew the curtains straight away, and gestured to the king sized bed. “Get in, I’m having a shower.”
“Stop telling me what to do,” Alicent opened her bag, and searched for her nightwear. Rhaenyra didn’t answer, she just removed her clothes and walked through to the bathroom.

The bright white light stung her eyes, and her reflection in the mirror was absolutely ghastly. Her face was more purple than white, her eye swollen and three fingertip sized bruises on the side of her neck. She had blood under her fingernails, she didn’t know if it was hers or his. She pumped some of the complementary shower gel onto her hands, and rubbed it over her body. It was a sweeter scent than she opted for, lemon and some sort of flower.

Alicent had dressed in a nightgown, and climbed into bed. She was mentally tired, too. Tired of constantly reposting, tired of thinking about exactly why people wanted her dead. Her eyes shut on the pillow straight away. Rhaenyra came out in a towel, and pulled a pair of boxers over her legs. She donned a fresh white t-shirt, and dropped the towel on the floor.

Four more paracetamol joined the four swimming in her stomach, and she joined Alicent in bed. She would have to sleep on her back, as her face hurt when pressure was put upon the tender flesh. She tried to keep as much distance from the redhead as possible, but her hair strayed onto Rhaenyra’s side. It was vexatious, her jaw being tickled by the curls.

Rhaenyra’s last bedmate had been a random girl she’d met in a bar, who had also been vexatious. They had done what they set out to do, and then the girl didn’t quite get that she was supposed to go away at the end. Rhaenyra didn’t sleep that night, she just waited for the girl to leave so she could sleep soundly, counting her bricks.

Now, she couldn’t fight the sleep even if she wanted to. Her eyes closed. Her dreams were hazes of yellow, orange and blue. The orange wasn’t bright, though. It was deep, flecked with red and swirling like a vortex. Her breathing had become so shallow that when Alicent woke randomly, she had to rest her hand on Rhaenyra’s chest to assure herself that she was, actually, alive. As much as they had bickered, Alicent needed her alive. She was scared of everything, scared to roll over in case someone was sitting in the chair with an axe.

Rhaenyra woke randomly just before the sun rose, to find Alicent’s hand still on her chest. She stared at it, her eyes crusted with sleep. She didn’t move it, though. It felt foreign, like a small stone resting on her ribs. Her own fingertips touched the swelling on her face, it seemed to have gone down. Still painful to touch, though. But they had made it out alive. She let out a heavy sigh - a regrettable decision. Alicent took her hand back, and rolled over in her sleep.

Chapter Text

Alicent had showered, and was sitting in the chair she’d feared would house an axe murderer. Rhaenyra was still sleeping, her hair had dried in waves overnight. She almost looked attractive, but then Alicent caught sight of the ugly purple bruises on her face. The swelling had abated, and she hadn’t died of a brain injury overnight… small mercies. She’d made herself a cup of tea using the scaled plastic kettle. It tasted exactly how she’d imagined it would - watery, and weak.

Alicent’s eyes were fixed on the blonde. She was scared to open the curtains, even though they were a floor off the ground. What if someone was waiting behind the glass? She would wait for this former agent Syrax to do it. Alicent wondered what their plan was for the day - she was hungry, and not for the food Rhaenyra had deemed acceptable nourishment. There was a small restaurant in the hotel, Alicent could hear the sounds of cutlery scraping plates if she listened hard enough.

“Can you wake up? It’s past midday,” Alicent called, keeping her distance lest her wrists be taken hostage.
“Fuck off,” Rhaenyra complained, and pulled a pillow over her head. Alicent sighed, and put her mug down on the desk.
“No. Get up,” Alicent kicked the bed with her foot, an adversarial decision.
“I said ‘fuck off’ - didn’t you hear?” Rhaenyra kicked back, her foot failing to make contact with anything.
“I heard, I just don’t care.” Alicent tugged the duvet from her, and threw it to the floor.

Rhaenyra propped herself up on her elbows. Surprisingly, she was smiling. “I used to think I was the most unbearable twat on the planet,” her voice was scratchy, and deep.
“Then you met me. Yeah, lovely. Charming. Get up,” Alicent replied, tiredly. Rhaenyra’s grin broadened. What a strange woman, it was like she enjoyed being picked on. Alicent wondered if anyone had ever fired back at her, before. Perhaps she had some sort of humiliation fetish, and she’d only just discovered it.

“You’re so bossy,” Rhaenyra swung her legs over the side of the bed, and walked to the bathroom. She splashed her face with cold water, and used some to slick the waves back behind her ears. Her face looked much less grotesque, she looked kind of normal. The bruises on her throat could be mistaken for love-bites. “I’m not bossy, I’m hungry - you must be, too.” Alicent slipped her shoes on, and waited by the door whilst Rhaenyra dressed.

She was hungry, again. She had almost forgotten that humans had to eat three times a day, minimum. She hadn’t smoked in… how long? Well, long enough that some of the cravings had subsided. “C’mon, then… princess,” Rhaenyra opened the door. Alicent didn’t move, she just chewed her fingernails. Rhaenyra poked her head out of the door, looking up and down. She stepped out.

Rhaenyra was assuming that nobody would try to kill them over breakfast, so both her guns were on the same desk as Alicent’s used mug. Her dagger was still strapped to her shin, if it came to it. “Want me to hold your hand?” Rhaenyra’s sarcasm was just insensitive, a fact that went right over her handsome blonde head. They went down to breakfast in silence.

The comment made Alicent feel ashamed of her fear; it was a cruel jape, Alicent had every right to be afraid. She had witnessed a brutal fight, ending with a man dropping dead before her eyes. She studied the blonde, and wondered if she was capable of emotion, or if she really was a complete psychopath. When she smiled, it seemed like happiness. But that was the writ of true psychopaths, they could fake that stuff.

They sat at a table away from the window. Alicent ordered a yoghurt bowl with granola, and Rhaenyra ordered a burger and fries and a black coffee. They ate in silence, Alicent stirred honey into the bowl, and Rhaenyra picked the lettuce from the burger. “I don’t get it - you’re ripped, and you eat like a toddler.” Alicent popped a blueberry between her teeth, and sipped her - much nicer - tea. Rhaenyra’s crooked grin made Alicent raise her eyebrows.
“You think I’m ripped?” She reposted, and Alicent rolled her eyes for the ninth time in the space of an hour and a half.
“I think I might hate you, actually.” She had been glancing at the window worriedly, but looked back at Rhaenyra's face.

Rhaenyra had noticed these worried actions, it made her gut twist in an unfamiliar way. Was she worried, herself? She wanted Alicent to feel calmer, to understand that she would truly do whatever it took to keep her safe. It was a confusing cacophony of feelings, especially for one so used to not feeling anything. “Are you worried?” She asked, innocently. She sipped her coffee, it was hot and made her wince as it made contact with her sore throat.

Alicent’s brown eyes squinted, completely perplexed by the question. Was she worried? Of course she was worried, people were trying to kill her? “Are you being serious?” Alicent couldn’t see the usual glint of sarcasm in the blonde’s steely eyes. Rhaenyra nodded. Alicent felt as if she was in some sort of simulation… as if the person across from her wasn’t real, just a sequence of logged phrases. “Yeah, course I’m worried…” She scooped some yoghurt on the spoon. Across from her, pink lips were grimacing uncomfortably.

Rhaenyra regretted asking the question - she didn’t know how to deal with this. It flashed her back to shivering Tamsin, but she didn’t have a jacket to drape on Alicent’s shoulders this time. “Sorry,” it was spoken weakly. Alicent didn’t know how to respond, so she just finished her yoghurt and sipped her tea.

She was on the move, on a black motorbike with a guitar case strapped to her back. No songs would be played, though. No strings plucked, chords echoing melodically. Inside the case was a sniper rifle. Compact, with a red dot sight and a stand. She had set off a few hours earlier, when it seemed the car was not moving. She was thirty minutes out, with her location picked out. She would watch all of the front windows, and if nothing appeared, she would move to the back and hope that the car hadn’t just been stashed here.

Alicent plaited her hair in the mirror, the light on overhead. It was approaching late afternoon, the winter sun signing off for the day. Rhaenyra was doing press ups on the floor, Alicent tried to not to watch. Her back was scarred, visible through her white prison-esque vest. Muscles, too. Oh perhaps just not enough fat to cover the muscles. No, there was a definition there that went beyond just skinniness. Rhaenyra had been going for ten minutes, impressive. Criston usually managed four minutes, before he fell to the floor.

The braid fell neatly on the right side of her head. Rhaenyra clapped her hands as she rose, the carpets had obviously not been hoovered in quite some time. “Gross,” she mumbled, rubbing the dirt on her cargo trousers. “What’s the plan?” Alicent turned in the chair, and crossed her legs. Rhaenyra looked affronted, and her hand fell to the back of her head.

“I don’t know, really. We need a safe house, or something. We’ve done well, gone a whole day with nothing kicking off. I think we’re safe here for the time being.” She paced the room, suddenly inspired to reaffix her harness. Alicent watched her tighten the buckles. The guns were on the desk. She stared at them, but didn’t pass them over. Rhaenyra didn’t seem to want them, either. “Stay another night here, but keep your bag packed. We’ll leave tomorrow morning… I’ll take us further North… find us a cottage, or something.”

Alicent had nothing better to suggest. Syrax was right, they had been safe here for a night. No signs of anything, not glanced at twice by the staff. “Okay,” she said, and gathered her scattered belongings to keep in the bag. “Do you want me to go downstairs, and get some ice for your cheek?” Alicent offered out of kindness, but also because it was unpleasant to look at. Rhaenyra faltered, and looked around. “Syrax, it’s just downstairs. You took the hits for me, let me get you some ice.”

Something in Alicent’s voice told Rhaenyra she was going to go, anyway. She shrugged her shoulders, and threw Alicent the roomkey.

She felt reprieve, in her own company as she left the room. Alicent headed for the restaurant. It was empty - nobody to spy on her. “Hi, sorry. Could I have some ice, please?” She asked the tall man behind the bar, who said nothing but nodded. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, as if a ghost had brushed past her. She turned, her heart thumping against her ribcage. Nothing, not a soul behind her. “Thanks,” Alicent smiled, taking the filled glass upstairs. She could smell the kitchen, the aroma of oil and herbs filling her nostrils. It was almost normal, she could almost pretend she was taking ice to her injured boyfriend.

Rhaenyra had opened the curtains.

On the rooftop across, the short haired woman had been moving her scope from window to window. A new room had become visible, it looked mostly empty. She fiddled with the notch on her scope, to zoom in. Bags on the floor, guns on the desk. No sign of blonde hair, which boded well for the unknown assassin.

Rhaenyra was lounging on the bed when Alicent walked in. “Thanks, princess,” she said. Alicent smiled and walked in - a proper smile, teeth sparkling and eyes wrinkling. Alicent leaned against the wall by the bed, in front of the window. Rhaenyra took some of the ice, and pressed it to her cheek and her eye. She thought that the water must have invaded her vision, because she could see something on Alicent’s forehead.

Small, dancing around. Red. Oh, no. It stood still, just between her temples. “Alicent, get down!” Rhaenyra shouted, and launched from the bed. Glass shattered noisily, sprinkling the floors with small, shiny daggers. Alarms blared in the hotel.

The trigger had been pulled, and the woman watched as it burrowed into the drywall. “Fuck,” she muttered, and reloaded the gun. She must have moved.

“What the fuck-” Alicent muttered, as Rhaenyra dragged her behind the bed.
“A sniper,” Rhaenyra growled. Alicent met her eyes, it was similar to looking into a blaze. Not the ends of the flames, the very base of the fire where it burned blue. “Okay, you’re going to crawl into the bathroom whilst I distract whoever is fucking stupid enough to be firing at you.”

Alicent was frozen with fear, but she could see it in Syrax’s eyes. Whoever was firing at her would end the same way as the blue haired man. “Okay, three, two, one… go.” Rhaenyra stood from the bed, and approached the shattered window. She stared just long enough to see where the set up was - directly across, she could see the outline of the gun. The red dot appeared on her chest. She pulled the curtains over the decimated frame, and another shot tore through the curtains and bore a hole into the door. Alicent was breathing heavily as she crawled into the bathroom. “Alicent, wait five minutes… and then go get the car, okay?”

It was an emotional whim, but she took Alicent’s face in her hands, and knelt down in front of her. “You’ll be safe, Alicent. I promise.” Alicent’s eyes swam with tears, she didn’t want Rhaenyra to go. She wanted her to stay here, and keep her safe.
“Don’t go, please,” Alicent’s bottom lip was quivering. “Syrax, please don’t go.” Alicent had her knees to her chest against the glass wall of the shower. Rhaenyra felt the words go through her brain, like the shards of glass from the window.
“I’ll be back,” Rhaenyra didn’t want to say ‘I promise’ again, but the big brown eyes prompted her to. “I promise, Alicent. I don’t break promises.”

And then, Rhaenyra was gone. Alicent had her head in her hands, her tears rolling quickly.

The woman was packing up her rifle, assuming she could escape before the blonde found her. She was shaking, her hands failing her as she fastened the metal clasps. If she left it here, she risked being found by the authorities.

What Rhaenyra felt was perhaps worse than the monster, the all-encompassing void. It was loyalty. The anger still buzzed in her veins, it always would… but this was worse. Paired with a promise uttered to a woman who had pleaded with her to stay. Not only did she have to end this woman, she had to make sure she left this alive, too. The opposite of her initial intentions.

Downstairs, people were scrambling around trying to work out what had happened. Rhaenyra was able to run past them, out onto the street. The daylight was fading, but when she peered through her swollen eyes, she could see the gun had disappeared. Rhaenyra knew that if they had any sense, they’d be long gone. She hoped that they were completely, utterly idiotic.

It sounded like a death sentence, like blood spilling on the floor and knives being sharpened. In reality, it was footsteps. Rising quickly, on metal stairs. The woman’s breath caught in her chest, and she threw the case from the far side of the roof. She wouldn’t make it down before she made it up. She looked down, the case had landed near her bike. It was a last ditch, but she put her motorbike helmet on. At least she couldn’t be shot in the head. Ironically, that would have been preferable to what Rhaenyra had in store for her.

The footsteps grew louder, and a haunting call of “Yoohoo!” Radiated up the stairs.

Alicent had not followed orders, Alicent had crawled over the glass - cutting her hands in the process - to watch. It was sick, and it made acid rise in her throat. But she had to watch, she had to make sure Syrax would be making it back to her.

Chapter Text

The car keys were in her hand, covered in blood. Nobody had worked out it was her room that had set the alarms off, yet. She had time. She could make sure Rhaenyra would be safe, and then collect her. Her hands hurt, there were at least six tiny cuts. She watched Rhaenyra climb the stairs, in nothing but trousers and a white vest. Her brown leather harness on her shoulders, but the guns were still on the desk.

At the recollection of that, Alicent stowed them away in her holdall. Along with anything else she could see, then she returned to the window. She heard Rhaenyra’s arrogant chide. It was like watching a horror movie. Except, you’re rooting for the killer. Breathing seemed hard, like she had suddenly developed asthma.

The woman on the roof felt that, too. She was hiding behind an electrical box, with her motorcycle helmet on.

Rhaenyra felt truly possessed. She had berated Alicent, made little digs and riled her up. But she was in her care, and that meant everything. Rhaenyra had promised she would make it back. Never again would Rhaenyra Targaryen break a promise.

“Are you going to come out?” Rhaenyra’s voice was a whisper-shout, each letter pronounced to the very nth degree. “I don’t think you want me to find you.” She heard.

The rooftop was quite large, and Rhaenyra had exerted a fair bit of energy climbing the stairs. The would-be killer could only wish that she didn’t have the strength to scour the whole roof, peering behind air-conditioning units and electrical boxes. Plus, the police would be here any minute.

Alicent knew she needed to go, needed to get the car before the police arrived. But what, then? What if she waited and waited, and Syrax never came back? She wouldn’t live. She couldn’t live without Syrax. Not in the romantic sense, in the literal sense. Without the blonde, Alicent would have been killed twice, now. She could hear sirens.

Rhaenyra giggled, it bubbled up her throat. It didn’t sound sweet. It found the woman's ears, scarring her like she’d spat razorblades with it. Maybe she could dash behind her? She poked her head up, and saw she was on the opposite side of the building. The guns had been on the desk. No range weapons.

Alicent couldn’t see much, she needed to go about five minutes ago. All she wanted was a glimpse of Rhaenyra - or, Syrax, as she knew her.

The woman removed a shoe, and threw it as hard as she could. It landed with a thud, on the other side of the rooftop. Behind an air conditioning unit.

Rhaenyra jogged over. She could see a motorbike in the alley, and a guitar case that presumably held the rifle. She hadn’t fled, she was up here. Then, footsteps. Fast, perhaps faster than Rhaenyra.

The woman sprinted across the rooftop, the ground wet on her plain black sock. Her footsteps uneven, but fast. Rhaenyra turned, and saw her. She obviously didn’t fancy a fight. Rhaenyra took after her as quickly as her feet could manage. The woman was on the first flight of black steps. Rhaenyra heard another thud, as she tumbled down the second set of steps.

Alicent could see someone keeled over, their head was bulbous. Not Syrax. She stood, her shoes on the glass turning it to dust. Her hands were dripping blood onto the floor, from the tiny but plentiful cuts. Now was the time to go. Syrax was inches from ensnaring her prey, and it would be a nauseating watch.

“Oh, sore ankle?” Rhaenyra could hear the woman groaning. “Don’t worry, it won’t hurt for long.” She had time to make a slow, dramatic descent. Cocky.
“Please, please. I’m just trying to earn money for my-” Rhaenyra snatched her up, and held her against the barrier. A woman's voice. Rhaenyra chewed her bottom lip, and looked over the assailant. She was frail, her voice wobbling from fear.

She held her in her hands, the woman’s jacket felt thin. “How did you find us?” Rhaenyra would have to abandon her whole moral compass to kill this woman. She hadn’t expected any other women to be here.
“T-tracker, on your car,” she answered, straight away.
“Are you working alone?” Rhaenyra loosened her grip slightly. The woman nodded, her head bobbing ridiculously in the helmet. She could let her go, pending the answer to the next question.

Alicent was watching the altercation on the stairs, it looked like Rhaenyra was going to let her go.

“Try to kill her again, and I’ll fucking destroy you,” Rhaenyra shook her, to drill the point in. Internally, she was relieved. Her morals could remain intact, as loose and limited as they were. “Now, fuck off.” Rhaenyra ran her hands through her hair, grinding her teeth. “Quickly.” She shoved her, gently.

The woman wasted no time in limping down the stairs.

Static, rumbling static. ’Come in, No-one, target down?’ Rhaenyra looked down, just as the woman looked up. Rhaenyra’s jaw ached. ’No-one, answer. Shot fired, target down?’ Syrax could move faster than she could, and the woman in the helmet knew her time was up. She could only curse the man on the other side of the radio.

Rhaenyra sighed heavily, and made her way down the stairs. The woman hadn’t bothered to move much, or couldn’t move much.

Alicent was rooted to her spot, eyes bone dry and sore. The sirens were getting louder, but still not visible.

“You shouldn’t have fucking lied,” Rhaenyra removed the woman’s helmet. Thankfully, she looked old. She would have let her go again, if she looked younger than herself. Her forehead was wrinkled, her eyes baggy and her hair cut into a short bob. In the light, it looked mousy brown. “Now I have to kill you.”

The loyalty motivated her, but the monster's claws had started to scratch. Rhaenyra hated being lied to, especially when she was going to administer a rare instance of mercy. Alicent had offered her a morsel of humanity, it had been consumed as quickly as it had emerged.

“Please, just let me go. I’ll stand him down.” Rhaenyra had her by her jacket again, the helmet had fallen to the floor. It cracked on the pavement below, they were six floors up. Rhaenyra’s exhale was dramatic. She looked at the window. She hadn’t seen the BMW appear.

Alicent had just started to exit the room, with the bags, when she turned to the window at the noise of the helmet smashing. She could see Rhaenyra holding the woman, and then it happened. The woman was pushed from the rails, her arms flailing wildly as she fell through the air. It took seconds for her to reach the ground. It sounded like a sack of flour hitting a tiled kitchen floor.

She ran through the hotel, the bags weighing her down. By the time she reached the car, she was out of breath.

Rhaenyra jogged down the stairs, holding the bannister for dear life. The woman was still breathing, but paralyzed. It was a pitiful sight, but she had done it again. She had protected someone. Innocent, worried Alicent. Who still hadn’t appeared in the car.

The blood had stopped rushing in Rhaenyra’s ears, and the monster subsided. She could hear the sirens growing nearer and nearer. She heard an engine roar, and brakes screech. When she looked up, Alicent was there. Haphazardly wedged into the entrance of the alley. People from the hotel had begun to come out onto the street.

They had seconds, really. But Rhaenyra wasn’t Rhaenyra, right now. She was Syrax. Bloodthirsty, untouchable Syrax. She took the radio from the girl's pocket. “Hello. ‘No-one’ is dead. Well, not yet. She will be, when her lungs give out. You will be, too… If you try to find us again.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, just threw the radio against the wall. Alicent fled from the driver's seat. “Lie down, in the back,” Rhaenyra commanded as she took over at the wheel. There would undoubtedly be at least four security cameras watching them, but it was too late to worry about that. She sped off, through the alleyways. As she emerged on the road, she saw the tail ends of the police cars at the hotel.

She let out a heavy sigh. Alicent was lying on the backseat, her hands shaking as she tried to shake the image of a woman being pushed over the railings.

It was bittersweet. One of her only two morals lay at the bottom of a staircase, shattered and struggling to obtain even one morsel of oxygen. She hadn’t yet killed the woman, but the intent was there. Her promises lay untouched. Unspoiled, kept and pristine. She had come back, and nobody had hurt Alicent. It was uncomfortable, but it was the correct thing for her to do. She thought, anyway.

Rhaenyra didn’t have the emotional intelligence to work out that she was, in fact, hurting Alicent. For her own good, of course. But Alicent had never been this close to death, she’d never been driven to find a cottage up North by the Grim Reaper herself. Alicent’s hands were bleeding, and Rhaenyra felt the blood on the wheel.

“Are you alright?” She asked, keeping her head low as they left the town. Fortuitously, it was a very small town and exiting only took about five minutes. Alicent couldn’t answer, she just kept her hands closed tightly to stop the bleeding and the stinging. Rhaenyra took as many lanes as possible, trying to avoid roads more frequently maintained by authorities. With any luck, Blackwater would somehow get wind and wipe the tapes.

Two down, though. Rhaenyra wondered if either had been from the ‘company’, but assumed not. True professionals would send more than one. She told herself that Alicent just needed time, she just needed to process what was going on. The blood must be from her hands, or it wouldn’t be on the wheel. Small cuts, hopefully.

It was late evening, and they had entered Lincolnshire, by the time Rhaenyra remembered the tracker. “Fuck,” she screeched the car to a halt in a grassy verge, and took a torch from the glovebox.

Alicent’s vocal chords were working again, but her ears still heard the ‘thud’ on repeat. She felt sick. “What is it?” She had intended to sound panicked, but she just sounded really tired. She wanted a hug. A warmth she presumed she would not find in Syrax. It had only really been two days. Alicent was weary - this wouldn’t be for her. She couldn’t survive this… no human could.

She left the car, and walked a few paces into the field. “Alicent - what the fuck are you doing?” Rhaenyra didn’t turn her eyes from the car, where she was shining the torch into the crevices. Alicent kept walking, letting the darkness swallow her whole. It had evidently consumed whoever Syrax once was.

Rhaenyra was panicking. Searching for this tracker, and making sure Alicent wasn’t having some sort of psychotic breakdown. She felt a bit aggrieved by Alicent’s reaction - it wasn’t like she had broken her morals, and pushed someone to their death. Rhaenyra’s hands were covered in dirt from running them over the hubcaps. “Alicent, come back!” Rhaenyra shouted, louder. Her hands ran around the curved part of the bodywork. Flat, not a single indication of a tracker.

“For fuck sake!” She exclaimed. When she peered around the side of the car, Alicent was gone. Her hands were filthy.

Alicent had laid down in the wet grass, her hair absorbing the dew and the cuts on her hands cooled by the chilled tendrils. She shut her eyes, ignoring Rhaenyra’s shouts.

Rhaenyra kept searching for the tracker, like a dog with a bone. She had cleared the bottom section of the car, and moved to the middle. The problem was, everything on this level was exposed. Except for the petrol cap cover. Rhaenyra pulled it back, and let out a triumphant shout as she plucked the small black device. It was no bigger than a bead.

It would be foolish to crush it. Rhaenyra would leave it on the side of the road, to feed false information. Whoever owned the second half of that radio set might come here, to find their plan foiled. Now, the mystery of the miraculous disappearing Alicent. “Alicent,” Rhaenyra called, in a robotic attempt at a kind voice.

She waded through the grass, shining her torch around. There would be nobody lurking in the shadows of the grass. There was, however, a big depression of grass just ahead of her. She approached. “Alicent,” Rhaenyra whispered.
“Just go away!” Alicent replied back, her cheeks wet from a mixture of dew and tears. Rhaenyra could hear the lump in Alicent’s throat.

Rhaenyra was completely stumped. This was a level of emotion she’d not dealt with before. She’d tried to kiss Mysaria’s sadness away, and that didn't work. She locked the car, and stood still. The stars shone brightly above them, and Rhaenyra exhaled deeply.

To understand Alicent’s feelings, she had to allow her own some access. She stared at the stars, and thought of Tamsin. Then, just like Alicent, she crumpled into the wet grass. They laid, side by side, staring at the night sky. Rhaenyra could feel her feelings, but she couldn’t say them aloud. No, that was too much too soon. That was as final as death itself. Also, just on a more base level, she couldn’t even articulate what they were.

“I feel shit, too,” Rhaenyra knew Alicent couldn’t see her face. And even so, she didn’t want Alicent to be scared of her. She needed Alicent’s trust. Alicent laughed, short and bitter.
“Well, that makes it all okay, doesn’t it?” Alicent sounded as if she had a cold.

Rhaenyra was truly lost, now. “How many people have to die just for me to live?”
“Do you want an honest answer?” Rhaenyra turned to face her, in the grass. Alicent nodded, illuminated by the dim torchlight. Rhaenyra’s eyes were sad, now. Not fiery, not hollow. Watery, bursting at the seams with potential leaks. “As many as it takes, Alicent.”

“Why?”

At this, Rhaenyra looked back to the stars. “Because I owe something to someone… up there… maybe up there, who knows,” a single tear fell down Rhaenyra’s cheek, over the bruised flesh. She brushed it away with an oil stained hand. “Anyway, I owe it to her to just keep someone safe. And it happens to be you.” Grey eyes fell upon brown. “So, whatever it takes. To get you home to someone you love.”

Silence, again. Rhaenyra stopped the other tears in their tracks. Alicent had stopped crying, too.

The revelation that whilst this was for her, it also was very much not, was assuring. This Syrax was perhaps always going to find a way to avenge whoever lived in the stars, Alicent just happened to be the closest option. It was morally corrupt, depraved and murderous, still. The woman next to her was a bomb, and she’d already exploded twice. But she was human, too… somewhere. “You are capable of emotion,” Alicent sniffed, and wiped her eyes.

Rhaenyra laughed, and wiped hers, too. “And you’re a fucking dick, now get in the car.”

Alicent still wanted a hug, but she wagered that perhaps a single tear shed and a hug in the space of one evening may be too much for her stone-faced protector.

Rhaenyra felt the most human she’d felt since Craster’s Keep. But not in such an overwhelming, all at once way. She supposed it had been gradual, since Alicent came into her care. Terrifying, and calming, all at once. Like seeing a missile launching through the air, only to see it land on the island across the ocean.

Chapter Text

Two weeks had passed, since the unnamed blue haired man was found dead in Kensington. Another woman was in hospital, injured from a fall… it would seem. The cameras blacked out, the footage MI5 received looked as if it had been messily cut. It had been claimed that the weather had interfered with the feedback, and they couldn’t find the old files on the system anymore.

Blackwater had done his best - he’d pulled the footage, from his person in intelligence, and had them cut Rhaenyra out. It just looked like the woman had tripped, and then fell. Rhaenyra had left no matter, no shell casings or DNA. The woman was being treated as a criminal, owing to the sniper rifle with her fingerprints on, and the bullet in the hotel room walls. Bronn couldn’t do anything about the DNA in the room, so Alicent Hightower had been declared as ‘missing’. Syrax didn’t exist on databases, so they thought Alicent had gone on the run alone. Motive unknown.

Mysaria was in Selmy’s office, the picture of Alicent Hightower on the big screen. Three or four other agents were sitting around, Mysaria didn’t know the names of any of them. “The thing is, folks… she’s the daughter of a Royal correspondent, Ser Otto.”

That explains why MI5 were dealing with a standard missing persons case. “Now, we have no leads, ultimately. But we do have suspicions,” he gestured to Brienne, who closed the blinds. Mysaria could feel the blue eyes on her neck. She knew, deep down, they were going to find a way to link this back to Rhaenyra - or, Syrax, as they called her.

“A man named Meryn Trant informed us of a network of mercenaries,” Selmy pressed a button, and an image of a stunningly ugly man appeared. “Meryn Trant was killed in his home, shortly after informing us.” He did not look familiar. “We were told that they are led by… this man,” a picture of Blackwater, his ID badge photo. He looked younger, less pruned and miserable. Mysaria could confirm it for them, if she felt so inclined. But she also knew, deep down, that Rhaenyra was working for him.

“Now, he’s sort of by-the-by, for now,” Selmy looked at Mysaria. She was inside her own head, rifling through her files to remember what she’d said about Rhaenyra that would make them think she’d turn her in. She had given them just enough to appear like Switzerland, feeling nothing either way about Rhaenyra. “His time will come.”

Brienne sat down next to Mysaria. She kept her expression completely level. “The thing is, Ser Otto had a run in with a Dragon… now a former Dragon, quite some time ago,” the other agents cocked their heads, curiously. Anxiety, hot like lava in her stomach.

“A matter of moral differences, but by all accounts, a lost cause of an agent. Violent, prone to outbursts…” he looked at Mysaria, “the job got to her.” He pressed the button. Mysaria didn’t want to look, but she forced herself to keep her eyes focussed. To give anything away would be to give Rhaenyra away, not that she knew anything of her movements.

Simmering alongside the anxiety was anger. A rare emotion for her. This job had never been about her own merit, it had been about Rhaenyra and this supposed - well, not supposed - gang of mercenaries. Mysaria was a prideful person, and Selmy had wounded her.

Rhaenyra Targaryen’s face appeared on the screen. She looked young, she would have been around twenty-three when that photograph was taken. No visible scars, her left nostril pierced with a small silver ring. She wasn’t smiling with her lips, but her eyes told the story of her happiness. “This is a former Dragon…Syrax,” Selmy stood in front of the screen, his eyes on the Wyrm. Erroneous.

Rhaenyra and Alicent had abandoned the car after they’d found some farmland. Rhaenyra had slung the wrinkled land owner a thick wad of fifty pound notes, to buy his silence and his cottage. And some petrol, and matches. The BMW had been ditched miles away, burned to a husk with the contents removed.

Rhaenyra had walked into the village, and perused the noticeboards. Eventually, she’d found something suitable. An old Vauxhall, battered and paying with cash only. When she rolled up to the cottage with the exhaust rattling, Alicent had laughed and rolled her eyes. Hardly an optimum escape vehicle, but certain to go unnoticed.

It had been a weird week - nobody had found them here. Alicent had cooked them dinners with supplies from the small foodstore a mile away. Rhaenyra had loaded the fireplace with wooden logs and bought Alicent tea in the morning. They slept in separate rooms. Alicent took the room that faced the garden - a large expanse. So large it was comforting, nobody could hide there. She’d see them, and then she’d call Rhaenyra, and it would be over for them.

Well, she’d call ‘Syrax’. She still didn’t know Rhaenyra’s real name. They still bickered, though. Almost relentlessly. Now, Rhaenyra was using the lipped door frame for pull ups. “Who is M T?” Alicent asked, from the tattered leather arm chair. She was wearing loose fitting trousers, and an oversized shirt. Rhaenyra ignored her, and did another set. “I know your whole shtick is that you’re brooding and dangerous, but you’re also just rude.”
“Right, and you’re annoying,” Rhaenyra grunted on the next one, and Alicent huffed.
“Rude, again,” she chided, and sipped her tea.
“Who made you that tea?” Rhaenyra fired back, she dropped from the doorframe. She’d been eating better than usual in the last two weeks, her bruises had faded and she had gained a bit of weight. She wasn’t as pale. She stretched her arms up to touch the doorframe, and Alicent found her eyes fell to the exposed stomach.

Rhaenyra felt like the version of her that had existed with M.T, charming and not so… suicidal. If she was a battery, she’d be about twenty five percent charged. She was laughing, exchanging quips. She was taking Alicent mugs of tea in the morning - mainly because Rhaenyra herself couldn’t sleep - she hadn’t killed anyone in two weeks. The last time she’d gone this long was the gap between July and October… and look how that had turned out.

She suspected it was too late, though. In her eyes, the monster hadn’t died, it was just hibernating. The next person to make an attempt on Alicent’s life would meet the same fate as the last two.

Rhaenyra poured herself a glass of water, and leaned against the sink. She brushed her hair back from her face. It had grown too long, now reaching near her collarbones. “Alicent!” She called, as she snatched a pair of scissors from the utensil pot. They were rusted, dull and surely ineffective.

“What?” The redhead called back, irritated.
“Can you cut my hair?” Rhaenyra asked, pulling a wooden chair from the circular table, and sitting down.
“No, I don’t know how to,” Alicent refused, but Rhaenyra had already assumed the position.
“Oh, well, you see… take the scissors, open them-”
“Oh my God, I think you might be the most dislikeable person ever,” Alicent stood up, and put a hand in Rhaenyra's hair.

It was soft, like strands of cotton. It smelled like tea tree. Was this weird? Rhaenyra was a murderer. For a good cause. But a psychotic freak when faced with an adversary. “How short do you want it?” Alicent took the scissors, and forced Rhaenyra to straight her head.
“Just around my jaw,” She replied. “Please.” It was added as an afterthought, but it made Alicent smile.
“Wow, good manners,” Alicent admired the locks with pursed lips. “Are you sure you trust me? I don't want to ruin your whole… bad boy look.”

“Oh, just shut up and cut my hair,” Rhaenyra chided, exasperatedly. It didn't matter how it looked when all she had on her agenda was murder, with a side of murder. Alicent cut the first locks off, and watched the silvery blonde piles form on the floor. She tried to make it similar to how it was when she'd first seen Rhaenyra outside of that pub, smoking.

“Oh, you've not smoked in weeks!” Alicent considered that an achievement. Rhaenyra missed it, the rush of nicotine and the appetite suppressants.

Feeling human wasn't just about emotion, but senses, too. Hunger, taste, smell… sight. The sight of Alicent, auburn curls cascading down her back. And the smell of her: sweet, but earthy. She always smelled of tea. In the evenings, often after dinner, Rhaenyra wondered if she tasted like tea, too.

“Oh, yippee,” Rhaenyra replied, dryly. Alicent tutted, and cut more hair off.
“You really are no fun… when was the last time you had fun?” Alicent ran the locks between her fingers. The touch evoked a curious mixture of feelings: Rhaenyra simultaneously wanted to melt into the touch, and recoil away. As if Alicent’s fingers were stripping her of her Dragon status.

As for the question of ‘fun’, killing the blue haired man had been ‘fun’... but Rhaenyra deduced that wasn’t the kind of fun Alicent meant. “In bootcamp, probably.”
“And how long ago was bootcamp?” Alicent brushed some hair from the back of Rhaenyra’s neck, a touch that made her shiver.
“A while ago.” Rhaenyra shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh, God. Will you just drop the mysterious act?”

“Fine! I left bootcamp when I was twenty-two,” Rhaenyra rubbed her forehead, aggravated into truth telling. “I’m twenty-eight now, so… you do the maths.”

That meant, by her own admission, she hadn’t had fun in six years. How desolate. No wonder she looked like she’d rather be six foot under than walking the Earth.

“Depressing,” Alicent mumbled, turning to the side to cut the hair over her hair. “How come you have so many tattoos?” She asked, looking at Rhaenyra’s bare arms. Bare in the sense of no clothing, they were inked to the point of being covered.
“Because I think they make me look really cool and sexy, next question,” Rhaenyra’s lips twitched into an exasperated smile. Alicent’s eyes investigated her face.

The thought ran through her like a crossbow bolt: she was, in fact, kind of sexy. But, she was a blood-lusting psychopath, too.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Alicent asked, Rhaenyra turned her head. Her eyebrows were furrowed. “Or a boyfriend - sorry,” she didn’t meet the inquisitive gaze, just returned to trimming the hair.

How interesting. Rhaenyra’s smile didn’t falter, if anything, it grew wider. Until she realised she had to answer the question, and the answer was dreary. Rhaenyra hadn’t thought about anything like that for years. Dragons didn’t live long, she always thought it would be cruel to bring a spouse or a girlfriend into it. Moreover, she didn’t think she was capable of loving someone. She was capable of tearing flesh, and administering bruises. Not feather-esque kisses and proclamations of adoration.

“Uh, no.” Rhaenyra turned her head forward, and picked at her fingernails. Her hands were clean, the scars and calluses visible. “Do you miss your husband?”

It was Alicent’s turn to think, albeit a shorter internal inquisition than Rhaenyra’s had been. She didn’t miss Criston. She just missed being touched.

“No, not really.” Alicent moved to the other side of Rhaenyra’s head, there was a cut healing on her scalp. Alicent touched the area gently, but Rhaenyra still shied away. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Rhaenyra shook her head, clumps of hair falling to the ground. The air had turned melancholic.
“I miss being touched, though,” Alicent didn’t even mean Criston - she meant friends. Casual hugs before departing from evening tapas, handshakes. “It’s lonely, this being on the run stuff.”

Rhaenyra felt uncomfortable, a guttural feeling of awkwardness. She didn’t know what to do here, how to make Alicent feel better. She knew how to touch women, sure. But not in the way Alicent meant.

“Well, hopefully not for much longer. My intel says there will be two more, maybe three.” Rhaenyra rose when Alicent patted her shoulder. Her hair was cut in a choppy way, but felt lighter on her head. Less for people to grab hold of. Alicent wanted to remark how anyone else would offer a hug, at this moment. Syrax didn’t, Syrax just ran her hands through her hair and looked anywhere else.

“Two, maybe three more attempts on my life… cool.” Alicent put the scissors on the kitchen counter, and crossed her arms over her chest.
“They won’t touch you, Alicent,” Rhaenyra couldn’t promise this. So, she didn’t.
“But really, you’re just one person, aren’t you? Against many others, no back up?” Alicent chewed her thumbnail, it tasted of soap.

Bitterly, Rhaenyra thought that she was right. She was just one, against many others. It opened a door in her brain. A dark passage was behind the door, cynical and shadowed with doubts… Did Blackwater intend for her to come back from this? This is where she wished she had a second. If he had been lying, Mysaria would have surely spotted it.

“It’ll be fine,” Rhaenyra brushed off, and walked to draw the curtains. Alicent was rinsing the scissors under the tap. “How does it look?” Rhaenyra stood next to her.
“Shorter,” Alicent’s response was curt.
“Don’t flatter me too much,” Rhaenyra sat on the countertop, her hands running over her arms nervously. Alicent chuckled, out of sheer irritation.

They went about their business, Alicent prepared them a dinner of vegetable stew and some roasted potatoes. Rhaenyra chopped wood in the garden, and threw it into the hearth. It was almost romantic.

Alicent had watched through the speckled glass window, the muscles straining in Rhaenyra’s arms as she landed the axe on the logs. Her knees had felt weaker than usual, especially when she looked at the veins in Rhaenyra’s hands.

“Syrax,” Alicent ladeled some stew into the women’s bowl, and sat down.
“Yes?” She had learned that the blonde’s voice contained a normal level of brattish-ness.
“Could you… teach me some self-defence?” She stirred the fragrant food in her own bowl, and met Rhaenyra’s eyes. “Then you would have a bit of backup, maybe.”

A most puzzling proposal, but it would kill some time. Maybe Alicent could feel the rush of power, too. “Yeah, alright. After dinner.”

Chapter Text

So, with the plates squared away, they shuffled the arm chairs from the living room floor. Alicent had tied her hair back. They stood opposite each other, Alicent had her hands on her hips. Rhaenyra was just wearing a vest again, the tattoo of a dragon that climbed up her back was visible through the thin material. “Okay, so… what first?” Alicent asked.

Rhaenyra didn’t really know - she wasn’t teaching material. She guessed it would have to be punching, she would need to know how hard Alicent could punch. “Punch me,” Rhaenyra instructed. Alicent laughed.
“Put your hands up, then,” she said, and clenched her fists.
“No, no. Like, actually punch me. Wherever… stomach, preferably.” Rhaenyra rolled her shoulders back, and cracked her own knuckles. Alicent noted that the way she moved her neck was almost reptilian.

“I’m not punching you,” Alicent exhaled. She couldn’t just punch her arbitrarily.
“Why?”
“I’ve never hit anyone… properly, I’d rather hit your hands.” She said, her fists retiring to her side. Rhaenyra arched an eyebrow and walked over.
“Keep your fists up, you put them down and you’re going to be tackled.” She moved Alicent’s arms for her. “Now, punch me.”

Alicent squeezed her eyes shut, and willed her fist to make contact. “I can’t!” Her lips broke into a smile. Rhaenyra smiled, too. Oh, to need so much assistance just to hit someone.
“I knew you’d be no good at it,” Rhaenyra chided… she suspected this would work. “You’re too afraid of breaking my pretty face, then what will you stare at?”

Alicent was scowling. “Shut up.”
“I saw you watching me chop the wood… have you got a little crush?” Rhaenyra was circling Alicent with a devilish grin. Alicent knew what Rhaenyra was doing, and it was working. She was becoming angry. “You’re into me, I can see it when you watch me exercise. Always watching my muscles, like a schoolgirl.” Alicent was bright red, the tips of her ears practically glowing. “You want me to woo you, to pick you up and take you-”

Smack. Hard. On Rhaenyra’s mouth. Rhaenyra laughed, and touched her finger to her split lip. “Good!” She exclaimed, letting the endorphins rush through her. Alicent ran over, and took Rhaenyra’s hand away carefully.
“I’m so sorry - oh, God. You’re bleeding,” she touched the small cut, her own knuckles hurt from the impact. “Oh, no,” she mumbled, her thumb on Rhaenyra’s lip. She could smell coffee on Rhaenyra, and her lips were softer than they looked.

The blonde was sort of frozen by the touch, it was so intimate, and Alicent’s concern was so genuine. “Alicent, it’s fine,” she managed, but the words were unclear because Alicent’s thumb was pressed against the cut.
“No, it’s not fine.” Alicent took her thumb away, and stepped back. Rhaenyra was smiling, a trickle of blood on her chin.
“That’s the whole point of self-defence, princess. You hurt someone because they hurt you. I was trying to wind you up, to get a reaction out of you.”

In truth, Alicent had hit her because she was embarrassed, and wanted Rhaenyra to shut up. “I just wanted you to stop talking,” Alicent frowned, and went to wet a rag.
“And you achieved the goal, you have a good punch.” Rhaenyra took the rag from her, and pressed it to her lip.
“Thanks, I guess.” Alicent sat down in the chair, but Rhaenyra gestured to her to get up.
“We’ll go a different route, I’ll teach you how to get out of some holds.”

Rhaenyra had Alicent, her forearm pressed to her neck. She wasn’t squeezing, but Alicent could feel the pressure. Rhaenyra’s lips were against her ear. “Okay, so. What do you think you should do?”

Alicent swallowed, and tried to shrug her shoulders. Her knees felt weak again. “I guess I could try to punch you?” She felt Rhaenyra shake her head, and then breath tickle her ear.
“Grab my arm with both of your hands, and pull it from your neck,” Rhaenyra tensed her arm as hard as she could, to make it more realistic. Alicent’s hands were warm, and her chest was heaving.

She managed it, although she suspected Rhaenyra wasn’t giving her full strength, and ducked out from under Rhaenyra’s grasp. Then, gently, she pressed her fist to the blonde’s cheek. Rhaenyra grinned, and nodded. “Well done.”

“Let’s try again, but with a bit more strength.”

Rhaenyra had Alicent in a full headlock, Alicent dug her nails into the flesh of Rhaenyra’s forearm as she tugged it away from her throat. Rhaenyra was thrown forwards an inch with the power, and Alicent landed her fist against her cheek… softly. Rhaenyra found herself wanting more power, though.

“Good, good job,” Alicent was blushing at the praise. Rhaenyra loved the specific flush of red on the very tip of her nose. It was so scary, to feel so human, that she couldn’t think about it. She had a bystander effect, watching herself become human. She just assumed that something would stop it, eventually.

“Thanks,” Alicent stepped back. The sky had darkened.
“Tomorrow, I’ll teach you how to fire a gun,” Rhaenyra touched Alicent’s bicep lightly, in passing. Alicent smiled. “You really are a big softie,” Alicent taunted. Rhaenyra stopped, and turned.

It was meant to be an intimidating look, but it wasn’t. It just looked vulnerable. “Get that idea out of your head,” she scorned. This was still a suicide mission, right?
“Softie,” Alicent repeated, as Rhaenyra climbed the stairs.

Alicent had more nightmares than she ever did before. They had found safety in this cottage, but she knew it would be taken from her, eventually. Syrax was like a comforting blanket, though. Whoever tried to take it, would be taken. To be so up close and personal with death was bound to have repercussions. She slept long hours, but woke several times through bad dreams.

Rhaenyra had always had bad dreams, or no dreams at all, if she drank enough. She was sleeping better in the cottage, though. Perhaps she was tired, from her newfound shards of humanity piercing her from the inside. It was pleasant to feel human in such a controlled sense: it would end, the next time someone threatened the life of the redhead. Although, in their time together, she had begun to wonder if maybe… this didn’t have to be a suicide mission.

But then, when all the enemies were turned to ash and Alicent returned to her house in Kensington… there was nothing out there for Rhaenyra. Therapy, perhaps. Prison, more likely. She’d rather die than go to prison. Alicent wouldn’t want to maintain a relationship with such a psychopath, Rhaenyra thought. Although, she didn’t acknowledge the allegations of psychopathy. So, when all is said and done, Rhaenyra would have nothing again… this feeling of wanting to live had a timer, with an undisclosed countdown.

Rhaenyra had just resettled herself, when a scream echoed through the cottage. She leaped from the bed, and grabbed her gun on her nightstand. “Alicent?” Rhaenyra called, heading towards the other bedroom. She opened the door to find Alicent propped up, breathing heavily and shaking. “What is it?” Rhaenyra looked around - the room was empty, and the windows untouched. She dropped the gun to her sides.

“Bad dream,” Alicent was mortified, and flopped back down on the bed. Her eyes were leaking, even though she willed them not to.
“Oh,” Rhaenyra sighed. “What was it about?”

Alicent paused, and looked at the blonde. “You died.”
“Well, that’s hardly scream worthy,” Rhaenyra mocked, and turned to leave the room. How ridiculous, and eerie, considering her own earlier thoughts. Alicent couldn’t care if she lived or died, nobody cared. That’s why she was going to die.
“Oh, gee, thanks!” Alicent shouted, grabbing a pillow to cuddle. “Honestly, you’re so fucking cold.”

“Cold? What?” Rhaenyra replied, groggily. Now was not the time for bickering.
“Yeah, cold. Every time I think you’re normal and we could be friends, you do something like this. You’re not normal.” Alicent's words were meant to sting, but they couldn’t penetrate the pre-existing wounds.
“I know,” Rhaenyra sighed, and went through to her room.

Alicent had wanted comfort, and now she wanted an argument. She got out of bed, and stormed into Rhaenyra’s room. “You are such a freak!”
“Oh, Alicent. Just go away,” Rhaenyra put a pillow over her head.
“No! You’re cold, and you’re brutish and I hate you.”
“OK. I hate you, too.” Rhaenyra retorted. She didn’t hate her. And Alicent didn’t hate Rhaenyra.

“Would it be too much for you to give me a hug? I’m scared, and I just want a hug.” Alicent realised how pathetic she sounded.

Now, this opened a new wound inside Rhaenyra. This new human version wanted a hug, too. She just didn’t know how to get one.

“Just get in the fucking bed, then. Idiot.” She took the pillow from her head, and threw it aside.
“No. I don’t want one anymore.” If this were true, Alicent would have gone through to her own room. Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, and stood up again.

“Just…” She picked her up, and tossed her onto the mattress. Alicent bounced once, the ricochet caused her to giggle unceremoniously. “Get in the fucking bed.” She walked around to the other side, and pulled the duvet over them both. Rhaenyra rolled over to her side, and draped her arm over Alicent’s waist.
“I hate you.” Alicent mumbled, sleepily.
“Whatever, just don’t wake me up again.”

This could only end badly.

Mysaria had only been home once since that meeting, to shower and pack a bag of toiletries. Her hours were spent in a meeting room with Selmy and Tarth and a few other inconsequential people… Mysaria suspected they were just there to pad it out, so it didn’t look like exactly what it was: an information extraction. The last command that Mysaria had executed on their behalf was a fleet of drones, cast in all directions from the hotel where the woman had been grievously injured.

Mysaria had six feeds open on her screen, drones prowling the darkness, buzzing like bees in the silent air. There was nothing. The one that headed west was doomed to land in the sea, soon. The heat signatures picked up animals, and ramblers. Nothing that looked like Rhaenyra, or Alicent. She frowned.

This didn’t make sense to her. She knew Rhaenyra - and Syrax - well. This wasn’t her motive, even in her current self-pitying, sloppy state. It just wasn’t her. Ser Otto wasn’t as unreachable as a crowned prince, if she really wanted to avenge the girl in that way, she’d just kill him. She had taken revenge, and made it selfish. It was about punishing herself, now. Not getting back at the proverbial man, anymore. Getting back at herself.

The two ‘random’ attacks had been pinned on Blackwater’s company, decreed as wiping competitors off the market. They could loosely link them to Syrax, but it was too loose to send men. Mysaria knew that if they sent men, they would not return. And then Rhaenyra would be in real trouble. Nobody really cared about hitmen killing hitmen, it was akin to lions fighting in the wilderness. It was always going to happen.

Rhaenyra could not be linked to Alicent Hightower, Mysaria knew it in her gut. She wouldn’t kill this woman. Rhaenyra didn’t kill women, especially not for the sins of their fathers. Selmy was flipping through security feeds all over the country, trying to find something to pin the two together so he could send out men. There was nothing.

“We’ve got something!” Brienne called out, from her side of the room. Mysaria looked at the woman’s screen - a car, burned to a husk, on the local fire service’s database. A black BMW, in a field by Lincolnshire.
“Matches the one seen leaving the hotel,” Selmy commented, and looked to Mysaria.

She had gained their complete trust. Now, she planned to exploit it. In part, because they had wounded her pride. In addition, she just fundamentally did not believe that even in her drunken depression, Rhaenyra would kill Alicent Hightower.

“So, you know Syrax,” Brienne’s eyes were piercing, looking for weakness. “Where would she go?”

It would be treasonous, to lie to MI5 and aid and abet a fugitive of the law. Especially if Mysaria had misjudged, and she was going to kill Alicent. The Wyrm had to make a choice, and quickly. She scrunched up her face, as if she was thinking hard. She knew the answer.

“Syrax isn’t stupid… she’s tempestuous and violent, but she’s clever. She’ll have come back on herself, she won’t be in that location.”

Syrax was stupid. She was sleeping, fifteen minutes away from the burnt husk of the car, with her legs entangled with Alicent Hightower’s. Every time she stirred, she let a thought steep in her hazy brain: perhaps, if this is what life could be, it wasn’t worth dying.

“You’re sure?” Selmy said, heading back towards his spotless desk.
“You have to give her credit. She wouldn’t stay in the same location she burned her getaway vehicle.” Mysaria said, sternly. It was time to flesh the lie out with some detail, so she could go ‘home’. “She’ll have gone east, towards Suffolk… her mother was born there, she’ll have friends that can hide them until she decides to…” she swallowed, for dramatic effect, “dispose… of Alicent.”

It was a complete lie, not a single part of it was flecked with truth. For starters, Rhaenyra didn’t have friends. Secondly, her mother was born in the west. And thirdly, Rhaenyra was not due credit for her intelligence. Mysaria knew her former partner, she would very much be in that locale.

“I’ll send the drones east,” for someone who had just committed treason, Mysaria felt terribly calm. She typed in the command for the drones, and sat back at her desk. It seemed, for now, that both Selmy and Tarth believed her. It was nearing midnight, and Mysaria yawned.

“Go home, you’ve been invaluable to us.” Selmy said, kindly. Mysaria refused for a while, and then packed her bag.

Rhaenyra and Mysaria’s partnership had worked for more reasons than are listable, but it was the true brains and brawn partnership. Mysaria left the building, towards the car park. Her heels clicked on the ground, and her hair swayed behind her. She suspected she would be followed home, so she would do nothing out of the ordinary. She got in her car, and drove onto the empty roads. She was seven minutes away from the building, when a sleek black car merged into her lane. They must think she was born yesterday.

Three villages away from Rhaenyra, there was a man with mousy brown hair, nursing a pint in a pub. He looked the part, with a quilted bodywarmer and tweed flat cap on top of his head. He had decided to go by ‘Jack’, and claim he had recently taken a job at a local farm. He hadn’t drunk more than one sip of his beer, when he overheard three men having a drunken laugh.

“Two lesbians, right, show up at Pete’s with a wad of cash and rent his cottage,” the man’s accent was thick, and difficult to understand when slurred. “Anyway, one of ‘em, beaten black and blue… the other is that missing gal.”
“Did he ask if he can watch?” Another man bellowed, holding his fat stomach. They all roared with laughter. ‘Jack’ turned his head, to look at them.

It was a lead, and more so than the tracker he had found on the side of the road. And the bloodstained grass. He wouldn’t make the same mistake as the girl. No, no. He would kill the blonde first. He would watch this alleged cottage - when he found it, see when she left and where she went, and kill her first. And, quickly.

Chapter Text

Mysaria took her bags and stepped into the building, she didn’t once look back. To give them even an indication that she knew they’d followed would be a dead giveaway. She shut the door behind her, and jogged up the stairs.

She dropped her work bag on the floor, and turned the sitting room light on. That window faced out onto the street, so whoever was watching her would think she was just settling in for the night. The blinds were open, and the two men could see her moving in the room… they just couldn’t see what she was doing.

She was packing. A backpack, with her small silver revolver. The butt was white, glistening and unmarked. Never used. Cash, and clothes. Her heart rate remained steady, even though she herself was nervous. Unless she could work out some miraculous lie, she was putting her life on the line for someone she hadn’t seen in months… who may, or may not be attempting to kill the daughter of a man they had a passing run-in with.

Then again, if Rhaenyra was actually trying to kill Alicent Hightower, she could turn her in and keep her own neck. Claim she was acting undercover, that she didn’t want to alert Selmy and Tarth because they would insist she had to take back-up. That was a good plan, she thought. It was the one she would go with - if Rhaenyra was aiming to end the life of Alicent, then she was too far gone, anyway. Beyond reproach.

The Rhaenyra she last saw was teetering on that edge, existing in her own ocean of self-pity, blaming herself for not dying, basically. Pathetic, nihilistic.

After enough time had passed, around forty five minutes, Mysaria switched the lamps on in her sitting room, and turned the big light off. Then, she stood in front of the floor length windows - being careful to be seen holding a wine glass, she was certain they would be taking photographs. She turned, as if talking to someone. In her peripheral vision, she could see the agents parked at the nearest end of the road. She would have to go out the back, by the bins, and into the streets opposite to get a cab. If they were as good and untrusting as she suspected, her car would have a tracker on. Then, she shut the blinds.

“Come in, Evenstar,” the man’s voice crackled over the radio.
“Roger, what’s the verdict?” Brienne replied, tapping her fingers on her desk.
“Honourable. Wine, blinds shut, looks like she has company.” The man reported.
“Fall back.” Brienne ordered. Barristan Selmy let out a big sigh of relief, and sat back in his chair.
“See? You doubted me. She’s on our side.”

Mysaria was in a black cab, dressed in all black with her hair tied back into a precise bun. The lamps were still on in her living room. She had given her neighbour money, and a house key. He would turn them off in an hour's time.

Tomorrow morning, she would pull the simplest of tricks: a fake sick day. Too simple they would deem it beneath her. They wouldn’t notice until they inevitably sent someone to ‘check on her’, by which point she hoped to have found Rhaenyra simply having a romantic getaway with Alicent Hightower. No guns, no bruises and no kidnapping. She could then return to the flat, and fake a hospital trip or family emergency. They didn’t know anything about her family - and, to a point, nor did she - so her grandparents had died about eight times since she joined the workforce.

“Here, please,” Mysaria handed him a printed out picture of a pub, near where she assumed Rhaenyra would be. It was a good place to start.
“That’s gonna cost ya,” the man said, his hands on the wheel as he navigated through the city. Mysaria arched an eyebrow, and reached into the backpack. She handed him a stack of twenty pound notes.
“I trust… should anyone ask… I can buy your discretion, too?” Mysaria sat back in the cab, her head bowed. The man nodded, and stuffed the cash in his glovebox. This wasn’t his first rodeo, as he also turned his radio and GPS system off. It was one a.m., she expected to arrive at this pub at four a.m.

It would be closed, but the farmers would begin to mill around. It was better than nothing.

“Your hair is tickling me,” Rhaenyra croaked, shoving Alicent away from her. Alicent made a ‘hmph’, and shuffled back against the blonde. “Alicent, get lost,” Rhaenyra didn’t open her eyes.
“No!” Alicent replied, stroppily. “Shut up.”
“You shut up.” Rhaenyra puffed. She didn’t really want Alicent to move, she was comfy, even though her arm was dead under her head. She just had so much hair.
“Go away,” Alicent instructed. Rhaenyra rolled onto her back, cramped in the single bed.

Not moments later, Alicent put her head on Rhaenyra’s chest, her arm over her stomach. Rhaenyra’s cheeks flushed red - she had never been in this situation, even with Margaery. They didn’t really… cuddle. Rhaenyra wasn’t sure Alicent had intended to do it, but she didn’t seem to be moving herself away. She wrapped both her arms around her, which earned her a sleepy grin. This felt all too good, all too… worth living for. Worth fighting for, more so than unbridled rage. She felt guilty that she was somehow going to let Tamsin down if she didn’t die on this mission.

The idea that those who die live on in the stars, in the sea, in the breeze and swirling in lakes is charming. Comforting to those who have lost someone they loved, who carry their grief around like a pocketful of stones. It can offer reprieve from the guilt of just being alive, to see the ghosts of friends, family and lovers in nature. To think the stars are twinkling because someone up there is watching you, not because they’re balls of gas, dying.

Rhaenyra didn’t find comfort in apologising to the stars… she found canes, wrapping against her knuckles, every time she did it. The guilt got worse, the pit of despair deepened with water blacker than coal. Leeching her very soul from her, in the same way being a Dragon had.

The most terrifying thing was that the water was clearing, now she had stopped apologising to the stars. Now she had started looking at what was in front of her at the very moment. What was in front of her was sleeping, on her chest. Her head rising and falling with Rhaenyra’s chest, like they’d fallen into step and synchronised their lungs. The water muddied again when Rhaenyra remembered that this would end, either she would die or she would live and Alicent would go back to London, and she’d die in a different way.

“Fine, then,” Rhaenyra said, as if telling her own conscience to shut up and just let her have this… this touch, new and warm. Alicent hummed, and pressed her head into the crook of Rhaenyra’s neck.

Mysaria was two hours out from the pub, the man was navigating from road signs only. The roads were quiet, and the cover of night would serve as a mask for her movements. She watched from the tinted window as the trees went past at speed, the land turning from heavily occupied to vacant fields.

‘Jack’ had retired to his car, on the side of the road. He had one lead, and nothing else. Pete, in a village nearby, with two supposed lesbians renting his cottage. One was quite battered. That threw him off; his partner wouldn’t have battered her, it must have been someone else. Or, not his blonde. Not his bounty. Tomorrow, he would return to the pub and scour for more information. Perhaps buy them a bitter ale, and find out exactly where Pete resided. Tonight, he would polish his pistol.

Rhaenyra and Alicent would spend the small hours finding ways to wrap around one another - Alicent’s legs over Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra’s toned arms holding Alicent to her chest. Alicent didn’t have any nightmares, and Rhaenyra didn’t wake again until morning dawned.

At seven a.m., she woke up and crept from the bed, avoiding the one particularly squeaky floorboard at the foot of the bed. Downstairs, she filled the kettle with icy water from the tap, and turned the gas stove on. Rhaenyra watched the flame, controlled and blue. Fire could be contained, she thought. With the right equipment. The whistle sounded, and Rhaenyra took the tin container from the flame. She filled two mugs, one with her black coffee, and the other with Alicent’s beloved tea. The stairs were creaky, too. Old wood, constructed many years ago. In her room, Alicent was still sleeping.

“Oi,” Rhaenyra placed the mugs down on the chipped end table, and perched on the side of the bed.
“Go away,” Alicent moaned, and pulled a pillow over her head. Rhaenyra was smiling with her eyes, and removed the pillow. Alicent’s eyes were barely open, her thick eyelashes batting as she blinked sleep from her eyes. She didn’t even need to be told what was going on, she just reached for the mug on the side.

Was this romance? Was this what it meant? Rhaenyra didn’t know, she just knew it made the water translucent.

“It’s early, good time to practise shooting. Get up,” Rhaenyra tugged the duvet from Alicent, and tossed it aside.
“I genuinely don’t like you,” Alicent sipped the tea, the mug held by both of her hands. The room was cold.
“Whatever, princess,” Rhaenyra removed her shirt. Years of boot camp had made her rather comfortable with various states of undress.

Alicent looked at Rhaenyra’s back, exploring the textured skin with her tired eyes. There was a row of scars, falling just beneath her left rib cage. Rhaenyra could feel the eyes on her, and quickly pulled a t-shirt over her back. That was too much, too much vulnerability. “Pervert,” she said, as she took her mug and left the room. Her pistol was on the mantelpiece, silver and dirty. Alicent scrunched her nose at the insult, and finished her tea in bed. For her insolence, she would make Syrax wait.

Syrax… Well, Rhaenyra was in the garden. She had found a hay bale, and rolled it over to a tree. They couldn’t use cans, or anything metal. The noise would attract attention. She found an old newspaper, and stuck it to the tree with a butter knife. Alicent didn’t emerge for another twenty minutes. Her hair had been plaited either side of her head, and she was wearing grey jogging bottoms and trainers. Rhaenyra grinned - she did not look the part.

“Alright, c’mere,” Rhaenyra pointed to a spot on the floor. She had the safety on the gun, and Alicent nearly jumped backwards when Rhaenyra put it in her hands. “Relax, princess.” Rhaenyra stood behind her.

Alicent hated it, the feeling of Rhaenyra’s lips against her ear, giving her instructions. She hated the way it turned her to jelly, and made the air feel humid. She loved it, the dulcet tones travelling straight into her system. “Okay,” Rhaenyra moved behind her, adjusting Alicent’s arms. “Hand… no, like this,” Rhaenyra took Alicent’s hand, and moved her thumbs so they extended down the frame. “Strong wrist, yeah?” She instructed, her hand on Alicent’s, pressing it tighter to the metalwork.

Rhaenyra walked forward, and checked out the grip. The sun had not made its full appearance. In this lacklustre light, Alicent looked cold. Her cheeks and chest were red, and the cold air must have been a shock to her system, as she was breathing heavily. “Just, yeah…” Pale hands wrapped around Alicent’s again, moving her index finger so it sat on the trigger. “I’m gonna stand behind you, to take some of the recoil.” Rhaenyra positioned herself behind Alicent, her hands on the redhead’s hips.

“Get used to it,” Rhaenyra said, calmly.
“Are you coming on to me?” Alicent turned, looking over her shoulder with a dimpled grin.
“I meant the gun in your hands,” Rhaenyra replied, bluntly. Alicent rolled her eyes and looked ahead. She raised and lowered the gun, it was heavier than she’d always thought they looked in movies and TV shows.
“It suits you,” Rhaenyra whispered, into Alicent’s hair. Alicent swallowed, and fought the flush from her cheeks. Rhaenyra was a killer, this could never be some sort of wintry fling.

“Take the safety off,” Alicent instructed. Rhaenyra nodded, and moved forward to flip the little catch off. She quickly sidled back behind Alicent. She froze, when hands made their way under her coat. On the flesh of her hips, were Rhaenyra’s hands. They were warm on her skin, like Rhaenyra had magma instead of blood.
“Get used to it,” Rhaenyra said, again.
“I have, it feels fine.” Alicent said, looking down at the sight of the pistol.
“What? The gun, or my hands?”

“You’re the worst, really,” Alicent jabbed. Rhaenyra’s fingers tightened agonisingly on her hips. It was terrifying, and the hay bale didn’t deserve to be shot. Alicent aimed at the face on the newspaper, some micro celebrity she didn’t recognise. “I’m going to fire it,” Alicent warned. Rhaenyra’s grip tightened again, it felt like the fingertips were almost on the bone itself. Worse than that, it felt like there were naturally carved indents in her flesh, for Rhaenyra's rough fingertips.
“Go on.”

The trigger took more effort than Alicent would have assumed, and there was little noise when the bullet released from the barrel. Rhaenyra never took the silencer off. The ricochet sent her shoulders backwards, they collided with Rhaenyra’s collarbones. The blonde didn’t move, just held Alicent there with all of her might. It was nice to feel so anchored to a spot. To feel warmth on her cold skin, directly.

“Flick the catch,” Rhaenyra stayed where she was, it was rather comfortable. Alicent looked around the gun, and found the switch. “Good girl,” Rhaenyra said, and walked towards the tree. It was difficult to see from a distance, but Alicent’s shot had landed just to the left of the butterknife. Not bad, for a beginner. “Good job, princess,” Rhaenyra returned.

Much to Alicent’s horror, she received a boyish pat on the back. So much magnetism, and yet incredibly awkward when it comes to even the most basic of interactions. A pat on the back? For firing a gun? After she had touched Alicent’s skin like that? She studied the blonde with a look of utter perplexity. “Go ahead,” it was an order.

Rhaenyra showed her how to reload the pistol, and Alicent fired off five more bullets. Each got a little closer to the celebrity's face, especially when the sun made an appearance and lit the way for her. Alicent didn’t feel a rush of power, she just felt heat in her stomach every time Rhaenyra’s bony fingers took place on her skin.

Mysaria hadn’t been in the area long, it turns out there were lots of pubs with the same name in this area. It was approaching nine a.m., she had already called in her apologies to MI5 - she had a sibling over last night, it turns out they’re getting a divorce and really need support. A poor story, but could never be fact checked. It was too nominal to waste the manpower.

Nothing stuck out about the village, as she watched its inhabitants rise from the small coffee shop. The pub was in view, but still. It was due to open at midday. This could all be for nothing, she had chosen a random pub, in a random village, near where the car had been found burned. It was a shot in the dark.

The bullet had to land, though. Or, someone else’s would.

Chapter Text

“Hello,” Mysaria said, to the old barman. He smiled at her, obviously admiring her figure. He was not discreet in his leering.
“What can I get you, love?” He asked, his hands resting on the pump handles. Mysaria studied the pumps, and reached into her pocket. She placed one hundred pounds on the bar, and said:
“Access to your security cameras.”

He shook his head, “No cameras, love.” Mysaria figured that would be the case.
“Have you heard anything… odd, going on?” She had a second plan. She took the small leather wallet from her pocket, which contained her MI5 badge. His eyes widened - she hoped he would see the bribe as bait, baiting him into criminality.
“Odd, like what? Like matey next door not having planning permission?” The man joked. He had paled, significantly.
“No,” Mysaria made her way behind the bar, and into his store rooms. He didn’t stop her, she sat down in his office.

“Odd like, blonde hair… probably quite bruised, potentially with the woman on the news… the missing one?” The man pursed his lips.
“I heard Darren telling the boys that someone appeared at Pete’s farm, a few weeks ago. A pair o’ lesbians,” the man said, gruffly. Mysaria nodded, and tilted her head. A pair of lesbians? Sounds promising.

“Where do I find Pete?” She stood, and waited.
“Oh, er. Well.. are you going to arrest him?” It seemed there was a level of loyalty among misogynistic old men.
“No, I don’t care about him. Where is he?” Mysaria folded her arms.
“Well, you see, they come down ‘ere because there ain’t no pub in their village.” Mysaria didn’t care. “I was talkin’ to that new boy, Jack ‘is name is. He was askin’ about Pete, last thing yes’erday night. Odd man, too clean.” The man laughed, again. He had a smoker's laugh, chesty and wet. He clearly didn’t understand Mysaria’s question, his hearing must be faulty.
“Where do I find Pete?” She met his eyes. Wherever this Pete was, that would be where Rhaenyra was. He scribbled down an address of a farm, and Mysaria pocketed it. It was almost illegible, she could just about make out ‘Mole Town’.

‘Jack’ himself was just wandering into the village centre. The men who had the information he wanted were farmers - early drinkers. He meandered in, the usual barman wasn’t there. It was a younger boy, with a pimpled chin and dark brown hair. He didn’t look old enough to serve beer… or like he’d know where Pete was. “Where’s Gerry?” ‘Jack’ asked, pulling up on his usual seat at the bar. He adjusted his flat cap. The young boy shrugged his shoulders, as if he’d rather be chewing the sodden beer mats than talking.

Gerry, otherwise known as the bloated barman, was escorting Mysaria to Pete’s farm. She had taken the address, and then realised she had no mode of transport. On behalf of MI5, he was driving her. “Not often we get anythin’ like this in our villages,” Gerry was buzzing as he drove, he must have felt like a true patriot. If MI5 ever found out about this, he could be part and parcel to Mysaria’s treason charges. She didn’t feel like popping his bubble with that needle, though.

‘Jack’ could hear the group of farmers approaching, their accents blurring into one low Northern hum. They stared at him as they walked in, beady eyes trailing up and down him as if he was a foreigner. He was. ‘Jack’ did not reside in England, he lived everywhere and nowhere, all at once. A Faceless Man, a company of mercenaries. Hired by Criston Cole, to kill Alicent Hightower. Rhaenyra Targaryen, or the blonde one, was just a stupendous complication.

Mysaria and Gerry were rumbling through the flatlands in an old pick up truck, it sounded as if it may give up on them at any point. Gerry kept talking, about locals and their suspicious goings ons. Mysaria bobbed her head occasionally, and told him a completely false story about killing someone who fed her incorrect information. He turned green at that, and sped through the country lanes.

“Think we’re good to stop,” Rhaenyra said, taking the gun from Alicent’s hands. Alicent grinned, and walked to the tree to admire her handiwork.
“Wow, I am good,” Alicent pointed to the shots in the tree. Rhaenyra wished she could take a photograph, for some reason. Like she could look back on this.
“Yeah, alright. Don’t get cocky,” Rhaenyra walked towards the tree, tucking the gun in the waistband of her trousers. Alicent watched with a little too much interest, Rhaenyra’s tongue left her mouth to dart over the cut on her top lip.
“Why? Scared that I won’t think you’re so mega tough anymore?” Alicent shoved her. Rhaenyra’s grin was alluring - an invitation to a challenge. Alicent opened the envelope, and shoved her again.

Rhaenyra took Alicent’s arm from the air, and drove her against the tree. Then, two fingers jabbed Alicent in the softness of her stomach. “Stabbed you,” Rhaenyra commented, with an arrogant smirk. Alicent gasped at the poking, and then shoved Rhaenyra away again. Rhaenyra walked backwards, trying to assess what Alicent would do next.

Not in a million years would she have guessed that she’d be rugby tackled to the floor. Alicent mounted her, and made little ‘pow’ sounds as she tapped her hands against Rhaenyra’s face. At first, the motion had activated her fight or flight response… It should be noted that Rhaenyra hadn’t had a ‘flight’ button since she was twenty one years old. An imaginary fist always hammered the ‘fight’ button, it was almost pulp, now.

Alicent kept making the ‘pow’ and ‘bash’ sounds, like a child play fighting. Rhaenyra’s laughter shocked her. She took Alicent’s hands again, and held them flat against her chest. Alicent tried to wriggle free, to dig her knees into the side of Rhaenyra’s stomach. Nothing worked, her hands were pressed against the flat surface. She could feel Rhaenyra’s heart beating against her palm. Odd… up until the last few days, she hadn’t really realised she had a heart. And here it was, pumping against Alicent’s palm.

They stared at each other. “You’re a murderer,” Alicent said, as if to remind herself. Rhaenyra just nodded, sadly.
“I know.” The words made her stomach hurt, like she’d drank poison and it was burning through her.
“You killed that man, and you threw that woman from the stairs.” Alicent stopped fighting the hold on her hands.
“Yep, that’s me,” Rhaenyra broke her gaze, and looked to the treeline. It all made her feel unwell.
“You did it for me,” Alicent added, using her hand to turn Rhaenyra’s face back to hers. “To protect me.”

The poison abated. She had done it for Alicent, in the end. And, Tamsin. That was more complicated, though. Tamsin had been innocent, sweet. She wouldn’t have wanted so much destruction in the wake of her death. And Meleys, too. Meleys would have wanted Rhaenyra to find peace, somehow. The murder, the punching and the bleeding… it wasn’t peaceful. It was numbness, it was rage fuelled by grief and failure.

Alicent’s weight on her body was peaceful. Rhaenyra just didn’t know how to identify it.

Rhaenyra didn’t know what to say, the intensity of Alicent’s gaze made her want to disappear. “You kept your promise, too,” Alicent looked as confused as Rhaenyra felt.
“I’ll always keep my promise,” Rhaenyra furrowed her eyebrows, and Alicent touched the scar issued by Gregor Clegane. Rhaenyra didn’t shy away.

Mysaria was five minutes away, had she arrived five minutes ago, she would have seen Alicent pinned to a tree. It would have confirmed her worst fears.

Gerry waddled around the car, and opened the door for her. She nodded, and got out. “Thank you for your service,” Mysaria said, with a courteous smile. The man saluted - a bizarre choice.
“Pete will be in there, probably drunk as sin,” the man said, as he clambered back into the car. Mysaria looked to the farmhouse. It was a massive bit of land, acres upon acres with various bits of equipment strewn around.

She could see, in the distance, barely visible through the emerging fog, a small grey cottage with a poorly kept thatched roof. There was a car parked outside it, an old Vauxhall. She couldn’t see any occupants, though. Her knuckles were on the door, once and then twice. No answer. Mysaria pushed the door - locked. She would have to wait, and hope Rhaenyra didn’t see her first.

Rhaenyra was rather distracted. Alicent was still on top of her, despite the fog creeping around them. “I don’t know what to do about you,” the redhead mumbled, her bottom lip between her teeth seconds after speaking. Her brown eyes sparkled, like someone had flecked golden paint on the irises.
“Get off me, perhaps?” Rhaenyra proposed. She felt disquieted by the whole interaction. She couldn’t afford to think she wanted to live too often: it would unsettle the monster, and either make it worse, or get rid of it. And if it went, so did her ability to protect Alicent. That’s what Rhaenyra thought, anyway.

Her next move did nothing to help Alicent’s confusion. She wrapped her arms around Alicent, and got up from the wet ground. Alicent’s legs were around her waist. She’s a murderer, she’s a killer with pretty eyes and a handsome jaw. And soft hair, and a heart. A killer with a heart that had pumped against her palm. A killer so strong Alicent felt like she was a speck of dust being moved by a powerful gust, a killer with warm hands and minty breath.

Alicent unwrapped her legs, and her feet hit the ground, softly. She inhaled, and walked away without a word. She went to her room - her room, not the one she had slept in last night, and sat on the edge of the bed. Staring into the emptiness, trying to work out why exactly she wanted to kiss an obvious psychopath.

Gerry had watched for the fifteen minutes Mysaria had been knocking on the door. No answer. “I guess he’s not in,” Mysaria said, turning on her feet. Gerry shrugged, and drove off. As if he was concerned he would bear the brunt of this misgiving.

Mysaria respected his reluctance to be caught in any sort of crossfire, and pulled her lockpick from her bag with delicate touch. It had been a while since she’d done it, and if Rhaenyra saw her, the whole thing was blown.

Mysaria had granted herself entry. “Hello, Peter,” she shouted, sitting down on his sofa. There was a clattering upstairs, and stomping down the stairs.
“Wassthisabout?” The man had a bat in his hands, but he dropped it when he looked at her.
“It’s about those ‘lesbians’ you’re harbouring,” Mysaria flashed her badge, and he put his head in his hands.
“She said she’d kill me if I didn’t let ‘em have the cottage,” Pete gave Rhaenyra up too easily, but she didn’t think he was lying. It was a threat right from Rhaenyra’s playbook.
“What does she look like?”

“Tall, thin, was all battered and bruised. Looks like a bloke. Girl is pretty, red hair and brown eyes.” Mysaria sighed, and clenched her jaw. There would be an explanation, she was sure. Rhaenyra wasn’t going to kill Alicent Hightower.

“Can I buy you boys a drink?” ‘Jack’ asked, approaching the table of ageing men. He had misjudged the acceptance of village-folk. It was a myth, that you’d be accepted with open arms and treated as a local. They all looked at him as if he had antennae on his head.
“No, you’re alright, ta.” They went back to their conversation, and ‘Jack’ went back to the bar. He waited twenty minutes, and then the door opened to reveal Gerry, grinning and bright red.

‘Jack’ was losing patience, his hand on the pistol in his pocket.

Mysaria had been in Pete’s house for sometime, inspecting it. She couldn’t bring herself to go to the cottage, but she watched it from a distance. She could almost make out Rhaenyra’s figure in the windows. “Want me to take you down?” Pete offered, pulling his boots on.
“No, thank you. I’ll wait.” She was at the window in his kitchen.
“You after the blonde or the redhead?” Pete asked. Mysaria gave him a look to say she wouldn’t be answering.

“Good morning?” ‘Jack’ queried, as the old man took his position behind the bar.
“Aye, just been up to see Pete.” He grumbled, in the way they always grumbled to strangers.
“Is that… Weirwood Pete?” ‘Jack’ was becoming desperate.
“Who the bloody ‘ell is Weirwood Pete?” Gerry laughed, “No, Moletown Pete.”

Pete - Moletown Pete - had left to muck out his pigs in the field near the cottage. He had been warned that if he spoke to the occupants, he would be in great danger. Mysaria watched as he kept his distance, nothing had moved inside of the cottage. She had been here an hour and a half now, and not a soul had emerged from the red painted front door.

Alicent remained in her bedroom, sad and befuddled. Her brain was like a series of sudoku puzzles, and she suddenly had the intellect of a newborn baby. Nothing made sense, and it felt like nothing would make sense no matter how hard she put her brain to work.
Rhaenyra was downstairs, sharpening her dagger on an old knife sharpener. She was certain it wouldn’t do anything, but it was distracting her from thinking about Alicent being sat on top of her.

Mysaria had moved upstairs, and was looking out of the windows facing the road. A black car was creeping along, the driver peering on to the lands. He halted, and Mysaria ducked down. Black cars were akin to black cats, for the superstitious former agent… a bad omen. She peered up, to see him stowing the car in some lands about half a mile away, She watched as he made his way over the fields.

Curiously, he didn’t cross into the farm's territory, he went around the sides, into the forestry. She lost sight of him for a while, and then saw him crouching opposite the side of the cottage, just behind the treeline. Waiting, for something.

Chapter Text

Mysaria was in Pete’s bedroom - a smelly room, but it offered her the best view of the cottage, and the man. If Rhaenyra was aware of him, she wasn’t acting. If she was here. insides presented the same feeling they had when Ulf White had started shuffling and fiddling. This was bad.

Mysaria felt as if she was watching a python coil in the treeline, she had seen it in the field. He wasn’t going to go in, guns blazing. He was waiting for something specific. She suspected he was waiting for Rhaenyra to appear, but why? What business did this mousy haired man have with Rhaenyra? Was he sent by MI5?

Alicent had been in her bedroom for quite a while, sitting on her bed staring into the space before her as if answers may come from the dust. She didn’t even know what question she wanted an answer to. She wanted a cure, for the feelings that emerged in her stomach when she sat on top of Rhaenyra - or, Syrax, as she still knew her.

The confusion had started as a small niggle, when they were in that field and Alicent’s hands were bleeding onto the grass. It got worse when Rhaenyra started bringing her tea, in her pale scarred hands with steam floating up before her face. In her pyjamas - just boxers, and a white tank top. Despite the cold that lived inside this cottage, in the very stone, seeping and sending shivers over Alicent’s body, Rhaenyra always ran warm.

And that made her all the more confusing, she was always warm to the touch, and yet it seemed her heart was colder than the Arctic itself. Her eyes could be cold, too. But when they were warm, it was like standing in front of an open fire, basking in the flames that could creep up your clothing if they got wild enough. Just an all around confusing experience - and that was without thinking about the fact someone had put a hit out on her.

Alicent, a clever woman, suspected it was her husband. As of now, she had nothing to prove this, other than his financial unhappiness and curiosity about her previous employment and assets ruled out in their pre-nup agreement. It could also be someone who had a run in with her father, the Royal correspondent - known as ‘the Hand’, to most people. He served the crown loyally, but to his own ends.

Eventually, knuckles rapped on the door. Alicent cleared her throat, and sat up. “What is it?”
Rhaenyra had a rather flagrant disregard for courtesies and boundaries, she entered the room seconds after knocking. She was frowning.
“Why are you sulking?” She sat down on the edge of the bed, her hands in her lap.
“Sulking?” Alicent repeated, with narrowed eyes. What an irritating choice of words.
“Yeah, sulking. Staying up here, it’s boring down there.” Rhaenyra looked at the redhead, her curls freed from their plaits and sitting prettily on her shoulders.
“Oh, forgive me for wanting some time away from the mental person I’m stuck with,” Alicent didn’t mean it to wound Rhaenyra.

It did, though. “Alright, fuck off, then,” Rhaenyra stood from the bed. “Why are you making everything so difficult?”

“Difficult? There are people trying to kill me, Syrax.” Alicent swung her legs over the side of the bed. It would be in the interests of them both to stay upstairs. Thankfully, Rhaenyra didn’t move from the doorway.
“I know there are people trying to kill you, Alicent. In case you haven’t noticed… they’re dead,” she punctuated her reply with an eyeroll.
“Yes, they’re dead! You killed them,” Alicent reminded her, with a poke to her chest. “I shared a bed with a murderer.”

It was one of those thoughts that make you want to scrub yourself with bleach. Sharing a bed with a murderer, and feeling so happy about it at the moment. “It’s… it’s against my morals, everything I stand for.”
“Okay, so don’t share my bed again,” Rhaenyra didn’t seem fazed by this - she was, deeply, fazed by this. She had loved having Alicent in her bed, it was the only time she’d thought that she wanted to live. Alicent’s already downturned lips made more of a move towards her chin. “Oh, God - what?” Rhaenyra ran her hands through her hair. Girls are so complicated.

“I want to share your bed, that’s what is confusing me.”
“So share it, don’t share it - just stop thinking about it, and do it,” Rhaenyra told her. It was cumbersome, to think about every little thing with such incredulous detail.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Alicent huffed.
“What, sharing a bed with me?” Rhaenyra’s lips spread into a grin. Alicent wanted to punch her, so she shoved her instead. Less violent, still gets the message across. Rhaenyra shoved her back, gently.
“You’re supposed to be protecting me, you can’t shove me,” Alicent retorted, shoving her again.
“I can shove you when you're being annoying.”
“I'm annoying? How am I annoying?”

“You just think too much, Alicent. About everything. Where are your impulses? What do you really want to do, right now?” The question caused Alicent to widen her eyes.
“Punch you,” was the answer Alicent gave.
“Do it, then… shut me up.” Rhaenyra stood back, her arms outstretched either side of her. Alicent clenched her fists. She wasn't a violent person, though. She didn't want to punch the blonde person, to put a bruise on those pretty carved cheekbones.

Instead, she kissed the skin. It was warm, as expected, and soft. Rhaenyra's brows furrowed when she felt it. Alicent planted her feet flat on the ground, and looked up. Rhaenyra's stomach was fluttering, like she had a barrel of a gun pressed to her face. There was no hard metal, though. Just lips, wet against her face.

“That's not a punch,” She whispered, putting her hands in her pockets.
“Did you really want to be punched?” In Rhaenyra's warped mind, a bruise would've been better than the tender touch.
“Yes,” the answer was truthful, but Rhaenyra still couldn't meet Alicent's eyes.
“Right, okay. Freak.” Alicent determined, and stepped back inside of her room.

Much to her dismay, Rhaenyra followed. “You're like a kicked puppy met some kind of mega serial killer.” Alicent mused.
“Do it again,” Rhaenyra said, tugging Alicent to her feet from her position on the bed.
“No, you had your chance.” Slender arms folded over her chest.

‘Jack’ had his plan in hand, he would wait for the blonde one to leave, or be downstairs alone. He couldn't risk anything, he had to be precise. The farmlands seemed mostly dejected, unmanned. Pete had left his house some time ago, his car rumbling off towards the pub, no doubt. No lights were on in either house, the curtains mostly drawn in the man's. The cottage sat still, like it existed as a photograph only. He had to rely on the idea that at some point, the blonde one might want some fresh air. His gun was in the internal pocket of his bodywarmer. Criston Cole had come to him a month or so ago, with a business card in between his fingers. He had heard about them on the Internet, it would seem. He treated it all as if it was some big joke, until he confirmed that the company could help him achieve his goal. Then, he lamented about his withholding wife and his struggles.

‘Jack’ didn't care, he wasn't interested in the man's story. His woes were of little regard. He intended to cash in the bounty, and return the money where it belonged: in the world. Helping, not squirrelled away for a rainy day. An admirable cause, but blood money was still blood money, and murder still murder. He had sent the sniper at first, deeming it that the woman would be moving alone and therefore easy to pick off.

The sniper had reported that she had assistance, and dangerous assistance at that. And now, the sniper lay in a hospital awaiting questioning. If she ever woke up, that is. ‘Jack’ didn't really care if she woke up or not, he was just offended at the hubris of the voice down his radio. As if he should be scared of a retired Dragon.

The moral compasses of assassins are broken, smashed under their fists and bullets. What one deemed normal, another deemed the highest of sins. Rhaenyra killed men, because they would kill women, otherwise. ‘Jack’ killed whoever he was told to, they would all die eventually, anyway. He then used the blood money to help as many people as he could. Rhaenyra didn't care for money, at all, but was teetering her life on the edge for what he could only assume was a virtual stranger.

“Fine, don't do it again,” Rhaenyra wafted her hand, and turned to walk away. A cold hand touched her own and pulled her back.
“Go away,” Alicent said.
“I was going, princess. Then you pulled me back.”

In many ways than Alicent would ever know. Rhaenyra was going, going insane, going to die. Then, the protection order of Alicent pulled her back. And now, Alicent herself was pulling her back from the idea that she wasn’t human, that she had to die for her sins.

On her tiptoes, Alicent kissed Rhaenyra's other cheek… the scarred one. The skin was newer, more like touching the inside of her cheek then the outside. “There,” Alicent stood down. Rhaenyra grinned, dimpled cheeks flushed red. “Aw, look at you, psychopath with a crush,” Alicent jostled her.
“Oi, no.” Rhaenyra said abruptly, “I don’t have a crush on you. I’ve never had a crush on anyone.”
“Anyone? Ever? Really?” Alicent was genuinely surprised, Syrax seemed like the type to have a woman in every port.
“No, no crushes.” Margaery hadn’t been a crush, she’d been crushing.

‘Jack’ was getting fed up of watching, the sun was going down and nothing seemed to be happening - were they even in there? A light was bleeding down the staircase he could see through the window that overlooked the sink.

“Well, as fun as it is humbling you, I’m hungry.” Rhaenyra said. Alicent’s face looked pretty in every light, her mahogany eyes always shone brightly, even in these shadowy times. Rhaenyra bent down, and kissed Alicent’s cheek. A hand automatically rested on Rhaenyra’s ribs. “C’mon.”
“I’ll be down in a second, just going to freshen up.”

Alicent walked into the bathroom, the window overlooked the small allotment behind the stony cottage. The sky was tinted with orange, like the sun was refusing to go down without leaving its mark. Alicent splashed her face with cold water from the taps, and looked at her reflection. There was no sign Rhaenyra had touched her, no mark on her skin, no bruise in the shape of a heart. Just her cheek. It looked normal, like it had before. She didn’t feel normal, though. She felt in turmoil.

Rhaenyra was just doing what she wanted to, as she always did. She had wanted to kiss Alicent’s cheek. And her neck. But she settled for just the cheek. It was a test-drive of her ability to be tender, a trial run of being affectionate. It had felt good, Alicent’s skin smelled of shea butter. Alicent thought this must be some sort of Stockholm Syndrome, she saw it all the time at work. She didn't want Rhaenyra, she was just all she knew right now. That must be it, Stockholm Syndrome.

Downstairs, Rhaenyra looked over to the treeline. Her eyes scanned it, and when complete, she continued about her business. She set the kettle to boil, and slipped her shoes onto her bare feet. Alicent used the fresh herbs from the garden every night, and she enjoyed gathering them. It felt like she was contributing to the meal, even though she didn't know how to boil pasta.

The chef in question was staring out the window, trying to picture her life in a year's time. Back in London, with friends. Criston would be gone, she knew that much. But it was hard to picture a future without a bruised, smarmy blonde by her side. When the threat died, so would her want for Rhaenyra - it had to. And then, she could be normal. Yeah, that sounded good. She just needed to get through the next… however long.

Alicent watched Rhaenyra wander down to the little patch of bushes at the fencepost. She was whistling, and weaponless.

‘Jack’ started to move, pistol in hand. He needed to be close, to make sure he didn't miss. Alicent saw a shape, beginning to move in the treeline. She stared, as if watching a monster creep from under a bed. The scream caught in her throat like tangled chainlinks, and her knuckles pounded on the dirty glass to get Rhaenyra's attention. The blonde didn't look, or couldn't hear, she just kept whistling. Alicent left the bathroom in a rush, and ran to Rhaenyra's room to find her pistol. It wasn't there, so she ran downstairs. Her heart was pumping her blood at an unsustainable rate, her fitting tripping over themselves.

Bang. Just one gunshot, ringing out across the lands and setting the crows to flight. It wasn’t silenced, and Rhaenyra didn’t have a gun with her. Rhaenyra’s gun was in Alicent’s trembling hands.

Alicent could sense it, the breeze would carry news of the death of a Dragon. Alicent’s own would follow, she was certain. Game over.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra heard the bang, and turned. Her hands fell to her stomach, searching all over for a wet patch. There was nothing, just dry, recently laundered cotton. Rhaenyra looked through the fading light. There was a man on the floor. And someone behind him, advancing with a small revolver outstretched. Rhaenyra felt it - what the other’s must have felt. Death, over her like a stormcloud.

Alicent, on top of her in the garden, chiding her in the car, kissing her cheek. Mysaria, rebuking her incessant advances with a charming smile and a witty repartee. Nelly, on the bike. Jeyne, in the fields. Her memories were just a collection of women, smiling and humouring her ridiculousness. They had to stop flashing, though. They were forced to, by Rhaenyra advancing on the assailant. The man on the floor groaned, and grabbed her ankle as she walked past.

She could see him reaching for his gun, his shirt sodden with blood and skin pale. “I don’t want to die,” Rhaenyra kicked him in the ribs, and then collapsed onto him.

Mysaria watched as Rhaenyra’s fists drilled into his face - he must have died about forty seconds ago, but Rhaenyra kept punching. Her face was spattered with his blood, and the sounds were stomach churning. Rhaenyra’s sobs sounded like alien noise, she had never heard them before. But there they were, in the night air. Each punch punctuated with a sob, her salty tears carving themselves a path through the blood on her cheeks. The cheeks Alicent had kissed, mere moments ago.

“Rhaenyra,” Mysaria said, putting her gun away as she approached.

Alicent could hear odd noises, squelching and sobbing. No more gunshots, no man with a sinister smile invading their cottage. “Rhaenyra,” she heard, as she made her way to the back door. That must be Syrax’s name, her real name. Alicent swallowed, and raised the gun as she left the building.

Rhaenyra felt it, she had seen what all the others had seen. Death, the visions of all your happy memories flashing before your eyes. She had too few, and she wanted more. She didn’t want to die. She had never wanted to die, just hadn’t wanted to live alone, with her failure. But now, she wasn’t alone. She collapsed from the man, and crawled away. Her hands were caked in blood, and neither other woman could look at the body on the floor.

He was, now, literally a Faceless Man. No discernible features, even if you shined a torch on him.
“Rhaenyra,” Alicent observed the dark haired woman stepping nearer with intrepid steps, as if the Dragon may roar in her face. Rhaenyra didn’t look up, she just held her head in her hands and cried.

She couldn’t look up, she heard Mysaria’s voice, but she couldn’t look at her. Without her, she would have failed again and would have died in the garden, with sprigs of rosemary in her fist. Weaponless, not a blaze of glory like she’d thought she wanted… a killing, cold and calculated. Then, Alicent would have died in a cottage, alone. Scared. Unprotected.

Alicent tilted her head, watching Rhaenyra. It was excruciating to watch. Rhaenyra was a killer, she had turned that man’s face in on itself, but she was responding like a human being. This wasn’t the work of Syrax, it was the work of fear. She had been scared, and had fought. It was a human response, the adrenaline crash of nearly dying. Alicent had experienced it, too.

There have been several times Rhaenyra Targaryen has nearly died, and never once has she had this reaction; her body racked with sobs. Her surgeon still hands shaking on her head, her throat sore and chest painful.

The dark haired woman turned to look at Alicent. Alicent didn’t care to know if she was here to kill her. Her own steps were slow, her bottom lip trembling as she approached the ball of anguish by the fence posts. Just like Rhaenyra had done for her, Alicent knelt down in front of her. The grass was wet with dew, she checked. It wasn’t blood.

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent tried the word on her tongue. It was almost familiar, like she’d known it in a past life. The blonde just shook her head, and covered her ears. “Rhaenyra, look at me.” Alicent said, putting her hands on Rhaenyra’s. They were wet. It was blood. She had to choose to ignore it.
“Didn’t want to die,” Rhaenyra mumbled, in between deep breaths.
“I know, I know, sweetheart,” Alicent removed her hands from her ears. “Rhaenyra, you’re okay, I promise.”

Mysaria watched. MI5 couldn’t be more wrong about Rhaenyra’s intentions here. Most of her questions were answered in this interaction… it was not commonplace to call your captor ‘sweetheart’. This was soft, this was love. It was also an incredible complication - she would have to explain her absence to Selmy and Tarth, she had no fallback plan. There was still the matter of why these two were placed together to begin with.

Alicent held Rhaenyra’s hands in her own until Rhaenyra’s sobs subsided.

Exhibiting such raw emotion with no warning, in front of the woman she was charged to protect, was mortifying. She wished the ground would reclaim her body to fertilise the herbs, she couldn’t look at Alicent. Her hands were being held, and that was enough to keep the soil from climbing her body. “Sorry,” Rhaenyra muttered, extracting a hand to wipe her eyes.
“You’re fine, you’re fine,” Alicent said, pushing Rhaenyra’s hair back from her eyes.
Terrible news, really. World-ending. Rhaenyra could feel it inside of her, writhing under the weight of something new. The monster was breathing its last breaths, smothered by a pillow. The feathers in the pillow were a cacophony of hope, loyalty, and something else… Something unidentifiable, like the faceless man on the floor.

In many ways, this would make Rhaenyra more dangerous: nobody fought like someone who wanted to live. Mysaria could see it between them, the pulses and the charges, bringing each other back from the brink. It made her cringe. MI5 thought they were hunting an inhuman, psychopath. They were hunting a lovesick puppy, gnashing its teeth at anyone who advanced on its owner.

Rhaenyra pushed herself up to stand, and looked at Mysaria. “What were you even doing here?” She asked, approaching her with a set jaw. There were two clean streaks on her face, one on each cheek. Her hands, though. Her hands were red, like she’d washed them with paint.
“I- I’ve been watching, all day. From the house.” Mysaria answered, squaring her shoulders.
“Watching?!” Rhaenyra repeated, incredulously.

Mysaria looked at Rhaenyra - in her bloodstained state, she looked similar to their last meeting. But she couldn’t have been more different. She was showing emotion, not reeling off her most recent kill as if it was a novella she’d read on a flight. She had killed to survive, she wasn’t surviving to kill.

“Yes, watching,” Mysaria said. “He’d been sitting in the treeline all day, and not once did you go out to inspect! Not once did you suspect anything!” She couldn’t stop the beration. Rhaenyra widened her eyes, which then fell on Alicent. Alicent was looking at her own hands, the transferred blood on her olive skin in the lowlight scared her. “You’re sloppy!”

“Oh, I’m sloppy?” Rhaenyra’s grin was crooked. “How was I supposed to fucking know some geezer would decide to lurk in trees? Why are you even here? Just decided to follow me across the country?”
“Does it not concern you that you were so easy to find?” Mysaria quipped, her arms folded. Rhaenyra considered her, and then rubbed her forehead.
“Fuck,” she conceded. The Wyrm was right, she should have checked… She was too busy canoodling with Alicent.
“And then you didn’t even have a weapon on you?” Mysaria swatted the blonde, her hand colliding with Rhaenyra’s ear. “Stupid, and sloppy.”

Alicent only paid them any attention when they started hugging. It was a tight hug, friendly. Maybe more than friendly, a thought that prompted her to pick at her fingernails.

Mysaria held Rhaenyra in place, and whispered: “Do you know who she is?”
“Her name is Alicent, I’m looking after her. Working for Blackwater, someone put a hit on her.”
“Alicent Hightower, Rhaenyra. MI5 think you’re going to kill her.”

Rhaenyra broke the hug, and looked back at the redhead. Mysaria frowned.

Hightower. Like Otto. A detail Alicent had omitted during their travels. Alicent stood there, blood on her hands. Inside Rhaenyra’s head, was a loop of her name rolling from the redhead’s tongue. It was natural, like she was born to whisper ‘Rhaenyra’ into empty air. She didn’t look like him, and she certainly didn’t act like him.

“What?” Alicent’s question was innocent. Rhaenyra cocked her head, her eyes swimming with tears, again.
“I could never kill her, Mysaria.” She turned back to the shorter woman. Another tear ran down her cheek. “She’s not her father.”
“Well, MI5 think you’ve kidnapped her with intent to kill. She’s marked as a missing woman, and half the village folk know she’s here… they’re only lying because they’re scared of you.”

Their world was crashing around them. Alicent couldn’t hear what they were talking about, her ears were still ringing from the gunshot. She stepped towards them, giving the man a wide berth.

“How do you know what MI5 think?” Rhaenyra tugged Alicent to her side.
“I’m working for them… or, I was. Turns out they wanted information on you, and Blackwater.” Rhaenyra scoffed.
“And did you give it to them?” Her tone was sharp.
“Of course not.” The woman replied, her eyes were almost black when they landed on Alicent.

They stood in silence, like some sort of Wild West verbal stand-off. “So, what? Are they onto me?”
“They were, I sent them in the other direction. They’ll have worked out where I am, by now. We need to leave.”

Mysaria made headway, her feet stomping through the grass. She had to work out a way to remain on the inside, feed them enough intel that they would forgive her for her disappearance. Something about the Blackwater, perhaps give them his business card. Say she found it in her documentation from her firing.

Rhaenyra’s eyes lingered on Alicent’s, searching. They were searching for a sign that Alicent still ever-so slightly feared her. There was nothing, not so much as a narrowing of eyes or a glint of uneasiness. “C’mon, princess,” Rhaenyra said. She took Alicent’s hand, and led them back to the cottage. Mysaria was looking around, trying to remove any traces of DNA.

“Go pack,” Alicent headed upstairs, leaving the two old friends to talk. Their belongings were scattered far and wide, and stuffed into whoever bag was nearest. All she could smell was blood, and the sight of her hands made her long for an anti-sickness tablet and a piece of mint chewing gum. Alicent’s own eyes began to fill with tears as the adrenaline subsided, her heart rate slowing as she stuffed Rhaenyra’s dirty clothes into her holdall.

“So - what? What are you going to do?” Mysaria paced in the opposite direction to Rhaenyra. “I have to go back, I can throw them off from the inside… if they believed me, at all.”
“I don’t know - I don’t know what to do, there’s two left. Blackwater said four, plus a company. I don’t know if I’ve met the company yet, but there’s one sole worker left.”
“That’s doable, if you stop being sloppy. I presume Kensington and the paralyzed girl were your work?” Mysaria paused. Rhaenyra confirmed. “So, two more.”
“Two more. And apparently, the whole of M I fucking five.” Now, Rhaenyra stopped in her tracks.

Alicent had finished packing, and was listening from the top of the stairs.

“Who put the hit out?” Mysaria’s voice rang out. Silence fell.
“I don’t know… I met her at his pub, Blackwater Bay. Her husband had…” It was slow, but the bulb above Rhaenyra’s head flicked on.
“What’s his name?” Mysaria was devising a plan: she could suggest they question the husband. She could get an answer from him.

“Criston Cole,” Alicent held the bags in her hand, and descended the rickety stairs. Both women looked at her - Rhaenyra’s eyes were red, and puffy. The light only made her look worse. “It’s okay, I thought it was him all along. Just… I guess you don’t want to believe it.”

“Okay, I’ll get the agency to bring him in for questioning… it’ll distract from you both, anyway. What’s your plan, if they find you?” The question was aimed at Rhaenyra, who laughed. Menacingly, like Syrax possessed her for a moment.
“Kill the fucking lot of them,” she said, pushing her hair back. She walked over to the sink, and Alicent and Mysaria shared a worried look.

Whether it was tomorrow, in a week's time, in a year's time. Rhaenyra was going to kill Criston Cole, and then Bronn Blackwater, and his whole organisation of hired guns. One by one, leaving enough space that the next one knew she was coming. She’d kill the King, if it meant Alicent was safe.

“You need to think cleverly, Rhaenyra,” Mysaria put a hand on the blonde’s arm. It was shaken off. “What were your orders from Blackwater?”
“Kill the competitors, and then stow Alicent away somewhere.”

Mysaria pondered, and squirted soap onto Rhaenyra’s hands as she scrubbed them. “Kill the competitors, as agreed. Don’t let him know that you know.”

Mysaria walked away, and Alicent joined Rhaenyra at the sink. She scrubbed her own hands until the water hurt on the redness, then she took the other’s and scrubbed them, too. The blood went down the drain, and Rhaenyra’s hands were pale again. “Mys,” she turned. Watching the blood leave her hands had made her return to a somewhat level state. “Thank you.”

“It’s fine. Don’t be sloppy again. Do your job. I’ll do what I can to keep them off you.” They made a handsome couple, she noted. Albeit stupid, living in some sort of romance novel whilst pythons curled in the treeline.
“Yes, ma’am.” Rhaenyra nodded. “Want a lift to a train station? We’re going back to the city.”

It was stupid, like everything Rhaenyra proposed. But so stupid it would work… hiding in plain sight, as Dragon’s did, as MI5 themselves did. It would look suspicious if Mysaria drove into the city, considering she did not drive out. “Okay.”

Chapter Text

With their bags in the boot of the beat up Vauxhall, they dropped Mysaria ten minutes away from a train station. “Rhaenyra,” she said, leaning through the passenger door. “I can’t hold them off forever… you may not hear from me, for a while. Be safe.” To be candid, she wasn’t sure she could hold them off… at all.
“I will, Mys. Good luck.”

As far as farewells go, it was cold, Alicent thought. Rhaenyra pulled the door shut, and drove off. There was an uncomfortable silence, no quips shared. Rhaenyra’s eyes were sore, all she wanted to do was pull over and go to sleep. Alicent’s soul was weary, it was one thing to know inside that the man you married wanted you dead, another to admit it out loud.

“I won’t let them touch you, Alicent. Any of them.” Rhaenyra’s voice was wavering, threatening to break the dam and let more tears flow. Despite the shakiness, Alicent believed her. That was the worst part, she was a killer, to her very core.
“I know,” she almost said ‘Syrax’, but that name didn’t suit her knight anymore.

They drove in silence for two hours, the night sky pitch black and the roads empty. “We’ll have to stop on the side of the road, to sleep.” Rhaenyra announced, as she turned down a winding lane with passing places ploughed into the sides of the roads. Alicent just nodded, she didn’t feel like speaking.

It wasn’t Stockholm Syndrome, she knew it. This murdering blonde had her hands on her heart, tapping commands in morse code, instructing her to fall in love. It hurt, it made her heart twist in her chest and her head throb. Never had she seen someone more destined for death - whether it was her own, or someone else’s. She was followed by the Grim Reaper… or perhaps, she was the Reaper herself. Despite this, Alicent wanted her.

Rhaenyra drove into one of the passing places, and parked the car. She looked in the rearview, at Alicent. Then, she got out and went around to the boot. First, she took out her pistol, and strapped it to her chest. Never again would she be without her gun. Then, she removed two blankets. The door by Alicent’s feet was opened, and Rhaenyra leaned over. She wrapped Alicent in the blanket like she was swaddling a baby. “Night, princess.”

Brown eyes were squeezed shut, a tear leaking from the sides. Rhaenyra shut the door, classically unobservant. She got in her own seat, and put her chair back a little. The stars shone brightly above, she stared at them.

There was no apology, but they twinkled back at her, for the first time ever. Her punishment had ended, balls of gas had deemed it was okay to live. Tamsin had been avenged many times now, and she probably never would have wanted vengeance. And Meleys… Meleys never wanted this for Rhaenyra. It was over, this black and red fog of wanting to kill and be killed.

Ever since she pulled the first trigger, she’d had it inside of her. But Otto Hightower had put jumper cables on it, Ulf White had increased the voltage and Blackwater had syphoned the charge. And now, the buzz died down and the cables were taken off, by Hightower’s own daughter.

Alicent wasn’t asleep, either. She was staring at the grey roof, her eyes leaking against her will. “Rhaenyra?” She whispered, her head unmoving. It made the blonde jump, to hear her name uttered like that.
“Yes?” She could see the specks of water glistening on Alicent’s skin, it saddened her. She couldn’t imagine what she must be feeling.
“Can you-” she wasn’t allowed to finish, Rhaenyra was clambering over the parking brake and into the back. “I was going to say, can you put the heating on.” She lied.
“No you weren’t, don’t lie to me,” Rhaenyra rolled Alicent onto her side, and slotted in behind her.
“I hate you,” Alicent muttered, into the leather seats. She had got what she wanted.
“I hate you, too, angel,” Rhaenyra buried her head into Alicent’s curls.

‘Angel’, that was a new one. Better than ‘princess’. It hadn’t been uttered condescendingly, it sounded gentle.

To Rhaenyra, Alicent was an angel. To have seen her in that state, take her bloodied hands from her sobbing head and hold them until she steadied. Who would do that, what human would do that? Alicent must be from the heavens, sent to guide her from her misery. She wouldn’t let harm befall her angel. She didn’t want to die, anymore, but if it was for her angel… the bullet would be permitted to land.

They were lying to each other, through their teeth. They didn’t hate each other - they had, once upon a time. The horrors, the time in the cottage, knitted their beings together like a woman crocheting a blanket, with wool of red and blue, of orange and silver. Enmeshing them in totality, doomed to need each other… only they could understand what they were going through, and even then, their paintings were from different angles.

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent muttered, her eyes shutting.
“Yes, angel?” She replied, her own eyes closed.
“Did you… want to die?” Alicent’s brain was filled with the image of Rhaenyra saying ‘didn’t want to die’, as if it was a new emotion for her.

Noiseless, sans for shaky breathing. Heavy, the atmosphere in the car was thick, like wading through knee-deep sand.

“Yes,” she confessed.
“I don’t- I don’t… want you to die, either.” Alicent’s voice made Rhaenyra smile.
“I won’t, then,” Rhaenyra pulled Alicent tighter against her, if that was possible. She could feel Rhaenyra’s heart beating against her spine.
“You can’t promise that, though,” she was right. “If MI5 - if they find you…”
“If.” Rhaenyra tickled Alicent’s ribs in a way that distracted her from the morbidity of the conversation.

“Stop tickling me,” Alicent kicked backwards, gently. Rhaenyra’s lips were against the base of her neck. When she said ‘no’, it felt like she had hummed against her skin. Some minutes passed, before Alicent broke the silence again. She wasn’t tired. “Rhaenyra?”
“Yes?” Her voice sounded a little bit irritated, Alicent brushed it off.
“Who was that woman? Was that M.T?”

Rhaenyra laughed, savouring the whiff of Alicent’s shampoo that travelled into her system. “No. That’s Mysaria, she was my handler in the agency.”
“Oh, I see.” Alicent’s nod was small, hindered by Rhaenyra behind her.
“Jealous, angel?” Rhaenyra joked, her fingers drawing patterns on Alicent’s stomach.
“No. I hate you, why would I be jealous?” She retorted, weakly. “Stop calling me ‘angel’.”
“I hate you, too.”

No more than she hated Rhaenyra, did she want to stop being called ‘angel’.

“Go to sleep, and stop annoying me,” Alicent chewed her lip. Rhaenyra brushed her hair aside, and put her lips on the flesh. Softly, and just once. Reserved.
“Okay,” she said, pulling back.
“I-”
“Yeah, I know, angel. You hate me.” Rhaenyra shut her eyes, and burrowed her head against Alicent’s spine.

Alicent was clenching her jaw, trying to stop the smile from passing over her lips.

When morning broke, Rhaenyra groaned as she rolled onto her back. But, there was no space for her back, so she just tumbled from the cold leather seats onto the floor of the car. “Ah, fuck,” she exclaimed, her eyes crusted with sleep as she laid her head back onto the floor.
“What?” Alicent sat up in a hurry, her eyes wide and breath rapid.
“Fell off,” Rhaenyra answered, from the floor.
“That’s it?” Alicent put her hand on her chest, and yawned.
“Oh, right, yeah. I could’ve broken my back!”
“Did you?” Brown eyes investigated her.
“No, I didn’t.”

Rhaenyra was beginning to doubt her plan of heading back to the city - where would they hide? Her loft would surely be under surveillance, she would be found instantly. And, all the cameras. “I think we should make a pit stop, before going back to London.” Rhaenyra tapped her fingers on the wheel anxiously. Alicent was still in the back, her legs stretched over the seats.
“Where?” She didn’t understand the sudden change of heart.

Syrax never would’ve doubted this, she would have driven into the mouth of the beast with a gun on her chest and her eyes emptier than excavated tombs. “I don’t know. I just don’t know where we’ll go, in London.” Rhaenyra said. They still had to be found by two hitmen, or maybe one and a company.

Their next adversary was a trained man, who hadn’t left the city, and had been staking out Alicent’s house. He wasn’t especially clever, and had joined the game later than the others. He didn’t know Alicent Hightower was being protected, much less who was protecting her.

“We can’t go to my loft, it’ll be watched.” Rhaenyra was thinking aloud. “We can’t live out of the car, and we can’t get a hotel.”
“I suppose my house will be watched, as well?” Alicent replied.
“Yeah, I think we’re a bit lost.” Rhaenyra’s cut lip turned downwards.
“Can’t we just drive around? We can go past my house, and your loft… see which one looks safer.”

It was a bold decision, the very definition of hiding in plain sight. “You’re getting brave,” Rhaenyra commented, with a small smirk. Alicent grinned, proudly.
“I trust that you’ll protect me.” The words evoked an unpleasant mixture of emotion: to be trusted was new to Rhaenyra. In the same breath, Alicent believed her. She believed her promises. And that would only make Rhaenyra more cautious, she couldn’t let her down.

As they entered the city, both felt their stomachs aching and any hunger was forced away by the batting rakes of nervousness.

Mysaria had gone home to change, and was heading into the office with a palpitating heart. She was going to stick to her plan, and claim that she had seen a relative going through a divorce. Hope they haven't checked CCTV at train stations across the country. She had big bags around her eyes, and her hair was less tidy than usual. If they did suspect her, she had Blackwater’s business card, ready to drop.

“Isn’t it odd?” Tarth asked, looking at the projected screens in front of her.
“I think… she knows something she isn’t sharing.” Selmy agreed, his beard had grown rather wiley in the rush of trying to find Alicent Hightower.
“Morning,” Mysaria said, her eyes finding the projector screens. They depicted the last known footage of the drones in the west… nothing.
“Mysaria,” Selmy smiled, and gestured to the seat across from him. “No news on Syrax, or Alicent Hightower.”

She nodded, and falsified a puzzled expression. “Maybe they’re not linked?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Do we have any evidence Syrax is with her? Anything concrete?”

The two blue eyed people surveyed each other. “Well, no. We’re just assuming because of the… feud.”
Mysaria could put them off here, at the risk of her own head. “Syrax and I had our own business… of sorts. In the months between our leaving the Dragons and now. She was a lost cause, yes. Hollow, almost. She maintained, though, no women, no children.”

At this revelation, both officers exchanged a wide-eyed look. “What was the nature of this business?”
“What do you think?” Mysaria asked, “I know it could get me in trouble… I just don’t believe it’s her… I think we should bring her husband in. I know the police have interviewed him, but perhaps they didn’t scare him enough.”

Rhaenyra drove through Kensington with her head down, and sunglasses on. They passed Alicent’s house a few times. Curiously, there was a man sitting in the driver's seat of a black car, every time they passed. He hadn’t left, and they drove around for thirty minutes. “There’s someone.” Rhaenyra commented, and Alicent looked at the vehicle.

He watched, as the Vauxhall did laps of the street. “Fuck,” he mumbled, and got out of the drivers door just as they turned the corner away. He had to move, now. It had to be authorities, and there’s nobody he feared more than the Dragons.

“Alicent, take this,” Rhaenyra halted the vehicle around the corner, and pressed a gun into Alicent’s hands. Their touch lingered. She double checked the safety, and then drove around again. He was gone, his seat abandoned. No sign of him. Rhaenyra frowned. She couldn’t pursue on foot, she couldn’t leave Alicent. And even so, she had no idea where he’d gone. He did look familiar, though.

“OK, well, we expected you to be watched,” Rhaenyra shrugged. She put her foot down on the pedal, steering them away from such a hot zone.
“I don’t think there’s any point checking yours - we know you’re going to be watched.” Alicent sounded resigned. “It was silly to come back to the city.”
“It’s not silly - it’s what they’d never expect,” Rhaenyra had been assured when Mysaria had agreed with her plan.

Rhaenyra took them to the very outskirts of London, constantly checking her mirrors to see if the cars behind her changed. They did, much to her relief. They were in East London, looking for an abandoned house or someone dodgy enough to turn a blind eye.

Eventually, they had to dart into a corner shop to get some water and breakfast - or, lunch, by the time they stopped. Rhaenyra grabbed a box of hair-dye, along with her pre-packaged foods. Alicent scoured the noticeboards, half expecting to see a picture of herself titled ‘MISSING’ in big red font. There was nothing, it almost disappointed her. There was also nothing about accommodation. She sighed, she needed a shower and to brush her teeth.

Rhaenyra paid the gentleman behind the counter, and turned to the TV that blared the news above his head. Nothing, not so much as a picture of her, either. Some criminal she was. “Thanks,” she said, as she took the blue carrier bag. “C’mon,” she said to Alicent, impatiently.

They paused outside the corner shop, it appeared they were not being chased as severely as they thought. Alternatively, the people chasing them did not want them to know they were being chased. Rhaenyra looked around, there were no black cars converging on them. “Let’s check my building out, anyway,” Rhaenyra bit a piece of chocolate off the bar, and offered it to Alicent, who looked disgusted and shook her head.

The loft, which she had never paid much attention to, was one of many identical buildings. All former offices, or warehouses, were written off because of issues with the cladding. No taxes, no insurance. Rhaenyra was basically a squatter, she had paid a man a rather large sum of money, years ago. She didn’t receive post, it all went to a PO Box in the centre. It did not look like anyone lived there, from the outside.

And there was nobody watching it. “Wow, I’m not even worth a small surveillance squad?” She scoffed, driving the car around the back of her building.

Three people in the whole world knew she lived there. One was inside MI5 at present, trying to convince commanders to question Criston Cole and leave Rhaenyra alone for a while. One was the Blackwater. The other was twenty minutes away, giving directions to someone with an earpiece - purposefully withholding the identity of the person the loft belonged to.

“Well, I guess we can go in here,” Rhaenyra shrugged. “Worst case, there’s someone inside, and I kill them.”
“Worst case is murder? What's the best case?” Alicent shuffled out of the car, and shut the door.
“No murder… duh?” Rhaenyra replied, “I can’t believe I’m not dangerous enough to be staked out.”

Chapter Text

“Are you sure it was her?” The voice said, into his earpiece.
“Yes it was fucking her! I'm not doing it, I can't. She'll kill me.”
“You're a mercenary, and more to the point, under my command. You'll do it if I say you'll do it.” The voice was not to be trifled with.
“Well, she's gone now anyway. Both of them. No idea where they went.” He hoped this was his get out clause, that the man in the earpiece would send someone else.
“Wait where you are, she'll come back tomorrow, or the day after. Then, we'll get the girl.”
“And if she doesn't come? What if you've judged her wrong?”
“Then, we go to her.”

Alicent was looking around the loft, trying not to breathe in. It smelled of dried alcohol and stale cigarette smoke. The furniture was scarce and uncomfortable. Rhaenyra had flopped down on her bed, and was staring at the bricks on the opposite wall. “Depressing,” was Alicent's final judgement, as she sat down across from the blonde.
“Yeah, well, I wasn't expecting guests.” Rhaenyra looked on her bedside table. “Vodka?”
“No. Did you actually live here?” Alicent batted the bottle away, and crossed her legs on the bed.
“Yes, I actually lived here. Christ, you’re so judgy.” Rhaenyra pushed off from the bed, and walked through to the bathroom.

Alicent seized the opportunity to rifle through her wardrobe. It was mostly black trousers and white shirts, with a few hoodies and jumpers. One blazer. A bulletproof vest. “Your clothes are so boring.” Alicent remarked.
“Alright, get out of my wardrobe,” Rhaenyra felt invaded - she’d never had anyone here in the daylight hours. She wrapped her arms around Alicent, and pried her away.
“Get off me,” she rebuked, but did little to extract herself.
“What you should do here, if you really want me to get off you, is elbow me in the nose.”

“And what would you do if I did?” Alicent raised an eyebrow, Rhaenyra’s breath on her neck was hot.
“Add it to the list of ailments I’ve acquired serving as your bodyguard.” Alicent did toy with the idea of slamming her elbow into the crooked nose.
“Bodyguard?” Alicent made a ‘pff’ sound, “more like psychotic pitbull.”
“No, not a dog, angel.” She could feel Rhaenyra’s grin against her flesh. “A Dragon.” Alicent inhaled, and took Rhaenyra’s arms from her waist. This wouldn’t do.

“Former…” She poked Rhaenyra’s flat chest. “Former Dragon.”
“Ouch,” the blonde took a step back, “I thought I had you.”
“You’ll never ‘have me’, Rhaenyra,” Alicent left the bedroom - the danger zone, where a bomb would go off if they kept fiddling with the wires. Rhaenyra’s smile only doubled in size - she loved the chase in as many forms as it came in; chasing a proposed lover, chasing someone she had marked for death. In a warped sense, they didn’t feel much different. Rhaenyra knew that anyone that loved her was marked for death - but Alicent was already marked. Once they erased that one, the next would appear, and she could… deal with anyone else that tried to find the mark.

“Can you dye my hair?” Rhaenyra shouted, even though Alicent was only a few inches away from her.
“You think a box dye is going to evade MI5?” Alicent snorted, and picked the box up from the side.
“We’re literally inside my flat, and nobody knows we’re here. I think a box dye will evade MI5, yeah.”

Somebody did know they were there, though. They knew, and so did their small group of cronies. They didn’t belong to the company, they were an individual approached by Criston Cole… who just happened to have employees. One of which was stationed outside Alicent Hightower’s house, and recognised Syrax from bootcamp. He himself hadn’t made it out of bootcamp, was not selected to be a Dragon, a Snake, a Ghost, a Wolf or a handler.

Ghosts were a shadow organisation, unknown to MI5 themselves. Ghosts were dispatched rarely, they lived among the rest of the world until their phone rang and they were called to arms. A Ghost was selected at random… their death would be feigned, their family would receive a letter proclaiming they had perished in training and a sum of a few thousand pounds. Rhaenyra had never heard of any, but that was the point of them. Dead. Rumours suggested the last head of MI5 had been killed by a Ghost, other than this, Rhaenyra didn’t really know what they did.

Wolves were military men, usually. They often ended up in MI5, too honourable for the Dragons, too noisy for the Ghosts and the Snakes. Guards, instilled in the palaces, in Parliament. Not for Rhaenyra, she was a Dragon through and through - although, not so much anymore.

Dragons were messy, Snakes were purposeful, Wolves were loud, Ghosts were invisible - for all she knew, they may not even exist. Could just be a rumour conjured up in the dormitories late at night, literal ghost stories.

The smell of the dye filled the room, marked ‘ammonia free’, it sure did smell of ammonia. “Sit still,” Alicent put her hands on Rhaenyra’s head, moving it to face forwards. Obediently, Rhaenyra turned her head. Alicent applied the brown dye, watching it take to the silvery locks.
“Were you depressed?”

Rhaenyra shifted uncomfortably at the inquiry. Her lips grimacing. “I don’t know - I mean, who isn’t?”
“You don’t seem like a happy person,” Alicen turned Rhaenyra’s head, slathering the dye on the side of it.
“Oh, cheers.” Her words were laced with bitterness. She felt relatively happy - for a mercenary on the run and wanted by MI5. Happier than she’d felt pre-Alicent, anyway.
“No, I just mean… all the killing… it must have gotten to you. Made you sad.” Alicent wasn’t really sure what she was getting at, she just enjoyed her husky voice.

“Yeah, well… to be honest, I didn’t really feel much before I met you,” Rhaenyra tilted her head to accommodate her.
“Oh?” Alicent prompted, her fingers putting pressure on the side of the blonde’s - brunettes - head. “What do you feel, now? Helplessly in love?”

Rhaenyra paused. Not helplessly in love, she had felt rather in control of the whole proceeding. She was enjoying it, the play fighting and the bantering. At the same time, she was aware it wouldn’t end well. But why, when she had spent so long wishing she wasn’t alive, why not enjoy it?

“Yeah, that’s right,” Rhaenyra replied. Alicent batted her, and rolled her eyes. “I feel fine. Normal, almost.”
“Good,” the voice was sweet, and the fingers in her hair even sweeter. “You’re all covered, you have to wait twenty minutes, now.” Rhaenyra towered over her, with a cheek splitting grin.
“Do I look hot as a brunette?” Her hair was slicked back against her scalp, already several shades darker.
“Yeah, that’s right.” Alicent mocked her, earning herself a gentle push.

Rhaenyra watched her walk away with fondness twinkling in her eyes. The loft looked different with this little flame wandering around. Almost liveable. “Alicent.”
“Rhaenyra.” The redhead turned, her curls bouncing on her shoulders to frame her face.
“Feels weird, hearing you say my name,” she shivered comedically.
“Can call you ‘Syrax’ if you’d prefer?”

She didn’t feel like ‘Syrax’ anymore, it didn’t suit her. “No, no. You can keep calling me by my name,” Rhaenyra pressed a kiss on Alicent’s cheek.
“You’re so soft, then you’re really hard… you’re weird. It’s like, you’re kissing my cheek now… but if someone broke through the door, you’d mash them into a pulp.”

It was an accurate judgement, if the man that was outside Alicent’s house decided to follow the address he’d been given on a whim, he wouldn’t even make it over to where they stood. And they were about eight paces from the front door.

“Doesn’t that flatter you even more?” Their eyes met. Flattering? No. Terrifying? Yes. Reassuring? Also, yes.
“No,” she answered, honestly. “It scares me.”
“Why does it scare you?” She studied the brown eyes. “I’d never hurt you, angel.” Rhaenyra swallowed.
“No… just… everyone else.” Alicent put her hands on Rhaenyra’s chest. Rhaenyra’s smile was haunting, and alluring.

She would, she’d hurt anyone who ever tried to press so much as a fingertip on the body of Alicent Hightower. Even though the beast died, she had feelings and food in her stomach, she would burn the whole world down if someone tried to enter Alicent’s airspace. Unhinge her jaw, and rain fire.

“Everyone else,” Alicent mimicked. “Get away from me, I hate you.”

She did, as well. Just a bit, though. She hated that she had met her under these circumstances, she hated that she had fallen for the trope of falling in love with your arrogant, windswept knight.

“Take your hands off my chest, then,” Rhaenyra challenged, with an arched eyebrow. When Alicent did take her hands off, she rolled her eyes and walked to the bathroom. In the reflection, her hair was darker than Alicent’s eyes. She took her clothes off, and turned the shower on.

Her familiar tea tree shampoo was on the shelf. Despite the cladding problems, and the general derelict nature of the building, the water pressure was fantastic. She watched the brown water slip down the drain, it usually saw blood and dirt. Not hair dye.

Mysaria had managed to convince Selmy and Tarth to bring Criston Cole in - she wasn’t entirely sure what they planned on asking him, but if he dobbed the Blackwater in and left Rhaenyra out of it - she would be happy. They were interviewing him in a room on a lower floor, and Mysaria’s feet were sore from pacing.

Tarth reappeared first, and shook her head desolately. “Nothing.”
“Are you keeping him in?” Mysaria hoped to plant the seed, and watch it grow. To her upset, the tall woman shook her head. “He doesn’t look like someone who misses his wife.”

“Mysaria, it’s in your best interests to say, now, if you can’t be objective.” Brienne spoke slowly, looking around. “Aiding and abetting a criminal…”
“We don’t know that she’s a criminal, do we?”
“In truth, I don’t wholly believe she’s involved, either. Selmy is set on getting Blackwater… well, the Dragons in general.”

To hear the doubts of her superior laid so bare was interesting. Selmy’s hatred for the Dragons was evident… Perhaps he believed in formal justice, rather than a bullet between eyes. Forcing criminals to live with the knowledge they had harmed others. An honourable man, almost not cut out for his line of work. He definitely did not think people should be taking lives for money, if he had pearls, he would have clutched them at Mysaria’s revelation.

“Is there any situation where he stops chasing R- Syrax?” Mysaria folded her arms over her chest. Brienne shook her head, solemnly.
“He is set on the link, either between her and Alicent, or her and Blackwater. He’ll get her.”
“If she doesn’t get him, first.” Mysaria said, grimly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brienne queried, making the black haired woman regret her words.
“I don’t think she is trying to kill Alicent, I don’t think she will ever try to kill a woman… but Dragons don’t take kindly to prying.”

Rhaenyra shook her head of the excess water, the brown locks falling around her face in clumps. She wrapped a towel around her body, and walked through to Alicent. Behind her was a trail of droplets on the hardwood floor. “Well?”
“It’s brown,” Alicent agreed, looking at Rhaenyra’s collarbones. A part of her was unscarred, but it looked like it should be marked.
“You go on about me being weird and cold - you’re worse,” she walked back into the bedroom, and dropped the towel as she dressed.

Pulling clothes from drawers instead of a bag was almost nostalgic, they all smelled of her aftershave and washing detergent. Mahogany eyes watched from the sofa as Rhaenyra pulled her t-shirt on. Rhaenyra felt the eyes, and took time to adjust the fabric over her toned stomach. Then, she just put some boxers on. She had a gun on the kitchen counter, and a dagger strapped to her shin, still.

“Wanna do some more training?” Rhaenyra stretched her arms up to touch the light fixture, and down to touch her toes.
“Okay,” Alicent got up from the couch, and rolled her shoulders a few times.
“C’mere,” Rhaenyra beckoned. She held her hands up, and Alicent rammed her fists against them a couple of times. “Good!” Rhaenyra said, when the power pushed her backwards.

After a few more hits, she ducked under Alicent’s arms, and snatched one of the tanned limbs up. Gently, she pinned it to the attackers back. “What now?” The whisper was hoarse, and went straight to Alicent’s knees - like a crack through glass, rendering the whole sheet vulnerable. Alicent shoved her head backwards, until it tapped Rhaenyra’s nose. She stepped back, and Alicent turned quickly.

Not quick enough, Rhaenyra slung her over her shoulder like she was nothing more than a tote bag. Alicent squealed, and smacked her fists against Rhaenyra’s back. “Put me down, you’re not fighting fair,” she scorned.
“And you think the metaphorical enemy would?” Rhaenyra grinned, marching them around the loft. All Alicent could see was the filthy floor, and the scar left by a bullet grazing Rhaenyra’s shin many months ago.
“You’re not an enemy though, idiot,” the blood was rushing to Alicent’s head. Then, she was placed on a kitchen counter. Rhaenyra was between her knees.
“Not an enemy? Then why do you hate me?” Alicent wanted to hit her.

“Because you do stuff like this, Rhaenyra!” She shoved the blonde away roughly, but she just advanced again. Like magnets. Then, she started to smack Rhaenyra’s chest - not hard, just like she had done in the car. She wanted Rhaenyra’s harsh grasp of her wrist to steady her.
“Fucking stop,” Rhaenyra said, taking Alicent’s hands in her own.
“You stop!” Alicent intertwined their fingers.
“Stop what, Alicent? You’re the one hitting me.”
“Stop doing shit like this, because we’re both going to die - or, worse. Just one of us, and then what?”

And then, what?

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra stepped back, and ran her hands through her hair. “Fine, fine.” She held her hands up, and left Alicent on the kitchen side. They obviously had different views about enjoying their potentially limited time on Earth - well, Rhaenyra’s potentially limited time - Alicent Hightower would not die.

“Rhaenyra, please,” Alicent landed on the floor with a ‘pat’, and followed.
“Just go away, then.” Rhaenyra’s voice was irritated. “We’ll just sit here in silence, and wait ‘til there’s someone else for me to kill.”
“Fine, I’ll go away!” Alicent didn’t, though. She just stood slightly out of the doorway.
“Fucking go then!” The air had become toxic around them, or perhaps because of them. Rhaenyra was angry for thinking this could be something, and Alicent was angry that she wasn’t letting it be something.

“I don’t understand, Alicent, we were just play-fighting, and now you’re launching into some… some fucked up spiral!”
“You’re so obtuse - you don’t see it… we can never be normal. You don’t know how to be normal.” Her voice lost some gravity, becoming more akin to a whisper. “If I fall in love with you, then what? Then fucking what? You die, trying to save me, and I’m haunted by you for the rest of my life!” Alicent’s eyes were blurred by tears, her hands shaking. “I don’t like ghosts, I don’t want a ghost following me around. I don’t want to…” she let out a sob. “I don’t want to be like you.”

That hurt, like Gregor Clegane’s can to her head.

“I see,” Rhaenyra had a lump in her throat, like someone force fed her a golf ball. “Fine.” If these were normal circumstances, she’d walk out right now. Trawl the streets, smoking and drinking until a numbness settled over her.
“You can’t tell me you think this will end well,” Alicent’s voice was shaky. “It’s like - like Stockholm Syndrome.”

That hurt, like being strangled. The words took all the oxygen from Rhaenyra’s body.

“Alright, Alicent, I get the fucking point.” Rhaenyra spat, and opened her bedside drawer. She took a box of cigarettes, and put one between her lips. “I’ll sleep on the sofa, you take the bed. Don’t come crying to me because you’re lonely. This is business now.”

Alicent Hightower regretted every single word she had said, viscerally and painfully. “Rhaenyra - please,” she tried, but the girl walked straight past her, to the far corner of the flat. She was sitting by a window, not caring about the exposure to the open world. It would be a fool's errand to challenge Rhaenyra at this moment, standing in front of a full with a red flag, or a lamb wandering in front of a hungry beast.

Relentless, stubborn, incessant… regretful. Alicent took the cigarette from the brunette’s lips, and snapped it in half. “It’s not business, is it? You’re petulant, and you’re psychotic, and you’re scary and I want you, against my own best interests.” She stomped it into the ground, although it hadn’t even been lit.
“And you’re such a ray of fucking sunshine, are you? You insult me, you berate me, you call me psychotic… and then you hit me,” Rhaenyra’s teeth were bared, the words almost ineligible as they made their way through the bone.
“You’re fucking terrifying!” Alicent poked Rhaenyra’s chest.
“You don’t seem very scared of me,” Rhaenyra took her wrist, and pushed it aside.

“If we do this - I get you for… what? A week? Maybe two, and then you’re in prison or you’re dead and I’m visiting your grave, thinking about what could’ve been.” Alicent felt like she may faint.
“What if I don’t die?” Rhaenyra said, taking Alicent’s hands. “Or go to prison… what if we run?” Alicent considered it, but it was foolish.
“We can’t run, they’ll find us… they’ll find you.” She put her forehead against Rhaenyra’s.
“I won’t haunt you, then. I promise.” Rhaenyra cupped her cheek, her thumb on her rounded chin. “Let me have this, have you, until I die.”

What Rhaenyra wanted to say was ‘I’ll kill them all, every single one, I’ll litter the pavements with their bodies, if it means I can have you’... but she wasn’t so obtuse that she thought that would go down well.

She didn’t want to die, though. Alicent didn’t want her to die, either. So, in some ways, it was like a marriage proposal. Rhaenyra could live seventy more years, and Alicent was promised to her. She could live for another hour, and Alicent was promised to her.

“And I’ll find you, in the next one.” She added, their lips inches apart.
“The next what?”
“The next life, angel. I’ll find you.” Rhaenyra was barely breathing. “You’ll know it’s me, because I’ll be annoying and you’ll hate me.”

Neither said a word, their foreheads pressed together. The sun had gone away, but to turn lights on would be to admit they were here. “I want to hate you in this one, too,” Alicent put her hands on Rhaenyra’s neck. A touch that made her recoil, reminding her of the strangulation attempt. It took a few seconds to realise that whilst the digits themselves were not assaulting her windpipe, Alicent was still strangling her, with her mere proximity. Her lungs couldn’t circulate the oxygen she consumed. “Don’t you dare haunt me, Rhaenyra.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She could feel the scar she’d given Rhaenyra. A small bump, just next to the philtrum. It was the most morbid of pre-kiss conversations. Alicent’s lips were softer than they looked, and they looked like clouds. Even more so than before, Rhaenyra didn’t want to die. She just wanted to kiss Alicent, until she was ninety years old and bedridden. Even then, she wanted Alicent next to her as she took her last rattly breaths.

“No signs of either of them all day.” Selmy tapped his fingers on the desk. “Evidently, my informer in the Dragons says Blackwater has been awfully cheery.”
“You’re listening to Larys Strong?” Mysaria took a guess.
“How do you know who my informer is?”
“Please, he may as well have ‘rat’ stamped on his forehead. He’s too keen to please.” Mysaria returned to her laptop, pretending to scour facial recognition cameras for an image of Syrax.
“He told me interesting things about the character of Syrax.” Selmy pushed his glasses up his nose. “About her run-ins with Otto, and close relationship with Meleys.”

“‘Run-ins’? It was one, they met once. Syrax objected to the murder of a little girl, which Hightower did, anyway.” Brienne shot her a warning look, but her patience was wearing thin.
“Careful, it almost sounds like you care about her.” Selmy raised an eyebrow.
“I just like facts, and I can guarantee you that what Larys Strong feeds you is false.” Mysaria’s cameras found a match of footage from earlier in the day - in Kensington.

She watched the camera, and the moments where Rhaenyra drove past. Thankfully, you couldn’t see Alicent in the back of the car. The cameras hadn’t been updated since 2007, the technology too expensive to cover the whole city. Mysaria watched it over and over, especially the part where a dark haired man left his car and scurried into the park, fiddling with something in his ear.

Willem Blackwood had been relieved of boot camp when it was evident he didn’t have the skills required. He had some talents, but was too unpredictable and maybe even a bit too mentally unwell. He had been hired as a lacky by someone very talented, but in a position where they couldn’t risk being caught themselves. Mysaria recognised him, and she knew who he worked for. Or, she suspected. This would be perfect, she could frame it all on him.

“We’ve got the wrong one,” she said, aloud. Both officers looked up from their desks.
“The wrong what?” They were too confused to notice Mysaria deleting the footage that showed Rhaenyra.
“The wrong Dragon.”
“A bit more detail, please.” Brienne pushed from her desk, and strode over to Mysaria’s. On her screen, was a dark haired man, in front of Alicent Hightower’s house, holding his earpiece.
“Can you lipread?” Mysaria had been trained in the art, and could make out the word that left the man's lips. The name he said in his evident frustrations.

The night passed, with MI5 turning their attention from Syrax to another. It made Mysaria’s anxiety quieten down, knowing they were focussed on someone else. The man outside of Alicent’s house had moved, in a stroke of luck, just before several black cars full of armed agents rolled up. Criston Cole was released from MI5 custody.

The motives of their new suspect weren’t evident, and weren’t any more concrete than what they had assumed drove Rhaenyra to ‘capture’ Alicent Hightower. But, they had no evidence of Rhaenyra imprisoning the redhead, and if Selmy was allowed to act off that hunch then he would have to act on this one, too. The new suspect was still inside the Dragons, they would have witnessed the altercation between Otto and Syrax, and perhaps thought Otto would pay ransom for his daughter.

And, they did think that, too. Cole had approached them, told them to kill Alicent and claim the bounty… but they had other, more ambitious plans, regarding Ser Otto Hightower and his overstuffed bank accounts. If they would get rid of the blonde, of Syrax. It didn’t seem like Syrax would be visiting Kensington again, so they would have to go to her. But they needed more time.

Blackwater hadn’t seen anything else of Rhaenyra Targaryen or Alicent Hightower, it was frustrating. He didn’t know if the job was done, if she’d just permitted Alicent into the world. He had no way of contacting her, but he did know where she lived. Loosely, not a written address… just directions that he had followed when he relieved her of her duties, and snatched her up for his own usage. Would it be worth sending some fodder, just to scope out the loft? It could be he sent two useless guns, and they didn’t come back. They could come back, and say that the pair are there, they could come back and report the property empty.

“Ginger, fetch me Tanner,” Blackwater called from his office. He felt impatient - he wanted his money, and to put as much distance as possible between him and the Dragons, MI5 and Syrax with his newfound wealth. The wealth he hadn’t acquired, yet. He twirled his dagger between his fingers, watching the light dance off the shiny blade. Ygritte rolled her eyes, she hated being called ‘Ginger’, but he insisted on doing it.

He was a smug man, truly fancied himself as some sort of God. He was just a man, he bled red like everyone else. One day, Ygritte thought, someone would get him. Silence his quick mouth, and show him that he was just a man… like the ones he was paid to kill. He, himself, hadn’t killed anyone in a few years. Sometimes, he wondered if he was still as skillful. He could take Syrax, surely? She was slight, battered and empty… the last time he saw her.

Now, she was so full. “Do you still hate me?” Rhaenyra’s words were muffled by Alicent’s lips, moving against her own.
“Yes,” Alicent took Rhaenyra’s lip between her teeth, and bit it once.
“Ow!” Rhaenyra pulled back, and touched her fingers to her lip. It wasn’t bleeding. “You’re the violent one.”
“Aw, poor baby. Can’t handle a bit of a bite?” Alicent grabbed the collar of Rhaenrya’s t-shirt, stretching the cotton out as she pulled her back to her.
“I hate you, too,” Rhaenyra put her hands in Alicent’s hair, tugging gently.
“No, you don’t.” Alicent kissed her, just once.

Their eyes met, in a look that could only be shared by a couple existing in the same crushing vortex of unbridled trauma. When Rhaenyra opened her mouth, she was interrupted:

“Don’t say it, or you will haunt me.” Alicent told her, with serious eyes. “Whether you promise it… or not. Don’t say it. Until this is all over, then you can say it.”

“Fine. Fine.” Rhaenyra took her hands from Alicent's hair. “I hate you, more than I've ever hated anyone.” She said, and Alicent's lips revealed a toothy grin. It was a melancholic exchange, a prevention of future suffering. Alicent hoped she never heard Rhaenyra say ‘I love you’, because then that would mean it was over. Whatever ‘it’ was. Their time together, their lives, their relationship - as twisted and toxic as it was.

Alicent had thought she couldn't love a killer, nobody could. But she did, and she couldn't stop it. You can masquerade it as killing for a good cause, administering justice, protecting. But it's still just murder. Just wrapping her warm hands around someone's heart, squeezing until the beating stopped. And against this all, against her own moral compass, she loved the stopper of hearts and the dimmer of lights. The Grim Reaper, with soft lips and minty breath. Killing Alicent, too. Slowly, painfully, gently. How much murder can one person watch, before they too lose some regard for the sanctity of life?

She didn't want to find out, but selfishly, she did. Because that would mean more time with her Dragon.

“Enough sad shit, now.” Rhaenyra inhaled deeply, mostly the smell of Alicent's shampoo, and ran her hands through her dyed locks.
“Agreed.” Alicent rubbed her eyes with her fists, and paced around this side of the loft. It was cold. She hadn't been cold when Rhaenyra had her in her arms. “Maybe they'll never find us here, and we can just live in peace… saying how much we hate each other.” She mused, her lips held the ghost of a smirk.

Rhaenyra's gangly, strong arms encased her. “Stop it, angel. No more sad shit.” Her lips pressed an open mouthed kiss to the exposed neck, wet and languid. They were in no rush to be found, and yet those who sought them did so at top speed.

Their entire relationship fell under the category of ‘sad shit’, a fact bestowed upon both parties, but cast asunder like the old vodka bottles around Rhaenyra's bed.

Chapter Text

“Tanner, you slobbering oaf, get in here.” Blackwater shouted. The man stumbled in, obviously having had too much fun in the actual pub. “Have you killed that woman yet?”
“No, no, it’s a long game.”
“It’s whatever the fuck I say it is,” Blackwater pointed to the seat in front of him with his dagger. “Sit down.”

“Wassthis about?” The man slurred, leaning over the side of the chair as if he couldn’t keep upright. Bronn huffed - this really would not be a loss to his organisation.
“I suspect Syrax has gone rogue, so I’m sending you to put her down.” Blackwater grinned, and twirled his dagger again.
“N-now?” Tanner tried to sit upright, to square his shoulders and appear like anything other than a slobbering oaf.
“Now, tomorrow… whenever. I have a rough estimate of where she is. Take Ginger.”

“And you- you think I can do it?” The man felt emboldened by this, he did not seem to grasp that the glint in Blackwater’s eyes was not friendly. He was the one character in a horror movie, being sent into the basement with nothing more than a torch and a shout of ‘Hello?’.
“Aye, I think you can do what I want you to do.” Bronn stood, and took some money from the safe behind him. If he was right, and he didn’t want to be, this money would never see the pockets of Karl Tanner. The mission would be blown, and Blackwater would flee before the Dragon returned to roost.

“Alright, I’ll have a coffee and we’ll go now.” It was a sobering assignment, and as soon as the door shut behind him, he slapped his cheeks as hard as he could. His aim was shabby. “Arm up, Ginger. We’re off to slay a Dragon.” He grinned, his slapped cheeks shining as brightly as Ygritte’s hair. It was past midnight, and Ygritte didn’t fancy their odds. She followed him to the armoury, where he chose a clunky rifle, and she took her beloved crossbow from its home on the wall.

Rhaenyra and Alicent were in bed. Alicent was sleeping, and Rhaenyra was watching her sleep. She wanted her in this life, too. She wished they’d met at university, or even in Dragons bootcamp. Alicent had been the most effective handler she’d ever had, truth be told. Mysaria was good, but it seemed in order to follow orders, Rhaenyra needed something to lose. And now, something to lose was asleep on her arm. And she would kill hundreds of men, thousands, and their commanders, if it meant she didn’t lose. Rhaenyra kissed Alicent’s shoulder, and shut her eyes.

Her gun was on her bedside table, and her dagger strapped to her bare shin. She wanted to say it, to utter the three words that had evaded her for her entire life. But she would follow orders, she wouldn’t say it until it was over. Until they could ride off into the sunset together.
“She won’t be expecting us,” Ygritte said, just before they mounted their bikes. “You go up first, I’ll follow if you don’t come back down.”
“Oh, right? Scared of her, are you?” Tanner mocked, rejecting her offer of a helmet.
“Yes,” Ygritte spoke plainly. “You’re stupid not to be.”
“She’s just a woman,” he chuckled. “She’s weak.”
“I’m just a woman, too. Does that mean you don’t think I’ll drive a bolt through your thick fucking skull?” Ygritte’s eyes were icy, he looked away.
“Whatever, Ginger.”

Rhaenyra heard them in the distance, the roars of bikes. She shot up. “What?” Alicent muttered, she heard the roaring too, but didn’t attribute it to anything.
“Listen,” Rhaenyra went over to the window, she could see them. Two bikes, their headlights searching the streets. There were four identical buildings, it could take them hours to find them. Or, just a few minutes. “Someone’s found us,” Rhaenyra ran around, and took the gun in her hands.
“What should we do? Should we run?” Alicent stood, frantically looking around.

Rhaenyra felt like someone had sent a tsunami through her, her veins washed clean and pumping adrenaline. “No, angel. We bring them to us,” she said. Alicent studied the brunette, her eyes had that shadow in them. The dangerous one. “Lock yourself in the bathroom, with a gun.”
“I- I don’t want to, Rhaenyra, can’t we run?” Alicent took her hands, and squeezed them.
“No, we’d have to let them know where we were, anyway.”

The bikes drew nearer, creeping around the streets.

“Alicent, listen to me, just lock yourself in the bathroom. I’ll get you when it’s clear.” She dragged Alicent into the cold room.
“Please don’t go, Rhaenyra. Please.” Alicent wanted her words to take root, for them both to hide until the bikes got tired.
“I won’t die, Alicent.” Rhaenyra stood by the door, “I promise.”
“You can’t promise that!” Alicent snapped. She wished Rhaenyra didn’t have these urges, that she would just hide away with her. They would never be normal, so long as Rhaenyra’s default position was ‘fight’. Rhaenyra just smiled, sadly, and shut the door. She waited until she heard the bolt slide across.

Then, she turned all the lights on in the living room. Every single one, lighting the way for the people with a deathwish. She checked the clip of her gun, held it in her hands. Whoever this was, whoever sent them, would be returned to the soil. She could promise that, although Alicent wouldn’t want to hear it. The only time she did ever actually hate Rhaenyra was when she was killing, or going to kill. Which was all the time.

The bikes stopped roaring, and Rhaenyra watched one of them point to the windows.

“You have to come up, too,” Tanner spat, fiddling with his rifle. It was too heavy for his arms. “Or I’ll tell Blackwater you wimped out.”
“Oh, no, how scared I am.” Ygritte knew he wouldn’t be telling Blackwater anything. “We’ll do a single, fire four shots if you need backup.”
“No! Fuck that, you have to come up.” Tanner looked up at the window. “Is she-?”
“Waving? Yeah. Off you go, Dragon slayer.” Ygritte shoved him roughly, and sat back down on her bike.

Ygritte would have made a more formidable opponent than Karl Tanner, but she didn’t want to die. Not today. She wanted to see how this played out, and then perhaps she would go up. She held no loyalty to the Blackwater, she just liked money and freedom. This job offered both.

Rhaenyra turned the lights off, and stood just left of the doorframe. She’d opened the door, inviting the assailant in. They weren’t wearing a helmet, but Rhaenyra couldn’t make out their faces from the height.

Alicent observed the light had stopped bleeding through the gap under the doorway, bile rising in her throat.

Rhaenyra heard the panting up the stairs - this wouldn’t do, she wanted a fair fight. Someone had come, presumably to try to claim the life of Alicent, and they would suffer for it. It wasn’t fair to just kill them, no. They needed to know they had made a catastrophic error. She heard the sounds of a rifle being raised, and grinned to the darkness. It was a man, a woman would never bring an assault rifle to a fight like this. Unless, they didn’t think it would be a fight.

She waited until he was in the middle of the floor, and then she slammed the lights on, and ducked behind the island. A spray of bullets rattled over the wall, haphazard and loud. “Oh, seems like you missed.” Rhaenyra stood up. It would take him ages to reload the gun in his panting state. She squinted in the bright light, and approached the man.

“Oh, it’s you…” Karl Tanner was frozen to his spot, as Rhaenyra approached with her pistol raised. He tried to ram her with the butt of the gun, but she ducked to the left, and pressed her pistol to his cheek.
“Do you have the woman?” He said.
“I don’t think you’ve quite understood what’s going on here,” Rhaenyra’s blonde eyebrows scrunched, creating a crease on her forehead.
“What’s going on here is you’re going to die, I’ve got backup.” He rushed away from the pistol, and held his gun up.

“Oh? Where are they?” Rhaenyra looked around. “Downstairs? I can send you back to them, if you like. A rifle? Poor choice. Takes ages to reload.” He had bright red cheeks, and his arms were shaking under the weight.
“You kill me and Blackwater will send ten men to kill you,” Tanner tried to mirror Rhaenyra’s menacing grin.
“Oh, you’re thicker than I thought,” Rhaenyra laughed.

Alicent could hear her taunting the man. Hideous, arrogant behaviour that made Alicent’s hands shake with anger. In an even worse sense, it turned her on to hear that her protector was so confident of her power, so assured in her unclaimed victory.

“He sent you here so I’d kill you, then he’ll know I’m here. He wants Alicent,” Rhaenyra took advantage of his stupor, and took the rifle from his hands. Alicent jumped as it clattered on the wall closest to her head.
“If you - if you let me go, I’ll tell him you’re not here- that you’re dead.” Tanner held his hands up.
“Poor, stupid Karl. You have to die, now.”
“No - no, I’ll tell the one downstairs that you’re not here, that it was someone else.”

Alicent wanted Rhaenyra to take this offer.

“Blackwater needs to learn a lesson.” Rhaenyra was snarling. “Anyone - and I mean anyone - who comes to try to claim the life of Alicent Hightower, will die. I’ll hang their bodies from the streetlights, I will burn the entire world to fucking ash… before anyone touches a hair on her pretty little head.”
“You can’t kill them all,” Tanner tried to move his head away from the pistol, but it just followed him like his own shadow.
“You're not the first person to say that, you know.” Rhaenyra forced the barrel into his skin, restricting his mouth movements. “And do you know what happened to them? They died. Trying to touch hairs on her pretty little head.”
“We’re not trying to kill her, we’re here for you.” Tanner squeezed his eyes shut. Rhaenyra laughed, bitterly.
“And what a fine job you’re doing. It’s almost tempting to send you back alive… But I think I’ll send your head, instead.”

“Rhaenyra,” the voice was small, scared. She turned. Alicent didn’t see Rhaenyra initially, though. She saw Syrax, for just a second. Karl Tanner tried to turn to catch a glimpse of the voice, but when something hissed in his reddened ear, he looked to the floor: “Look at her, and I’ll carve you that pretty smile I promised you.” Alicent couldn’t hear whatever was causing Rhaenyra’s jaw to move, as much as she wanted to. Then, Rhaenyra addressed her, wide eyed and apologetic:
“Sorry, angel. We’ll take this outside.”

She misunderstood the reproachful voice completely. It wasn't ‘I don't want to watch’ it was ‘I don't want this to happen at all’.

Rhaenyra thought that the emptiness being replaced by love would be a good thing, but it made her so much worse. So much worse. Alicent saw a ghost of Syrax, but even deadlier, there was love in the steely irises. Swirling, maddening, love. Then, she saw nothing, but heard the noises of a man being dragged down stairs.

“Ygritte will put a bolt through you,” Tanner proclaimed, a weak deterrent.
“Oh, no. She’ll put a bolt through you,” Rhaenyra replied, hoisting him up to his full height on the third flight of stairs to walk directly in front of her, a human shield. She pressed the gun to his ribs, to keep him in position. “Open the door.” She commanded. His hand reached out to touch the doorknob, and pushed the heavy wood forward. “Aw, now isn’t this a shame?” Her voice was mocking. “She’s not going to put a bolt through either of us.”

Ygritte was on her bike, legs hanging over the side, frowning intensely. “You gonna kill him then?” She asked.
“Yeah, unless you want to?” Rhaenyra shoved the man to the ground.
“You could let him live, and we can tell Blackwater you’re not-” one shot, between the wide set eyes of Karl Tanner. “Here.”
“Or, you can tell that greasy prick that this will happen to every one he sends. Every single one. And then, it’ll happen to him, too.”
“Fair enough,” Ygritte mounted the bike properly. “You’re-”
“Fighting a losing battle, whatever.” Rhaenyra rolled her eyes, running her hand through her hair cockily.
“No. You’re being watched.”

Rhaenyra turned, to see Alicent sat on the stairs, her head in her hands. Her face was obscured by a waterfall of auburn curls. Ygritte left the scene, Tanner’s bike sat on the pavement, just adjacent to his corpse. Rhaenyra felt as if something left her, rushed out with her heavy breathing. Anger? Not entirely, not like the days of old. Fear? Possibly, red hot and telling her that her angel would be taken, unless she destroyed everything that surrounded her.

“Alicent?” Rhaenyra sat down on the steps just ahead of her. She reached out to touch her, but Alicent shied away.
“You’re fucking mental - you’re… unreachable,” Alicent’s stared at her tremoring fingers.
“No - no,” Rhaenyra took them, and held them still. “Alicent, please, it had to be done.”
“I heard, Rhaenyra. I heard it all. If it had to be done, you’d just shoot him. You mocked him.” She couldn’t meet the other’s eyes, but withdrew her hands from the grasp. “You’re scary… when you’re like that. I hate it. You just go - like you’ve been possessed by a demon.”

Rhaenyra frowned - she knew that, she felt the demon leave her when the bodies hit the ground. She’d felt it before, and somehow it was worse, now. “I can’t- I can’t love someone… like that.” Even though she was looking at Rhaenyra now, she still felt the boots of fear crushing her windpipe.
“No - no, you can,” Rhaenyra kissed the back of Alicent’s hands softly. “I won’t always be like this - when it’s over, then I’ll be fine.”

She wouldn’t be fine. Who could be, having killed so many people in just a year? She didn’t know what she would be like, but she knew she was lying to her lover. Through her gritted teeth, she was lying.

“Tell me, Rhaenyra - honestly. If we somehow both make it out of this alive, what are you going to do? To Criston, to the person who sent these two?”

“Well, I mean…” Rhaenyra stammered.
“You’ll kill them. You said it yourself, you’ll kill them all.” Alicent held Rhaenyra’s chin in her hand. “You said you’d ‘hang their bodies from the streetlights’.”
“Alicent, please… please.” Rhaenyra went onto her knees, in front of the redhead. Her chin still being held by Alicent, eyes watery and large. “Please, I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Whatever it takes.” A Dragon, bowing and begging. Pleading to a beautiful woman, for one more chance to save her life.

They had less time than they thought.

“Tanner’s dead,” Ygritte threw her helmet down on the floor in the pub. Blackwater was alone, and pacing.
“Her?” He ran his hands over his slick backed hair. “Does she know? What did she say?” Ygritte could see the bag packed, on top of the bar.
“She said, and this is a direct quote, ‘You can tell that greasy haired prick that this will happen to every one he sends. Every single one’.”
“Right,” well, that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “Is she angry?”
“Ooh, I don’t know. What do you think?” Ygritte fired back.
“How come you’re alive?”
“I’m not a thick twat, I didn’t go upstairs.” She took the bag containing her crossbow off, and tossed it next to the helmet. It landed loudly.

They stood still, Bronn chewing his fingernails. “Right, well. I’m out.” He held his hands up. “It’s all blown, the money’s lost.” Similarly to Meleys, but leaving over a much less honourable cause, that would be the last time Blackwater was seen in London.

Chapter Text

“Whatever it takes?” Alicent ran her thumb over Rhaenyra’s lips. What she wanted, Rhaenyra could never give her. She wanted a different Rhaenyra - cottage Rhaenyra, who hadn’t killed in two weeks and had made her mugs of tea and whispered into her ear. Rhaenyra from a few hours ago, even. Not this Rhaenyra, not the Rhaenyra with a gun smoking in her hands and her heart pounding like a bass drum at a rave.
“Yes, angel. Anything, please,” she was begging, on her knees, eyes pleading and pouring the remnants of her soul on the steps between them.

She couldn’t ask her to stop killing, it was like asking a dog to stop barking, or the clouds to stop leaking. It would never happen, it is something inside of her. Intrinsical, printed in permanent ink. She wondered what Rhaenyra was like before the words were printed on her heart.

“I don’t know what I can ask, Rhaenyra. I don’t know.” Alicent was a few breaths away from crying. “You need help, proper help. Not me.”
“I want you, though,” she replied, weakly. “We need to get away from the body - can we just go upstairs?” Rhaenyra stood. She wouldn’t leave until Alicent agreed, so she leaned against the railings for ten minutes. Inside the loft, she shut the door and turned the lights off. In the darkness, she couldn’t see Alicent’s disappointment. That was better.

“I can’t help you,” Alicent muttered, in the darkness.
“So, don’t try. Don’t try. Aid and abet me, let me kill them all, for you.” Rhaenyra put a hand on Alicent’s hip. Alicent sighed, heavily. “Aid and abet me, and when I’m dead, you’ll find someone else.”

For both, the words were like a hot rod probed through their stomachs. “I don’t want someone else… I want you, just… not like this. Not a… killer.”
“It’s too late for that, angel.” Rhaenyra’s lips touched her cheek in the darkness.
“You could get help,” Alicent suggested. They both suspected Rhaenyra would not leave this alive, though.
“I don’t want help, if I get help, I can’t protect you,” the reply was honest. If someone took all this away from her, she would have nothing, just a pristine ‘flight’ button waiting to be touched pathetically.
“You won’t need to protect me, when this is over. You can get help and we can go to the house in Norfolk and we can-”
“You know that won’t happen, angel.” Rhaenyra pulled Alicent against her body. “You heard me, I heard me, the stars and the sea heard me, fucking Pluto heard me… I’d burn the planet to ash… I’d kill the fucking King, or the Prince, sleeping in their beds… for you.”

It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to her… and the scariest, because it wasn’t a hollow sentiment. It was as solid as an iceberg, and as chilling, too.

“Maybe you wouldn’t have to? Maybe we could just live happily.” The words felt like magma, climbing her throat with pickaxes.
“Let me have you, it’s my dying wish.” Rhaenyra kissed Alicent, chastely. Alicent stifled a sob against the scarred lips.

Her mortality had been a rollercoaster - she wanted to die, and then she didn’t, and she still doesn’t - she just knows it would be best for Alicent, if she did. She could move on, find a nicer man - or woman - and think about Rhaenyra when she looked at the stars, or saw a cartoon of a dragon. Or, not think about her at all. She didn’t need to burn the whole world down for the happiness of Alicent Hightower… just herself, eventually.

“Let’s go back to bed,” Rhaenyra said, taking Alicent’s hand and pressing her wet lips to the veins on the back. To her ring finger… she hoped, in the next life, she would put a golden band there, instead of a teary kiss.

“Blackwater has fled.” The man said, into Willem’s earpiece. “Just received word from the twins.”
“So - what? We’re the only ones left?” Willem replied, his eyes on the pale blue townhouse.
“On the contrary. It’s an open book, now. They’ll go for it themselves, no doubt. We need to act before they do.”
“I’ll get the others, and meet you just outside the unit.” Blackwood started the car.

MI5 were unaware that Blackwater had fled the city, but were all too aware of the man driving off. “Get me all the number plate recognition cams, following that car.” Mysaria ordered the team of intelligence officers she’d been granted, they all nodded and set to typing on their computers. Selmy and Tarth had gone to Dragon HQ, in the hopes of finding their current suspect. They wouldn’t be there, though.

“Where’s Blackwater?” Selmy ordered, looking around the floor. He had a small guard with him, which was bound to set the Dragons to preening.
“Not seen him all day,” Breakbones replied, with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “It’s late - can we go?”
“No, you cannot ‘go’.” Tarth answered, she was strolling the floor, poking her head into offices.
“I think this is all a bit extreme - aren’t you… under us? On the food chain?” Seasmoke raised a bushy eyebrow.
“Perhaps… but one of your lot is currently trying to murder Alicent Hightower.” Selmy’s voice was stern, unwavering.
“Syrax?” Seasmoke’s mouth was slightly ajar.
“Maybe, maybe someone else.” Tarth peered into the meeting room. “Tell me… what are the last known movements on-”

“Blackwater has fled the city,” Larys Strong spoke up, tapping his earpiece off. “He’s been spotted on the M4.”
“And where did you get that information from?” Selmy approached the small man, staring right through him.
“Friends in high places.” Code for the same people who had reported it to the person Selmy & Tarth were searching for - Erryk Cargyll worked for Larys Strong, and Arryk Cargyll worked for the newest suspect.
“For goodness’ sake,” Brienne rubbed her forehead, and gestured to the guards. “Let’s go, Selmy. We need to cut him off before he reaches Wales.”

The car was tracked to an old garage, stowed away, hidden by an overpass. She frowned, frustrated by the cold trail. It was evident, to her at least, where it would end. No other cameras flagged up with that number plate. “Get me the footage from the overpass,” Mysaria would recognise the man’s face, if he’d switched vehicles or tried to go on foot.

In bed, Alicent rested her head on Rhaenyra’s chest. It all felt too real again, she wanted to go back to that field and lay in the grass. She rubbed her fingers over the small scars on her hands, the little constellation of glass shards that would serve as a permanent reminder to her - reminding her of her time on the run, with a Dragon. “Rhaenyra,” the brunette gasped quietly as Alicent straddled her, with thighs either side of her hips. “Does it feel like it’s… ending… to you, as well?”

She rested her hands on Alicent’s thighs. They had said ‘no more sad shit’, and here they were, swimming in pools of melancholy. “I’m afraid so, yeah,” her voice was barely more than a whisper. “We’ll have the next one, though,” she flipped them, her arms suspending her above Alicent. “And the one after that, and that… and I won’t ever pull a trigger again,” Rhaenyra kissed her, it was not soft. It was as rough as the scars on her hands, the callouses from years of weapons training.

Hands ran up Rhaenyra’s back, and nails dragged back down. “And, you won’t have M.T tattooed on you,” Alicent replied.
“No, angel. I’ll have A.H, on my forehead,” Rhaenyra kissed the tip of Alicent’s nose, feather soft, in a way she never believed she could.
“Not on your forehead, on the back of your hand.” Alicent intertwined their fingers. “So you’ll be reminded of me, every time you do something.”

So, so frustrating. To have this back and forth - Rhaenyra was a killer, but Rhaenyra was soft and devoted to only her. But Rhaenyra was going to die, but so was Alicent, eventually. Rhaenyra had rough hands and gentle lips, and romantic words tumbling from her tongue like it was her first language, to make a girl fall in love with her. She was scary, but then she wasn’t. And when she was scary, it was for Alicent. If Rhaenyra lived, nobody would ever hurt Alicent again. But, if Rhaenyra lived, she would surely hurt Alicent… eventually. She seemed like the sort of person that was dragged towards trouble, or perhaps was the trouble herself.

Willem Blackwood stopped by four houses, before heading to the location of his superior. It was across town, and the men in the back buzzed with conversation about who they were facing. It had been kept from all of them, because if the man driving found out, he’d turn around and head for Scotland. Far away from Syrax, far away from the dagger that gave him the scar on his left cheek. He tapped the wheel anxiously, the GPS telling him he was five minutes away.

“We’ve lost the car,” Mysaria mumbled, when the two commanders reappeared in her office. She looked twice her age, her eyes heavy with bags and stomach rumbling.
“They weren’t at HQ, and evidently the Blackwater has fled. I think we were wrong to suspect Syrax.”

The next obstacle was that, if this man was heading where Mysaria thought he was, they would once again suspect Syrax. Because she would tumble bodies onto the street, one by one. Like the nursery rhyme about green bottles on the wall - except the bodies of men, rolled onto pavements to ward the next lot away. “Working theory is that there’s a hit on Ms. Hightower, Blackwater has presumably fled because it’s gotten out of his reach… but what would make it out of his reach?” Selmy paced.

Mysaria wanted to say ‘Rhaenyra Targaryen’. “Maybe he suspects we’re onto him? He’s not a friendly man, he could be suspicious of his employees… maybe he knew Trant was going to snitch.”
“Would make sense to cut and run - but what’s his link to these two?” Selmy pointed to the still of the man outside Alicent’s house, talking into the earpiece.
“Similar to Syrax - Blackwood is a failed trainee, and his… commander… doesn’t need explaining.”
“So Blackwater suspects they’re working against him, not for him? And flees…” Brienne pondered it.

“Blackwood seemed scared of something, when he spoke into the earpiece - what? There’s no footage of cars on the road, there’s nothing.” Mysaria had to put them off.
“I think it’s more likely he got new orders.”
“We need to get Cole back in.” Brienne said, pressing a button on her phone. “If someone has genuinely put a hit on Alicent Hightower - it’s going to be him. And who is protecting her?”
“You’re right. These killings, the man in Kensington, the woman from the rails with the sniper. Someone is protecting her.”

Well, fuck, Mysaria thought. “It’s Syrax.” She said, “Well, Rhaenyra. It’s Rhaenyra… She's protecting her. They’re… in love.”

They had been kissing for ten minutes, their lips chapped and almost glued together. Rhaenyra had peppered kisses along Alicent’s rounded jaw, and down her neck towards her collarbones. “Alicent, when this ends, if I die,” Rhaenyra whispered against the skin, she could hear Alicent’s breathing become heavier. “I don’t want you to visit my grave, if I get one. Stay away.”
“Fine,” she put her hands in Rhaenyra’s hair, and tugged her face back within reach.
“In the next life, I’ll put a pretty ring on your pretty finger and make you Alicent Targaryen.” Rhaenyra grinned, kissing any skin she could reach. Alicent’s smile kept her away from her lips, but she just kissed around her mouth.

It was tragic, the final sonnets of lovers fated for poisoned chalices. But, it made them both happy, and their happiness was due to end imminently.

“I sound dangerous,” Alicent mused, her hand raking down Rhaenyra’s back.
“You are dangerous, angel. You’ve decimated me,” the brunette’s smile was interesting to study; lopsided, and anguished. Alicent had torn her apart, Alicent had been a death sentence in more ways than one.
“Let’s run away together,” Alicent tried the gambit one last time, as Rhaenyra’s hand trailed down her body.
“You know the answer, Alicent.” The muttering was low, rumbly in the pitch black room.

“Well, to put it bluntly, some of you will die,” the man said, walking around his small gang of troops. “But it’s worth it to live, this bounty is worth millions… and if we successfully take her to the second location, she could be worth even more.” The men all looked at each other, some armed with baseball bats, others with guns or daggers, one person was ambitious with throwing knives. “There is one thing - one person, standing between you and your split of this cash.”

Just one? That’s promising. They started to nod, the speech rousing the pathetic testosterone that circulated their bodies. Most were heavily scarred, former dishonourable discharges, or general criminals that the man had gotten to know during his time in the Dragons. Willem Blackwood stood front and centre, the ten or so men behind him all began to murmur.

“Who is it?” He held his gun in his hands.

The man studied him. “Ever fancied a bit of revenge?” He gestured to the scar on his cheek.

Years ago, during a training exercise involving storming a house, Willem and Rhaenyra had been paired together - before she was Syrax. She mostly went by ‘Rhae’ back in those days. Willem’s task was to double cross her, to see if she noticed. Boy, did she notice. His mission - separate to hers - was to try to ‘kill’ her. They were armed with training knives, rubber, they would retreat when pressure was exerted on the ‘blades’.

So, he had approached her from behind when she was focussed on ushering the simulated children from the room. He had always suspected someone had tipped her off, because she smashed his face against the wall before he could press the rubber to her back. His cheek had bounced off the very real plaster, opening the skin and breaking the bone.

“No.” He answered, abruptly. “It’s not one fucking person then, is it? It’s her.” Willem shrunk into himself. He always thought that was the reason his career had been thwarted, she had been praised for breaking his face. “Rhaenyra fucking Targaryen.”

“My dear niece.”

Chapter Text

Both women slept for at least two hours after they had finished with each other. Alicent’s head was on Rhaenyra’s chest, and Rhaenyra’s arms held her in place. Steadfast, listening to her soft breathing and feeling the warm air on her skin. It was like elysium, and if Rhaenyra believed in heaven, this would be it. Right here, in her former cavern of misery. The next life could wait, as long as this was what the current one meant.

“Oi,” Rhaenyra prodded her in the ribs after another hour, they were both completely bare as they rested. “Get dressed, just in case.” She instructed. Groggily, Alicent rose. Rhaenyra waited on the bed, admiring the silhouette in the shadowy room. “Or, actually, just come back to bed,” she added. She put her hands on Alicent’s hips, and kissed her collarbones again. Alicent lulled her head back, and let out a small moan.

“Maybe we should just run,” Rhaenyra truly believed it, with her mouth dragging across Alicent’s sweaty clavicle. She tasted of soap, and smelled even sweeter. But something was bothering her, a buzzing in the background. Like voices, approaching. “Alicent, get dressed.” Rhaenyra took her hands from the redhead’s skin, and ran to her wardrobe. She threw Alicent one of her sweatshirts, and a pair of her black gym shorts, and the bulletproof vest. “Come here.”

Rhaenyra fitted it on the redhead. “If someone manages to shoot you, and it lands in this, just lie down, okay?” It was all excruciatingly bleak. “But nobody will get near.”
“Is someone coming?” Alicent tried to peer from the window, she naively assumed the buzzing was people who actually lived here.
“I don’t know, angel. It could be nothing, it could be someone. Better safe than sorry.” She kissed Alicent’s bare shoulder, and handed her the sweatshirt.

Rhaenyra dressed herself just to the right of the window - white t-shirt, black cargos. She caught a glimpse of the source of the voices, leaving the building opposite hers. Four of them, some had bats, others didn’t appear to have anything. She frowned, deeply. It could be something unrelated - London was full of gang warfare, but it was also full of people trying to claim millions of pounds by killing the love of her life - well, the only love she’d ever known. Now, memories of her family were buried under a pile of bodies, their voices obscured by gunshots.

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra walked over to the redhead, and just like in that hotel bathroom, took her face in her hands. “This is the last lot, okay? The last ones. If I survive this, we run. We run as far as we can.” A desolate whispering of empty assurances.

It had been a few hours since Mysaria’s revelation, and neither had said a word to her, until now. They had no intel on Blackwood, or Caraxes - the rogue agent, let go from the Dragons for killing in ways more indulgent than even Syrax, and her looming over Gregor Clegane. Wanton maiming. Well, he hadn’t been let go. He was doomed for the Rock, but he evaded them by fleeing the country. Mysaria had seen Willem Blackwood’s lips form the word ‘Daemon’.

“How long have you been sitting on this information?” Selmy eventually asked, his eyes tired and glasses at the bottom of his nose. They were lost.
“Two days or so,” that was a lie, but she’d already committed treason, so what’s one more?
“How did you find out?” Brienne followed up, their conversation circling in her head.
“I figure I’m already doomed for prison, or worse… I found her, and went to her. If she was going to kill Alicent, I was going to apprehend her and bring her in. But they’re in love, it’s plain to see. Alicent is well, and well protected.” Mysaria stood, and waited for the guards to seize her.

Brienne’s sigh was heavy, and her gaze fell to her bedraggled coworker. “I’m too old for this,” he said, and took his glasses off. “Tarth, you have the charge. This has gone beyond my capabilities, turn cloaks and mercenaries.” He swept from the room, leaving his badge on the table. He was tired, an honourable man, betrayed and lied to.

“You know she’s still looking at murder charges?” Brienne stood, adjusting her collar. “Hightower will call for worse.”
“She’s been protecting her this whole time, Brienne.”
“Can you get her to turn Alicent in? If she turns her in, we’ll protect her and she doesn’t have to accrue any more charges.” The woman spoke in hushed tones, and glanced around.
“I can try, but I fear Blackwood and Caraxes will find her first.”
“Is there any chance she’ll just run?” Brienne clearly didn’t know her, it caused a smile to creep across Mysaria’s cheeks.
“Rhaenyra? No. ‘Dragons do not bow’, Meleys used to say.” She thought of the older woman fondly.
“Then we need to arm up… we have to be seen to take her down, regardless. There are ‘friends in high places’, and then there’s Otto Hightower.” The words stung. One way or another, Rhaenyra Targaryen would end up in strife.

“Rhaenyra, please. Can’t we just run now?” Alicent took the gun that was pressed to her chest. Heavy was the burden in her hands, weighing her body down with its weight.
“Angel, please. I need to focus, okay? I’ll get us out of here, and that’ll be it. We’ll run. I don’t want to die, either,” Rhaenyra kissed her. She could hear the door downstairs creak open, presumably the body of Karl Tanner had not scared them off.

In truth, it did scare one of the men. A skinny boy, barely eighteen. Green at the sight of the bullet hole. He’d run into the streets, something Daemon Targaryen noted. Daemon himself was in the building opposite, biding his time. If the others failed, he would face his niece. His only brother’s daughter, perhaps as fearless as him. Certainly as skilled.

“Two go in the door, swarm her. The other one can find the girl… I’ll find the girl.” He didn’t fancy facing Rhaenyra, nor did his cheekbone. The boys nodded. Three against one - had to work in their favour, right?

“My love, I need you to lock the bathroom door with you in it. Like earlier, okay? I’ll fetch you when I’m done.” Rhaenyra drank in the sight of Alicent, savouring every drop and every notch of Alicent’s taste on her lips.
“Don’t taunt them, Nyra. Just kill them.” Alicent used her most authoritative tone, but it still sounded shaky. Rhaenyra made no promises on this front. “Rhaenyra, what if you don’t make it back?” Alicent stopped the door from shutting with her hand.
“I’ll always make it back to you.”

Rhaenyra cocked her gun, and cracked the bones in her neck, and knuckles. She checked the dagger on her leg, and opened her wardrobe. Knuckledusters, spiked. She slipped them on, like promise rings… except the promise was broken bones, and blood spattering. “Alicent,” she called, one last time. “I hate you.”
“I hate you, too. Please come back to me.” The redhead replied, her knees to her chest, the gun on the floor in front of her.

Rhaenyra could hear the footsteps on the stairs, three sets. She thought of Alicent, and nothing but Alicent. The purest form of adrenaline. Rhaenyra ducked behind the kitchen counter. The door was unlocked, they would grant themselves access in seconds. They would see an empty loft.

Alicent covered her ears when she heard the doorknob rattle - she didn’t want to remember Rhaenyra as mocking those whose souls she would reap. She wanted to remember Rhaenyra hours ago, moaning into her neck and dragging her lips over her body. Not this.

The first man entered, he had a black sack in his hands. He was obviously sent to clear the room. Rhaenyra grinned, and crept along the kitchen floor. “Clear, enter,” he said. She dug the spikes into the back of his knee, and he crumpled with a shout. Rhaenyra gripped him like she gripped Tanner. “Go on then, shoot. Kill your little friend,” she said, arrogantly. The men looked at each other, Willem Blackwood raised his pistol.

Rhaenyra threw the injured man at him. Willem Blackwood went back a few paces, the man in a pile on the floor in front of him. With a satisfied ‘hm’, she charged at the one with the bat. One punch, two, three. She was pulled off him and thrown backwards, she skidded across the floor, and reached for her pistol. The thud caused a twitch of pain in her tailbone. One down, shot in the chest, and then the head. “Willem Blackwood,” Rhaenyra aimed the gun at him.

“Deal with her, I’ll find the girl.” The man with the bleeding leg charged at her, and managed one punch to her stomach before he hit the floor and his life was ended by a bullet to the head. She could have taunted him, but ‘find the girl’ set her dials to emergency mode. She had been ordered not to taunt.

Blackwood discharged a bullet, missing by miles and shattering a window. “Aw, man. You never were Dragons material,” Rhaenyra cooed, and advanced on him again. He swiped her legs out from under her, and aimed his pistol. He shot, and Rhaenyra felt it rush past her hair. In a rather jagged movement, she sat up and punched him in the stomach. Then, like he was football, her leg rose between his, colliding with his tailbone.

He flew over her, and onto the floor. “You and whoever you’re working for,” Rhaenyra grabbed him by the collar, and looked at the open window. “Have made a big fucking error.”
“You'll die trying to protect her,” Blackwood seemed to have a rush of confidence.
“I couldn't care less, you'll die screaming, begging for mercy. Do you like flying?” he was becoming aware of the wind on his face, and started to scratch her arm frantically. He drew blood, Rhaenyra winced. Then, he spun himself on the floor and dragged her down.

She grunted as he landed his first punch, and second. Willem's breath was ragged, frantic as he patted himself down. Rhaenyra caught the butt of his gun, and twisted his hand until she heard the snap.

Alicent heard the snap, too. Even through the flesh of her hands, and she heard the scream that followed.

“Who are you working for?” Rhaenyra stood, and put her boot on his broken wrist. She pressed down, and Daemon heard the screams from across the street. It enraged him that his men would be so pathetic.
“Can’t say,” Willem managed, writhing under her boot.
“Well, then, you’re fucking useless, aren’t you?” She released him.

Daemon tiptoed to the window, hidden by the old curtains that hung. He could see the empty frame, and hear Blackwood’s whimpering. He could only assume the other two were dead. If Blackwood grassed him up, he would lose the element of surprise.

“Of course, we always knew you were fucking useless,” she added, evoking another scream from the man’s lungs as she twisted her foot on her snapped bone.
“Fucking bitch,” he ground his teeth as he spoke, spittle flying wildly.
“How soul-destroying,” Rhaenyra took the broken bone, and used it to drag him to the window. He screeched the whole way, his throat hoarse. “Fancy telling me now?” His head was dangling from the frame, the streetlights casting shadows on his features.

“For fuck sake!” Daemon exclaimed. His niece was holding his second in command out of an open window.

“No, but there will be-” her sigh was bratty. He didn’t get a chance to finish his question, with a strained noise, he was thrown from the window to join Karl Tanner. Her wall of defeated enemies was growing, brick by brick, person by person. Willem Blackwood hit the pavement with a disgusting noise, Rhaenyra brushed her hands on her trousers and craned her neck. She was not without pains, but they had to be ignored. She had to win.

“New fucking plan!” Daemon gathered his troops around him. Sending small groups would just result in the same thing happening again, to swarm her, you had to really swarm her.

Rhaenyra returned to the bathroom, and tapped her knuckles against the door. “Ali, it’s me,” she holstered her gun, and sat back. The door opened, but Alicent was still on the floor with her head in her hands. Rhaenyra almost broke down at the sight of her. She was ruining Alicent Hightower, with her taunting and her gunshots. “Hey,” she took Alicent’s hands from her head. The metal of her knuckle accessory was cold on her skin.

It was stupid, it was brash, impulsive, selfish. “Let’s run.” Rhaenyra pulled Alicent up to stand. “Okay? Let’s get in the car, I’ve got mountains of cash. We’ll just run.” Rhaenyra was crying, too. She kissed Alicent’s lips. Alicent’s head bobbed in agreement, and she used the sleeves of Rhaenyra’s jumper to wipe her eyes. As quick as an arrow, the weeping changed to rage. They were ruining her plan, climbing up her stairs. She wanted to run away, not litter the streets with more bodies. “There's more,” she huffed, and placed Alicent back in the bathroom. “After the next ones, yeah? We’ll run.”

Despite her repeated nod, Alicent knew they’d never run. She could feel it, the finishing line was in sight. She just wasn't confident that they'd reach it first.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra didn’t want to draw them near the bathroom. Standing near it was a shining red beacon, blasting ‘Alicent is here!’ into the atmosphere, she cursed herself and checked the clip of her gun. It sounded like four sets of boots, this time. They hadn’t made it up yet. She had to go to them, in the hallway. If she could lock the loft door, then it would offer another barrier between these goons and Alicent Hightower.

Foolishly, she locked the door with her on the other side of it. They were discussing loudly how they would kill her first and then find the woman. ‘The woman’ ‘the girl’... she was Alicent. Rhaenyra’s Alicent. And their blood would soak the floors before they touched her. Rhaenyra took her dagger from her shin, and looked down at them. This would be risky, but they wouldn’t ever expect it, either.

She vaulted the bannister, and landed just in front of them. Her dagger burrowed into the exposed neck of one with a pistol, she grunted as she shoved his body over the bannister. A bat to her ribs caused her to keel over, and someone retrieved a gun from their thigh. She kicked him away with force, and he thudded against the wall. Bang, bang, bang. Three shots, all misplaced. Obviously not trained to aim in the dark. “Fucking hell, you’re shit,” Rhaenyra got one verbal lick in, and threw the pistol from his hands. She heard it clatter several floors below.

“We have burner phones, from our business,” Mysaria strapped the bulletproof vest over her pristine white shirt.
“Call her, warn her. It’ll be better for her if we don’t find them surrounded by bodies.” Brienne was putting together a pistol that almost shone blue, in the light. She searched her bag, and pulled the little brick from the very depths. It had one bar of battery left. She pressed the shortcut, and held the phone to her ear. Brienne watched on, sapphire eyes shimmering with anxiety. She didn’t want Rhaenyra to perish for protecting someone, but she couldn’t control what Otto Hightower called for.

The burner phone rang on Rhaenyra’s sideboard. Alicent heard it, echoing around. There was no noise within the walls, other than this ringing. She could hear the scuffle behind the door, Rhaenyra’s grunts and the shouts of men. She had no indication if Rhaenyra was winning, all she knew was it sounded like an equal match. Her hands lifted the gun, just like Rhaenyra had taught her.

Mysaria was gearing up to say ‘no answer’, when she heard the ringing stop. “Hello?”
“H-hello?” A woman’s shaky voice, not Rhaenyra’s. Brienne’s eyes widened.
“Alicent, it’s- it’s the woman from the cottage. What’s going on?”
“They’ve found us,” Mysaria could hear the scuffles, the discharging gunshots. “Found us. She’s trying to stop them.” Brienne pinched the bridge of her nose.
“You two need to run, okay? You need to go.” Mysaria could hear it in Alicent’s voice, the little tremor of defeat.
“OK.” She mumbled, weakly.

“I don’t think they’re going to be able to get out,” now Mysaria's voice had the tremor of defeat. “That’s why Blackwood swapped vehicles, he was collecting men.”
“We need to go.” Brienne looked at her screens.
“Can’t we give them more time?” Mysaria chewed her fingernails. “They can get away from the building, at least. We can pin the murders on Daemon.”
“Mysaria, I need you to understand that we have to be seen to kill Rhaenyra Targaryen. Even if she got away from the bodies, she’d be sent to the Rock to rot.”

Usually a blank slate, Mysaria’s eyes began to prick with tears. She understood Rhaenyra’s spiral, her descent into near-madness. None of it was fair, Rhaenyra had fought fire with fire, she had killed these people because they were trying to kill Alicent. And, she would still be punished. If she hadn’t killed them, everyone would have asked why nobody did more to protect Alicent.

“Urgh,” Rhaenyra rose from the ground, her hand cut from stopping a blade in passage to her throat. There were two of them left, in front of her. The one with the bat swung wildly, until the blade of a knife was engulfed by his stomach. Then, he spluttered blood onto her face. Her ribs were aching, breathing hurt. Broken, she was sure. But it didn’t matter. It was just her, against one more man. Neither had guns, Rhaenyra’s own pistol had been lost when she was shoved to the ground.

“You’re beaten,” the man said. She heard the chattering outside. More. Perhaps she was beaten, at last. She spat blood in his face, and buried her knuckleduster into his eyes.
“And you’re dead,” she said, drilling the spikes in even further. His scream would surely haunt her for the rest of her life, if she lived past this. His face looked similar to the man in the cottage garden by the time she exerted strength to toss him down the stairs.

“Distract her,” Daemon ordered. “Don’t shoot to kill, we want her to die of exhaustion. Only then will she actually stop.” He paced around his foot soldiers, and took all of their weapons. They formed a pile on the streets outside. “She’s arrogant, like me… but not as good. She’s also absolutely incessant. So, keep her occupied. Or, I’ll kill you.”

Mysaria and Brienne ordered the troops to follow suit when ordered to. They travelled in a black Mercedes, Mysaria drove like a demon. She ran at least six red lights on the way to Rhaenyra’s apartment building. She hoped, when they arrived, there was nobody there anymore. Somehow, Rhaenyra had fought her way out and they were on their way to a ferry port to live out their days like Meleys. Almost like a twin instinct, though, she knew that wasn’t the case.

Rhaenyra’s ribs hurt, her hands were bruised and her finger broken from being trod on. She had a pistol again, though. And a vague plan. They would not get to Alicent Hightower. She hid the pistol under her leg, and flopped down against the wall. She took a balaclava from one of the men, and pulled it over her face. She slowed her breathing. She no longer resembled Rhaenyra Targaryen, just a dying goon. If this didn’t work, it was all over anyway. Alicent would be safe, though. In her bathroom, locked with a gun.

Alicent had never felt more unsafe - she wanted Rhaenyra next to her, she longed for that malicious glint in her eyes and the taunting. That was safety, not a gun in her hands. Someone prepared to beat the life out of another. She had to stop the crying, to remain as silent as possible. The burner phone was on the floor next to her. Maybe, if she called the police, Rhaenyra would just go to prison, and she could visit every month and exchange letters.

Maybe they would send an armed unit, and confuse the hero for the villain. Wouldn’t be difficult, given the amount of bodies strewn outside the heroes house. Maybe the hero would join that pile of bodies.

“Go, go,” Daemon ordered the first wave - he had six men left, including himself. He was heavily relying on Rhaenyra being exactly like him.

If there was ever a time for Rhaenyra to turn the arrogance off, it was now. Alicent was inside her loft, and she wanted to make it back to her. More than anything, she wanted to make Alicent a cup of tea and kiss her soft cheeks. She wanted to hear ‘I hate you’ every day until she was ninety years old. Rhaenyra Targaryen did not want to die. The first set of footsteps ascended, she could hear the mechanical sounds of a gun being moved around, presumably trying to find a sight.

“No sign,” the man called, from the bottom of the stairwell. The noise echoed into the flat, where Alicent stifled a sob into her hand. ‘No sign’? Surely that meant Rhaenyra was dead, and she was next. “Going to make an entry.”

Rhaenyra clenched her jaw tightly as the boots trod on her legs. If she let them into the flat, she could see Alicent again. Alicent couldn’t stop the sobs as the banging filled her ears. Butts of rifles against the door, against the locks. Rhaenyra had to clench her jaw, too. It was a high risk, high reward gambit. She opened one eye, both had their backs turned to her as they rammed. She shifted her pistol out from under her legs.

With the sound of splitting wood, they were in. Steadily, she rose to her feet. She had to be as quiet as possible, like carbon monoxide filling a room. She took one deep breath, trying to ignore the sharpness in her ribs. One of the men touched his finger to his ear. “We’re in.”

All Alicent heard was death, marching towards her. Not her version of death, either. This death meant to claim her, not others. She picked the gun up, aiming it at the door. She wouldn’t open it for them. She would fight, like Rhaenyra would want her to.

Rhaenyra put her pistol to the side of his head, and pulled the trigger wordlessly. The other turned at the sound, and raised his rifle. But, he was too late. A bullet in his knee, and then a knife on his throat. “Turn your earpiece on.” Rhaenyra ordered. He shook his head against the knife. “Turn it on, now.” She pressed it further to his skin.

Alicent heard that noise, she recognised it. A limp body, falling to the floor because there was nothing to hold it upright. The brain would be dead. Rhaenyra was still alive, Rhaenyra was still fighting for her.

The boy tapped the black plastic twice. “Hello,” Rhaenyra said, into the microphone.

The element of surprise was already lost, all that was left was to tire her out even more. Daemon signalled from across the road for his other men to follow suit. “Whoever this is, you’ll die before you reach her.” She slit the boy's throat.

The sound of the gurgling made even Daemon feel sick, but it also wounded his pride. His niece seemed to be more him than he had assumed. Mentally damaged, why was she even defending this random woman? Daemon, who had never experienced love, could not work out that perhaps that was why. Perhaps her bullets were fired and her blade was slashed because the idea of losing Alicent was worse than the idea of killing others.

Alicent heard Rhaenyra’s low voice rumbling, her breath sounded raspy. She wanted to open the door and run to her, to take flight into the night with the brunette in her arms. Fly her to safety, to a villa in a hot country. But, no. She was on a cold bathroom floor, waiting to die. Or, worse, waiting for Rhaenyra to die.

Rhaenyra hobbled through to the bedroom, and pressed her lips to the door. “It’s nearly over, angel,” she said.
“Please don’t die, Rhaenyra,” Alicent could just about manage to exert her voice to normal speaking level.
“I won’t, angel.”

And then, the next round. Rhaenyra checked the clip of her pistol - four bullets. She sighed, and trudged out to the main area. They were in her doorway, not one of them seemed to be armed.

Mysaria parked the car seven minutes away, not wanting to disrupt the situation with the engine noises. Brienne was staring at the two bodies on the pavement. One had obviously been placed there, and the other pushed. “Willem Blackwood,” Mysaria observed, she could make out the scar on his cheek from here. “I don’t know the other, but I’d wager one of the Blackwater’s men.”

“This isn’t good, Mysaria,” Brienne murmured, and checked her gun. “Two here, plus the blue haired man.”
“They’re technically self-defence,” Mysaria didn’t think it would make much difference.
“I suppose… Otto Hightower won’t believe a woman protected his daughter. He’ll want her buried. You need to understand that.”
“But you could try - you could try to fight it? If she doesn’t die up there, you can try to help her.” Mysaria pleaded with the taller woman, who just looked stern.
“She’s a criminal.” Brienne shrugged the touch off.
“You’ve killed, too. For Renly Baratheon - the King’s brother. Are you a criminal?”

Brienne’s expression painted the image of shock, so perfect that it could be used in an emotional dictionary. “How do you know about that?”
“MI5 have the file security of a primary school.”
“I could have you imprisoned,” Brienne threatened, rooted to the spot.
“Oh? Is that before or after you kill someone for defending a woman whose husband wants her dead?” Mysaria spat the words.

Brienne had killed a few would-be assassins during her time in the Royal guard. When she thought about it - what was the difference?

She clicked her neck from side to side, a reptilian movement, and aimed her gun at the one front and centre. They all moved at the same time, like a group of synchronised swimmers circling her. She shot one, but before she could press down on the trigger, a dagger ran into her thigh. She grunted, and fell to her knees. Her trousers were wet with blood, the small blade still protruding from her thigh.

“You’re weak,” one of the men tried to taunt, but his voice was too high.
“Annoying,” Rhaenyra grumbled, and shot him in the stomach. The gun was taken from her, and thrown across the room. The noise reverberated off the exposed red brick, and Alicent curled up into a ball. Even if she lived, she would never be the same. If the image of Rhaenyra Targaryen didn’t haunt her, then this would. The sounds of men dropping like flies, gunshots in a contained space. Her ears were ringing, and rushing with blood.

The pain was searing as she tried to get up from the floor. She rose to her feet, and managed to bury her knuckles into the soft, pudgy cheek of one, but then she was swept to the floor again by the other. This was fighting a losing battle, but Dragons do not bow.

In their bickering, Mysaria and Brienne had lost sight of the reason they were here. Daemon Targaryen had begun to climb the stairs, slowly, dramatically. He was waiting for a signal, his entry to the flat had to be accompanied by the dying breaths of his niece.

Chapter Text

Alicent let out a sob, it travelled to Rhaenyra’s ears. The effect it had on her was similar to an IV of caffeine in her veins. She got up again, and used as much strength as she could muster to ram her spiked knuckles into the head of one of the men. The other made a move to follow the sob, but with a pained scream, she withdrew the knife from her thigh and threw it.

She watched with bated breath as it travelled through the air, the low light caught the tip of the dagger before it cut the man's spinal cord, and he hit the floor. Her thigh was bleeding freely, her life literally pouring out before her eyes. She had nothing, no energy left.

Daemon heard the body thud, and smiled proudly. It must be Rhaenyra, overpowered at last and dying on the floor. He took his dagger out, and twisted the point against his fingertip as he climbed the stairs with increased speed. Rhaenyra heard the footsteps, just one pair, and propped herself up against the kitchen counter. She was unarmed, save for her knuckle dusters, which were bloodied and dull.

Mysaria and Brienne had made it to the building after their spat, both looked around. There was nothing, no more bodies on the street, no further indications of a scuffle. All lights were off in the buildings, out of the corner of her eye, Mysaria could see a parked van. “Over there,” she pointed, but it was empty, too. “We need to go in,” Mysaria said, taking her small revolver from her pocket. Brienne held her back.
“And if you get killed?” The blonde woman said.
“She could be dead - they could both be dead!” It was a whispered shout, so as to not unsettle the dead.
“You’re more use alive… as a witness.” The hidden meaning was enough to make Mysaria stand still - if she could attest in court to self defence, it would be more helpful than being dead. Perhaps Brienne was changing her mind.

“Uncle Daemon,” Rhaenyra greeted him with a bloodied smile, her teeth stained red and lips split. Daemon grimaced when he saw his niece, and twirled the dagger between his fingers.
“I thought you’d be dead,” he stood in the doorway.
“Why? So you didn’t have to fight me yourself?” Rhaenyra’s smile faltered.
“Precisely… but you may as well be dead, look at you.” He crossed the threshold.

Alicent could hear a man's voice through the walls, and pressed her hand to her mouth. She could hear Rhaenyra, her chest wheezing and voice hoarse.

“And yet, here I am,” she shrugged her shoulders, but her ribs made the movement jilt.
“You couldn’t stop me, if I decided to charge past and take her.” Daemon’s smile was evil, the light made his teeth look pointed.
“Try it, then,” Rhaenyra stood upright. He laughed, and put his dagger in its sheath on his thigh.
“We could take the money, you and I, if you give her up.”
“You’ll be dead before I give her up.”

This caused the man to laugh, a noise that made Alicent Hightower cover her ears - like nails down a chalkboard. “Why are you doing this? Dying for a girl?” He pushed Rhaenyra, but she didn’t move.
“I’m not dying.”
“Rhaenyra, look at yourself. Bleeding, battered… losing… You can’t protect her.” His words bounced off her, she could protect her, for as long as she believed she could.
“I’ve done a good job of it,” she paused, to spit blood from her mouth, “so far.”
“Yes, you’ve killed a mob of delinquents, very good,” he clapped her on the back.

“But you can’t kill me,” he added, and delivered a punch to her stomach. She laughed, and forced herself upright despite the pain. Her knuckles landed on his left cheek, four scratch marks appearing on the surface. He punched her again, harder, in the ribs. “Do you love her? Is that it?”

The sounds of Rhaenyra's anguish, her pain and groaning all made the girl in the bathroom feel like she might throw up. She wanted to kill him, the one causing these noises. Alicent reached for the gun when she heard Rhaenyra crumple to the floor, and slowly slid the bolt from the door. With as much care as one would remove an artery from the body, inching it with painful precision, so as to not scrape metal on metal. When Rhaenyra groaned again, she pushed the door open.

Rhaenyra was on the floor, her uncle over her, administering kicks wherever he felt it pertinent. “Answer me,” he ordered. She sunk her teeth into his ankle, and he jumped backwards. A boot, to her cut leg. Just like she’d done to… who was it? Someone, anyway. She couldn’t remember, her head felt like it was going to split in half.
“I love her, yes, and when I get up I’m going to tear you apart, limb by limb.” Rhaenyra spat, and crawled away from him. He let her pull herself up.

In the doorway, behind him, she could see Alicent. And that was enough. “I love her,” she said, again. Alicent had tears in her eyes, glittering in the low light. Daemon turned to look at Alicent, too. Except, Alicent wasn’t for him. That was not allowed, that was a schoolboy error. He’s not permitted to look at Alicent Hightower. Bleeding, and throbbing, all over, Rhaenyra tugged her uncle to the ground. She delivered punch after punch on his face, feeling his cheekbones and nose crack under her knuckles. She herself was bleeding copiously, her skin paling and becoming almost translucent.

Alicent felt hopeful - it was over for him, surely! They had won, the sun would come up soon and they could flee. They could drive off to Norfolk, or to a ferry, and live together. Die of old age, kissing each other and pretending they’d never brushed hands with death.

“Ugh,” Rhaenyra spluttered, and sat upright. She looked back at Alicent, and gave her a sad smile. Then, put her hands on the hilt of the dagger in her side.
“No-no,” Alicent rushed forward, tears spilling from her eyes.
“Your little girlfriend is de-” Alicent pressed down on the trigger, expelling as many bullets as possible into the man before her.
“No, she’s not- she’s not,” she threw the gun away, and ran to Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra was spluttering, the fields of the crematorium visible before her. “Come on, get up, get up please, we’ll get help,” Alicent was brushing Rhaenyra’s sweaty hair from her face. “Rhaenyra, get up!” She ordered, her tears falling onto Rhaenyra’s face. Her vision was blurry, but she looked at the dagger, just beneath her ribs, and let out a sigh.

A helicopter whirred overhead, the spotlight shining into the loft onto Rhaenyra. She was covered, head to toe, in blood. Two gashes seeping plasma onto her skin which was ghostly white. “Come on, please, darling, get up,” Alicent hooked her arm around Rhaenyra, and lifted her. She weighed less than she thought, Alicent thought maybe she could make it downstairs.

“Rhaenyra Targaryen, come out with your hands up!” The voice blared through a megaphone. Alicent sobbed, and tried to make it down the first flight of stairs.

“I love you, angel,” Rhaenyra muttered, her hands applying pressure to the stab wound on her side. But they were weakening, and the pressure wasn't enough to stop the leaking.
“It’s not over - don’t you dare- it’s not finished, you said you wouldn’t die,” Alicent straightened her back, and tried to jog.
“I love you.” Rhaenyra said, again. In some ways, it was bliss, to be dying. She had protected Alicent Hightower, she had done Tamsin, Meleys… all of them, proud.
“Shut up, I hate you,” Alicent cried, as they descended the last flight.

Outside, there was a row of armed soldiers, pointing their rifles at the pair. Alicent squinted, and fell to her knees on the stony stairs. Her kneecaps throbbed with the pressure of falling. Rhaenyra remained in her lap. “In the next one, I’ll find you.”
“No, Rhaenyra, please-” Alicent couldn’t stop the sobs, “Please, don’t die - just… just keep your eyes open. I love you.”
“I love you more, angel.” Rhaenyra’s eyes shut against her will, and her lovers, and Alicent screamed into the night. The men all lowered their guns, and the spotlight turned off. Alicent kissed Rhaenyra’s bloodied lips, her sweaty forehead, and her delicate eyelids.

Mysaria watched, her own cheeks running with water uncontrollably. As men approached with a stretcher, to pry Rhaenyra’s body from Alicent, they were swatted away and told to ‘fuck off’. But, they took the brunette, anyway. Into a private ambulance. Brienne approached the van, and barked some unintelligible orders at the doctors inside.

Her legs were wobbly, but she made her way to Alicent and collapsed next to her. She put an arm around her shoulders, and cried with her. Just as Rhaenyra Targaryen had found life, she’d found happiness and love, it was snatched away. Alicent couldn’t even process that she’d killed the man, she had done it for Rhaenyra. For her love, who was being carted away in a black van.

Rhaenyra could once again see the crematorium ahead of her, the stars twinkling brightly. Alicent was next to her, in a flowy white dress with her hair tied back by a cornflower blue bandana. It was nice, to be in the fields, with her love. There was a gold band on Alicent’s left ring finger, the next life. Promising, and warm.

“She would be happy, to have died protecting you,” Mysaria sniffed, and squeezed Alicent.
“I wish I was dead, too,” the redhead stared at the space where Rhaenyra had laid. All that remained was a pool of blood.

Mysaria couldn’t comfort that. She would obviously much rather Rhaenyra wasn’t dead, too. But maybe she would find peace, in the stars, in the sea and the breeze. Maybe there was nothing, but that was still more peaceful than the turmoil Rhaenyra had been washed with.

“We are lucky to have known Rhaenyra Targaryen,” Mysaria settled for. Alicent wasn’t listening, anyway. She was still trying to wake up, pinching her blood-stained arm with shaking fingers.
“Alicent Hightower?” Brienne approached them, her voice quiet. Alicent didn’t react, she didn’t even look up. “We’d like you to come with us, for some questioning.”
“Does this look like a good time?” Mysaria rose, and stood in front of Alicent. Protecting her, as Rhaenyra would have wanted.
“I’ll come back, later,” Brienne looked constipated - perhaps an attempt at sympathy, and walked off.

Alicent still wasn’t speaking, hours later. She just wanted Rhaenyra back - if the stories she told were correct, her ashes would already be in the wind. She couldn’t sense them, though. Alicent thought she would know, if Rhaenyra was in the breeze around her. She’d hear the laughter, the dry wit, the rough morning voice.

“We’ve informed your husband of your safety, we have to go, now,” Brienne stood in front of her, with two guards. Presumably to escort Alicent, if she didn’t cooperate.
“Ah, is that the husband who ordered these hitmen?” The mention of Criston reactivated her, that wretched man was responsible for the death of the only person she had ever truly loved.

Even though, in actuality, the love was toxic and grew from the soils of shared trauma over the span of mere days. It was still love, and Alicent still felt completely empty. She’d kill them all, in front of her, if it meant Rhaenyra could come back. She understood it, now. She understood what Rhaenyra had felt, why she had that look in her eyes when people threatened Alicent. She had cared for someone, they had been taken, and she was desperate for it to not happen again. Alicent got it, at last.

“If that’s the case, you can mention it in your interview,” Brienne escorted her to a car, and opened the door. Brienne knew it was the case, but it needed to be recorded. Alicent was prepared to grass up her husband, anyone, really. If there was some key phrase to utter that would undo the last hour, or some false book on an antique shelf that would reveal a secret room where Rhaenyra was alive... She had to find it.

If she loved her, she would have ran. She wouldn’t have left her, wouldn’t have shut her eyes and seeped her plasma onto Alicent’s skin. They could be dancing under the sunset in Greece, kissing on the beach. Living together. Now, Alicent would be haunted. For as long as she lived, she would remember Syrax. Blonde, windswept hair - soft to the touch. A sharp jawline, a sharper tongue. A gentle soul, hidden inside a body made of wrought iron, jagged and tough. A body that was hers, for a time.

Now, Syrax was dead.

Chapter Text

“So, you’re saying, on the record, that your husband Criston Cole put a hit out on you?” Brienne phrased the question clearly for the shell shocked woman.
“Yes, I’m saying that he tried to have me killed for some money I have.” Alicent didn’t sound like herself, she sounded like someone tried to replicate her voice with robotics. “And she- she protected me.” Her voice broke, and her eyes spilled tears again.
“She being ‘Syrax’.”
“Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra Targaryen protected me… whilst you all… did what, sorry? Twiddled your thumbs? Interviewed my husband? Let a gang of mercenaries terrorise us?” Alicent sniped, her eyes narrowing. The woman looked uncomfortable
“We weren’t aware that there was a hit on you,” Brienne replied.
“Oh - you thought a sniper shot into my hotel room for a bit of fun?” She was furious, her hands shaking.

“We thought Syrax - Rhaenyra Targaryen - had kidnapped you,” Brienne answered, her hands on the table neatly.
“Kidnapped me?!” In truth, she had. “I love… loved. I loved her.”
“I see,” Brienne made a note on her small black notebook, and shut it promptly.
“Daemon Targaryen - the blonde man. You killed him… because?”

“Because he was killing - killed. He killed her,” the words were punctuated by Alicent’s lip quivering. Brienne frowned. “He stabbed her, so I shot him.” She confessed.
“Self-defence,” the blonde woman added.
“It was all self-defence. They all tried to kill us, to kill me. She stopped them.” The words spilled from her, she didn’t want to hear them again but they forced their way from her lips like a giant tearing a gate open: “And now, she’s dead.”

“I see,” the words only made Alicent angrier.
“I don’t think you do fucking ‘see’, do you? I loved her, and she died. She died trying to protect me because my foul husband decided to have me killed. She didn’t owe me anything, she didn’t know me when she collected me and was nearly choked to death for me.”
“Choked to death?” Brienne arched an eyebrow.
“The- the blue haired man. In Kensington. He tried to kill me, he tried to kill her.” Alicent wafted her hand, as if speaking from a distant memory. Brienne made another note. “What are you writing?” She peered over.

“Ms Hightower, I suggest we get you looked over,” Brienne turned the machine off, and rose from the desk.
“I don’t want to be fucking looked over,” Alicent shook the guards touch off, and stood up. “I’m not hurt.” The door was opened, and Alicent exited.
“Ms Hightower, your father is waiting for you in the ambulance.” Brienne called, as Alicent walked off. Otto Hightower would wait even longer, Alicent never wanted to see anyone again. She walked out of the first door she saw, and down the fire escape stairs. She sat on the bottom of them, and put her head in her hands. The sobs came thick and fast, her lungs gasping for a morsel of oxygen.

“She doesn’t want to be seen by doctors,” Brienne told the tall brown haired man. He rolled his eyes.
“She’s just being dramatic,” Otto inhaled, and folded his arms across his chest. “The woman that did this - I trust she’s dead?”
“She has been dealt with, yes,” Brienne disliked him, just from this meeting. “But you should know that the way your daughter retells it… Syrax defended her. Your daughter wouldn’t be alive without Syrax.” She turned to walk away.

“She’ll be traumatised for life, because of that woman,” Otto called. Brienne turned on her heels. She couldn’t reveal too much about the case, because of the irons warming in the fire.
“Perhaps, if your daughter ever wants to speak to you again, ask her what happened.” Then, she walked away.

Alicent cried until she passed out, basically. Her lungs couldn’t retain any oxygen, and she crumpled down the stairs like a scrunched ball of paper on a slide. She could feel herself being transported, but she didn’t care where she was being taken.

Three knocks on his front door, before he answered. A tall woman, with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. “What’s this about?” He asked, peering behind her to the group of men with guns and helmets on. There was an armoured black car parked just in front of the house. He knew what it was about.

“Criston Cole, you’re under arrest for conspiracy, and solicitation of murder,” Brienne roughly gripped his shoulders, and turned him around. He sighed, and put his hands behind his back. It hadn’t worked. Still, in prison, he couldn’t be killed by the people he owed large sums of money to - or worse, the people he had promised large sums of money to. She read out his rights, before stuffing him in the armoured car with gratuitous force.

Alicent woke up in her fathers house, much to her annoyance. She was on his sofa, with two paramedics just leaving the scene. “You’re being dramatic, Alicent.” He sat down, and swirled his whiskey around its tumbler.
“You’re being a cunt, Otto,” Alicent replied, and stared at the speckled ceiling in front of her. Her lungs hurt, like someone had hammered nails into them. She stood up.
“Where are you going?” He asked.
“Anywhere you’re not, really,” the redhead turned, to survey the pathetic imprint of her father. “You know, you’re the reason she left the Dragons. You ordered her to kill a little girl, because the disgusting prince abused her.”

Otto looked stunned, and put his glass down. “Go then, if you must. I’m just looking out for you.” Alicent ignored him, and kept walking from his house. Morning had broken, and she was exhausted. So tired, too tired to walk. She just sat down on the step, and stared at the sun until her eyes hurt - it didn’t take long. When she looked away, she could still see the sun in her eyes.

Grief as a concept had always been sort of abstract to her - she was young when her mother died, you couldn’t miss something you didn’t remember. Now, she remembered every little detail she had been exposed to. Every scar, the row under her ribs on her back, the small slash on top of her lips from Alicent’s punch, her eyes crinkling when she smiled. The smell, the taste, of coffee and mint on her breath. Her abhorrent arrogance, her fury. The good and the bad swirled into one, burrowing its way through the stomach of Alicent Hightower.

Two, maybe three weeks, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough time, when the idea of what could have been would forever follow her, a shadow pacing a few steps behind. The shadow was taller than her, too. Shorter hair, an angular jaw. If she loved her, like she said, why didn’t she just run when they had the chance?

Otto didn’t bother trying to comfort his daughter, he had no words that would help her. To him, it was pathetic. An obvious case of Stockholm Syndrome, his previous run-ins with Syrax had made it evident she was out to get him. But he couldn’t have been more wrong, it was never about him. A man like him would never occupy enough space in the brain of Rhaenyra Targaryen, he was nothing more than a target who hadn’t yet been hit. No, in those moments before her eyes closed, all she thought of was Alicent. Shining through the years of depression, like a solar flare.

Mysaria had gone back to her flat, the space was filled with natural light, yet it had never seemed so dark. The injustice of it all felt like chains around her ankle, clanging against the floor with every step, rattling with every sob. Criston Cole would go to prison for his crimes, sure. But Rhaenyra seemed to be dead. That’s how everyone was treating it, at least. For Rhaenyra, Mysaria made a quiet promise to keep in touch with Alicent. To keep her safe, and make sure she got help. The weeks had been traumatic for her, and she wasn’t the one on the run, in love with her protector after only a fortnight.

Mysaria knew, though, that it was that easy to fall in love with Rhaenyra. She had viewed herself as unloveable, but actually, Mysaria wasn’t sure anyone had ever been more lovable. Roguish, charming, earnest and awkward. Feeling everything with such force that it felt like nothing.

Alicent went home with her brother, to his house on the far west of London. Her house was full of ghouls, and Criston’s belongings. Gwayne was more comforting than anyone else in her life, and he would know the grief. He would help her, he would let her be whilst she sobbed into her pillow and pleaded with the blue sky to bring Rhaenyra back. It wasn’t fair.