winterfell express

1931, King’s Landing

The train station that connected King’s Landing to Winterfell was a derelict heap of grease, sweat and petrified hope. Even in the dead of winter, cooped in her chariot and armed with her chipped wooden fan, Mysaria could smell it. It was at times like these that her other name, Lady Misery, seemed more ironic than charming. Whatever she couldn’t smell she could hear. The violent shoveling of snow, whistling machinery, low booming horns, the ticketmaster yelling prices again and again, already hoarse. She could feel the hungry anticipation of the entire place, where hundreds rushed in and out everyday, seeking something new or other. Running away or arriving, it was all the same.

Mysaria had never left King’s Landing before today. She was born to its streets, raised by it. She’d never really considered moving, really. Especially not when business ran so well in the capital with throngs of military men always moving through, itching for an experience with a real “exotic lady”. It made good money. All of them bought the shtick, some of them tipped well, most she never saw again. A few would even oblige her with books and lessons. In short, things were perfect. Until they weren’t, and now she had to uproot to Winterfell. At the very least she had Lily with her. Stubborn, boisterous Lily, who claimed to know all the powerful men in Winterfell, who gallantly insisted she could chaperone and protect her.

“Come with me, Mysaria. I’ve been and I want to show you around. Besides, King’s Landing grows ever so boring with all this war business,” she’d slurred and pouted, drunk and a great deal more handsy than usual. “We’ll have so much more fun there. My darling, please?”

Mysaria rolled her eyes at the memory. She felt the chariot being lowered and stepped out with dread As the men lifted her cases and bags into the train, she scanned the station for any sight of Lily, but found nothing other than a huffy old woman harassing the ticket booth. She only hoped Lily actually meant to show up. But either way, she was here now. She needed a new beginning, and she would only be looking for the same work. What difference would the city she was in make to her, either way?

Resigned, she entered the train and reaching her first class cabin, slid the door shut. The cabin was small for two people, but still larger than she’d imagined, with a square mahogany table and two upholstered dining chairs bolted to the ground right before the door, a double decker single bed flushed to one end of the room and a cupboard by the window with ample space to store their luggages. The dusty wallpaper was a quaint pattern of blue and white diamonds, and on the wall across the bed hung a small print reproduction of a painting: Gnome Watching Railway Train. Rather derivative to Mysaria’s mind. She dumped her things by a corner, then sat down, lit a cigarette and took a deep, hearty drag. That ought to relax her.

She was vaguely aware of the men in first class lingering about and whispering as she hurried in, their eyes darting to her curiously. As she caught their gaze, a fellow in a round hat grimaced, sharply turned and waved his umbrella to a passing attendant. Normally she might have taken the chance to slow a little. To give them a better look at her figure under her dark lavender dress, but she so craved a day off. There will be more than enough time to catch them when we reach Winterfell, she thought. In Mysaria’s experience, most people seemed to think prostitutes ought to be more extroverted. Her first pimp, a shrewd man who fancied himself a kind of impresario, would berate her every other day to smile and coo a little more. “No one likes a sour face,” he’d complain between blows. But Mysaria enjoyed her aloofness, and after that first pimp finally fucked off and died in a ditch, she learned to look for men, or women who would misread it into enigma. Lily, however, was more than intrigued by Mysaria. She actually adored her silence. As bedfellows went, Lily was a delight, but she was more of a colleague than a client. And with her petulant, flighty way, such affections could not be trusted.

Her reverie was broken short as she noticed that the man with the umbrella was still eyeing her with tepid disapproval between waving for assistance. She took another drag just as a local attendant arrived. “I won’t share a compartment with this woman! You’ll change me now!” The attendant, bleary eyed and unimpressed, glanced briefly at Mysaria and mumbled some dismissive excuse.

“I haven’t spent ten years in this city to not know a woman like that when I see one!” the man continued, growing red faced. He would only gesture now, before awkwardly tumbling out, still muttering that he ought to be given another compartment. She waited till he was out of sight, eyes boring into his back, though she well knew he would not dare turn back and look her in the eye after such an insult. How these Westorosi men threw around their words.

Outside, the commotion of passengers grew heavier as the train horn blared for imminent departure. The men ogling Mysaria had drifted to one particular window. She amused herself with taking stock of her potential customers: a weary looking merchant in a large overcoat, several in pressed shirts and one in uniform, evidently some decorated soldier. At first glance he seemed immediately a great deal more put together, even as he strained downwards to get his cigarette lit by another cadet on the other side of the window.

“Thanks so much,” he muttered, in a voice that was crisp as glass, yet deep. “I say Harwin,” the other cadet chirped, “you’re in for a good time. Do you know who’s on this train?”

“Who?”

“Winter Lily.” Mysaria’s ears perked up in relief. So she would be coming after all.

“Who’s Winter Lily?” the soldier called Harwin challenged playfully. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Winter Lily! Everybody in the Seven Kingdoms knows her, she’s the notorious coaster.”

“What a ludicrous name. A made up one, surely.”

“Whore names always are. Word from the rumour mill says she’s related to the Targaryens-”

As if on cue, the cabin door slid open, knocking the wall with a bright thud and making Mysaria jump.

“Hello, poppet.” Lily was poised, her tall frame leaning on the edge of the cabin door as she smiled down at Mysaria. She was dressed in black from head to toe, a gaudy shawl made of black feathers rested about her shoulders, and a black fishnet was draped over her face. On any other, it would’ve seemed a horrid chicken costume, but on Lily, it gave off the regal look of an enchanted, murderous raven. Mysaria played off her shiver as a shrug, irked at Lily’s casual manner while Mysaria had been worried that she’d never show. “Did you sleep well?”

Mysaria cocked an eyebrow, “I thought you weren’t coming.” There was a time when the sultry edge of Lily’s voice was enough to make the hairs stand on Mysaria’s neck. Mysaria would repay the favour by pretending it didn’t bother her. Lily seemed to like that sort of thing.

The men outside remained oblivious and continued to chat. Lily waltzed in now, smirking, and this time, gently slid the door shut. “I’m offended, darling. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” she retorted, taking her time to pull down the blinds on each window around them. Pulling her shawl and fishnet off in one fluid movement, she moved towards Mysaria and pressed a lingering kiss into her cheekbone. Her pursed lips were soft and warm. Inviting in a way that put Mysaria on edge. She had not noticed the morning chill before now, as Lily’s hands came to rest around her, just beginning to roam. One reached to cup her face, a thumb tracing her ear lobe, jawline, over her lips. It took every effort not to part them.

“I was about to read,” Mysaria said, in a leisurely tone that was precisely practiced, looking away before she could catch Lily’s pout. She always took care never to inch away in these games. She expertly clutched her cigarette to suppress a shudder as Lily let her hands slip away, though the ghost of her touch sent quiet goosebumps over her arm.

Mysaria had always convinced herself that it was because of her aloofness that she enjoyed playing hard to get, sending mixed signals. Though truly, it was the uncertainty of what they would do next that excited her. Would they slink away, admitting defeat, or would they glimpse the spark in her eyes and pounce? Such pleasure in casual cruelty. Lily taught her that. She had blinked at Mysaria one morning months ago and uttered, “Lady Misery. That’s what they should call you.” The name stuck. So did the games. Not that she ever knew where she stood in them. It was a sly battle in nonchalance, a hunger they prodded till it teetered on the edge.

“Alright then,” Lily straightened up gracefully and moved away to stow her bags. Mysaria watched as discreetly as she could, catching the sight of her bare legs swishing under her fitted skirts. She could almost believe what the men said – that Lily was a Targaryen. One of the most powerful iron trading families in Westeros. They held a legendary ancestral home on Dragonstone, what was described to a gaping Mysaria as a hostile island towering with hulks of grey rock. Mysaria had often wondered about Lily’s past life. There was a trained air about her that could only come from wealth and gentry. Most such women she ever saw were in passing and had husbands, or were missionary septas. Certainly none hung around brothels, let alone worked at them.

Mysaria had overheard Lily’s real name being uttered only once, and had been forbidden to say it aloud. But if it were true, it would be an exceedingly pretty and royal sounding name. She sounded it out in her mind. Targaryen…

Rhaenyra Targaryen.

“The men in these first class cabins look positively delicious,” Rhaenyra remarked into a shaving mirror nailed on the wall, gingerly puffing up her silver curls and checking her brows, “Well, most of them.”

“I’m sure you’ll make the best opportunity with it,” Mysaria replied, sounding far more passive aggressive than intended. She blanched inwardly, confused at herself. Her hostility over this felt irrational. After all, they were both in the business of selling their body for coin. But it wasn’t quite about that either.

Rhaenyra glanced at her for a moment, about to say something, but never did. Then a rumble below told them the train had roared to life. Within minutes, King’s Landing sat behind them.

Rhaenyra busied herself with unpacking her things, heaping an unending array of nick-nacks onto the table and making a great deal of noise. She made a show of moving things about, arranging and rearranging, brushing past Mysaria intentionally with her sleeves and feathers as she crossed the cramped room to fetch one thing or another. Mysaria let her, nursing her cigarette, but made no moves herself. It would not do to let Rhaenyra have her way so soon, not when Mysaria was still vexed. But at what? At her lateness? Her fleeting overtures?

When Lily at last tired of the ruse, Mysaria pressed a fresh cigarette to her lips and said, “Light it for me, Lily?”

Lily did so, but not before she had a chance to push back Mysaria’s hair, the tips of fingers scarcely brushing over her neck. They locked eyes as the cigarette sparked, though neither moved an inch further. “I spied an old friend while getting onto this train,” Lily said after awhile, “I might run over to his cabin to say hello.”

Mysaria flicked her wrist in a gesture that said, so do that. She stepped away first, without breaking eye contact. “Well, in case you run off and disappear again, as you always do, mind you give me the address of the inn in Winterfell you mentioned?”

Lily scoffed lightly, taking the cigarette from Mysaria’s hands and lifting it to her lips. “I’ll do what I like, but darling, you won’t want Winterfell without me.”

Thin wisps of smoke drifted between them. “Would I?” Mysaria challenged, keeping her face even. To her annoyance, Lily only smiled wryly, stepped out and disappeared down the hallway.

She smoked the remainder of her cigarette in silence, thinking of little else.

⊹ ⟡ ⊹

Captain Harwin Strong sighed as he felt a torrent of biting wind ruffle through his hair. He’d snuffed out and tossed his cigarette more than half an hour ago but was already hankering for another. It was going to be a full three days’ journey, and he could not see the sense in letting his nerves take over so soon. But all the nicotine and brandy could not calm him for what was waiting in Winterfell. He’d sworn off drinking. Supposedly. Steady hands and a clear head were beyond important if he was going to have to lead a crucial surgery in the next few days. But it would be a last resort, he reiterated to his nervous mind. The last letter stated that, well… Lieutenant Stark’s conditions were still stable for now.

For twenty minutes, the train sped across plains, mostly blanketed in snow and dotted with busy settlements and signs. Harwin twirled his unworn captain’s hat again and again in his hands. Every time he resolved to put it on, he would grow miraculously distracted by some petulant detail, watching a tile on the floor, a flock of passing birds or feeling the breeze.

Another man lumbered to the window next to his, and stood a moment without speaking. Harwin took a breath. He might as well make conversation, take his mind off things.

“Say, partner, do you ever make a bet?” he tried, adding a chipper tone to his voice. He turned to look at the man and stopped a moment. Harwin thought there was something unusually Dornish in the man’s features, though he could have sworn he overheard the man speaking the common tongue rather finely while boarding the train. He looked a little younger than Harwin himself, with round, cunning eyes against a handsome face, decked in a stiff white blazer. In his hand he lugged an intricately carved walking staff with a head shaped into an elongated animal’s skull. Certainly not any regular bloke.

“Name’s Harwin.” He offered a hand, which the man shook. “Criston.”

“Criston. I'll bet this old rattler won't get into Winterfell on time.”

“Sir, let me remind you that most of Westeros is in a state of civil war,” Criston remarked gravely, though his lips were curved into a thin smile. “We will be fortunate if we arrive in Winterfell at all.”

Oh, the bloody war. Harwin grinned in time to mask his grimace. The one thing he’d willed himself to forget, if only for three days on this ruddy train. “Of course,” he could only say after a moment.

But Criston inched closer, apparently warmed to him now. “Say, Captain Harwin, what news have you got to be moving from King’s Landing? Forgive me for assuming, but might it be ill-advised? Going to Winterfell, I mean.”

“Not at all,” Harwin responded automatically. “You must understand I am not at liberty to discuss-”

“Oh,” Criston put up his hands in a placating gesture of mock surrender, the walking stick flailing up harshly as he did so. “Of course, of course. Your gallantry is appreciated by us all.”

With a loud hiss of steam, the train screeched to a sudden halt. Criston sprang to the window to see that they had reached a neighbouring settlement. “Why have we stopped?” Angry shouts erupted from outside the train, alongside bleats and incessant chirping. “Some of the smallfolk have been moving their animals across the tracks, the cumbersome things!” someone yelled. Quickly growing distracted, Criston began to move back to his cabin.

A gathering of smallfolk was growing around the stopped train, ranting and raving at the train staff. More passengers from his first class carriage trailed out to see the commotion. Harwin took a breath, relieved at Criston’s leaving but annoyed to be alone with his anxiety once more. He turned the strange conversation over in his mind. Criston’s forward manner and unusual dress had made Harwin uneasy. He surely had some Dornish blood, perhaps a trader who recently came into wealth, Harwin mused.

Soon, Harwin felt another passenger come to rest beside him again, but he shrank away from starting a conversation this time. Gazing out the window, he chose to brood in silence and his thoughts turned to another matter – the soldiers’ gossip at the station before. The mention of the surreptitious Winter Lily, and her supposed relation to the Targaryen family. Outwardly, he’d huffed. But when he’d heard the name Targaryen thrown aloud into the air an hour ago, he had shocked, no– betrayed himself by feeling a spur of excitement. A spark of indeterminate feeling, between elation and fear. How could he harbour such a knee jerk reaction for her? Though it was not possible, he had immediately thought. What kind of Targaryen could be in such filthy business? Besides, what would a spoiled heiress like her be doing in King’s Landing? In a city she had made ample complaints about since childhood. By then the damage was done, and Captain Harwin Strong found himself standing hundreds of miles away from home, travelling to a forsaken, cold, fortress, pathetically reminiscing about a lost girl from his youth.

He swallowed. He’d left Dragonstone and sworn off any dealings with them for as long as he lived. His own family chided him for being so spiteful, but it was a name that stung. It made him think of buried pasts, conjured sickening memories of youth, spring and naivete. Still deep in thought, he turned absentmindedly to the person beside him. And froze in utter disbelief.

He saw that the person was already looking back at him, had probably been looking for some time. He saw that it was a woman. By her luxurious dress, it could only be the aforementioned Winter Lily. But the face that met his was none other than-

“Rhaenyra.”

Her lips barely twitched at the sound of her name. Piercing, lilac eyes searched him nonchalantly, surveying, savouring his reaction. They scanned his gruff, weathered face, taking in tired eyes, unruly beard and full lips. Beside herself, Rhaenyra held out a hand.

“Well, Doctor, I haven't seen you in a long time.”

Try as he might, Harwin could not extract himself from her dissecting gaze. He’d not the time to tidy himself. His captain’s hat remained unworn, and he now fiddled with it uncomfortably. She counted a few lines on his forehead she had not seen before, marvelling at them. His anxiousness satisfied her well enough. She met his eyes boldly, before allowing the smallest hint of a smile to show. “You haven't changed at all, Doctor.”

“Well, you've changed a lot, Rhaenyra.”

“Have I, Doc? Do you mind me calling you Doc?” her smirk deepened, “Or must I be... more respectful?”

It took everything for Harwin to tear his eyes away from hers. But having succeeded, he began to notice her vulgar attire. Black feathers that poked out everywhere, the sleek dress that hugged her becoming form. Despite the winter chill, he could feel himself turning hot with confusion, with rage.

“You never were respectful. And you always did call me Doc.”

His curt tone only encouraged her. “And have you thought of me much, Doc?”

She was playing with him, and he knew. He sought her gaze again, poised to confront this time. “I’ve thought of nothing else these five years,” he mumbled bitterly. He did not know what or who this show of vulnerability was for. A morsel of his hopeful heart had always prayed that seeing him, she would feel guilty. She had abandoned and humiliated him like no one else ever had, but he had always known that she would. It was simply Rhaenyra’s way.

“So tell me. How have I changed? Have I lost my looks?” she asked playfully, as if they were merely two lovebirds flirting on a train. He ran his eyes over her solemnly, feeling a rush of heat once again.

“No, you're more beautiful than ever.”

“Well, Doc, I did change my name.”

“Married?”

“No. It took more than one man to change my name to Winter Lily.”

“So you are Winter Lily. The notorious prostitute of Westeros.” She let an eyebrow arch in chiding disapproval as he sounded out the word ‘prostitute’. Naughty boy, she thought. Well, she’d let him think whatever he wanted. It was much too fun to lead him on and send him squirming. Oh, shame to Rhaenyra, for letting her Targaryen blood fall so low. Humph!

She lifted a hand gloved in delectable black lace to the parapet. A pretty enough gesture that his eyes predictably followed. Then she ran her hand elegantly along the parapet, seductively, reeling his gaze in. Before flinging it away harshly, sending him flinching back as she trotted away in triumph. As soon she turned away, her face broke into a grin. It only widened when she heard his hurried footsteps stalking behind to follow her. How quickly these men succumbed.

Rhaenyra thought it a second rate success. She was still a little moody at being denied by Mysaria, and truly, it was her soft skin that she wanted against her own. All morning she had giggled in the car to the train station, thinking of Mysaria’s long black hair tangled between her fingers, she could almost imagine the curve of her scalp under her grip. Of all the girls she’d bedded, there really was something about Lady Misery that kept her mysteriously aching. The first few times, Rhaenyra grew indignant and sulky. Then she learned that as the common proverb went, misery loves company. But only in a torturous tussle that was earned, that left one huffing, sweaty, rushing with adrenaline, all without moving a muscle. It was a lust that proved addictive over time. But also helped by Rhaenyra’s observance that for all her coldness, Mysaria let on more than she knew. She harboured something inside her. A viscous, velvety darkness that intrigued Rhaenyra, that she wanted nothing more than to fold herself into.

When King’s Landing’s riots grew out of control, she’d planned to leave right away. All her affairs – not much to begin with – were swiftly accounted for. But she had hesitated with Mysaria. Mysaria with her cozy, deep brown eyes and mysterious air. She reminded Rhaenyra of a graceful, nimble black cat. The thought of never seeing her again felt curiously dreadful. On a whim, she’d decided to try to bring her along.

Rhaenyra was making sure to keep a slow enough pace to be just out of reach from Harwin. The train resumed moving all of a sudden, and as they neared her cabin, she quickened her pace without warning and slid open the door dramatically to see Mysaria gazing out the window. The raven-haired woman turned, narrowing her eyes at Rhaenyra as if to say, What are you up to now? For just an instant, Rhaenyra was breathless at the sight of Mysaria framed against the tender morning light. Her slender torso slumped casually as she leaned on a table, like a faun bent over the water, a tattered novel in her hand. But it was her relaxed expression, a mixture of boredom and nonchalance that etched itself in Rhaenyra’s mind. She dreamed of being the one to make that face contort and cry out in pleasure.

All her life, Rhaenyra was followed by scheming and salivating suitors that needed her. Every morsel of their body language, like Harwin’s aggressive footsteps, his melancholic groans, explosive thrusts screamed it. But she never needed him back. Mysaria’s coolness was different. She could willingly fuck Rhaenyra to bits and move on without a thought. Whether she knew it or not, she was capable of a cruelty that was steel cold. It tugged at Rhaenyra like nothing else ever had. It petrified her, it turned her on, and left everything else on earth dull and grey in comparison.

Regaining herself quickly, Rhaenyra beamed at Mysaria. “Nothing, poppet.” In truth, the sight of Mysaria sapped the last bit of interest Rhaenyra had for doing Harwin right now. But she would hate to throw Harwin out only to be rebuffed by Mysaria again. Winning Lady Misery over to her whims was honest, hard work. Rhaenyra bit her lip, thinking. She debated letting Mysaria see her turmoil, perhaps it would amuse her to take her clothes off. If only you knew how I toil over you, Lady Misery. When she caught Mysaria’s eyes again, she winked, receiving a discreet eye roll in return.

As Harwin turned the corner, Rhaenyra whipped around, pushing a hand on the door to block his way in, but making sure to lean by the side so he could see Mysaria, to see she was not alone. To her relief, Harwin stopped short, perplexed and breathing shallowly. His insistent way had fully put her off now. Rhaenyra wondered if that was how she looked to Mysaria only a moment before and inwardly grimaced. How lowly and pathetic they both were. She looked down her nose at him.

“Oh… Well..” Harwin stuttered, taking the message, “It was nice to see you again.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Rhaenyra trailed off, turning from him to feign interest in her half unpacked brass gramophone that was sitting on the table. Behind her, Mysaria took in the dismayed look on the man’s face. It told her everything she needed to know. It was hardly the first time she witnessed such terse exchanges between Lily and her supposed past clients. She regarded this one with a curled lip, amused to see Harwin’s growing embarrassment. She had always secretly relished watching the effect Lily had on others, the way they would shrink away, gradually submitting to her will. Alas, Harwin marched away, masking his wounded dignity. Mysaria chuckled, her voice bright. The sound brought a smile back to Rhaenyra’s lips, she flattered herself as one of the only people who could really make Mysaria laugh.

“Your poor victims,” Mysaria said, turning back to her novel. Rhaenyra scoffed in return. “He was chasing me. A respectable doctor hustling after a defenseless woman. I should say, that makes me the victim in this instance.”

“Oh darling,” she laughed, “Thankfully you shall always be the villain, never the victim.”

“I can’t tell if that’s flattery, Lady Misery.” To this, Mysaria spared her a light, mischievous smile. Pleasantly surprised, Rhaenyra quickly mirrored the act.

“I see you’re no longer peeved.”

“Who said I was peeved?” She retorted confidently. It was a dismissive lie and they both knew it, but it hardly mattered to Mysaria. There was no need to contend with tedious explaining or persuading when it came to Lily. No need to be understood or known. She saw their trysts as focused, pure. They sought pleasure, not honesty, and they respected this in each other. This was what she wanted from Lily, why she came onto this train. Perhaps even why she stayed alive at all. Mysaria shut the book in her hands and threw it aside.

“You were fuming like a little kettle. Like you are now, poppet.”

Now, that was unexpected. A stinging redness filled Mysaria’s cheeks. She had had more than enough of this conversation. “So you say, Lily.”

She left the window and drifted to Rhaenyra’s side, resting a hand casually on the edge of the table. Even without looking, she knew Rhaenyra’s eyes were locked on her now. And she waited, carefully holding herself in anticipation. Very gingerly, Rhaenyra covered Mysaria’s hand with her own, tracing across her knuckles. When Mysaria allowed this, she moved her fingers down and let them slip hungrily under the silk trumpet sleeves of her dress. The winter breeze had left Mysaria’s skin cool to the touch. “You’re cold, darling,” Rhaenyra declared quietly, her entire body drawing closer, a free arm circling round her waist. Mysaria’s hand moved of its own accord, grabbing Rhaenyra’s arm back, nearly yanking it towards her. “So warm me up.”

Rhaenyra was elated to oblige. The hand around Mysaria’s waist sneaked upwards to grip the back of her neck as Rhaenyra surged in, taking Mysaria’s mouth into a deep kiss, nipping the bottom lip playfully as she pulled away. It was a slight disappointment that it did not send a whine from Mysaria as usual, but Rhaenyra kept at her ministrations. Her hands roamed slowly but firmly, fingernails raking occasionally against skin, the initial warmth bringing a satisfied hum from Mysaria. As before, the chill in Mysaria’s body seemed to grow tenfold in an instant, becoming unbearable. She suddenly desired to be consumed in and by Rhaenyra’s body, as if every moment without this was painful. Every touch from her since this morning seemed to come back to mind, leaving her heightened and indignant. But Rhaenyra refused to hurry. She’d come close to begging, and wounded from it, she wanted to push Mysaria to edge, until she were begging her back. She ran her lips and hands impossibly slowly over the length of Mysaria’s neck and hips, making sure every bit of her touch was felt to the extreme. A soft, pained moan escaped Mysaria’s lips, a gush of wetness beginning between her legs. Faster, she screamed in her mind. Faster, though she would not say it aloud. Could not, behind a lock at the back of her throat. Her frustration boiled, rushing to her head, and she roughly gripped Rhaenyra’s feathered collar, shoving her away.

“What’s the matter?” Rhaenyra asked incredulously as she stumbled back. Their shallow breaths filled the air, along with the steady rumbling of the train’s gears, as they stood staring at one another. It did not take more than a second for Mysaria to swallow her confusion. She could not fathom it, did not want to, as she stood wide-eyed, shocked at herself, the heat within her spreading. Without a second word, Mysaria closed the distance. Her outstretched palm collided with the expanse between Rhaenyra’s throat and chest, pushing until her back slammed against the sliding door. And their mouths and tongues were once again crashing, meeting, this time in an explosion of hysteric urgency.

Rhaenyra did not question any of it, gladly participating in whatever new game this seemed to be. But something was wrong, a bitter copper taste in the back of Mysaria’s mind when Rhaenyra captured her hips again. As abruptly as she’d acted, Mysaria tore herself away again. Away from Rhaenyra’s embrace, from her warm body. This time she staggered back several steps, crashing clumsily into the table.

“My,” Rhaenyra huffed, seemingly amused. After all, she did like it rough. “You are out of sorts today.”

Awkward silence fell between them. Mysaria more than blanched. This was all wrong. Completely wrong.

“I’m sorry-” Mysaria stuttered quickly, “Perhaps I’m just not in the mood.” She dropped a hand on the table to support herself and unable to help herself, cupped her forehead with another.

To her horror, Mysaria met Rhaenyra’s eyes and saw they had softened. It did nothing to comfort her. In fact, comfort from the Winter Lily or Rhaenyra Targaryen was the last thing she needed on this awkward, confusing day. She doesn’t care about Lily. Or Rhaenyra. Or whoever. Her jaw trembled.

“I’ve a headache. And I’d really rather read and take a nap before dinner, if that’s alright.” Moving quickly and dismissively, she picked up the book and went to the lower bunk bed, aware that Rhaenyra’s eyes had not left her.

“Do you need a doctor?”

“No– just some shuteye.”

More awkward silence, and then:

“Did you really think I would abandon you to go to Winterfell alone?”

Not this again. Her tone was unexpectedly gentle, which only sent Mysaria’s skin crawling. She loathed being talked to like a child.

“We are friends, you know.”

“I wasn’t thinking of anything,” Mysaria cut in shortly, a harsh edge creeping into her voice.

Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes at this hostility. But she only nodded back slowly, looking fully unconvinced. “And you aren’t peeved?”

“No,” Mysaria muttered. As a quick appeasement, she flashed a cursory smile before looking down at her book and refusing to look up again.

“Fine,” Rhaenyra said after a long moment with a flicker of defiance. She marched back to the table, unceremoniously plucked out a vinyl and slid it onto the gramophone. The sound of obnoxious saxophone blues filled the room, an irritating upbeat melody that made Mysaria want to scream. Perfect.

She lay down, screwed her eyes shut and tried to sleep. And just like that, they fell back to their steel demeanors.