Chapter 2
1925, King’s Landing
The ground was wet and uncomfortably cold. Mysaria shifted, wincing as her chafed skin, sticky with sweat, tore away from the concrete. Her head reeled as she drew herself closer together, the fabric of her slip crumpling in her balled fists. Thankfully the cramps and hunger had long subsided. Now, dehydration from what seemed like days, or an eternity in the little room was raging at her. She’d considered licking the floor, or even her own sweat to stay hydrated. What she assumed was an animal part of her brain told her, maybe it was better to just lie still and die. She reached a hand down, swiping quickly between her legs and lifted it back to see. Still nothing.
She dreamt of music, parties and sweet syrups, the kind she’d seen in peep-show pictures. Imagined herself dancing in flapper dresses, winking and twirling again and again like those actresses in the looping reels. Existing only within that perfect moment. Eventually, the fatigue that came in waves arrived ashore once more and she willingly gave in to it. But as if on cue for irony, a familiar metal clang sounded, sending a shudder through Mysaria’s entire body. Her pulse rose quickly like a red tidal wave. She could not help her face crumpling. The lock jangled out of the way noisily, then with a hideous squeak the wooden door swung open. Incoming bright light momentarily blinded her, and there was an ugly poetry in it. If she could die now, she would. And she did.
At the sight of his worn leather shoes, his grimy thick legs, the weathered baton in his grip, she felt her mind clicking into place. A neat machination, like the falling of a coin into the slot of the mutoscope. I’m not here . I’m not here. I’m not here.
He stepped in, blocking the light and then spoke. “Here we go again.”
⊹ ⟡ ⊹
1931, Harrenhall
Aboard the Winterfell Express
Mysaria stiffened, forcing open her eyes. For a moment she panicked at the rumbling below the bed, until she registered snarky saxophone tones and remembered where she was. She turned to see the vinyl on Rhaenyra’s gramophone still dutifully turning. “Ugh.”
Its owner sat nearby, frowning in concentration as she moved about a deck of playing cards on the table. Half a dozen curlers were tightly set in her hair, sticking out like curled horns of a prized ram. Mysaria found the sight absurd in an adorable way. The light, nutty smell of fresh coffee from the dining car filled their cabin.
“You hate solitaire,” Mysaria started lightly from the bed. Rhaenyra looked up, surprised. She twisted her mouth around.
“Well, what else can one play, when left all alone?” she lamented in mock contemplation. Mysaria rolled her eyes as hard as she could, though she could not hide an emerging small smile that made Rhaenyra laugh out loud. She started to get up.
“Coffee?”
“Oh yes, please.”
Rhaenyra dropped the cards with a relieved splat and went to pour her a cup. “Shuffle for me darling, you’re so much better at it.”
“What a blessing that you’ve brought me along to shuffle your cards.” Mysaria sat down and gathered them, aligning the edges with an expert speed that used to impress all her clients at the pub tables. Courtesan party tricks that’d been drilled in early. Shuffling cards, manoeuvring painted fans. Mysaria was always trained to move and pose like a doll. The precision became muscle memory. Even outside of work, she now had a way of carrying her hands and fingers that Rhaenyra could never tire of watching. It was elegant, beautiful, but melancholic. It lulled you into fragility. And oh, was she skilled with those fingers.
“Why yes, I’m always in need of your shuffling,” Rhaenyra chuckled, with a childish twinkle in her eye as she removed her hair curlers and arranged her hair. The innuendo caught Mysaria unawares and she nearly dropped the cards. She felt an undeniable tingle of desire at Rhaenyra’s suggestion of her manhandling , as if her luscious body were a deck of cards to be splayed and spilled around her hands. The way the breath went out of Rhaenyra as Mysaria shoved her against the wall. Her lips parting in surprise. Oh Gods . It was too sudden to ignore and weakly, she played it off by clearing her throat.
“Did that just excite you, poppet?” Fuck .
“My coffee, Lily.”
Rhaenyra set their cups down, an arrogant expression playing on her face. Mysaria could not look at her. She convinced herself it was but a bodily reaction, a remnant of their unfinished business before. Going through the motions, she willed the thoughts away. This was the best way she knew, to settle back into the performance, into Lady Misery. Gracefully, she split the deck into two and recombined them with a fanned waterfall, then squared it together. She demanded control and recentered it.
Rhaenyra sipped her coffee, peering attentively at Mysaria. Her studious motions were absolutely sexy, and all the more confusing. Rhaenyra could not for the life of her understand why they were not fucking at this instant with Mysaria holding herself like a cat pretending not to be in heat. Sure, she played hard to get, but this looked like abstinence . How strange. I wonder what’s going on in that pretty little head , she thought as she moved her eyes sweetly over Mysaria’s dark hair. She must just be ill. Or moody.
“Were you having a nightmare just now?”
Mysaria glanced at her with a frown. This wasn’t a question she’d ever expected. “Yes,” she replied absently. She hadn’t thought about it since waking up. Normally, she never did. Rhaenyra remained silent, seemingly waiting for her to continue. She chose not to.
“You frown in your sleep – something I’ve observed. Sometimes you mutter. I’ve wondered, that’s all.” Something in Mysaria’s chest curdled. Rhaenyra never mentioned this before. She wondered how many times they’d– fallen asleep together after, and how many times she would’ve seen– What would she have let slip–
Two sudden knocks on the door startled them both. They whipped their heads to see a squat older lady standing behind the glass panel. She daringly slid open the door and stepped in, beaming. “I heard your gramophone, ladies. And thought I’d come in and get acquainted if you don’t mind.” She seemed eager, yet stiff. Rhaenyra immediately judged her to be the wife or widow of some stuffy lord. Tiresome.
Before they could speak, the woman contentedly lumbered in. “It’s a bit lonely on the train, isn’t it? I’m used to having people around.” Mysaria began laying out some cards as the woman admired the gramophone, who unsolicited, went on about her woes and petulant complaints of the train’s amenities and her ailing niece. Mysaria and Rhaenyra shared a knowing look of contempt.
“I have a boarding house in Winterfell, and I only take the most respectable people,” the woman remarked with a prideful bounce as she retrieved two cream-coloured name cards from her purse and handed one each to Rhaenyra and Mysaria. The card was embossed with pretty edgings and said:
LYSA ARRYN’S BOARDING HOUSE FOR WOMEN
Hospitable rooms for travelling ladies
64 Torrhen’s Square
Mrs. Arryn had obviously mistaken them for polite gentry in need of accommodations. Rhaenyra thought of the inn she was planning to take her and Mysaria to, a joint haunt to an up-scale burlesque hall with crystal goblets and endless fur carpets (on which all could lounge about naked without fear of catching cold) and snorted. She turned her eyelashes up to Mrs. Arynn and winked.
“Don’t you find respectable people terribly… dull?” Even teasing with malice, Rhaenyra’s voice was deep and delectable, as if coated in honey. Mysaria tampered her urge to smile.
Mrs. Arryn’s brows furrowed. “You’re joking, aren’t you? I only know the most respectable people! I own a boarding house ,” she reiterated, sounding out the words as if Rhaenyra were an idiot. She played along, “What house did you say it was?”
“A boarding house,” she said yet again, her cheeks beginning to blush angrily at this strange encounter.
“Oh…” Rhaenyra intonated with a playful look of guilt, handing the card back. Mrs. Arryn blanched and turned away, possibly swearing never to look upon Rhaenyra again. “I’m sure you are very respectable, madam,” she said to Mysaria, who had only just managed to fully wipe the smug off her face.
“I must confess I don’t quite know the standard of respectability that you demand in your boarding house ,” she lifted the card to read aloud, “Mrs… Arryn.” Both women now looked upon plain, respectable Mrs. Arryn with contemptuous silence. The kind of look that spurned men would see before they yelled “ bitch! ”. Mrs. Arynn clutched her purse tight and her virtue tighter and escaped the room. But not before knocking into another passenger, that Mysaria immediately recognised as the man with the umbrella who had made a fuss about her being in first class. Another respectable, fidgety dud. He looked in and met Mysaria’s eyes with horror, worsening as he noticed Rhaenyra. Imagine rising from heaven to see Satan had brought a friend. Umbrella man and Mrs. Arryn fumbled about at the door, muttering displeased “begging your pardon!”s before hurriedly making themselves scarce.
The women waited with bated breath for them to disappear down the hallway before erupting into cackling, tearful laugher.
“They really must leash all these poor, respectable people from us,” Mysaria said, breathless between laughs. “That will teach them to wander the hallways,” Rhaenyra bantered back, taking a deep breath. But laughter soon came bubbling back up, contagious and exhilarating. They went on until their bellies hurt. “Who was that man with the umbrella?”
Mysaria recounted their unpleasant encounter, fetching a sneer from Rhaenyra. “Insolent arseholes, all of them. If only you’d told me before, I’d given him a tight slap.” “What for?” Mysaria shrugged.
“For insulting you,” Rhaenyra declared with an obvious air. It was uncharacteristically sincere. Mysaria had a sudden vision of Rhaenyra protecting her virtue like some gallant beau. The thought, while absurd, warmed her. Girls must relish being protected like that. Her line of thought struck her as odd. Am I not a girl like everybody else? Well, not like that. Not a marrying girl.
She’d fallen silent again, with that studiousness that kept her nonchalant and faraway. Rhaenyra wondered if she’d said something wrong. Seeing her quiet and surly felt strangely disconcerting, like sitting with a depressed pet, or a wilting plant. It had only been minutes since she saw Mysaria laugh and she was aching to have it again.
“You know, those winding pictures you so love to see in King’s Landing-” Mysaria perked up at this. “They’ve got ever so many in Winterfell. I’ll find you one when we’re there.”
A small, kiddish smile bloomed on Mysaria’s face, then vanished just as quickly.
⊹ ⟡ ⊹
The man with the umbrella, whose name was Bartimos Celtigar, charged back down to the men’s shared changing compartment in fuming humiliation. He could scarcely hold his tongue as he slammed the door open, finding Harwin Strong in the middle of a shave and Criston Cole reading a paper, waiting his turn.
He’d hardly spoken to the two gentlemen since boarding the train, but felt he must seek some solidarity against such vulgarity. It was all he could do to protect the final frontiers of polite society. “It’s a shame allowing such women on a first-class train” he declared aloud with finality.
Harwin turned to regard him for a quick moment, unsurprised at the uproar Rhaenyra and her roommate would’ve caused. “What’s the matter with them?” he ventured. Criston turned and met Harwin’s eyes with an attentive, unreadable look. Confounded and still wary, Harwin decidedly went back to shaving.
But Criston’s eyes stayed on him, “I imagine the Honourable Divine,” referring to Bartimos, “objects to their morals.” Bartimos grimaced harshly at the remark and went on, oblivious to the uneasiness running between Harwin and Criston. “I suppose every train carries its cargo of sin, but this train is burdened with more than its share!”
“Sir, you seem distressed,” Criston noted. It seemed an obvious remark, yet its intention was hardly obtuse to Harwin. Any calmer bloke would catch that he was subtly reminding Bartimos to remain civil and not embarrass himself on a first-class train. But Bartimos’ righteous airs had already led him far beyond catching any subtext. “My name is Bartimos Celtigas, Ambassador of the Faith of the Seven in service of mankind! Whom do I have the honour of addressing?”
Criston glanced at Harwin, the same unreadable look as before. “My name is Criston Cole, I am a tradesman from the South. I do happen to be half-Dornish, by my mother’s side. But I trust we are all sophisticated men of modern minds – to know we are as honest as any.” Harwin kept his own eyes trained on his own reflection in the shaving mirror. That statement was surely meant for him.
He cleared his throat, “Doctor Harwin Strong, in service of His Grace the King. It’s charming to make your acquaintance, sir.” Criston subtly raised a brow at the sound of doctor , seemingly turning the information over in his head. It made Harwin queasy.
Once again, Bartimos continued without a care. “Captain Strong, I want to put you on your guard,” he gravely announced, “Both their souls are rotten!”
Harwin didn’t know what it was – the man’s insufferable self-importance, some lingering chivalrous instinct for Rhaenyra, or a pretentious desire to prove he was indeed as Criston described, sophisticated and modern that led him to speak. He swiped the last of the shaving cream of his face and turned around. “You interest me, Ambassador. I’m not exactly irreligious, but being a physician, I sometimes wonder how a man like you can locate a soul, and having located it, diagnose its condition as rotten.”
“That’s heathen talk, Doctor. Any man with half an eye should be able to see that those two women are riding this train in search of victims!” Harwin’s eyes widened in disbelief. This conversation was really getting perilously improper.
“A very grave charge, Ambassador. I don’t know about the black-haired one, but as for the other lady-”
“Why confound it, sir?! That’s the Winter Lily. For the last fortnight I’ve been attending a man who went out of his mind after spending every penny on her! She’s wrecked a dozen men up and down the Street of Silk.”
Harwin barked out a laugh. He would never expect anything less of Rhaenyra the Cruel, as the other Targaryen childlings used to call her on the play yard. They’d taught Harwin and his brothers to do it too and it brought Rhaenyra to furious tears, triggering a fit that saw every one of her bullies running home with bruises. Child of ire. She would never change.
“Look here, sir. You’re mistaken,” Harwin lied, considering it a favour to an old friend. “She’s a friend of mine.”
Bartimos recoiled in displeasure. “If I were in your boots, sir, I wouldn’t brag about it!”
⊹ ⟡ ⊹
Night came early, the days growing shorter with the winter season. With the aid of a lamp, Mysaria did up her hair in the mirror, affixing gold pins engraved with poppy blooms behind her ear. A gift from one of her more regular clients, though he’d disappeared soon after the outbreak of civil war. Rhaenyra smoked a cigarette out in the hallway, changed into a black velvet dress that looked just perfectly hugged and draped over her figure, with matching gloves and a cloche hat snugly arranged over her curls.
For what seemed like the hundredth time that day, Mysaria stole a glance at Rhaenyra- no, Lily , she corrected herself. She’d managed to stave off her for the full afternoon, playing cards and feigning her headache, doing so in a haze of confusion. She still couldn’t figure out what put her off earlier that day. Lily hadn’t done anything to hurt her, so why was she filled with this nervousness? Why was it coming in waves, without warning?
She was determined to ground herself. A good dinner and some rest would set her right.
“I’m ready,” she said after slotting in the last hairpin. Rhaenyra twirled back on her heels, tossing the cigarette easily out of the window as she regarded the sight of Mysaria with pleasure. She’d chosen a champagne coloured silk that hung deceptively loosely, yet caught the light flatteringly whenever she moved. A diamond in the rough , Rhaenyra thought.
Mysaria kept herself still against Rhaenyra’s darkened smile. Was it possible to be flattered yet flustered? It was confounding. “Something in my hair?” she teased casually, if only to get Rhaenyra to stop staring.
“You must wear this dress more often, Mysaria,” she said dreamily, running her fingers over one of Mysaria’s sleeves. Its delicate surface felt smooth and cool, like clear springwater. “I should like to show you off, shall we look for the good doctor?”
Mysaria recalled his devastated face only hours before. “Salting your victim’s wounds?”
Rhaenyra chuckled at the quip. They made their way leisurely down the hallway. Mysaria had noted that Rhaenyra sometimes talked like a client . She had a way of discreetly claiming and collecting, as if the world were a toy store for her to endlessly enjoy. Mysaria never minded it before, thinking it befitting of someone with Rhaenyra’s character, but now it felt like she could indeed be one of Rhaenyra’s dolls. To be coddled and trailed along, showed off. It struck Mysaria with a mixture of offense… and delight.
Horrified, she shrugged the thought away. She realised that these confusions were coming upon her more and more often. When did it start? She could not remember.
They found Harwin slouched in an armchair in a lounge compartment, dressed in the same pressed uniform and looking dramatically forlorn as he nursed a cigarette. Mysaria did not yet know what to think of him. From a certain light, he did look… not quite so intolerable. Not attractive – no, Mysaria was quite impartial about men – but not at all despicable. She sometimes wondered what Rhaenyra saw in her men. Whether she picked them for any reason, and why. Why did she pick her ?
“I was hoping that you would take us in to dinner,” Rhaenyra said
He looked at her with an impossibly tiresome air of sadness, sapped of the desperation from before. But he was orderly, graceful even, as he rose and took a step away.
“You seem upset, doctor.”
“Oh no, not at all. You know, I was just thinking about that old moniker you had. The one Laenor had spinned up when we were children. Do you recall?” Against Harwin’s expectations, a bright grin spread across Rhaenyra’s face. “What a wench you are. Must you embarrass me in front of my lady friend?”
Mysaria hung back, leaning by the compartment door as she heard their conversation. She’d been wrong. Evidently this wasn’t any past client, but someone actually connected with Lily. Perhaps from her days as a wealthy Targaryen. Rhaenyra looked back, smiling cheerily as she dangled an arm out, gesturing to Mysaria to come in and be introduced. Mysaria pushed the door open a little more, about to oblige until she met Harwin’s peering eyes. They stared as if through her, devoid of warmth and reminding her of black glass. Disquietude loomed. “And pray, how are some of my dreaded relations? In the pink of health, I presume,” Rhaenyra continued. He scoffed in reply.
Rhaenyra’s easy way with him suddenly felt different, not like a courtesan luring a customer, but an heiress in her element. An element in which Mysaria had no place. In an instant she felt she was no longer with the same Lily who she had shared a sneering laugh with when accosted by Mrs. Arryn, felt as if her tryst with Lily was a silly trifling affair of vice. Perhaps she really was nothing more than her little doll. Rhaenyra glanced back again, confused that Mysaria was still loitering by the door.
“Mysaria, this is Doctor Harwin Strong.” Not wanting to seem rude, Mysaria held herself and stepped in. She had no worries of looking a fool, performance was her trade. She held out a hand, “I’m glad to meet you, Captain Strong.”
“It’s a great pleasure,” he replied in an even tone, not moving to take her hand. Humiliation flared in Mysaria’s cheeks as she let her empty hand fall back to her side. She wondered who was fodder and entertainment for who. Did Rhaenyra lead her here to taunt Harwin, or to amuse him with her newfound Lady Misery? A strange dull ache followed the thought. Mysaria would waste no time being somewhere she wasn’t wanted.
“I’ll wait for you in the diner,” she informed Rhaenyra drily. From the corner of her eye she perceived Rhaenyra turning, wanting to reach out and keep her. But she continued on, alone to the dining car.
Harwin watched her disappear down the hallway without so much as a blink, but he met Rhaenyra’s eyes and found them narrowed. Not in playfulness, but serious disapproval. “You’re very cruel, Doc.”
“I reserve the privilege of choosing my friends. You might learn to adopt similar reservations,” he gave her a once over that sent her into a silent rage, “for your own dignity.”
And what did he know? Or what wouldn’t he presume to? The insolent man. She could not believe the entitlement he felt. Doling out childhood anecdotes, as if he knew her. There was no real understanding between them, she had determined sometime after she left Dragonstone for good, only childish folly and morbid curiosity. He saw her as a wild thing to tame, and she’d simply wanted… a gentle friend. And something to get off.
She curled her lip bitterly. “That was rude. Frankly, disappointing. I remember you differently.”
“So run along to your lady friend,” he countered, surely feeling smug at thinking up the comeback. Rhaenyra looked at him squarely, smiled her best, then slapped him across the face.
The sight of him, wide-eyed, cupping his reddening cheek was beyond satisfying. “You shall apologise to Mysaria at your earliest convenience. I will be expecting it.” When he returned to himself, she was nowhere to be seen.
⊹ ⟡ ⊹
The exchange with Captain Strong was scathing enough for Mysaria, but entering and sitting alone in the dining car felt ten times worse. Without Rhaenyra, she returned to discretion. Moving quickly, unseen, occupying corners when she stopped. She’d braced herself well enough before opening the door, and immediately saw and met Bartimos Celtigar’s look with a murderous one of her own. Crossing past his table to get to hers had been a success, but it also quickly grew boring.
Mysaria wondered if it was too late to choose dining on biscuits and tea in her compartment, with her novel for company instead of this sneering crowd. But it was too late. She’d already made a show of sauntering in, and she’d better just grin and bear it through the meal. The guests busied themselves as a waiter moved about to serve appetisers.
Across the room, Criston Cole watched Mysaria walking in. A foreign woman, one of the courtesans Bartimos mentioned, by the looks of it. She met his eyes but ignored it. Intrigued, he snatched up his teacup and moved over to her.
“Good evening, ma’am.” She nodded back in reply. His eyes moved freely over her, dissecting quietly as she’d seen many a man do. But he had a shrewd, cold gleaning look in his eye that only came from those who looked to buy and sell. Pimps and traders. “Can I help you?” she asked coldly. The hairs on her neck stood on end, a sharp sensation of wariness moving up her spine.
“Perhaps.”
The door to the dining car swung open once again and to Mysaria’s great relief, Rhaenyra filed in. Criston Cole offered a quick smile that never reached his eyes, then retreated to his table.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he said to Rhaenyra as she arrived at the table, her grin subsiding. She ignored him and sat down, blinking after him with a frown.
“What did he want with you?”
“I don’t know. We’d best avoid him,” Mysaria’s voice came out steely and unfamiliar, which only made Rhaenyra’s frown deepen. She could feel Criston continue to observe them from across the room.
“Agreed,” Rhaenyra said. “Mysaria, I am a brute. Standing there as Harwin misbehaved. Forgive me.”
The outburst hung in mid-air for a good moment. Mysaria realised she was gaping at Rhaenyra with mouth open and hurriedly closed it. “Don’t be sorry. He was rude, yes. But it’s nothing to do with you.” She made sure not to say anything too accusatory. It would be unwise to offend anyone connected to the Targaryens.
“No excuses, darling. I shall repent however you like. Only ask,” she whispered the last part conspiratorially. “I threw in a good blow for reflection,” she added, “He shall be apologising to you.”
Just at that moment, Harwin entered. His left cheek swelled an angry red, and his eyes were downcast like a scolded child. He avoided facing the women’s table and slinked away to another corner.
Rhaenyra decided there and then that the gobsmacked look on Mysaria’s face was worth it all.
“Lily…” she muttered in disbelief.
“Cheered you up, didn’t I?” Rhaenyra triumphantly pushed two cigarettes between her lips and lit them, then pinched one and held it by Mysaria’s lips. She parted her lips to accept it, and they brushed lightly against Rhaenyra’s fingers as she did. “Sweet victory.”
They smoked in contented silence as the appetisers went around.
“If you should like to know…” Rhaenyra piped up, after they’d sat for a few minutes, “He was a playmate of sorts, growing up.” Mysaria nodded, having guessed as much.
“On Dragonstone?” she ventured, wary but playful.
“Yes, darling,” Rhaenyra obliged with a slight eye roll. She picked a bit of stray tobacco out of her mouth and flicked it away. “Now beyond that, a woman must maintain some mystery, don’t you think?”
“I have heard your real name. You know that, don’t you?”
“And good girl as you are, you would’ve forgotten it.” Does she ever stop flirting?
“As you like, Lily,” Mysaria obliged back cheerily.
The gentle rumble beneath their feet, a constant rhythm since the train’s departure suddenly heightened to a painful screech. The entire cabin lurched forward, sending chairs tumbling and crockery crashing to the ground. A few screams erupted, Mrs. Arryn’s among them. Mysaria and Rhaenyra instinctively gripped their table to keep from tumbling, even as it began to slip too.
“Grab the windowpane!” Mysaria yelled, and they reached to keep steady.
The train seemed to be deccelerating unsteadily, loud squeaks emitting from the engines. “Stay calm and hold tight!” a train staff shouted unhelpfully over the growing cacophony of panicking passengers and falling objects. Rhaenyra and Mysaria held on, white-knuckled from the strain. They looked to each other to check that they were still alright.
Gradually, the noise abated and the train came to a stop. The panicking and screaming calmed, leaving a dead silence in the dining cabin. There was not a peep in and out. Not even the wind. They waited. For train staff to direct them, for the train captain to announce something. Nothing came. The solemn air kept everyone rooted to their seats.
Something was terribly wrong.
After a long moment, Criston Cole wordlessly stood up. He gently kicked away shards of broken tea cups by his feet and stepped closer to a tightly shuttered window. All eyes in the first class cabin looked to him as he pried the shutters and peered out between them.
“What do you see? What is out there?” Mysaria heard Bartimos Celtigas’ wavering voice ask.
Criston Cole let go of the shutters and looked about across the dining car, now in a shattered state of disarray with half a dozen shallowly breathing sitting ducks.
“It’s an army.”