The Weight Of A Dragon’s Heart

In a dimly lit chamber, Rhaenyra's silhouette was cast long by the flickering fireplace. The warmth from the flames danced on her skin, but failed to reach the chill in her heart. Her eyes, once vibrant like the flames, now held the weight of doubt and despair. The gentle crackling of the firewood echoed her tumultuous thoughts. She had always felt most alive when Daemon's fiery spirit was beside her, but now, she felt more alone than ever.

Mysaria approached, her footsteps as soft as a cat's paws on the thick fur rugs beneath them. Her voice, usually filled with the certainty of a seasoned advisor, now carried a hint of concern. “Your banners were carried from the ship into the city, they went as far as the gate to the red keep before they were turned away. It is as we hoped a warning to the usurpers that you have strength beyond what they accredited,” she paused, eyeing Rhaenyra, trying to discern what she was thinkin. Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes never leaving the flames.

The air in the room was thick with the smell of burning wood and the faint scent of wine. The flickering shadows from the fireplace danced on the walls, painting a grim tapestry of their dire situation. The Queen's shoulders slumped slightly, and she let out a deep sigh.

Mysaria stepped closer, her eyes filled with a gentle warmth that the fire could not replicate. Her voice was a soft caress, "I thought you'd be pleased." The words hung in the air like a melody, a stark contrast to the harsh reality they faced. Rhaenyra's gaze remained locked on the fire, the flames reflecting in her eyes.

Rhaenyra's words were heavy with defeat as she spoke, "I do not think I can win this war." The sound of her own voice echoed in the quiet chamber, a stark reminder of the gravity of their situation. She felt the weight of her crown, a symbol of the responsibility she bore, pressing down on her.

Mysaria's eyes searched hers, a silent question hanging in the air. Then she spoke with a firmness that belied her gentle nature, "I think you are tired."

Rhaenyra couldn't deny it. The exhaustion and the weight of her son's doubt were etched into the lines of her face. She had always been the one to stand tall in the face of adversity, but now she felt her legs threatening to give out beneath her. She forced her eyes to meet Mysaria's, the dark brown pools of understanding and wisdom. "My own son questions my capabilities," she said, her voice cracking slightly, "he thinks I need Daemon at my side."

Rhaenyra’s throat tightens as she turns to face the woman. Mysaria stands framed by the flickering torchlight, her shawl slipping like liquid shadow from one shoulder, but there is no softness left in her now. Her voice, when it comes, is steadier than she feels. “And Daemon himself—”

Mysaria’s words are a knife to the heart, a stark reminder of the man Rhaenyra had once thought she knew. “He has only ever done what suits Daemon,” she says, her voice a low murmur that seems to resonate with the very stones of the castle.

Of course, she had almost forgotten the wild, unbridled passion that had drawn her to him, the way he had taken what he wanted without apology or thought for the consequences. But in the quiet moments, like these, she remembered the girl she had been—the girl who had longed for a love as fierce and as dangerous as dragonfire.

Mysaria watched her, her expression unreadable. Rhaenyra's words hung in the air, a poignant echo of her youthful dreams. “He was everything I wanted to be”, she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. The fire crackled and spat, casting shadows across her face that made her look both younger and more haunted than she truly was.

The warmth from the flames was playing across Mysaria’s skin. She had seen much in her years, the darkest corners of human desire and ambition. Yet, she had never seen a woman so torn between love and duty, so desperate to hold onto both. “Carefree, and dangerous; A man,” Rhaenyra continued, her eyes glinting with something that might have been admiration or envy.

Mysaria knew well the cost of that freedom. The way it could cut through the fabric of one’s soul, leaving behind only emptiness. But she had also seen the price of power, the way it could consume one from within.

The Queen stands rigid beside the roaring hearth, flames licking the air like Daemon’s restless ambition, their heat searing her back as she fixes Mysaria with a gaze sharper than Valyrian steel. “And I was what he wanted,” Rhaenyra says, her voice low, fingers curling into her palms as if to crush the memory of his hands on her shoulders, his breath at her ear—“Cherished by my father, and made my father’s heir.”

A log cracks in the fire, embers spiraling upward like the ghosts of choices unmade, and she exhales, the sigh shuddering through her as she turns her palm open, empty. “We were halves of a whole.” Mysaria does not move, her face a moonlit pool beneath its veneer of calm, but her eyes flicker—a tell. Rhaenyra’s laugh is smoke and venom. “But he has never been at peace.” The words hang, smoldering, as the firelight dances across her face.

The room feels suddenly smaller, the air thick with the weight of their shared history. Another moment of silence stretches out, a taut thread between them. Mysaria crosses her arms over her ches. She leans against the heavy oak table, her eyes never leaving Rhaenyra’s, absorbing her words like water into parched earth. The flames throw shadows across her face, highlighting the sharp lines of her jaw and nose, making her look both fierce and vulnerable. Her posture is one of listening, but also of readiness, as if she might leap into action at any moment.

Rhaenyra’s eyes flit to the floor, then back up to meet hers. Her voice is quiet, but it carries the weight of a storm. “He wished to possess me but not to be possessed,” she confides, her hand coming to rest over her heart as if to protect it from the memory. The fire crackles, throwing a warm glow over the room, yet there is a chill that seems to emanate from her words, a coldness that the flames cannot touch. She cotinued, “And to see me take hold finally of what he always believed to be his, I fear what he may now do. I fear he may have turned against me.”

Mysaria nods solemnly, the understanding in her eyes clear as crystal. Her words come softly, a whispered promise in the face of doubt. “It is more his way to disappear,” she comforts, but the Queen’s expression remains unchanged, a mask of uncertainty. The shadows on her face deepen with the flicker of the fire, painting a picture of a woman who has lost her anchor.

Rhaenyra’s gaze remains fixed on the woman, the fiery dance mirroring the tumult in her soul. She whispers her fears into the warmth of the room, her voice a mix of anger and sorrow. “In either case I have lost him,” she says, her shoulders slumping. She takes a step closer to Mysaria. The loss of her lover, children, the doubt in her son’s eyes, all these losses weigh heavily on her, “— and Caraxes with him. Rhaenys and her dragon are dead, I have Syrax and two young beasts. We cannot take on Vhagar alone and I have no army.”

Mysaria’s response is swift and firm, as if to cut through the fog of despair that has settled around Rhaenyra. “You have the Velaryon fleet and the men who fight in it,” she says, her voice as unwavering as the pillars that hold up the castle. The mention of the fleet brings a spark of hope to Rhaenyra’s eyes, a spark that has been absent since the news of her brother’s treachery had reached her. But it disappears as quickly as it appeared.

The queen’s gaze drifts back to the fire, her eyes reflecting the flames like a dragon’s. “It is not enough,” she murmurs, her voice a mere echo of its former strength. “And even if we somehow prevailed, how will I rule a kingdom when my own son doubts me?” The words hang in the air, heavy as the chains that had once bound her to the Iron Throne.

Mysaria remains unflappable. “You have me,” she says, her voice a steady whisper that seemed to carry the promise of loyalty and strength. The warmth of her voice seeps into Rhaenyra’s skin, and she looks up to meet her eyes. There’s a spark in those dark brown depths, a warmth that Rhaenyra hadn’t noticed before.

The Queen’s eyes widen slightly, and she nods, understanding the gravity of the offer. “You have my thanks, truly,” she says, her voice sincere. But the words are like a door closing, shutting away the intimacy that had briefly flared between them. She turns away from the comfort of Mysaria’s gaze and back to the fire. The flames dance in the grate, casting shadows that whisper secrets against the stone walls.

Mysaria’s hand moves to her neck, and she straightens up, the moment of vulnerability momentarily gone. “It was my father,” she says, her voice a low, steady whisper. Rhaenyra turns back to face her, and the hand stroking her throat is a stark contrast to the fiery passion of moments before. The scar on Mysaria’s neck is a stark reminder of the harshness of the world outside their quiet chamber. The fire casts a soft, flickering light across the room, illuminating the stark white line that runs from one side of her neck to the other. It’s a clean scar, the kind that tells a story of pain and survival.

Her eyes are closed, lost in the memory of the cruel hands that had once been on her. “I was still a child, he had his pleasure with me,” she says, her voice thick with anger that has simmered for years, never quite reaching a boil. The words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of her past. When she opens her eyes, they are filled with a fire that matches the one in the hearth. “And when after many months of this, it became evident that his seed had taken root,” she continues, her hand moving down to her abdomen.

Her voice was a blade dragged across stone, brittle yet unyielding, “There is a scar here as well,” she said, tracing it with a trembling fingertip, the gesture almost reverent. “I cannot bear children.” The flames hissed in the hearth, casting shadows that writhed like specters on the walls as she let the silence thicken, her gaze fixed on the wound as though it still bled. “He left me for dead.” A hollow laugh escaped her, sharp as shattered glass. “But I lived.”

When she finally looked up, Rhaenyra’s face was a portrait of sorrowful shock—lips parted, eyes glistening with unshed tears, one hand half-raised as if to bridge the chasm between them. The Queen’s whisper cracked the air like a prayer: “I’m so sorry.” It was not pity that softened her tone, but recognition—a mirror of old wounds, unhealed and throbbing.

Mysaria's eyes searched hers, her scar a stark reminder of the battles she had fought and won. Her voice was steady, a rock in the tempest of Rhaenyra’s emotions. “I swore to myself I would never trust another,” she began, her words a solemn vow that resonated through the chamber like the toll of a funeral bell, “and that oath has stood me well in the face of this cold, cruel world. But you, my Queen, have seen beyond the shadows of my past, have looked into the very heart of me and found something of worth. For that, I will stand by your side. I believe in you, not just as a queen, but as a woman of strength and honor. I believe you are meant to be the Queen.”

Rhaenyra felt the warmth of the words wrap around her like a fiery embrace, and she knew in that moment that she had found in Mysaria something she had been missing in the absence of Daemon’s tumultuous passion—steadiness. The kind of unwavering loyalty that didn’t need to be demanded or won, but was given freely and without condition. She stepped closer, closing the space between them, and pulled the other woman into an embrace so tight it was as if she were trying to share her very soul.

Mysaria’s body was taut with surprise at first, but she melted into the queen’s arms, her own hands coming up to rest against the small of Rhaenyra’s back. They stood there, their hearts beating in tandem, the only sound in the chamber the crackling of the fire and the distant cries of the night. The warmth of their bodies mingled with the heat from the flames, creating a cocoon of comfort that felt like the safest place in the world.

The scent of sandalwood grew stronger as Rhaenyra inhaled deeply, her nose buried in the soft fabric of Mysaria’s neck. It was a scent she had come to associate with the woman—sweet, earthy, and comforting. It reminded her of warm, quiet nights in the Red Keep, when the world outside was cold and unforgiving. The warmth of Mysaria’s breath grew more insistent, and Rhaenyra felt a strange sort of peace settle over her. The firelight played across their skin, painting them in a soft, intimate glow.

The touch of lips against her neck was as soft as a feather’s brush, sending a shiver down her spine that was not entirely unpleasant. The Queen’s eyes fluttered closed.

Mysaria pulls back just enough for Rhaenyra to see the darkness in her gaze, her pupils blown wide with something unspoken but unmistakable. The moment hangs between them, charged, teetering on the edge of restraint before Mysaria surges forward, their lips colliding in a kiss that sparks like flint to steel. It starts slow, a careful exploration, but the fire catches quickly, spreading, deepening—building and building until there is no space left between them. It’s a push and pull, a game of give and take, a battle fought with lips and breath and the heat coiling between them. It’s red-hot, unyielding, less a want and more a need, something inevitable and all-consuming.

Their hands begin to move, tentative at first, as if testing the waters of this new intimacy. Rhaenyra’s fingers trace the curve of Mysaria’s waist, her thumb brushing against the soft fabric of her dress, feeling the warmth beneath. In response, the other girl’s hand moves to cup her cheek, the touch gentle but firm, grounding her in a way that she hasn’t felt since Daemon left. The Queen’s hand moves up to the back of her neck, her grip tightening as the kiss intensifies, pulling her closer and closer until there is no air left between them. The room around them seems to fade into irrelevance, the only real things in the world are their hearts hammering in their chests and the flames that dance in their eyes.

Mysaria’s breath hitches, a quiet gasp that Rhaenyra feels deep in her core. The sound sends a thrill through her, a reminder of the power she holds in this moment—a power that is not derived from her title or her lineage, but from the raw, primal connection that pulses between them. The Queen’s hand moves to the small of her back, pressing her against the solid plane of her body, feeling the soft curves and the strength that lies beneath. The warmth of their bodies is a stark contrast to the cold stone walls of the chamber, a testament to the life they breathe into each other in the face of the looming darkness.

Their kiss deepens, tongues tangling in a dance that is both fierce and tender. The room seems to spin around them, the only anchors their intertwined limbs and the fiery kiss that consumes them. Rhaenyra can feel the heat of Mysaria’s skin, the rapid beating of her heart—it’s like a lifeline, a promise of something more than the cold, hard reality of the world outside. For a moment, she allows herself to be lost in the sensation, to forget the battles to come and the fears that plague her.

Just as their heated kiss reached its peak—a blaze of passion that drowned out the world around them—a sharp knock on the heavy door sliced through the intimacy. In an instant, their lips parting, both women pulled away, startled by the intrusion. Rhaenyra, her heart still pounding fiercely, instinctively staggered back and leaned against a cold, time-worn table, her fingers trembling along its carved surface as she sought grounding in the sudden disarray. The room, still aglow with the lingering embers of their desire, was now steeped in an eerie hush, broken only by the creak of the door as it swung open. Through the dim light stepped Ser Lorent Marbrand, his armor battered and bloodied, his gaze urgent yet pained.

“Your Grace—” Lorent’s voice cracks, raw with urgency. He drops to one knee, but his eyes never leave hers—unflinching, as though the gravity of his words could not be contained by the formality of his posture. The scent of sweat and metal clung to him, a stark contrast to the sweet perfume of sandalwood that lingered between them. The room felt suddenly cold, the warmth of their embrace a distant memory as the harsh reality of the world outside seeped in.

“Seasmoke,” he says, the name hanging in the air like the smoke from a distant volcano—threatening, unpredictable, and impossible to ignore. It’s a name that sends a shiver down Rhaenyra’s spine, a name that represents a piece of her heart she thought lost. “He’s been claimed. An hour past, they were spotted flying from the mudflats near the Gullet.”

The words hit Rhaenyra like a blow, stealing the air from her lungs. She feels the tremor in the space between them, a silent earthquake that shakes the very foundations of her being. Her face remains a mask, but the tremor is not entirely her own—it’s as though the room itself has shifted with the gravity of the revelation. She tries to speak, to ask for clarity, but her voice is lost in the roar of her heartbeat.

Mysaria’s eyes never leave hers, a silent storm of understanding and empathy swirling within, “The Greens.” The hand that had previously been stroking her cheek now rests gently against Rhaenyra’s arm, a grounding touch that feels like an anchor in the turbulent sea of her emotions. The Queen looks to her, seeking the truth, the comfort, the guidance she had always found in those dark, knowing eyes.

With a nod that is more a jerk than a graceful movement, Rhaenyra breaks away from the comforting embrace, the urgency of the moment cutting through the lingering warmth. She strides across the room, her steps echoing in the quiet chamber. The fire seems to dim in the background as she approaches the door, her hand on the latch. The cold metal is a stark reminder of the cold reality waiting for her outside. She turns to face Ser Lorent and Mysaria, her expression a mask of determination.

“I will mount Syrax at once and meet this new rider.” Her voice is a command, the tremor of moments before it's gone, replaced with the iron resolve of a queen facing her fate. The words hang in the air, a declaration of war against the shadows that have crept into their lives.

Mysaria nods, her gaze never leaving the Queen’s, understanding the gravity of what had been said without the need for further explanation. She watches as Rhaenyra exits the chamber, her footsteps echoing down the corridor like the beat of a war drum. The door closes with a thud, leaving her alone with the dwindling fire.

Her hand moves to her lips, feeling the lingering heat from their kiss, her heart still racing. The suddenness of their embrace had caught her off guard, but the raw, unbridled passion had been like a balm to her soul, a reminder of the fiery spirit she had thought long buried beneath the cold, calculating exterior she had cultivated as a Whisper Mistress.