Chapter Text
Rhaenyra eyes the horde of untied horses below, crouched into a shadowed position on the roof that overlooks the unremarkable square below. She turns her head and spies Agnes a few steps away, crouched down as well, licking her lips and pulling at the threads on her pants.
The girl, perhaps only a year younger than Rhaenyra herself, is obvious in her discomfort. The constant plucking at the boys trousers tells of a deeply ingrained unfamiliarity with the attire. This is a girl who has known dresses her whole life, never questioned why that is. Many who join their escapades roll on through for a bit of adventure in otherwise boring or unfair lives. Agnes reeks of late teenage rebellion. Some of the folks that join them stay permanently in their recalcitrant group, finding the lifestyle freeing just as Rhaenyra had. Some say their thanks after some time, but carry on with their unremarkable lives. Rhaenyra continues to watch the newcomer through the corner of her eye, wondering what type Agnes will be. She has a feeling she’s going to be disappointed with the answer.
“The riverboys are here,” a deep voice pipes up quietly from below.
Rhaenyra snaps back into the moment and peers down the edge of the roof to spot Edgar, a farmer’s son, perch precariously on an inclined platform jutting out from the building, shielded by a flapping piece of fabric that was once probably intended to shield market people from the sun. He’d been sent to keep watch.
“It’s a wonder their stench didn’t reveal them first,” Bayen adds with a grin from the rails of an abandoned balcony to Edgar’s left.
“They’re up for a race then, I take it?” Rhaenyra asks, squinting through the darkness to catch a glance of her other companions. Only by the knowledge that they should be there can she spot Orvyn and Mirabel on a nearby roof, ready to hop down at a moment's notice and race for the nearest available horse. The others are lost in the darkness, spread out in order to cover more ground. Horses are skittish creatures, after all.
The horse lords will be screaming their lungs out by the time they are done tonight. These particular horse lords must be newcomers to the game, only one guard to watch the horses and the horses are not tied down effectively in any matter. Rhaenyra, her companions and the riverboys will teach them an important lesson of King’s Landing etiquette today.
“A copper a horse and the fastest wins the rest.”
Rhaenyra smiles.
Agnes looks at them with horror, a deep sound getting stuck in her throat. “I’ve never ridden a horse before,” she says dumbly, like it just occurred to her.
“Better be a quick learner then,” Bayen shrugs with Edgar throwing him a sharp look.
Edgar looks up to meet Agnes’ eyes after that. “Ignore him. Just get on a horse and it’ll most likely follow the others. The only thing to remember is to keep away from it’s behind, just one kick can make you all dumb if it hits the wrong place.” Edgar claps his hands together lightly and makes a popping sound.
Rhaenyra thinks of Drooling Arrim with a grimage. Arrim hadn’t been constantly drooling when he’d first joined in on their adventures. Still, people were told exactly what to expect when stalking the streets of King’s Landing with this group.
“If you’re questioning yourself, go now,” is all Rhaenyra offers. It’s a warning as much as an offering of a way out, should the girl need a final push either way. Questioning lays the seeds for doubt, and doubt is going to get someone killed, usually the source itself. Rhaenyra isn’t one to tell someone what to do. If she dies while racing horses or stealing sweets in King’s Landing's backstreets, that is her choice, her fault and she’d do it with a smile on her face, most likely. Not that Rhaenyra foresees her death in front of a market stand, but she’s heard worse stories.
Agnes’ tense hand leaves the fabric of her trousers. “No, I want to do this,” she stutters with a breath.
Edgar nods and looks down on the large square, running a hand through his dark curls.
“Arden is going to be so mad that he missed this,” the brown-haired Bayen says while they’re waiting, jingling a leg down from the railing. He’s the most bold of them all, just barely shielded by shadow from the flap over them. The size of his energy could probably throw a whole tavern into disarray should it be let loose in such a place. Rhaenyra knows they are supposed to race the riverboys today, but on a normal day the two of them would be neck and neck in a race such as this, their recklessness and talent matching each other. That’s not to say there won’t be intragroup rivalry going on today as well. They can’t help themselves.
“Arden won’t be mad if he gets to propose marriage at the end of the night. He’ll marry the dyer’s daughter, moving up in the world and leaving us behind. One has to be a dolt not to see it,” Edgar mutters, and Rhaenyra is a bit surprised to notice a hint of jealousy in that tone. Edgar is always trudging on about the pride of being a farming family, essential to the community.
“How did he afford that, anyway? His father couldn’t have had that great of a year,” Rhaenyra whispers into the darkness. Many lambs had been born to Arden’s family this year, but a lamb was still just a lamb.
Edgar turns and peers up at her, eyes leaving the horses for a brief moment. “Didn’t you hear? That grumpy uncle of his finally kicked the bucket. No sons or daughters left behind. He apparently had a great deal of value in his chests. All that belongs to the old sheep farmer now. Most of that will be going directly into the dyer’s pocket in order to bring Arden into the business.”
Rhaenyra hums. She guesses that even men aren’t spared from being sold like livestock to the highest bidder either. It’s something Rhaenyra herself has avoided like the plague, a ‘duty’ she has sabotaged a great deal of years now. At eighteen years of age she is also supposed to marry. Preferably yesterday, while still having many years of her prime marriage years left.
A clank brings the attention of the four of them to the square again. Rhaenyra drops all previous thoughts and puts her boots on the edge of the roof, ready to spring to action at any second.
There is a second clang, then a curse, and then the door of the inn slams open to reveal a small form scurrying from the inn. Tobias, small-statured for his age, bumps into the horse guard so that the armored and surprised man falls pathetically to the ground. Before the guard has realized what has happened, and that Tobias is holding various trinkets of medium-range value that obviously isn’t his own, the boy is running for the back alleys. The guard sputters and calls out, curses, then rises to his feet to chase after the perceived street rat.
That is their signal.
“Go go go!” Rhaenyra hisses as she launches off the roof and jumps onto a fabric awning further down the building which easily takes her weight, bouncing her up and down a bit before Rhaenyra is jumping toward the ground. There was really no need to call out; Bayen, Edgar and Agnes are tight on her heels.
As Rhaenyra’s shoes hit the combined gravel and cobblestone of the plaza the buildings around the plaza suddenly come alive with teenagers and young adults appearing from the darkness in haste to steal a horse for the race. Actually getting ahold of a horse is part of the challenge, those that fail will instead race the streets of Flea Bottom on foot in order to escape arrest, another exhilarating challenge in and of itself.
Rhaenyra already has a target, has had a target most of the night. A crafty white stallion has been shifting among the sea of horses, a good prospect for a race. For one, it still has its reins equipped, like few others of the creatures. If you want to win the race, you have to first be able to steer the horse towards the right way. One may hope that a reinless horse will be well enough trained to take commands from taps of ones feet alone, but not all of them are. It’s a guessing game.
Rhaenyra sprints forward, dust picking up on the cobblestones after her, trying to keep her preferred stallion in her sights while keeping look out for the others in the group or the riverboys. She doesn’t expect the riverboys to do well here, they rather have the upper hand when it comes to sealegs and raiding small ships, but a challenge is a challenge. Rhaenyra wouldn’t mind trying a boat raid on their turf herself.
When Rhaenyra arrives at the horde of horses, which is now turning restless and loud, a boy her age has already arrived. It’s not someone she recognizes and is immediately impressed that one of the riverboys arrived before her or Bayen. The boy looks characteristic like that of a riverboy, the constant exposure to salt water has made the boy’s skin look dry and flakey, his hair sticking out in all directions, lacking luster and looking brittle. He is hopping on a gray mare as Rhaenyra unties the reins of the stallion, cheering inside. The gray mare soon proves to be an unwise choice, however. Its ears are standing straight back, like accusing fingers, and as soon as the riverboy’s butt touches the back of the mare, she bucks, flinging the riverboy up into the air with a scream. Fortunately, he avoids the following kick.
Rhaenyra would never be called a tall girl. Getting her own ass on the horse always proves to be a challenging task. If the horse is small enough she can make a high jump and land on her belly on the horse and climb up that way, but the stallion seems a bit too tall for that. But Rhaenyra is no fool, and she only decided on the white stallion as it was standing along a fence. Rhaenyra steps onto one of the planks of the fence and heaves herself up that way.
By now, most people have arrived at the horde, and the horses are panicking. The untied ones run amok, fleeing the mass of people. The horse lords are beginning to fill out through the inn door, panicking as well. Their voices will be hoarse by morning. Bayen sends her a grin as their eyes meet, also having been quick to get up on a horse. All around them teenagers and young adults are in the process of trapping horses into corners and trying to swing themselves up on the constantly moving creatures.
As Rhaenyra spurs her horse into a full on gallop by ramming her heels into the stallion’s sides, she sees Jasper getting stomped on by another horse. Only his foot, but she immediately recognizes that the foot is done for today (and a great while forward), nevertheless. The boy shrieks and Rhaenyra grimages. The boy knows what to do. During an injury like that, you give up immediately and escape. It’ll give Jasper a head start to avoid possible guards or angry horse lords, and if he’s lucky enough he gets home without problem. Otherwise, the group will look for him later, either on the streets or places pre-decided upon. They may be a group, friends even, but there’s only so much they can do when these things happen.
Rhaenyra doesn’t get to see what happens with her other comrades, because soon enough the clop-clops of her stallion are echoing through the alleyways she surges away from the square. Her’s aren’t the only ones, Rhaenyra chances a glance back to spot Bayen right on her heels. A few of the riverboys are not far behind either and she believes she spots a few of Mirabel’s red curls entering the street way back just as she turns back to steer her steed. Rhaenyra scrunches up her nose as the reek greets her while moving into Flea Bottom proper.
The majority of King’s Landing may be slumbering at this time (before her group’s hollering wakes them up, that is) but it is by no means a quiet or empty place at nighttime. The night owls have come out to play, and the entertainers and inhabitants of Flea Bottom cheer and howl as they thunder by. It’s probably not the first time they see something like this, and Fleabottomers live for chaos. However, some are drunk enough to have to be pushed out of the way before they get tramped and Rhaenyra isn’t planning on slowing down. Even then, a few toes here and there are accidently stomped down in the shady fog of Flea Bottom’s most questionable corners. They are passing by a few pleasure houses and gambling pits when Bayen takes over the lead by taking the smarter path past a blocking cart.
Rhaenyra hisses out a breath and leans forward, spurring the stallion on. The horses don’t have saddles and the fact is already making its presence known. Drinks fly as they move past inns and taverns, the onlookers doing their damndest to get a say in the race that they know nothing about. They even have to avoid fire at one point, the fire dancers taking up more space than is needed of them. Rhaenyra looks away and tries to ignore a Septon they swish past, screaming of sins into the nothingness.
The endpoint of their race is the Guildhall down by the foot of Visenya’s hill. That takes them out of Flea Bottom, meaning that the further they go, the more careful they have to be. Flea Bottom may be close to lawless but they soon enter the City Watch’s territory. Should someone ambitious enough see them, they may have them followed just to be petty or get a coin out of it. Therefore, they cannot linger in the middle of the city. Get to the Guildhall, either pay up or grab your victory, then scatter.
The race evolves into a three-headed fight at the top between Rhaenyra, Bayen and a lean riverboy. They spit playful insults at each other as the lead place shifts between them. The riverboy proves his worth by making risky, high-reward decisions which keeps him in step with the two troublemakers. Rhaenyra herself gains a bit of distance with a risky jump over a low cart where the tips of her stallion’s hooves for a moment brush the wood. The girl lets out a quiet exhale as the hooves find ground again.
They notice they are getting close when the people start cussing them out instead of cheering. It’s such a stark contrast. It’s like the commoners know how to have fun, and the rich ones don’t. Maybe it’s the prejudice.
Bayen and Rhaenyra finally leave the riverboy behind on the home stretch. They push the horses hard enough that they would surely die from a stumble and fall. Rhaenyra urges the horse further, trying to make herself as light a bagage as possible. In the end, Bayen is a horse head ahead when they pass the Guildhall wall. Bayen whoops and hollers victoriously while Rhaenyra grunts out an overdone sigh of frustration as their horses slow down to a trot and then a breathy walk.
She shakes her head at Bayen with a smile, but inwards she harps on herself for losing. She had that one in her grasp, if she’d just been a little bit faster… Rhaenyra hates losing. Everything small and large, these stewing emotions have a hard time leaving her when it doesn’t go her way.
They quickly release the horses and give them a push to run away when the last combatant has arrived and Rheanyra is both surprised and pleased to see that Agnes has made it. Maybe the girl has potential after all, one only has to scrub away all that ingrained insecurity. Edgar arrives in the middle of the pack and later explains that he saw both Orvyn and Philippa get thrown off their horses in the beginning of the race. They will make their way home from that, pride wounded but whole-bodied.
Rhaenyra and Bayen’s group are the clear victors, gaining the most copper. The riverboys are courteous enough to invite them for a round at the docks at a later date, but leaves them with mocking insults nonetheless, as is tradition. Rhaenyra’s favorite was probably ‘Landwalkers’, like most of Westeros isn’t walking on land on any given day. She instead retorts that she hopes they pull the seaweed out of their asses until next time.
Of the 20-something group of ‘Landwalkers’ that made it to the race today, only about half of them remain. The others either failed to capture a horse in time, failed to complete the race or were injured.
Edgar leads the group up on the rooftops to gain some privacy as they travel. They have made a habit of it, King’s Landing is so tightly packed with houses that you will surely be able to traverse most of the city without ever touching the ground. Their tired legs jump over ledges and over to adjacent rooftops, balancing on tightropes and maybe dirtying a clothing article or two in the process. The conversation is light, of anything and everything. New stories that have come over a member in the last while, gossip, rumors and even personal experiences that garners a laugh out of the group. The topic of their personal lives are left well alone, not even a fingerprint to suggest that that particular box has attempted to be open.
Tired from the racing and making a quick departure from the Guildhall, the group settles on one of the higher houses to rest for a bit.
They are in the middle of a summer period, the night not fully descending into full darkness because of how close the sun keeps to the horizon. A waterskin gets passed around to tame their thirst. Rhaenyra sits down beside Bayen and is soon joined by Agnes on her other side. The girl’s hands have stopped shaking, looking at Rhaenyra with what looks uncomfortably close to admiration.
“Good job today,” Mirno’s voice booms from across the rooftop and the others in the circle join in with approval, echoing back through the crisp air. Mirno is like the bigger brother of the group. A farmer by day, Mirno takes the group under his wing during the evenings and nights. The man is in his early twenties, expected to be a family man of his own right by this time, but like most of them, it doesn’t seem to concern Mirno that much.
The majority of the group members have some kind of trouble at home or are frustrated with the hand that fate has dealt them, that’s no secret. Be it the duty of marriage, overbearing parents, boring lives with boring jobs or something else entirely. Rhaenyra knows that what they’re doing is no good, even could be called sins at various points in time, but it feels good. The people present here are not bad people, simply frustrated people. It’s an outlet, perhaps even an escape, but that the group with no name has survived this long only proves its necessity. Rhaenyra doesn’t expect to be part of it forever, but even a week, a month, a year feels like eternity, looking forward.
What will she be in a year? Still helping at home with the smithy, being promised to someone she doesn’t want? The prospect is depressing if anything. This group gives her hope that life won’t always be boring, there’s still an ounce of control she can assert over it herself. The thought of running away to Essos, freeing herself of her burdens is an attractive one, albeith unrealistic. A lot of the time the dilemma circles back to the all-encompassing problem of being a woman.
Rhaenyra takes a few large gulps out of the waterskin, staring at the shimmering moon as she does so, lost in thoughts among the mumbles of her people. She rolls her hair around her finger absentmindedly, disliking the roughness of the coloring as it cakes together with her sweat. Every other day the reddish-brown tone is applied by her mother, insisting on continuing doing the process even long after Rhaenyra has forgotten why they even started it in the first place. Rhaenyra has never asked, but is has to cost coins getting the material to color it. It’s not even a good one, washing away easily and wasting much more material.
Perhaps she wants Rhaenyra to look more like her. The reddish brown is not hitting the right red, however, and Rhaenyra looks just decent enough to not get people questioning her why her hair looks like that. That, or her new stepfather of a few years has convinced her mother to overdo it. He doesn’t like the brightness of her natural strands either. Whatever the reason, this is something Rhaenyra can allow to keep happening as long as her mother continues to at least partly look the other way as Rhaenyra contines with her… questionable activities. Regrettably, it is a threat that Rhaenyra keeps holding in her hand like a sword. Allow me to do this, and I’ll do that for you, blah blah.
Bayen leans back against the roof edge, sighing loudly while putting his arms behind his head. “So, what’s it gonna be next time? Someone told me that there’s a ship coming in just a few turns with fruit. It has been so long since I had fruit. Or sweets.”
“I think that time we created chaos in the brothels was quite fun. Stealing the customers' clothes is something I’d do again. That, or sneaking into the knights’ tourney. Haven’t heard of any events lately though,” Rodon says with closed eyes, looking about ready to take a nap right on the roof.
Troublemaking for giggles or troublemaking for the sake of tasting heavenly things reserved for the lords and ladies. Rhaenyra is about to support the fruit idea when a blood-curdling whistle echoes through the sky. It’s a noise that cannot be mimicked by human means, making her hair stand on edge at once. She rises immediately to her feet and the others follow her, looking up at the sky. They all have to know what it is already, and there is always a moment of trepidation. Will there be hellfire, or a vision of what they could never hope to be, a beauty so far away from them that they can only gaze in awe?
Rhaenyra’s eyes search the endless deep blue above with near desperation, and only after a moment or two does the giganteus monstrosity enter their field of view. A dragon of the royal family, no fire this time either. Agnes lets out a gasp beside her and Rhaenyra can only stare in wonder, lips slightly parted. Something in her chest longs at the sight and she can only imagine the wind and freedom that comes with a sight like that.
One of the neighbor’s kids once tried to make something that he called a ‘kite’. It’s supposed to be this great flying thing, he said, like a colorful flapping fabric that transforms into a wonderful sight in the wind that he had seen on his travels with his dad. The created thing in question had nothing of this promised grandiosity he spoke of, the flat and boring fabric of potato sack not lending itself well to either flying or beauty.
Even in the darkness the red of the dragon’s scales is bright and something like this is what Rhaenyra’s neighbor must have meant. The dragon looks magnificent as it sails over King’s Landing, graceful in such a large but slender form. Rhaenyra wants to reach a hand out, touch that freedom that the allure of the creature above promises. It is almost like a trance, a pain so great borne from being out of reach of that power. It feels wrong to be this separated. Then the dragon disappears from view as it continues to fly towards what she assumes is the Dragonpit, and then the world is the same yet again. The same, but mayhaps just a little bit grayer than before.
Her nameless group whispers around her, with fear, awe and wonder on their tongues as always following a dragon sighting. Rhaenyra can never get enough of seeing them, her curiosity growing a little bit bigger each time the beasts show themselves in the sky. It’s no wonder the Targaryens are where they are, what they are. Who could doubt fate, when the dragons themselves had chosen them? Word around the streets was that the Targaryens themselves could breathe fire, see sins with only a glance of their ancient eyes. Oh, to be in the presence of a dragon.
The fruit idea turns to ash in her mouth, dying before it has a chance to sprout. Another idea develops on the tip of her tongue, so fierce that Rhaenyra never had a chance to stop it from spilling out.
“We could go see a dragon. Break into the Dragonpit.” The words out of Rhaenyra’s mouth are matter-of-fact. They are said with such casualness that she herself almost jerks back from the absurdity of the thought. Yet… she wants it so bad. Now that the words are out of her mouth, she can feel it turning into a fixation, an obsession. She wants to see, admire, look upon the magical impossibility and see their grandiosity and size up close.
Rodon’s eyes grow comically wide, looking to almost pop out of their sockets. “Did you hit your head on a beam while on horseback, Rhaenyra?” He doesn’t elaborate and probably doesn’t need to.
“Hey,” Edgar warns, but also sneaks Rhaenyra a side eye.
Rodon balks. “Sorry,” he hurries, “but that… They could have our heads on a spike for attempting that. Even thinking about that.”
The black-haired teenager doesn’t need to further explain who he means by they. The dragons themselves could probably be considered royalty, even if they were simply creatures. No commoner has ever seen a dragon up close, those who have are probably long since ashes, anger the Targaryens and you get the dragon, no doubt.
Yet, when Rhaenyra looks around, the opinions are clearly splittered. Bayen has the seeds of a devious smile growing on his face, staring into the distance, so she clearly has him in her corner. Others seem curious, frightened, even thoughtful. Agnes and Rodon are probably the only ones with straight up horror as their expressions.
Mirno is one of those looking thoughtful. “So, it’s just for a bit of fun, then?”
With Mirno not seeming totally opposed to the idea, that opens the floodgates. Suddenly everyone has an opinion they want said.
“No one has attempted that before. We could certainly do it.” Bayen’s bold statement is no surprise. He’d run through a stone wall just to prove he could take it.
Elsie, the youngest person present, rocks back and forth with a smile, looking up toward the sky. “I want to see a dragon…”
“I don’t know guys,” Mirabel mutters with a hand on her nose, yet falling on deaf ears.
“If we do this, we better have a thorough fucking plan,” Edgar says with a loud voice as the surrounding mumbles rises in volume.
Rodon groans. “We have not come anywhere close to a decision mate, the majority of the group is not even present. But I tell ya, if I make my way into the dragonpit I want permission to bring whatever valuables I can find with me out as compensation for the night terrors this will bring me.”
“Deal,” Rhaenyra pipes in as the conversation continues.
Mirabel is looking at them all with doubt, her maturity coming through and stealing their attention. “If we as a group decide to go there, I will follow, but I need you all to understand. While no Red Keep, the Dragonpit is going to be guarded. We’re talking massively. Should we even get in, we're talking minutes you have going for you to get all your fawning across before we have to scramble. We’ll have to ask for assistance from the likes of the Smallswords as well, we’re all street rats but not so much fighters. Should you be captured, the man with the crown will probably have you beheaded, made a cripple or destroy you for life. Each one of you has to decide if it’s worth it. Any survivors cannot and will not come back for you.”
Rhaenyra knows in her heart that she already has her own answer.
Elric has been quiet most of the evening, now fiddling with the dagger at his belt. He is not a talkative person, so when he starts to take tone, the rest of them quieten down. The blond-haired man with shoulder-length hair tilts his head, eyeing the dagger. “I’d like to try n’ ride a dragon. It’ll all be worth it just to see the look on those bastards’ faces.”
There’s a pregnant pause as the group processes Elric’s words, Agnes even gasps at the blatant disrespect toward the royal family that can have your tongue sliced off in an official setting. However, the usually grim man voicing his approval of the idea brings forth excited chatter, the one that feeds off of passionate energy, like echoing back and forth through a tight alley until it grows out of its boundaries. The idea is turning into a dragon itself.
“Alright, first things first, we need messengers to the rest of the group, but we can lay a groundwork tonight, if someone hasn’t somewhere they need to be.” Edgar sits down comfortably, probably realizing just as Rhaenyra has that the group won't disperse before starting up a discussion of who to involve. The messages take a while to reach all ears that need to be reached.
Elsie raises her hand. “My brothers will come looking for me if I’m not in bed in the morning.”
“You can go, but as you live closest to Callistus, you’ll be in charge of getting the word to him.” Edgar looks around the ring before once again capturing Elsie’s eyes. “Callistus has some ears in the Smallswords should we decide on that path, so getting him in on the plan may prove crucial. We’ll meet on the roofs at Dragon Gate.”
Elsie does not live closest to Callistus. However, by some otherworldly twist of ironic proportions, the small girl has managed to create a chink in the otherwise impregnable armor of Callistus, the one of them with the best hands for weaponry, creator of quite a few pools of blood in King’s Landing. If Elsie says to break into the Dragonpit, Callistus will do it. Edgar is counting on that, certainly.
Everyone had their part to play, knowingly or unknowingly.
“Got it! Elsie says, bids a short goodbye and then slinks down the edge of the building with more strength than a young teenager like her should possess.
Rhaenyra traces the invisible path the dragon had taken above them. Then she rights herself, excitement bubbling just beneath the surface of her skin. “Let us begin.”