Chapter Text
The plan is, quite frankly, not that complicated.
It contains finer details and contingency plans, a few moments of improvisation as befitting of their group, but it is a plan borne of desperation.
And unfortunately, it reeks of it.
Rhaenyra goes over the plan in her head once more while keeping an eye on the others from the corner of the rooftop. It’s obvious that their plan is to outnumber any potential opponents or threats. A lot of people are here. Infrequent members, recurring members, even mere acquaintances along for the ride.
Everyone does what they can to secure food nowadays.
As it is, Rhaenyra is not below raiding a ship for rations. Her family needs beans and flour, anything with nourishment in it really as the prices on the market are becoming synonymous with mountain peaks.
Rhaenyra’s problems lie in the offense of what they are about to commit.
The Riverboys hold the western docks, and with the current truce existing between them and the Landwalkers, they have collectively decided to not step on their toes in this matter. The eastern docks, however. It currently belongs to the Blackwater Marauders.
The Landwalkers are about to trample their feet with spikes underneath their own soles, and it makes Rhaenyra anxious.
Turf wars are a fickle thing. It becomes one wrongdoing, then an wrongdoing for an wrongdoing, and on and on it spins, until neither remembers what started the whole thing. They will dig a hole so deep that they won’t be able to see the dragons in the sky once they’re done. This is what kills groups. They will swallow one another until only one of them is left. Can Rhaenyra with a good conscience deny the group this, then? She can’t. She herself would kill for this group, for her mother, for survival.
Until the rain, Rhaenyra tells herself. The Landwalkers usually operate within leisure, spite and curiosity. For a time they need to evolve. For a time, they need to become players within the organized criminal business.
They haven’t really had a group wide discussion about it but it has become clear that this is understood. Everyone gets it. No one needs to explain that they are starving, losing siblings and that their ribs are becoming pronounced. The farmers slaughter their starved animals, the taverns increase their opening hours and reduce their prices to continue to hoard the money of the drunken yet broke men, and the gangs direct their attention to more sinister doings. People go rowdy. There is no honor when you’re starving to death.
Rhaenyra, already sure that she is damned due to her way of life these past few years, prays for mercy and understanding. She’s got no choice. No one prioritizes the wares of the smithy over food and it’s beginning to show. No one would buy a horse shoe for a dead horse or a couple of nails for a barn with no animals.
“We’re doing the right thing, you know.” Edgar sits down beside her, nudging her shoulder with his own, breaking Rhaenyra out of her sullen disposition.
“That obvious, huh?” Rhaenyra mumbles, tapping fingers against her dagger just to do something.
“Well, you look like someone has poured fish slush all over you.”
“I just don’t like the possibility of consequences.” Rhaenyra looks up toward the sky. Consequences can have more than one source. She feels invisible walls closing in on her in that regard, getting too close for comfort.
Edgar follows her gaze, thinking. After a while he sighs, his voice quiet. “My father once told me a story about a plague that never was. A family in the southern part of the city, newly arrived from out-of-city travel showed signs of sickness. They couldn’t leave their beds, that’s how sick they were. They shouted at the neighbors for help when they saw them walk past outside.”
Rhaenyra pries her dark violet eyes from the sky and gazes at Edgar. This isn’t the first time he tells her stories. She decides to indulge him despite feeling almost nauseous. “And did they help?”
Edgar shakes his head. “They reported it to the City Watch. They, in turn, decided to board the windows and hammer the door shut with nails. The screams continued to sound until one by one, they disappeared to the Heavens. They died horrible deaths.”
“How is that going to make me feel better?” Rhaenyra deadpans, upper lip rising in shudder.
“They left the house boarded for a time. Then they came to collect the bodies. They were full of plague, Rhaenyra. If they had let the neighbors help, it would have spread around the streets, then the neighborhood, then the city. The City Watch made the necessary evil choice for the many, saving them at the cost of a few ones suffering. What I’m saying is, when staring death in the face, it’s sometimes necessary to do the hard things for the sake of your loved ones.”
Rhaenyra ponders that for a moment. Perhaps Edgar is right. At the very least, she is out of options.
Edgar claps her on the shoulder. “Whatever happens, happens. I’ll go help the boys with the bows and hooks, I’ll see you later, yeah?”
Rhaenyra nods and pats his hand before he departs.
The hair on her necks pricks and her gaze moves to find Bayen looking at her from a distance, in the middle of a crowd. He still has that troubled look from earlier. Rhaenyra figures that he still wants to talk with her about the Prince, but this is not the time.
They both realize it.
It’s Rhaenyra who looks away. The doubt of doing this hasn’t left her and she doesn’t need more to weigh on her thoughts before the mission. She prays to the Gods for success, knowing full well that she has no right for anyone to listen.
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Rhaenyra keeps her gaze flickering between the water of the Bay and the ship that is closing in on their hiding place.
The ship arrives in darkness to prevent attempts like this. They must not have accounted for the group to steal information from the harbourmaster. There’s many of them strewn about on the cliffs leading into the port, completely hidden. They will be done before the ship has reached land.
Rhaenyra is part of the crew partially closest to the ship. She can barely swim, something she regrets not learning now. Cloud, a big pile of pure muscle, stands to her immediate right. How a large boy like him earned the nickname, she really has no idea. Rhaenyra would perhaps have chosen ‘Stone’, but that is neither here nor there. The important part is that Cloud is a good swimmer and will be Rhaenyra’s escort to the ship. There are a few pairs lined up like this along the cliff because they need all the bodies they can get; good swimmers or not.
The clocktower behind them strikes midnight and brings with it the thundering of the bells. Rhaenyra jumps when it starts, anxiety getting the better of her. She is not used to the feeling, usually prowling the streets of King’s Landing with confidence. It seems to have left her tonight, hovering up in the air, still deciding whether to return or not.
Rhaenyra can’t see or hear it but she knows bowstrings will have been released with the ringing that fills the night. She imagines the muffled thud of the arrows hitting the hood of the ship, leaving rope to dangle down into the water.
She wonders if the guards they stole bows from will hang for their carelessness; if they’ve been found out already or are hiding their empty hands from their superiors. Rhaenyra will have trampled on many heads in order to feed her family. Even so, she knows she would have made the same decision twice if offered the choice. The streets reward no one for that kind of honor.
Any more thoughts don’t have the time to flitter past her mind, because Cloud hoists her up on his back without warning and then jumps in the water, joining the others who have already started the process.
Rhaenyra just about keeps herself from screeching, throwing a hand over her mouth to stifle any noise, however small, that would like to escape. Surprise is their weapon, she is not about to be the sole reason this goes sideways. Rhaenyra clings to Cloud’s back, desperate to not fall off. The water around them is lukewarm; heated from the constant exposure to the sun. It still looks eerily black, like a large mouth that would swallow her up happily like it has done so many others.
The ship approaches like a promise and the Landwalkers that are in the water need to pace themselves. They have to be close enough to be able to grab at the ropes, yet far enough to not be caught in the ship’s route and either drown or be cut in half from a protruding part of the hull. Fortunately, the ship has to move slowly now that it’s approaching King’s Landing. The cliffs are many and the cargo on the ship could just as well be rubies or emeralds from across the sea. To have it capsize would be a disaster, a catastrophe of the magnitude that would make heads fall for days.
Cloud times his movement well, even with the added weight of her. Rhaenyra doesn’t have to worry about being sliced up by the incoming monstrosity. It’s a thing of beauty, really, but most of the ships arriving at the port of King’s Landing are. It’s wooden and perfect to pierce with arrows which means that the first step is a success.
Ropes dangle from hooked arrows down the outer layer of the ship. They’re uneven, far from perfect, but it’ll do. Rhaenyra points wordlessly toward an incoming rope she deems to look steady enough. They will have to climb quickly in order to catch the crew off guard. Plenty of boys and girls have already started climbing the ropes, the fastest one waiting just underneath the taffrail already. They’re all ghosts in the dull moonlight, wraiths coming to haunt the unknowing sailors. Cloud and Rhaenyra won’t be part of the first wave that will crash into the unsuspecting crew. The single swimmers have reached the ropes before them, unburdened and moving like fish in the water. There are tens of them just here on this side. They all know the plan and will execute it.
Overwhelm, spare no one. Fight like you and your loved ones are held with knives at your throats. Grab whatever you can and get the hell out of there.
Before Rhaenyra and Cloud have had time to grasp at the rope, she knows the attack has started. The silent night erupts in screams and battle cries, street rats letting their fear, determination and rage be bellowed out in an outcry against society and the lot that has been handed to them. It’s a protest. It’s a revolution. It’s life and death.
“Come on, come on,” Rhaenyra whispers furiously, limbs twitching with expectation and trepidation at the situation she will meet on deck. Her hands fumble with the rope before securing a grip and hoisting herself up from Cloud’s back and out of the water.
Her clothes weigh her down in a manner she’s not used to. Rhaenyra grits her teeth as she folds her legs around the rope for support and begins snaking up its length. A boy passes her on the rope to her right and instinct alone makes her climb faster, even though her arms burn and start shaking. The way her strength has been slowly sapped away by the sun lately has not escaped her notice. It frightens her, how fast they can all fade. It’s the fear of finding themselves at the bottom of a pile of dead bodies in a wagon that drives them to do stupid shit like this even though they know better. But the alternative is as grim as they can imagine. If Rhaenyra has to choose, a death by blade would be preferred over that of being slowly stripped down to her skeleton.
A scream sounds from up above, this time one of pain.
Rhaenyra looks up in alarm and barely has the time to notice the blur of a shadow before a body hits the boy that had just previously passed her. They both disappear to the darkness below with a loud splash. It takes her off balance, having to shoot out her legs and plant her feet against the hull of the ship to collect herself.
Rhaenyra lets out a shaking breath, but keeps on climbing. However, she can’t stop herself from glancing down, praying. Please. Don’t let it be one of my closest. Spare them.
Before the face disappears underneath the murky water she is disgusted by herself to feel relief when deducing that it wasn’t one she was overly familiar with. But everything has a price. It would be naive of her to think that everyone would leave that boat whole and alive.
Rhaenyra collects her dagger from its holster as she nears the taffrail. In order for the arrow to avoid catching the attention of the sailors, it had hit the ship with some distance to the railing. Rhaenyra licks her chapped lips and calculates the distance. Her hands have no more rope to grab so she tries to grab at an outjutting piece of the ship ornament as her foot finds the hook of the sturdy arrow to push from. It’s a small leap of faith, but her hands find the taffrail without fail. Thank the gods for proud merchants, she thinks of the overly decorated ship. One could always count on coins to be the downfall of the ones less careful.
Sounds of fighting echo through the air and Rhaenyra gets her first view of the commotion as she hoists herself over the edge of the ship, mindful of her knife’s sharp blade.
Rhaenyra drops into a crouch and takes stock of the situation. The ship is large, befitting a cargo ship. The backside is that the crew is proportionally so as well. The merchant sailors and whatever guards they have hired possess daggers and even some small swords. A few of them even handle spears, which makes Rhaenyra’s stomach roil. Daggers don’t do well against the reach of spears.
However, it’s a full out brawl on the deck, the Landwalkers currently outnumbering the sailors and merchants stumbling drunk and groggy from the hatches and doors on either side of the ship. There’s no strategy here, just how she and her crew like it. It’s chaotic strike-and-withdraws on the nearest opponent just like the streets taught them, avoiding pointy ends and stabbing their own in enemy flesh. The playing field has just gotten larger than they are used to, but their ways have not changed. Hamstrings are sliced, groins are struck, sand is mixed with saltwater and thrown in the enemy’s eyes. There’s no glory to be found here, only tactics that secures wins and turf. Clubs strike kneecaps, a hammer shatters fingers. A small log with nails hammered in it tears muscle and skin from bones.
Whatever it takes, Gods be merciful.
Forgive me.
One of the members of her own crew is struggling against a spearman near her, something that Rhaenyra zeroes in on. The spearman is standing with his back toward her, which is unfortunate. Rhaenyra surges forward, brandishing her blade. In a quick motion she heaves her weight into her arm which stabs the man straight in the calf like butter with the blade. The muscle is sliced in half, at least. The man doesn’t stand a chance. His leg immediately buckles with a shout and her crewmate — a man named Nathan, she registers — takes the opportunity with precision, using his own long blade to slice the spearman in the neck. He gurgles, bringing his hand up, but it is a futile instinct.
The man drops with a wet thud. Rhaenyra recites another prayer. One that is becoming weaker and weaker. Shivers travel down her spine.
“Take it,” Rhaenyra urges, eyeing the spear. It’s too heavy for her.
Nathan nods and snatches the bloodied spear, sending her a grateful glance before jumping back into the fray.
Rhaenyra looks around, impressions blipping into her head every second. More Landwalkers are jumping over the taffrail, adding to their numbers. Additional sailors from the ship are emerging from below, surprised and angry. Rhaenyra’s side still have numbers, her crew is able to tag team the sailors to get an upper hand. Her inner demon is pulling her toward the door or hatch that will lead her below deck, but she can’t just leave without doing some damage herself, her part of the price.
Old teachings spring to her mind. Take the nearest opponent. Help your crew when the opening presents itself. It will keep a smaller form like yours invisible on the battlefield while getting out of your crewmates’ way. Support each other. Two will always be better than one. Strike whatever of the enemy that catches your blade, every drop spilled is to your advantage.
Blood drips from her dagger and Rhaenyra jumps on her next victim with his back toward her.
She is under no illusion that she herself can take these muscled and experienced men alone. She doesn’t have the strength for it, even if she perhaps by chance would be able to claw herself to a victory by sheer willpower. However, she is excellent at providing support when overlooked, deciding fights in their favor.
Rhaenyra puts her dagger into the sailor’s shoulder this time, the man having a dagger herself. He drops it with a shriek at the unsuspecting pain. Rhaenyra pulls her dagger out, expecting the man to drop, lending an opening to her friends. But he doesn’t relent, even with the pain he must be in. He turns his head in a fast swivel and then grabs her own outer garment by the shoulders in a viper-like move, swinging her over himself with scary strength. It’s Rhaenyra’s time to shriek.
She’s learned one lesson in the past while; don’t lose your weapon. So she grips it harder and prays she won’t impale herself with it as she flies. Rhaenyra connects forcefully with the rough deck, gaining a few splinters and coughs as the wind is knocked out of her.
Her vision is half blackened as she swipes aimlessly with the blade as she tries to recover. The man is able to grab her forearm easily though, avoiding the imprecise movements of the blade while at the same time incapacitating it and Rhaenyra resorts to kicking instead, hissing at the roughness. She connects a few on his thighs which doesn’t amount to much. The man presses down on her wrist and Rhaenyra is forced to relent, releasing her dagger which clatters to the ground.
“You’re way out of depth, missy,” the sailor hisses with a foreign dialect she can’t place.
She is dragged onto her feet by the arm and her hair, something which makes her furious. No one touches her hair. Grabbing a woman by her hair is disgraceful, degrading. It awakens something raw in her and without having the strength to get out of the man’s clutches, she spits forcefully in his face while pulling at her arm.
It brings her satisfaction shen he recoils.
“Ate some raw fish just before this,” she lies. She wants to get the upper hand, at least the illusion of it. In an impossible situation it at least makes her feel better. The rage in her has an uncanny way of ensnaring her tongue.
Before the sailor has time to return her rage he recoils yet again, this time from arms snaking around his throat and pulling backwards.
Instinct alone has to be the reason he promptly releases Rhaenyra and goes to claw at the new intrusion crushing his windpipe.
Rhaenyra drops to the floor of the deck and scrambles after her dagger at the feet of the man. When she has it, she hurries to impale the blade into his chest. Just a bit to the right, avoiding the hard mass of bone in the middle of it. This is also a lesson she has learned on the streets.
Unlike the calf, this doesn’t go smoothly. The knife at first strikes ribs, before Rhaenyra turns the blade sideways so that it has space to squeeze between two of them and into the tissue below. She has never studied of course, but one of her older crewmates said that this for sure would pierce one’s lung, if not outright hitting the heart, leaving them doomed to the gates of the Hells. Rhaenyra has to take his word for it.
The sailor wheezes, blood gushing from the fatal wound as the light starts fading from his eyes.
Rhaenyra’s savior brings the sailor to his knees and only when the sailor is no longer hiding him can Rhaenyra discern that it’s Edgar who helped her.
She heaves breaths as she nods in thanks, unable to catch her breath, almost folding herself in half bending forward now that the danger is dealt with. She could have died right there. The snap-second through makes her dizzy.
Edgar drops the sailor and rounds him, making her stand upright again by pulling at her shoulders when he reaches her, somehow still keeping a careful eye on the fighting surrounding them. His voice sounds stressed. “No, no, get up. Keep your bearings about you. Bayen has found a hatch back there,” he says and points behind them towards the quarterdeck. “Go find him, go! Get off as soon as possible, they’re too many to stay too long.”
Rhaenyra stumbles in her haste to do what he says. “What about you?” she calls out, pushing a sailor out of the way when he and a Landwalker come flying into her path.
“I’ll help out here while the others arrive.” He pauses. “You know not everyone will have time to get down there. So hurry, take all you can bear.”
Rhaenyra nods, promising to herself to bring a haul that she can share with him should he be one of those who will keep the fight up for the rest of them to steal valuables.
Rhaenyra swerves between one-on-one fights, two-against-ones and group fights altogether. She sticks her dagger in enemies where she sees an opening, but her focus lies on the quarterdeck.
Bloodstains cover her clothing and drops clings to her face, building sticky crusts. There’s so much blood everywhere, so much screaming, the world becoming crimson. Dead sailors and Landwalkers alike decorate the deck, making it a vision of horror. It’s chaos of the worst kind, the kind that will visit her in dreams at night. She can feel the sights she is forced to see crawling into the corners of her mind and making a home.
One small boy is stuck to the deck with a sword impaled in his chest, eyes already glazed over. Rhaenyra knows his name. Connor, also called Copperfinger by the crew for his proficiency in stealing coppers.
Rhaenyra feels like retching.
She almost starts diverging from her path to pull the wretched sword out of Connor’s chest, but she is stopped from doing that by instead getting hit like a stone by a wrestling couple that sends her to the floor together with them. It’s always inattention that is the silent killer.
The bodies of the men that land on her are heavy, limbs entangling into and around her own and Rhaenyra has a hard time figuring out which arm belongs to which, and thus which arm she should slice with her dagger. They partly roll off her naturally and give Rhaenyra the opportunity to lift a leg free. She is still trapped, making her chest feel tight. She hates feeling stuck in place, having nowhere to go. She tries pushing, a futile effort.
A new familiar voice rises up near the position of her head.
“Nyra!”
Rhaenyra twists her neck in an awkward angle, trying to see her friend.
“Agnes! Help,” she pleads, sucking in a breath when a stray punch from the men hits her in the side. She kicks with her free leg but the two are entangled and more than twice as heavy as herself, engrossed in winning their fight.
“Hold on,” Agnes urges, taking both her hands in a firm grip and pulls.
Rhaenyra kicks the brawling boys with her free foot to gain some leverage and cause enough of a rocking motion to be able to squeeze herself out of the hold with Agnes’ help.
“Shit!” Rhaenyra curses, gripping her aching but freed thigh. She takes a relieved look at Agnes and sucks another breath. “Shit!” she repeats after seeing the bloody pulp of Agnes’ face.
Agnes helps her to her feet. “Looks worse than it is,” she hurries out, before turning to the wrestling boys and starts pulling at a limb. “Mirno,” Agnes grouses, “turn him toward me!”
Only now does Rhaenyra recognize that the boy (or rather, man) that is sealed in a deadlock with a burly sailor is the big brother of the group.
Mirno grunts and tries to comply with the instruction.
Rhaenyra readies herself and flies forward with the dagger. The sailor seems more afraid of the dagger than Mirno though, because he immediately releases Mirno at the hint of metal and rips his arm out of Agnes’ grip, rolling back and keeping her at a distance, hands raised in threat.
Rhaenyra studies him and threatens advancement with her dagger while keeping a vague impression of Mirno in her peripheral.
She steps back in a fake-out as Mirno comes barging in with a punch that makes the sailor stumble to the floor, probably seeing stars. This time Rhaenyra blazes on forward until her dagger is buried in the gut of the man, pinning him to the ground in his dazedness. He is done for the night. Maybe forever.
Maiden, forgive me. Mother, forgive me.
Agnes gives the man a swift kick to the ribs for good measure, adding a curse.
Rhaneyra glances at her and can discern that most of the blood on her face is coming from her nose. Her probably broken nose.
“You alright?” Rhaenyra asks both her and Mirno, standing up and discreetly wiping her blade on her trousers.
They nod grimly.
She expects more words, but perhaps they have all reached their limits for tonight. Killing is not something they regularly divulge in. The Stranger must be delighted, a fact that makes a chill spread over Rhaenyra’s back despite the sweat currently covering her.
“Come on, Bayen has found a way in,” Rhaenyra spurs them, making her own tired feet move in haste. They need to be off the ship in a few moments, so they need to get to the wares quickly.
She starts in the direction of the quarterdeck, looking back to confirm that she has Mirno and Agnes in tow.
The quarterdeck is a raised platform on the ship, probably the golden seat reserved for the captain.
Rhaenyra ignores the stairs up there, instead rounding the structure, dagger ready in hand for an ambush.
She rounds the corner to the other side of the quarterdeck and almost gets Bayen’s own dagger in her face. Her breath hitches, but only heartbeats afterwards does her hand relax, withdrawing her blade with a sigh of relief.
“Gods, Bayen,” Agnes complains, holding her hand over her chest.
“Your face, Agnes. What happened?” Bayen questions, putting a hand on Rhaenyra’s shoulder in greeting with a relieved expression to then move on to Mirno, clapping a hand on his back.
“I misjudged how fast those guys could throw a punch,” Agnes replies with a groan, poking a careful finger on the bloody mess.
Bayen nods, but his expression then grows serious. Their health status is manageable, so they need to move on. “Fergus and a few of the guys have moved down there to the cargo hold. Most of the sailor’s quarters have to be at the other ends of the ship and those that were here have left. Get a move on, we’ll need to be quick while they’re distracted and outnumbered. Mirno,” Bayen prompts and gestures at the opened hole that will take them below deck.
Mirno takes the lead and guides them down the stairs.
The floor below is a long corridor lit by lanterns, doors both left and right leading to adjoining rooms.
Fergus pokes his head out warily three doors down, before schooling into a neutral expression upon seeing them. “Ah, good. Come on, there’s bags in here. Dried meat, beans, some flour. Other weird stuff. Frode found fruits and wine a few doors down to the right.”
Rhaenyra puts her dagger in her holster and moves forward, guiding the others to the doors with their bounty. “Forget the wine, it’s more trouble transporting than it’s worth to us. Take the flour if it’s the only option, but grain or wheat would take being soaked better. Soaked flour would need to be made into dough right away. Take anything dry with you, it's madness up there and it will only get worse when the harbor guards catch wind of what’s going on. Take what you can and jump ship immediately.”
They disperse, moving to forage the storages with wares. It’s plentiful, more than they could ever take with them.
Rhaenyra opens barrel after barrel in a manner that has her making a mess of the room. She takes a large sack of potatoes and empties its content until only a few potatoes remain in the bottom. Nutritious, but heavy. She replaces the empty space with beans and dried vegetables, dried meat, various legumes and even more beans from another source. There’s rice in one of the bags and Rhaenyra fills her four pouches at her waist full of the small, hard grains. She even fills her socks with it as the bag is approaching the line of being too heavy.
“Found grains!” She hears someone call out from further down.
“Good, take them!” Rhaenyra yells back as she knots the rope holding the top of the bag together, flinging it over her shoulder.
“I’m ready, how about you all?” Bayen shouts, only two doors down.
“I’m done,” Rhaenyra calls along with a few others, exiting the room.
“I think I overpacked, help me get some things out,” Agnes says from the room across.
“Coming,” Rhaenyra replies and jogs over, entering Agnes’ room.
They make quick work of pulling out potatoes and a few apples that they drop unceremoniously to the floor.
“Is it fine?” Rhaenyra questions as Bayen enters the room, his own bag large and hanging from his shoulder.
Agnes pulls the bag up, testing it. “Yes, let’s move.”
A few of their companions have joined them down in the storages, hurrying to load their own bags. Rhaenyra and her group greets them shortly and directs them to the best rooms. Mirno stays behind to make sure that they use the time well and package smartly. People are running criss-cross, bringing the chaos of above down here.
More are still entering as Bayen, Agnes and Rhaenyra enter the main corridor again.
The screaming above is still going strong.
“Come on,” Rhaenyra says as she spots another crew member entering from the stairs a distance away up front.
However, she immediately frowns. Nathan walks in a choppy manner, before stumbling down the last step and falling down. He remains down.
Entering from behind him is a boy in white and dark blue rags, flipping a knife in his hands and setting furious eyes on the rest of them. It’s not a Landwalker, and that’s the only thing that matters.
“Nathan!” Bayen yells and shoots forward, dropping his bag on the ground.
Rhaenyra is not far behind, also dropping her bag, blade already being drawn from its sheath.
Her heart thunders, blood rushing in her ears. Nathan is down and not moving. Nathan is down. Shit, shit.
Bayen stops and hops back in a flashing movement as the boy brandishes his dagger, swiping in a wide arc in the narrow corridor.
Rhaenyra continues forward, dropping and sliding on the well-varnished floor to escape the edge of the blade, slicing the boy in the side of the knee. It gets an immediate reaction from the intruder who folds forward to slap a palm over the wound, creating an opening for Bayen.
Bayen flicks open his pocket knife with a snap and forces the small yet steady blade in through the boy’s left eye, the closest and most fatal body part that the boy presented with folding forward. Strike what your blade finds first.
The boy doesn’t die immediately and Rhaenyra can hear Agnes vomit nearby as the boy screams and Bayen digs the little blade in further through the eye socket.
She has to keep the back of her bloody hand over her mouth herself.
Then, the boy quietens. He falls backward and Bayen takes back his small, deadly knife. He must have lost his larger dagger in the scuffle outside.
This boy is not one of the sailors. It’s something Rhaenyra recognizes with a brief glance.
Rhaenyra swallows and moves forward. Over the right eye, the one left untarnished by Bayen, Rhaenyra can spot a straight and narrow scar, running from forehead to cheek perfectly over the middle of the eyelid.
Rhaenyra grows cold, body freezing in place. The world slows down as she stares at the corpse in front of them. She blinks once, hoping that she’s wrong.
She isn’t.
“The Blackwater Marauders are here!” Rhaenyra bellows at once, the world instead speeding up like that of her heartbeat.
The corridor becomes silent at once for a few thundering moments before the Hells break out among them.
Mirno starts screaming for the young ones to hurry their packing and they yell back just as well with confusion and fear.
Rhaenyra sits still on the ground and thinks through the next steps of action. She only lands on one solution: get out of here right the fuck now.
Something flashes in her peripheral before she has time to react.
“Bayen!” Agnes screeches in what can only be a warning.
Bayen swivels wildly, enough to face the second Marauder as he jumps from his hidden place in the first room of the corridor, hand glinting with a weapon.
They both land in a heap on the ground, Bayen kicking out and howling like a hurt dog.
Rhaenyra is close enough to the both of them that if she’d been just a little bit slow, the Marauder would have sliced her face clean off. As it is, she has just enough presence to fling her head backwards so that the knife thrust in her direction only manages to slice her cheek in a clean line, shallow enough to let her muscles be but enough to draw blood, pooling and then flowing down her face.
That’s when Agnes arrives, tackling the Marauder while gripping the weapon-bearing hand with both of her own.
They crash down beside Bayen, who groans and Rhaenyra is startled for only a beat before surging forward on her knees to help Agnes disarm the Marauder by gripping his hand, prying it open.
“Landwalkers,” he spits with all the ferocity of a poisonous snake.
In any other moment Rhaenyra would be proud of them having made a name for themselves (with the help of the Riverboys it seems) but this time it makes her blood run cold.
They knew. They know. They already knew who broke turf honor.
The blade that sliced Rhaenyra clatter to the ground and Rhaenyra dives for it but the Marauder is seemingly more flexible than the sailors. He hoists his legs up, hitting Rhaenyra’s shoulder with a well aimed kick.
Her shoulder doesn’t break, but something in her neck stretches as her shoulder reels back from the force, Rhaenyra crying out.
Steps thunder and Mirno arrives just as Agnes manages to heave an elbow into the fierce Marauder’s face, at the very least catching him off guard.
“I have him, I have him,” Mirno repeats as he places the head of the Marauder into a headlock, scooting backward with the intruder.
“Kill him,” Agnes pleads, bordering on hysteria while letting go, eyes flickering between Rhaenyra and Mirno.
“Kill him,” she repeats again as Rhaenyra feels herself almost disassociating from the scene.
Kill him, said like a prayer. Is this what they’ve come to?
Bayen grunts again, bringing Rhaenyra’s attention to him. To the knife embedded in his thigh. To the blood that starts pooling on the ground.
Rhaenyra pales.
“Bayen, oh fuck,” she says.
Agnes almost chokes and crawls forward to him. “Shit!” she curses, immediately taking off her jacket. “Rhaenyra,” she urges, “Rhaenyra, knife!”
Rhaenyra springs into action, trying to clear her head. She realizes immediately what Agnes means to do. She takes the dagger and slices a long strip of cloth from the jacket, then a second.
“Hurry,” Rhaenyra says just as much to herself and Agnes as they grab the edges of the newly made rags, wrapping them around the wound on Bayen’s thigh, knife still left in. It will serve as a pint to wire the rags around.
“Harder,” Mirno urges from the corner, squeezing the life from the Marauder, the boy's skin and lips turning blue, hands clapping uselessly on Mirno’s arms around his neck and throat.
They comply, pulling the rags taut before tying it.
“I think it hit bone,” Bayen rasps, face pale and shocked.
“The knife?” Rhaenyra asks, barely able to think straight.
“Yeah,” he confirms. “It just stopped. Felt it.”
“That’s good, I think,” Mirno says, a bit strained. He looks to Agnes and Rhaenyra. “Now, leave the fucking ship. Fuck the valuables and the food. Get Bayen to the safehouses and stay alive. If the Marauders are here, we're screwed. Save yourselves.”
Agnes and Rhaenyra take an arm each of Bayen and help him stand, faces grim.
Rhaenyra glances at the bags filled with food.
But… Bayen. Bayen has to come first, because that’s how it works. But damn, does it hurt. Still, there is no way that she can help Bayen and carry a heavy bag at the same time. Hopefully, someone else can bring it. It’s the only thing she can hope for.
Unbridled, a frustrated and pained growl makes it out of her lips.
Fuck!
“Hurry!” Mirno yells, and it’s enough for them to snap into action and move for the stairs, Bayen in tow.
Bayen tries to hobble, but in the end they end up almost dragging him up the stairs, across the floor. Their breaths huff and puff as their arms burn, eyes crazed and vigilant.
They arrive on deck — where the Blackwater Marauders are climbing up the Landwalkers’ own ropes, fighting and killing Landwalkers and sailors alike.
How did they know?
How did they get here so fast, without any of her own crew knowing?
“Rhaenyra,” Agnes whispers, because how are they going to survive this?
Rhaenyra exhales, a lock of hair blowing away from her face. She analyzes the scene, the madness. “We get Edgar, and we escape,” she says at last, sounding more unsure than she’d hoped. “If we can’t, just jump. Swim away, anywhere.”
“I’ll take the left, can you take Bayen?” Agnes answers, eyes also locked on the war happening in front of them. Landwalkers are already abandoning ship, jumping over the railing.
“Yes. I’ll see you soon,” Rhaenyra says, taking Bayens full weight and starts moving forward, without questioning her own actions. If she does, she might just stop.
They’ll cover more ground this way. Bayen once again starts hobbling to help, but he’s quiet. He’s hissing, strength failing, pain taking over.
The wound is still bleeding despite being helped by the rags, keeping pressure on the knife sticking out of his leg. She tries desperately not to think about it.
Rhaenyra immediately recognizes that this is a lost cause, because they are moving too slowly, Bayen is too heavy, there are too many people. They’ll never get through the mass.
Panic starts to seize her as she starts glancing at the railing. She still can’t swim.
She begins to call Agnes back, but the quick girl has already disappeared to locate Edgar. Gods, let him be safe.
Rhaenyra knows the moment they’ve been spotted, because a head stills in the ever moving crowd, eyes fixed on her and Bayen. She grips him harder, his arm over her shoulders and her own arm across his back.
“Hold on,” she says, feeling him getting dizzier, tilting a bit. Whether from the blood or from shock, she doesn’t know. She hopes the latter because you can recover from that.
Indecision wars within her, because death is closing in on them, a Marauder rounding his crewmate and approaching. He shouts something and Rhaenyra can’t hear.
Terror. It freezes. Rhaenyra has never understood but now she does. It freezes, and she can’t move. Death by blade. Death by water. It doesn’t matter, does it?
“Nyra,” Bayen whispers. It’s desperate. A plea.
Rhaenyra moves.
There is certainty, then there is chance. A tiny, tiny chance.
Rhaenyra can’t swim, but she doesn’t have a choice. She’ll have to learn, and she’ll have to learn quickly.
She pushes herself and Bayen against the taffrail until they topple, the Marauder once again shouting. Terror freezes, but it also activates flight. Fly, they will.
And…
they fall.