Penumbra

The Dragonpit once again became my go-to location.

Its distance from the Red Keep offered a leisurely stroll each morning and allowed me to avoid prying eyes. Being followed every waking moment in the Red Keep by minor nobles hoping to catch a glimpse of something 'special' quickly got on my nerves.

So it was that each morning I would fly around with Sundance while waiting for the Rhaenari of King's Landing to assemble.

To keep our skills honed, the Rhaenari would spar each day and run through the motions.

"You call that a knee?"

"Keep your guard up!"

"Keep moving!"

The crowd of 60 men gathered in a circle erupted as we watched the Muay Thai sparring session between the two combatants in the middle. We each had our shirts off, exposing the blue and purple bruises on our ribs.

"Hit him with the uppercut, the uppercut!"

It was quite the commotion as the men placed bets on who would win, how many rounds it would take, etc.

When it came to my turn, I was often outweighed and outsized. But I had years of experience on my side. My movement was stellar, able to hit and move, hit and move. My 12-year-old reach did not bode well for my crisp jab, so I relied on my kicks.

I was up against Ivan, the former street fighter who worked the Street of Steel to support his family before joining the Legion. He had taken to the Muay Thai combinations rather well, with excellent instincts in the clinch. He knew when to throw elbows and knees, making engaging with him in the clinch a costly affair.

Thus, I had to use my superior movement, the kind you can only achieve after years of practice. A couple of jabs up top before sweeping with a devastating leg kick. Move away. Rinse and repeat.

It didn't take long for Ivan to lose his nerve amidst the frustration of trying to catch me.

After eating another leg kick, he complained, "Is this a fight or a running match?"

But I saw how red and swollen I made the inside of his right leg. "Why not both?" I said, beckoning him to come closer with my hands.

Ivan had a look of confidence once he thought I was going to fight him straight up. But when he took a step down on that right leg, it buckled, and he fell to the ground.

"Ah, fuck!"

I crossed my arms and said, "That's why you have to check your opponent's leg kicks!" which caused all the boys to laugh.

But then the laughter stopped one by one, and all the men were looking at me, or past me rather, like they had just been caught naughty by the teacher.

I thought something might have been wrong with me, "What? Did I break something?"

They all just pointed like cats had their tongue, "B-b-behi— behind you—"

And who should be behind me than my twin sister, dressed for a dragon ride.

"Oh, it's just Rhaenyra," I said, "Boys, meet the Princess. Princess, the boys."

They straightened their posture and gave her the Rhaenari salute, "A'oo!"

Rhaenyra did a quick scan of us all, and her eyes were notably fixed on our sweaty physiques before finally looking up to meet our gaze.

"Hello," she greeted, before shooting me a deathly look, "*Just* Rhaenyra?"

I rolled my eyes, "Sorry. This is Rhaenyra, my smartest, best, most beautiful sister. Happy?"

A smile curved her lips. She was never good at playing stern with me, "So out of practice."

"Whatever," I said, "Race you to Dragonstone and back?"

The excitement on her face was palpable, "You're on!"

.

..

…

..

.

On the west side of King's Landing, the streets and alleys formed a complex maze, twisting and turning like an urban labyrinth.

I had equipped my Rhaenari companions with shields and swords, as our spears proved ineffective in these crowded conditions. They established a perimeter on the street, allowing only those authorized by me to enter.

That day, I found myself at the orphanage, where I generously gave the children some coins and instructed them not to return until day's end.

Balancing on a tall step ladder, I diligently painted a large mural on the orphanage walls when an expected visitor arrived.

"Prince Rhaenar," greeted Arland, his fragrant ponytail preceding him into the room. "May I be the first in our unlikely fellowship to welcome you back!"

"Arland," I replied, not pausing my painting, "Good to see you're as dandy as ever."

Arland's black doublet, adorned with golden laces, complemented his slightly powdered face. "I have every reason to be. Our business has been flourishing."

"That's exactly what I wanted to discuss," I said, "But let's wait for the others."

Soon after, Weaver joined us. "Prince," he acknowledged.

"I thought you'd be the first," I teased, "Did you get lost on your way?"

"No," he responded, "I hate this place."

Arland raised an eyebrow. "Too many bad memories, Weaver? My, my, just when you think you know someone."

Finally, Dillan entered the room, emitting a pungent odor.

"Phew!" I exclaimed, covering my nose, "I feel like a blind man in a fish market."

Arland couldn't help but smile. "Good morning, ladies!"

Dillan let out a sarcastic laugh. "Very funny."

Weaver interjected, "Seriously, you stink."

"Blame this fool," Dillan pointed at Arland, "He's the one obsessed with fermented crab."

"Fermented crab?" I inquired.

"Absolutely!" Arland exclaimed, "One bucket of it triples a brothel's weekly earnings. Just when a man thinks he's finished, ready to return to his loving family... the lady of the hour slips a tiny spoonful of fermented crab into his mouth. Five minutes later? He's back in the game."

"You know what," I remarked, taken aback by the medieval aphrodisiac, "That's actually brilliant."

"Thank you," Arland replied. "I've always thought: Instead of sending men to war, we should catapult buckets of crab at our enemies instead. With everyone preoccupied with pleasure, no one would fight!"

At that moment, Cleave, the final member of our crew, entered the orphanage. His butcher attire was stained with blood, and a meat cleaver hung from his belt. "Bollocks. I've seen many who fight for a fuck."

Arland snapped his fingers and pointed at Cleave. "And what do you do, fuck for a fight?"

"Enough," I barked, motioning for Arland to hand me a palette with a fresh batch of paint. "Let's focus on our agenda, shall we? I'm sure you're all curious as to why I gathered you here."

"To work us to an early grave, no doubt," said Dillan.

Ignoring his weary tone, I continued painting. "Something like that. How about we start with you, Dillan?"

Dillan let out a sigh and took a seat. "You'll be pleased to hear that the fleet now boasts four ships."

I raised an eyebrow. "Only four?"

"I'm a smuggler, not a pirate," Dillan explained. "I can't steal ships at will."

"I'm teasing," I reassured him. "Though I must admit, I expected more. Perhaps we need to reconsider our strategy. And what about you, Weaver?"

Weaver groaned. "Terrible. I bloody hate kids."

"You don't have to like them," I said. "Just teach them how to navigate the streets like you do."

"I know," Weaver grumbled. "But the little shits never listen."

"Then make them listen," I said firmly. "Here's a solution: I'll send you the orphans who successfully completed my boot camp. Their discipline should rub off on the other children. Now, Arland?"

"The brothel has been thriving, my Prince," Arland reported. "Word has spread about how well I — I mean, we — treat the girls. Every day, I have girls clamoring to join us, but we simply don't have enough space.

"Suffering from success," I remarked, pleased. "Very well, we'll have to address that. Cleave?"

"I've managed to keep the known thugs at bay," Cleave reported. "The ones who value their hands."

"Excellent," I said, snapping my fingers. One of the Rhaenari entered the room.

"This is Douglas," I introduced, and Douglas saluted. "He's a tough bastard from Fleabottom. From now on, you two will work together."

"More cooperation, I should have guessed," Cleave muttered. "What's our task this time?"

"Do you have any idea how many people live in this city?" I asked. "100 thousand? 200? Half a million?"

"Too damn many," Cleave grumbled.

I chuckled. "Perhaps you're right. What was your estimate, Theodore?"

Theodore and Brien had been sitting at a table in the corner all this time. "Around two hundred and forty thousand, give or take," Theodore replied.

I whistled. "Did you hear that? 240,000. And our faction, what, barely a hundred?"

"98," Brien chimed in.

"Exactly," I said. "That doesn't sit well with me. It's time to get serious. Cleave."

"Yes?" Cleave inquired.

"I want you to take Lieutenant Douglas here and gather any tough son of a bitch in King's Landing who wants to make something of their life."

"And do what?" Cleave asked.

"I'm tired of feeling trapped in my own city," I said.

At that moment, I made the final paint stroke, completing the mural.

It depicted a massive amethyst pool, my all-seeing eye, gazing down benevolently, with a smoky red line extending from its corner like the red hue on the faces of weirwood trees.

"So I'm taking it over," I announced. "Street by street."