The alley smells like a mix of blood and betrayal after your teammates left you here to die like a disobedient dog.

The injuries should make your limbs ache, yet your body can barely register it through the fog of adrenaline and shame. You still can’t believe that the people you once called family are the ones who orchestrated your untimely demise, deeming you too soft and too slow to make the “right” call. These cowards said that this is necessary for the greater good, that your moral compass is a “liability for humanity” — grinning ear to ear while debating who your replacement should be. 

Your vision flickers like a broken transmission, a barely audible hiss escaping your throat when you try to move. When you hear bootsteps against the pavement, you brace for the last strike — to finally die with the little pride you have left. But instead of a final blow comes a familiar voice cursing under their breath, and the face you’ve only seen in battlefields. 

It’s Rhaenyra.

The only villain you never managed to put away. The one who always ruins your plans and peace of mind. The one who made you question whether your hero's duty ever makes a difference. The one who caresses your beaten face with so much reverence you almost forget about the ache all over your trembling form.

They slowly hook an arm under your shoulders, the warmth of their palm steadying you upright. The gentleness of their hold grounds you back to reality, making you realize how unbearably embarrassing it is to be a puppet in their hold — boneless and bloodied beyond recognition, save by the one person who should hate you the most.

“Don’t die on me now, okay?” They whisper, trying and failing to mask the desperation in their voice with the usual snark.