15

Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen sat by the window of a small room off the Great Tower of the Red Keep, a heavy tome balanced on her lap. The air smelled faintly of parchment dust and candle wax. She ran her fingertips along the leather cover, tracing the gilded letters. A single candle burned on a narrow table beside her, offering just enough light to make out the text. She preferred the quiet of this room when seeking privacy.

A hush surrounded her: thick walls, high ceiling, row upon row of books and scrolls. Even the scuttling rats that sometimes found their way into the corners seemed absent today. She turned a page carefully, mindful not to tear it. The binding had grown fragile with age.

The page displayed a rough illustration of a black-sailed ship, hull bristling with wicked spines. A short passage beneath it recounted the deeds of Hela Greyjoy, called the Red Scourge. The words spoke of the terror she inspired across the Narrow Sea, how she reduced entire fleets to kindling, how she dueled pirates and sellsail captains on the open deck. Rhaenyra's lips parted slightly as she leaned closer, her eyes shining with curiosity.

She paused on a short line that named Hela's father: Valon Greyjoy. That name stirred a memory. Rhaenyra tapped the parchment with a gentle fingertip. Yes, she recalled a tall, stern-faced lord who had once visited King's Landing. He arrived bearing an unusual gift for her, a circlet carved from the bone-white beak of a kraken. Rhaenyra frowned in thought, recalling how she'd marveled at the strange item. Father said it was a courtesy from the Iron Islands. She had worn it only once, for the thrill of it, though her ladies found the circlet unsettling. Rhaenyra had found it beautiful in a raw, wild way.

She turned another page. More details about Hela: same age as Rhaenyra, two and ten. Rhaenyra raised her eyebrows at that. A girl, practically her peer, who fought men in mortal combat. She pressed her hand to her own chest, feeling her heart thud. Could it be true? A girl reaver. A savage of the seas, a killer so vicious and so cruel that men would rather brave the open ocean than face her in battle. Rhaenyra read on, enthralled by the passages describing Hela's rumored feats: her black blade, her monstrous ship called the Doom, her name whispered by pirates from Lys to Myr and further beyond.

Rhaenyra turned away from the parchment, exhaling a slow breath. She smoothed her gown, a soft piece of embroidered linen dyed pale violet. She sat in silence, biting her lower lip. The idea that a girl her own age had carved a name for herself with steel and blood struck her as both exhilarating and deeply strange. Rhaenyra recalled the meager training she'd received in formal dancing, in the harp, in matters of court, reading and writing. Hardly the stuff of legends.

She had Syrax–true–but she hadn't really done anything worthwhile with her dragon, hadn't she?

She rose from the cushioned chair, parchment in hand, stepping toward a tall window that overlooked the Keep's inner courtyard. The sun outside gilded the red stone, and a soft breeze drifted through the open shutters. Rhaenyra leaned on the sill, letting that breeze brush her cheek. Her hair, thick and golden with Targaryen silver highlights, caught the light. She wanted to breathe fresh air as she pondered what she had read. Mayhaps a quick flight through the open sky would illuminate something. Or, maybe not.

Though, she wasn't quite in the mood to do so just yet.

Hela Greyjoy. The Red Scourge.

A wave of curiosity washed through her. Rhaenyra tried to imagine a life at sea, commanding rough men, brandishing swords, defying every convention that bound girls, like herself, to quiet corners and embroidery hoops. She found herself smiling. Her father, King Viserys, would likely fret at the idea. But the notion gave her heart a small flutter of excitement. She pictured herself on the deck of a swift vessel, wind tearing at her hair, eyes on the horizon, a blade at her hip, utterly free.

A difficult life, surely, but also exciting. Then again, she supposed, the life of a queen–her destiny–surely would be as exciting, if not moreso.

She closed her eyes, recalling the bone-white circlet. She remembered the day Valon Greyjoy handed it to her with a stiff half-bow, speaking in a subdued voice about how the beak came from a kraken his daughter slew. Rhaenyra had gawked at the idea. She was quite certain of the fact that Krakens often grew so large as to drag entire vessels into the bottom of the ocean–or so the stories said. To kill one was a feat worthy of legend. Hela Greyjoy killed such a beast and its beak was turned into a circlet.

She recalled how the Targaryen court found the gift unsettling, but she'd been delighted. She still had the circlet, hidden among her precious things.

A quiet knock sounded on the door. Rhaenyra turned as a maid peeked in, offering a small curtsy. The girl's plain brown eyes flicked to Rhaenyra's face.

"Princess, the Master of Laws says you begin lessons with him if you're free." She paused, before smiling mischievously. "Shall I tell him you're indisposed?"

Rhaenyra smiled, shaking her head. She had a bad habit of skipping her lessons, but they were just so boring. Listening to the master of laws drone on and on about administration and whatnot made her want to die. "No, I'll see him. Let him wait in the solar. I'll be along soon."

The maid nodded and hurried away. Rhaenyra brushed invisible dust from her skirt, then glanced once more at the document about Hela Greyjoy. She traced the gold lettering with a fingertip. So many rumors. So many stories. She felt an odd spark in her chest. She knew not how if tales might shape her own future, but they stirred something deep inside, a longing to know more of the world beyond these castle walls. Her father was right to introduce her to Hela Greyjoy in this manner.

She left, stepping into the corridor. The Red Keep's halls spread wide, with polished floors and tall windows. Guards nodded at her passage. Rhaenyra walked with measured grace, recalling her posture lessons, though her mind drifted to images of open sea battles, raiders and reavers, and the clang of steel and the roars of warriors. She suppressed a grin, imagining the scandal if she ever asked Ser Harrold Westerling or any of the Kingsguard to train her in swordplay.

She might just do that anyway. After all, who were they to refuse the blood of the dragon? And, all things considered, learning to use a weapon was not at all a vulgar request–though it was rather odd for a lady.

She reached the solar, a warm chamber with tall windows that let in the midday light. The Master of Laws, a gaunt man in a fine doublet, stood by the far shelf, flipping through some parchments. He bowed low when she entered. Rhaenyra offered a nod, noticing his carefully polite smile. He began droning about some pending matter of inheritance in the Crownlands, listing out the minor lords' requests and how these requests were settled and how best to settle them and which laws were at play and why and on and on and on he went. Rhaenyra listened, nodding occasionally, but her mind kept drifting to the pages she'd read earlier.

Halfway through his explanation, she excused herself briefly under the pretense of needing a drink. She rang for a servant, ordering a cup of chilled and sweetened wine. The Master of Laws resumed his talk, but she found herself half paying attention. Instead, she pictured the shape of a small shield in her hand, or perhaps a sword's hilt.

How would it feel to hold real steel?

And then, she pictured herself riding Syrax into battle, alongside a fleet of ships. She pictured herself the Conqueror reborn–Syrax having grown larger than the Dread himself. Her mind wandered and it kept her awake.

Before the meeting concluded, Rhaenyra resolved to speak with someone about it. Maybe Ser Harrold, or one of the younger knights. She wanted to learn how to fight and no one was going to stop her. The thought filled her with a subtle thrill, though she tried not to show it. She thanked the Master of Laws for his time, dismissing him with a regal nod, and left the solar. None of his words made it past her ears, but she admired his effort, regardless.

The moment she stepped into the corridor, she set out to find Ser Harrold. Her footsteps echoed on the floor, passing servants with quick greetings. She found him near the training yard, watching two young squires practice with tourney swords. He greeted her with a small bow, face calm and patient. She admired his kindness.

"Ser Harrold," she said quietly, glancing around to ensure no eavesdroppers. "I'd like to ask something unusual."

His brow furrowed, but he gave no immediate comment, simply inclining his head. Rhaenyra gestured for him to step aside. They moved near a column, away from the lively clang of steel in the yard. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard raised a brow.

"I wish to learn some measure of swordsmanship," she said, voice hushed. "Or any kind of arms. A staff, perhaps. Or even a dagger with which to defend myself."

Ser Harrold's eyes widened a fraction. He parted his lips, uncertain. "Princess, that's… not typical for a royal lady. You have plenty of guards and sworn shields who'd gladly lay their lives for you."

Rhaenyra clasped her hands before her, steadying herself. "I know. But I do not wish to remain defenseless. I read about… I mean, I've grown curious."

She kept Hela Greyjoy's name off her tongue, though the memory of that dark vessel flickered in her mind. The Red Scourge was an Ironborn Reaver, a pirate; knights would regard her with disdain, despite all her accomplishments. "Surely, it can't be so scandalous to teach me the rudiments."

Ser Harrold glanced around. A page hurried by, carrying a bundle of practice shields. The knight sighed. "Is the King aware of this request, princess?"

Rhaenyra straightened her spine, eyes firm. "My father told me once I would inherit the realm. The realm is not safe. If I'm to be queen, I should know at least how to handle a blade or a spear. Even Aegon the Conqueror's sister-queens fought alongside him."

She lowered her tone. "I ask only for your guidance, Ser Harrold. If it remains a secret, so be it. I trust you."

He stood silent for a moment, gaze heavy with concern. Then he nodded slowly. "If it is your earnest wish, Princess, I'll show you what I know. But we must do it discreetly. I can't promise mastery, since the path of Knighthood is not open to you, but you'll learn enough to hold your own, if it ever comes to that."

Relief coursed through her. She exhaled, lips curving in a grateful smile. "Thank you. I can meet you in the yard at dawn, or even after sunset. Whenever you deem best."

He managed a faint grin. "We'll start at dawn tomorrow. I'll dismiss the squires early. The yard will be free for an hour or so."

She bobbed her head, thanking him again, then departed, her heart light. She wandered the castle halls, struggling to hide her excitement. She pictured herself in simple breeches and a padded gambeson, learning footwork, learning how to parry. She pictured the scorn of courtiers if they found out. Oh how the other ladies at court would look upon her with shock and perhaps a little awe. Rhaenyra Targaryen, the warrior princess. The thought made her grin. An hour later, she was upon the back of Syrax as they soared across the clouds together; she flew until she grew tired and bored, and finally retired to her quarters and dreamed of adventure.