Rhaenyra Targaryen stood at the edge of the training yard, palms resting lightly on the low wooden rail that marked its boundary. The early sun fell across the Red Keep's walls, turning stone to gold, and the air smelled of morning dew on grass. She listened to the shuffle of boots, the clank of metal from knights tending to their armor. Nearby, a young squire gripped a pail of water and poured it carefully at the yard's center to keep dust down. A hush seemed to linger, as though the yard itself knew this moment was hers.
She felt her heart thrum, steady but strong. She reminded herself that her father had given his blessing—an unexpected gift. She thought back to the night before, when he summoned her to a small room behind the throne hall. He stood near a brazier, arms folded, lines of age at the corners of his eyes. A gentle fatherly presence. He did not raise his voice or ask for reasons. He only said, in a tone calm and measured, that if she wished to learn the sword, then so be it. Princess or not, he would not deny her. She had stared at him, a little breathless. In her mind, the memory repeated now, and her chest felt warm.
She brought herself to the present, stepping from the rail. Ser Harrold Westerling waited in the yard, a wooden sword cradled under one arm. He wore no helm, the gentle lines of his face illuminated by morning light. His expression showed neither scorn nor amusement, only a quiet acceptance of his duty. He was handsome in his own way. The yard's gate stood open behind him, leading to a corridor where passing guards gave fleeting glances.
Rhaenyra drew closer. She noted the faint dew glistening on the wooden posts that ringed the yard's perimeter. The ground, lightly soaked, glinted with watery reflections. Ser Harrold beckoned her forward with a courteous nod.
She glanced down at her attire—simple breeches, a loose tunic belted at the waist, boots that were snug enough not to trip her. She had chosen them early that morning, ignoring the gowns that her maids held out. A small scandal, to be certain, but the breeches allowed freer movement. She hoped Father's permission would ease any fuss.
Ser Harrold took a step toward her, pressing the wooden sword into her hands. She gripped its hilt, inhaling. The wood felt solid, heavier than she had imagined, the surface cool where the breeze touched it. She curled her fingers around it, adjusting to the weight.
"Begin with how you stand, Princess," Ser Harrold said. His voice was even, low, filled with a steadiness she found comforting.
He showed her how to set her feet. She placed them as he demonstrated, left foot slightly forward, knees bent just so. Her posture felt strange, shoulders tense, but she tried to hold the sword level, though the tip dipped a little under its weight.
He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder, guiding her.
"Loosen your arms," he murmured. "If they stay rigid, you'll tire quickly. When handling any weapon, the body moves as one–not just your arms."
She nodded, exhaling to let her shoulders drop. She shifted her grip again, focusing on the sense of balance in the weapon. As she did, a faint excitement flickered inside her, reminiscent of the feeling she got whenever she rode upon the back of Syrax. That sense of anticipation.
Ser Harrold circled around her, checking her stance from different angles. He tapped the inside of her right knee gently with a wooden practice rod to make her shift it half an inch. She complied. Her breath came steady. The yard was quiet but for the trickling water and a handful of birds perched on the ramparts above.
"Now," Ser Harrold said, "make a simple downward cut. Hold the weapon like this–the strong hand close to the guard and the weak hand close to the pommel–yes, like that."
She raised the wooden blade overhead, conscious of the new tension in her back. Then she brought it down in a slow arc, feeling the slight recoil in her arms. The blade swished through the air, striking emptiness. She frowned, noticing how it wobbled at the end of the swing. Her arms felt uncertain, as if not wholly convinced of themselves.
"This form is known as the Roof Guard–as the sword, in a manner, comes from the roof." Ser Harrold nodded, stepping in and moving her shoulders gently. "Keep it smooth, your highness. Let it flow. Like pouring water from a jug."
Rhaenyra tried again. This time, the arc felt a fraction smoother. She glimpsed a small quirk at the corner of Ser Harrold's mouth. Was that approval? She found herself wanting to earn more.
She repeated the downward cut, again and again, adjusting at each pass. Sun climbed higher. She felt a trickle of sweat gather at her temples, though the morning air was still cool. The wooden sword's weight pressed new demands on her arms. She did not stop. A faint ache formed in her shoulders, but she kept going, wanting to prove something—to Ser Harrold, perhaps, or to the invisible watchers. Possibly even to Hela Greyjoy, that girl reaver in the stories, who wielded steel on the open deck.
Time passed in measured steps. Rhaenyra practiced lateral strikes, drawing the blade from right to left, aiming at an imaginary foe. Then overhead again, pivoting with her hips. She grew aware of her breath, how it came quicker now, how her lungs filled and emptied with each movement. She tried to keep the strokes precise, each cut following the line Ser Harrold suggested.
At a pause, she heard a footstep behind. She half-turned, sword angled, and found King Viserys standing near the corner of the yard. He wore a simple tunic, his crown absent, his expression gentle. He watched her with a small smile. No words came from him. Just a nod, as though telling her to continue.
Her chest warmed at the sight. She remembered how uncertain she'd been about telling him her wish, how her mother might have reacted were she alive to see it. But he'd given her permission. Now he watched. She turned back to Ser Harrold, forcing the swirl of thoughts from her head. She raised the wooden sword, preparing for the next drill.
"Roof Guard," Ser Harrold instructed. She complied, sword held up near her shoulder, elbows bent, her stance balanced. He nodded, then advanced, holding his own wooden blade. He struck gently at her midsection. She tried to block but missed the timing, the blow tapping her side with a dull rap. She frowned.
Ser Harrold stepped back.
"Again," he said.
She readied herself, high guard once more. He feinted left, then swung right. She managed to catch it with the base of her blade, though it jarred her arms.
"Better," he murmured, stepping away. "Remember your feet. Now, switch into the Ox Guard."
She drew a slow breath, adjusting. She aligned her sword with the side of her head, but kept its point fixed upon Ser Harrold's form. They repeated the exercise. Each pass ended with a tap, sometimes on her ribs, sometimes on her wrist. But occasionally she blocked, the wooden swords colliding with a small thunk. She felt a surge of satisfaction each time she deflected him.
When they paused, she saw her father's face. He seemed proud, his mouth curved in a warm line. His eyes followed her movements with quiet interest. She felt that old desire to make him even prouder.
A rustle of skirts sounded behind him. Alicent Hightower approached, a small retinue of ladies trailing in her wake. They carried baskets or wore fine dresses of subtle blues and greens. Alicent's gaze settled on Rhaenyra. She paused a few steps from Viserys, her lips pressing into a faint line. She looked from Rhaenyra's breeches to the wooden sword, a flicker of disapproval in her brow.
Rhaenyra straightened, lowering the blade. She took in Alicent's poised stance, the faint pinched set of her shoulders. She knew that expression well.
Alicent inclined her head to the King, then addressed Rhaenyra with measured courtesy.
"Princess," she said, voice soft. "I see you've… taken new pursuits. This yard, these drills—they are not the typical domain of a lady, are they?"
Rhaenyra felt a tightness in her chest, but she masked it.
"My father has granted me permission," she said simply. "I find it prudent that I learn the basics of combat. Should the situation demand it."
Alicent's eyes darted to Viserys, who only gave a noncommittal smile. Then she turned back to Rhaenyra. "You risk strain, or worse, injury. I worry for your well-being."
Rhaenyra said nothing. Her thoughts strayed to the Red Scourge again, that girl who fought with no reluctance, no laced gowns, only a black blade in her fist. Rhaenyra's mouth formed a small, half-smile. A lady of the realm. A reaver of the seas. She pictured both.
She took a step, raising the wooden sword in demonstration, ignoring the mild flutter in her arms.
"Ser Harrold watches me carefully," she said, voice low but steady. "I am not about to plunge into battle, Alicent. This is practice."
Alicent's gaze flicked to the King again. He offered no rebuke, only gave a calm nod, as though confirming Rhaenyra's words. Alicent pressed her lips together, then dipped a curtsy. "As you say, Princess. I hope you find… enjoymentin your lesson."
She turned, her ladies in tow, vanishing through a side gate. Rhaenyra exhaled, focusing on the yard once more. Viserys gave her a final approving nod before he too moved off, heading back into the Keep. She realized she stood alone now with Ser Harrold and a few lingering squires who watched from a polite distance.
She swallowed, gripping the wooden blade anew.
"Shall we continue?" she asked, glancing at Ser Harrold.
He inclined his head. "If you will, Princess.
They picked up the lesson again, this time working on side cuts. She found the repetitive motions strangely comforting, an almost meditative rhythm in each swing. The yard's hush enveloped them, overshadowed only by the tapping of the swords.
Between thrusts, her thoughts drifted. She envisioned a ship's deck under her feet instead of the yard's firm soil, the wind of the open ocean plucking at her hair. She imagined men around her, brash and armed, yet following her orders. She pictured a black-sailed vessel like that Hela Greyjoy's. She felt a small spark of longing. Not for slaughter or reaving, but for that boundless freedom. The idea of casting aside the gilded constraints of a princess's life, forging a new path by sheer will.
Ser Harrold struck again, a swift arc at her left flank. Rhaenyra jolted from her reverie, barely blocking in time, the shock vibrating through her arms. She gasped, regaining stance.
"Apologies," she muttered, realizing she had drifted.
He gave her a faint look of amusement. "Keep your mind here, Princess. Distraction is a foe best conquered early."
She nodded, cheeks warming. She pressed forward, returning a strike of her own. He deflected with ease, but gave a satisfied grunt at her form. She repeated the motion, adjusting footwork. Slowly, she improved, bridging the gap between her imagination and the hard wood in her hands.
As the sun rose to its zenith, sweat darkened the back of her tunic. She tasted salt on her lips, arms quivering from the repeated swings. Ser Harrold lowered his practice blade, stepping back.
"That's enough for now," he said. "You've done well for the first session."
She paused, breathing deep, chest rising and falling. She let the wooden sword dip toward the ground, muscles complaining. Yet a quiet sense of triumph lingered in her mind. She had begun, truly begun, and the sky had not fallen.
She handed the sword back to Ser Harrold, giving a small bow of her head in thanks. He set it aside on a rack, then looked at her, eyes kind. "We'll meet again at dawn. Each day, if you wish."
She found herself nodding readily. "Yes, please. I wish to learn more."
He smiled, brief and sincere, before turning to gather the leftover gear. She stepped from the yard, catching a last glimpse of the parted gates. She noticed the stares of a few watchers, but none dared voice disapproval in the King's presence. She exited into the corridor, feet treading softly on the stone floor. She found her way to a quiet balcony that overlooked the city, leaning on the parapet, letting the breeze ruffle her braid. She gazed at King's Landing below, the streets a tangle of noise and color. Her eyes drifted toward the distant horizon, where the sea shone faint and silver. She imagined black sails, the roars of pirates, the hiss of steel. Then she imagined the yard, the hush of practicing with Ser Harrold, the slow mastery of sword and shield.
She realized, with a calm certainty, that she could desire both. The open sky of the dragonrider. The ephemeral dream of the mariner's life. The blade in her hands if need be. Queenhood looming in the future, a realm to inherit. She let the passing breeze wash over her. And in that breath, she felt content to wait for the next dawn, to meet Ser Harrold again, to refine each motion until her arms no longer trembled. She would gain skill. She would gain confidence.
And at the back of her mind, always, the memory of Hela Greyjoy's story lingered—whispering that a woman need not remain enclosed, that a single defiance of tradition could spark something grand. Rhaenyra closed her eyes, hearing the faint roar of the city below, letting it mingle with her daydreams. Then she turned, left the balcony behind, and walked on through the Red Keep's halls, each step carrying the promise of the next morning's lessons, each step an echo of a future she was free to shape as she pleased.
She would become a queen greater than any ruler who came before her–so great that their names would be forgotten in her shadow. She would build a realm to rival Old Valyria itself.
AN: Chapter 22 is out on (Pat)reon!