Born to the neglected Bronze Bitch of Runestone, Rhaella Targaryen Royce is the best-kept secret in the Vale until discovered and brought to King's Landing. Intended as a pawn meant to keep the unpredictable Rogue Prince in line, those who play the...
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RHAELLA
Dresses were not made for quick, purposeful movements. They were made for standing idly, casual strolls through the gardens, and occasionally being led through the movements of a festive dance.
Rhae's long, brisk strides and jog down the spiraling stairs two steps at a time were not hindered by the heavy skirts of the dress she should have left in Runestone. She'd been in rooms with better-styled drapery than the orangish bronze monstrosity Myranda had created for her, but she wasn't going to risk going back to Maegor's Holdfast to procure something else. Not after her outburst.
Guards could already have been sent after her to drag her back to the Tower of the Hand, but they'd have to get through Ser Willam first. He'd been waiting dutifully outside Otto's solar and followed on her heels as she fled. She might have shooed him away as she often had in Runestone, but here, his protection could be necessary.
Rhae didn't yet have a solid plan to put Otto's intentions to rest, but her pent-up frustration propelled her through the halls in search of open air. She'd have settled for a simple courtyard or the majestic gardens filled with endless varieties of small, pestering bugs that Helaena had mentioned on several occasions, but the large, open door she passed through led her to something so much better.
The training yard was perhaps the least ornate part of the Red Keep she'd come across so far. Small rocks blanketed a large, open area of dirt near a patrolled perimeter wall connecting to a watchtower. Smoke from exterior scones hung low in the air and a few horses were tied up in the corner closest to the gate. It was reminiscent of Runestone's training yard and drew her down from the top of the viewing area.
There were a decent number of spectators gathered around a sparring pair and Rhae didn't need to be in the front to recognize the pin-straight silver hair whipping around with every movement. Taking an avid interest in masculine pastimes was unbefitting of a noble lady, but Rhae was done with pretenses so she jabbed her elbow in the ribs of a middle-aged minor lord and stepped on the toes of a young squire to get to an optimal viewing position.
What she saw made her suck in a quick breath of smoky, humid air. Aemond, sword bared and pointed ahead in a defensive position, was sparring with Ser Criston Cole of the Kingsgaurd. It wasn't just any spar where swords would clash. Ser Criston waged his offensive attack with a spiked ball of brutality chained to a club that would kill slowly and only after several well-placed bows in a real battle. Ser Gerold had once told her that a morning star was for those who got a thrill out of killing.
Based on the way Aemond ducked to avoid the swinging ball and kept light on his feet, she could tell he was well-trained. But it wasn't just training. Any prince or noble lord's son able to hold a sword learned the basics of swordplay. He was good. A natural affinity combined with ample instructors and nothing else to attend to such as working the fields or taking up a trade would make for an excellent swordsman. He'd be knighted when he came of age the following year.
