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
Rhae considered the merits of her efforts as she pushed on the bookshelf blocking the bottom of the tapestry along the far back wall of her bedchamber. It was heavier now than she remembered without the fear of a handsy prince strengthening her muscles. It hadn't been moved from when she'd originally scooted it years ago, and though the borrowed rooms and all its surfaces had been cleaned recently, puffs of dust infiltrated her nostrils as the stone bookshelf slowly slid back into its original position that allowed for a quick escape or secret meetup.
As she stared at the tapestry blocking a hidden panel in the stone wall, she found her dislike of the religious décor stronger than it had been before. There was rarely mention of the Seven on Dragonstone and the sept was always vacant. The smallfolk there still paid homage to the gods of Old Valyria and her family had no use for prayers. Gods didn't pray to other gods, her father had once told her when she'd slunk away to the sept for a moment of peace.
Alicent Hightower would find such a statement and the lack of heed given to the Seven new gods blasphemous. Rhae figured she'd see an unchaperoned meeting between her son and a noble lady much the same. After all, she was a woman who'd flowered, though it seemed as though her father's way of dealing with the servants as he'd said he'd do when she'd foolishly informed him had been thorough. They'd either been paid off or dealt with more nefariously.
Just went she began to doubt she'd understood Aemond's peculiar offer, two rapid knocks sounded followed by a tentative third. But they didn't come from the passageway as expected. They sounded from the door in the outer chamber of her rooms. Apparently, they'd not be sneaking out to the Dragonpit as she assumed.
Sprinting to the nearest chair and picking up a book she'd not bothered to read the title of so as not to appear suspicious, she called for him to enter.
He strode in with a gait of ownership as if the keep and all of its rooms belonged to him. The years had changed him. His hair was longer, falling down past his shoulders in perfectly straight strands most ladies would be envious of. All hints of a boy were gone, replaced with the broad shoulders and a lithe yet muscled frame of an expert swordsman. Even with an eyepatch covering most of the long, jagged scar on his left cheek, the distinct beauty of Old Valyria was evident and mesmerizing.
The arrival of Ser Criston gave her a reprieve from Aemond's domineering aura. The irony of Rhaenyra's story of her lost virtue on one of the long days she'd spent healing in bed was not lost on Rhae now that the Whitecloak was attempting to protect hers.
Aemond eyed her tight trousers, hooded jacket, and leather corset worn over her thin tunic to give her some shape and protection should she need it. "I see you took my mother's desire for more appropriate attire to heart." His gaze snagged on the red lion-hilted sword strapped to her waist, but he said nothing of it.
There were many games she could and would play if they became necessary, but pretending to be a docile little bird from Runestone had done little for her the first time and she'd not waste her time with it now. Rhae often allowed Rhaenyra to commission beautiful dresses and braid her hair intricately because it delighted her. Alicent simply wanted control.
