The academic year of 106 AC drew to a close, and with it, Rhaenyra's first year at Winterhold College concluded. Her education had been as rigorous as it was enlightening. She approached her studies with a meticulous dedication, diligently taking notes and participating in discussions, absorbing everything from economic theory to the intricate history of Northern governance.
Beyond the lecture halls, she had embraced the College's practical training. While not possessing Mordred's innate, reckless grace, Rhaenyra applied herself to lessons in dagger combat and, to her surprise, discovered a natural talent for archery. The feel of the bowstring, the focused aim, the satisfying thwack of the arrow finding its mark – it offered a different kind of satisfaction than debates in the Small Council.
Her friendship with Princess Mordred Stark had blossomed unexpectedly. Theon Stark's assessment of his granddaughter as a "hurricane" proved accurate, but Mordred's blunt honesty and thirst for action were a refreshing change from the veiled politeness of King's Landing. They became as thick as thieves, their bond forged in shared lessons, mock combat, and secret explorations of the College grounds. Mordred, with her characteristic lack of formality, had taken to calling Rhaenyra simply "Rhae," a nickname Rhaenyra, to her own surprise, rather liked. In turn, Rhaenyra had started calling Mordred "Red," a nod to her fiery spirit and often flushed cheeks after a vigorous training session.
As the carriage, rather than the train, made its way back towards White Harbor for the return voyage to King's Landing, Rhaenyra felt a pang of longing for the austere but invigorating rhythm of Winterhold. She had found a new sense of purpose here, a clarity that had been absent in the Red Keep.
The voyage south was swift, and the familiar shores of the Crownlands eventually appeared. But the comfort of familiarity quickly turned to ashes.
Upon reaching King's Landing, the air was thick with whispers, quickly confirmed by the solemn faces of her own retainers. King Viserys had announced his intention to marry Alicent Hightower.
The news struck Rhaenyra like a physical blow. Devastation washed over her, swift and sharp. Her best friend, her confidante, the gentle presence that had always been a constant in her life, was now to become her stepmother. The betrayal cut deeper than any political machination. Her heart hardened.
She sought out Alicent, a desperate attempt to understand, to rail against the unthinkable. But Alicent, perhaps caught between duty and affection, was unable or unwilling to bridge the chasm that had opened between them. Their conversation was brief, fraught, and ultimately irreparable. From that day forward, their friendship soured, a bitter taste in Rhaenyra's mouth. They were no longer on speaking terms, the warmth that had once defined their bond replaced by an icy silence.
And as if the personal betrayal were not enough, the realm itself seemed to be crumbling. Word spread quickly through the Red Keep of new, pressing danger: Lord Corlys Velaryon and Prince Daemon Targaryen had taken their fleets to war in the Stepstones, launching a private, unsanctioned campaign against the Crabfeeder and his pirate forces. The realm was at peace, but her father's brother and the Sea Snake had decided otherwise, dragging the Crown into a conflict it seemed unwilling to acknowledge.
Rhaenyra's first year of enlightened education had concluded, only to return her to a world of shattering personal betrayals and simmering political unrest. The tranquility of Winterhold seemed a distant dream.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
The year 107 AC saw Rhaenyra's second year at Winterhold College conclude, a year as intense and transformative as the first. Her proficiency in statecraft deepened, her strategic mind honed by rigorous simulations in the War Rooms, and her skills with the dagger and, especially, the bow continued to improve. Her bond with Mordred, grew even stronger; they were inseparable, a constant, often exasperated, presence for their instructors.
As the academic year drew to a close and the time for her return to King's Landing approached, Rhaenyra found herself dreading it less than the previous year. She missed the structured learning, the directness of Northern conversation, and, most keenly, Mordred's bracing companionship. The cold silence between her and Alicent had become the new normal, and the whispers of a male heir — her half-brother, Aegon — began to grow louder.
A few weeks before her departure, an idea sparked in her mind. A celebration was being planned in King's Landing for Aegon's second namesday, a Grand Hunt in the Kingswood. It would be a lavish affair, designed to showcase the growing strength of the "true heir."
Rhaenyra saw an opportunity. She sought out Dean Ashwood, requesting a special dispensation. "Dean," she explained, "my half-brother's namesday is approaching, and a grand hunt is being planned. It would be an excellent opportunity for Princess Mordred to observe the customs of the South, and perhaps even for some of the King's men to witness Northern prowess in the field. It could serve to strengthen the bonds between our kingdoms."
Dean Ashwood, after careful consideration and a discreet raven to King Artor, granted permission. Mordred, when told, practically vibrated with excitement. "A hunt? In the Kingswood? Will there be bears, Rhae? Or lions?"
"Only boars, mostly," Rhaenyra had replied, smiling at Mordred's boundless energy. "And stags. But it will be grand, I assure you."
And so, as Rhaenyra, Elinda, and Sarisa prepared for their return journey to the South, Princess Mordred Stark found herself included in their party. The train journey south was filled with Mordred's eager questions about the Kingswood, about the animals, about the "soft men" who hunted there. Rhaenyra found herself in the unusual position of defending the hunting skills of the Southern lords, while secretly knowing Mordred would likely put them all to shame.
Upon their arrival back in King's Landing, the familiar stifling heat and humid air settled heavily upon Rhaenyra once more. The Red Keep, for all its splendor, felt suddenly stifling after the clean, functional beauty of Winterhold. The chill between her and Alicent was immediate and palpable, a heavy weight in the air. The whispers about Aegon, now two years old, were no longer whispers but open declarations of hope for a male heir.
Yet, despite the renewed tension in her own home, Rhaenyra felt a flicker of defiance. With Mordred by her side, a piece of Asgard brought to King's Landing, perhaps this namesday hunt would be more than just a celebration for Aegon. Perhaps it would be a quiet reminder of the capabilities of the King's true heir and the strength of the alliances she was quietly forging in the North. The Kingswood awaited.
The days leading up to Aegon's namesday hunt were a flurry of activity, and Rhaenyra found herself in the unusual role of tour guide. She took Mordred through the sprawling Red Keep, pointing out the Grand Council chambers, the echoing kitchens, and the intricate, if overly ornate, private apartments.
"This is Maegor's Holdfast," I explained to Mordred, gesturing to the formidable inner fortress, its shadowed walls seeming to absorb the light. "It's said to be impregnable."
Mordred's gaze was sharp, assessing the fortifications with a tactical eye. "Looks stout enough. But every wall has a weakness, Rhae."
Then, with growing excitement, I led her to the Dragonpit. The massive dome of the Dragonpit, its colossal gates reinforced, its walls gleaming. Smoke curled from the vents at its apex, a sign of its living inhabitants.
"And this," I announced, my voice filled with a rare, open pride, "is where my dragon, Syrax, resides."
Mordred's eyes widened, a flicker of genuine awe overcoming her usual composure. "You mean... we can see her?"
"Better than that, Red," I grinned, a mischievous glint in my eye. "We're going for a ride."
We approached Syrax's enclosure, the air growing warm and smelling faintly of sulfur and something wild. Syrax herself, a magnificent beast of yellow scales, stirred at my approach, a low rumble emanating from her chest. She stretched, her leathery wings unfurling to their vast span. Mordred stood utterly mesmerized, her usual bravado replaced by silent wonder.
"Come," I urged, climbing onto Syrax's back, settling into the familiar leather saddle. "Hold tight to my waist, and don't look down if you're afraid."
Mordred, without a word, climbed up behind me, her hands gripping my riding leathers with surprising strength. Syrax let out a guttural roar, then launched herself into the air, her powerful wings beating against the air. The sensation was exhilarating, a symphony of wind and power.
"Gods above!" Mordred's voice was a half-shout, half-gasp in my ear, filled with a mixture of terror and unbridled exhilaration. She was pressed tightly against me, her grip unwavering.
We soared above King's Landing, the city sprawling beneath us like a child's toy. The Red Keep looked tiny, the streets mere lines, the crowds of people like scattered ants. I banked Syrax, circling the city, then headed towards the coast, feeling the rush of the sea wind. It was a freedom I rarely experienced, and to share it with Red, to see her normally unflappable demeanor shaken by sheer, raw awe, was a unique satisfaction.
"This is... this is incredible, Rhae!" Mordred shouted over the wind, her voice filled with a giddy disbelief. "Nothing like a hot air balloon! This is pure… power!"
"Indeed it is, Red," I yelled back, a triumphant grin on my face.
We spent a glorious hour in the sky before returning to the Dragonpit, Syrax landing with a soft thud that still shook the ground. Mordred dismounted, her hair disheveled, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with an uncharacteristic brightness. "That," she declared, her voice still a little breathless, "was more exciting than a hundred lectures on economic output."
Then I ask her " Why haven't you yet bonded with the ice dragon"
Red replies dejectedly, "Father says I can bond only after my fifteen names day."
The rest of the days leading up to the Grand Hunt flew by. Mordred often begged for another ride, but I knew I couldn't risk unwanted attention drawn to her presence.
The day of the Grand Hunt dawned, hot and humid even in the Kingswood. We made our way to the designated royal tent, a lavish affair of embroidered silks and velvet carpets. Inside, the ladies of the court were already gathered, a colorful array of gowns and jewels, their chatter a low, constant murmur.
As Rhaenyra, Mordred, Elinda, and Sarisa entered and took their seats, a ripple of polite, yet undeniably curious, whispers went through the tent. Lady Darklyn, a woman known for her cutting remarks, immediately piped up. "Princess Rhaenyra, how wonderful to see you. And you must be Princess Mordred. We've heard such tales of the North. All that… progress." Her tone dripped with sarcasm.
Another lady, Lady Florent, chimed in, "Yes, how quaint, building roads and light bulbs! We in the South prefer the traditional ways, don't we? More natural." A few suppressed giggles followed.
Mordred, however, merely raised an eyebrow. "Indeed, my lady," she drawled, a smirk playing on her lips. "It is quite different from King's Landing, where the progress seems to be solely in the invention of new gossip and the perfection of polite insults. We prefer to build things that actually work, rather than just look pretty."
A hush fell over the tent. Elinda and Sarisa visibly winced, but I felt a surge of defiant pride.
Then, after a while, the conversation started flowing naturally, sometime later I took a leave saying I needed some fresh air.
Then the Lannister lord, Jason Lannister, a man known for his vanity and overbearing manner. He spotted me, his eyes gleaming, and made a beeline to where I was standing.
"Princess Rhaenyra!" he boomed, a theatrical bow. "It has been too long. Jason Lannister, at your command." Then he didn't wait for me to greet him, he continued talking, "Princess, you should truly visit Casterly Rock. There is no place like it in all the Seven Kingdoms. My halls are grander than any holdfast in westeros, and my coffers... well, let's just say they are plenty. I have the finest tapestries, the largest wine cellars, the most skilled artisans. A true jewel. You should see it."
His meaning was clear, his clumsy attempt at a marriage proposal poorly veiled. My blood began to boil. He spoke of my hand as if it were another bauble to add to his collection, another piece of his vast, empty boast.
I shot a furious glance at my father, who was watching the scene from afar with a strained expression. I knew he was aware of Jason Lannister's intentions, perhaps even encouraged them. This was part of his plan,attempt to marry me off, to solidify my position with a powerful house, without a thought for my own desires.
I left abruptly towards him. "Father," I stated, my voice low but sharp enough to cut through the din, "may I have a word?"
Viserys sighed, clearly anticipating a confrontation. He walked with me to a more private corner of the tent. "Rhaenyra, what is it? Jason Lannister is merely being cordial."
"Cordial?" I spat, my anger barely contained. "He is proposing marriage, Father! Like a common merchant haggling for livestock! You allowed this? After everything we discussed about my future, about my rule?"
"Rhaenyra, be reasonable!" Viserys pleaded, his voice rising slightly. "He is a powerful lord, a good match! You are a woman, you will need a strong husband to support you as queen!"
"I need no husband to rule!" I retorted, my voice shaking with fury. "And certainly not one who sees me as a gilded ornament for his 'legendary coffers'!" The very idea of being tethered to a man like Jason Lannister, felt like a golden cage closing around me. This was the South. This was its suffocating tradition.
"You speak of ruling without understanding the necessities of alliances!" Viserys countered, his face flushed. "You are being foolish, Rhaenyra!"
"Foolish?" I scoffed, my rage boiling over. "I have learned more about ruling in two years in Asgard than I ever would have here, surrounded by sycophants and old fools! I will not be traded like chattel, Father!"
Without another word, I turned on my heel and stormed out of the tent, ignoring the shocked everyone. I found my horse, a sturdy bay, and swiftly mounted. My hand went to the quiver on my back, pulling out my bow and nocking an arrow, the familiar weight a comfort. I dug my heels in, urging the horse into a gallop, disappearing into the dense Kingswood.
Behind me, I heard the rapid thud of hooves. I didn't need to look back to know it was Mordred. She rode up beside me, her expression grim but understanding. She said nothing, simply keeping pace. We rode deeper and deeper into the forest, leaving the sounds of the royal hunt and the suffocating court far behind.
The Kingswood was thick, and the air, though still humid, felt cleaner away from the crowds. We rode for what felt like hours, the anger slowly draining from me, replaced by a cold resolve.
Then, through the trees, a flash of brown. A large boar, its tusks gleaming, rooted among the ferns. Without a moment's hesitation, I pulled back my bowstring, aiming. The arrow flew, swift and true, embedding itself deep in the boar's flank. It squealed, stumbled, and then crashed to the ground.
We dismounted, my blood thrumming with the thrill of the hunt. I drew my dagger, the blade cold and sharp in my hand, and plunged it into the boar's throat. Warm, crimson blood welled up, spilling over my hand, staining my riding attire and splattering against my neck. It was a messy, brutal act, yet in that moment, it felt real, visceral, a cleansing antidote to the suffocating niceties of court.
As I worked, Mordred suddenly spun, her bow already drawn. Another boar, disturbed by the commotion, charged from the undergrowth. Her arrow flew, striking it cleanly. Mordred ran to it, her own dagger flashing, performing the same swift, decisive act.
"Good shot, Red!" I called, my voice rough with exertion.
"You too, Rhae!" she replied, wiping blood from her own blade. "Now, let's get these skinned. We're going to need dinner."
While I gathered dry wood to build a fire, Mordred, with practiced efficiency, began the grim but necessary task of field dressing the boars. Her movements were swift, skilled, and utterly unperturbed by the gore. She expertly removed the skin and intestines, her focus absolute. Soon, a small fire crackled, and we roasted chunks of the boar meat over the flames, the rich, smoky scent filling the forest air.
We ate in companionable silence, the warmth of the fire warding off the chill of the encroaching evening. As the flames danced, reflecting in our eyes, the tension of the day began to melt away, replaced by the familiar comfort of our friendship.
"Remember that time we swapped out all the elinda's clothes with dirt rags," Mordred chuckled, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"And what about the time we dyed all the laundry blue?" I reminded her, grinning.
We sat by the fire, the sounds of the Kingswood peaceful around us, our laughter echoing softly. The stench of boar's blood, the grime on our faces, the simple warmth of the fire – it was more real, more freeing, than any ball or feast. Here, with Red, I could be myself. The thought of returning to King's Landing, to Alicent's cool gaze and my father's endless expectations, already felt like a heavier burden than any boar I had hunted. But for now, under the vast, star-pricked sky of the Kingswood, there was only the fire, the memory of laughter, and the unbreakable bond of our friendship.
As the fire dwindled to embers, a comfortable silence settled between us. The anger that had fueled my ride into the Kingswood had long since dissipated, replaced by a quiet contentment. But the wilderness offered no true rest. We decided to take turns keeping watch, ensuring no rogue boar or other beast surprised us in the dark.
"You sleep, Rhae," Mordred insisted, her eyes sharp in the gloom. "You've had a longer day than me, dealing with those Southern vipers."
I nodded, trusting her implicitly. I curled up by the dying fire, the sounds of the Kingswood a deep lullaby, and drifted into a sleep more profound than any I'd found in the Red Keep. Hours later, a gentle shake roused me.
"Your turn, Rhae," Mordred whispered, already stretched out by the fire, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger. I took up my bow, listened to the rustle of leaves and the distant calls of night creatures, my senses heightened by the quiet tension of the forest. The night passed peacefully.
When dawn painted the eastern sky in soft hues of grey and rose, we stirred. The air was fresh and cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. We packed the remaining cooked boar meat, securing it for later, and then set about preparing the unskinned boar for transport. It was a hefty task, requiring both our strengths.
As we were finishing, a rustle in the undergrowth caught our attention. Both our bows were nocked in an instant, our stances ready. But what emerged was not a beast of wrath. It was a magnificent great white stag, its antlers like bleached branches against the dark trees, its coat shimmering with an almost ethereal purity. It moved with an ancient grace, its large, intelligent eyes fixated on us.
Slowly, deliberately, I lowered my bow. The stag made no move to flee. Cautiously, I took a step, then another, my hand outstretched. The stag watched me, unblinking. I reached its side, and with trembling fingers, I stroked the soft fur on its neck. It was warm, surprisingly gentle. Mordred, seeing my actions, also lowered her bow and approached, her usual boldness replaced by a quiet reverence. She, too, reached out, her hand resting lightly on the stag's flank. For a long, silent moment, we stood there, two princesses from vastly different worlds, communing with a creature of pure myth.
Then, with a final, majestic glance, the great white stag turned and melted back into the forest, disappearing as silently as it had arrived. We watched it go, a profound sense of wonder settling over us.
"That... that was something," Mordred finally breathed, her voice hushed.
"It was," I agreed, my heart still thrumming. It felt like an omen, a blessing.
With renewed purpose, we finished securing the unskinned boar to one of our horses and began our journey back towards the royal tents. The sun was higher now, its rays piercing the forest canopy.
As we broke through the tree line and approached the clearing where the royal encampment lay, a sudden hush fell over the assembled court. Lords and ladies, servants and squires, all stopped what they were doing, their conversations dying on their lips. All eyes turned to us.
There I was, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, daughter of the King, covered in boar's blood, dried and dark on my riding attire and streaked across my neck, leading a horse laden with the carcass of a massive boar. And beside me, equally disheveled but carrying herself with untamed pride, was Princess Mordred Stark, her own clothes stained, her bow still slung easily over her shoulder.
The contrast with the meticulously dressed courtiers, their faces clean and their expressions a mixture of shock and disdain, was stark. No one spoke. The entire Grand Hunt, organized for the Namesday of Prince Aegon, seemed to halt, its grandiosity momentarily overshadowed by the raw, undeniable spectacle of two bloodied princesses who had clearly found their quarry, and themselves, in the wild.
Like that, with a silence that spoke volumes, the Grand Hunt concluded.