Chapter Text
Rhaenyra sighed loudly as she flopped back onto the uncomfortable carriage bench. The road beneath her was obscenely bumpy, but the constant jerks and jolts were somehow oddly soothing against her back. She wished—not for the first time—that she’d simply been allowed to ride Syrax rather than travel in this gods-forsaken wheelhouse. Her amber champagne quarter mare—the swiftest horse in the royal stables after Meleys—would have carried her through the Kingswood much faster. Alas, Ser Harrold seemed convinced that she would do something foolish, such as ride off without him and the other guards, if given the chance.
Which, she supposed, was not an unfounded assumption.
You ride off on your own for the day one time, and suddenly you cannot be trusted on horseback.
Across from her, Septa Marlow tsked. “Princess, you ought to sit up straight. It’s unseemly for you to . . . laze in that position.”
Rhaenyra ignored her. As was her way. She couldn’t remember having ever obeyed Septa Marlow’s instructions. Even when she was a child, she’d taken every opportunity she could to escape from the pinch-mouthed septa. It had exasperated her mother, but her father . . . in those days, her antics had amused him. Back when he could still look upon her face without wincing, when he could still meet her eyes when addressing her.
Back before Baelon.
She loved her little brother. Truly. He was a sweet boy, a dutiful son, and a fine prince. The Seven Kingdoms could do far worse for a Prince of Dragonstone. But it was his difficult entry into the world that had made their father decide to cut open their mother. She’d never blamed Baelon for that, of course. It was hardly his fault. He was but an unknowing babe at the time. Their father, on the other hand . . . She still blamed him for killing her mother.
And he knew it.
Her lingering anger, his own guilt, and her resemblance to her later mother were why he could no longer look at her, why he had stopped smiling at her, why he only ever spoke to her when strictly necessary.
Why she was currently trapped in this damned wheelhouse on her way to the Vale to visit her mother’s family.
The king wished to be rid of his troublesome daughter for a time. Those were the whispers that had followed her as she’d departed the Red Keep. The young lords that had once fawned over her and fluttered about her like moths had been all too eager to forsake her once a male heir was born. Not that she particularly missed them. Most were arrogant asses, like Jason Lannister. A few of the older lords, like Old Beesbury and Lord Lyonel Strong, had proven themselves somewhat more true. But they, too, understood that the future of the Seven Kingdoms now lay with Baelon, not her.
She was dragged from her thoughts by the carriage coming to an abrupt halt, which nearly caused her to roll off of the bench.
Grumbling with annoyance, she sat up and moved over to the window. “Ser Harrold,” she called, “why have we stopped?”
Her sworn shield appeared outside the window a moment later to answer. “Apologies, Princess. But it seems the storms last night must have felled a tree. We’ll have it moved soon enough, if you—”
Rhaenyra pushed the door to the wheelhouse open and hopped out, ignoring Septa Marlow’s squawk of protest and Ser Harrold’s more mild objections. If they were to be stopped for a time, she might as well stretch her legs. She’d been trapped in that stuffy carriage for hours. And Septa Marlow had spent far too much of that time droning on and on about the history of House Arryn and the Vale, as if she did not already know the history of her mother’s House.
“Please remain close, Princess,” Ser Harrold sighed, evidently deciding it was pointless to try and confine her to the wheelhouse.
“Of course, Ser.” She smiled sweetly at him before making her way down the road to where the fallen tree lay across their path. She cocked her head slightly as she looked at it. It was an oak tree, strong and sturdy in appearance. Certainly not the sort of tree she’d expect to be felled by a simple storm.
Wandering closer, she absently ran her hand over the stiff bark, ignoring the mutters of the guards who were trying to roll the tree out of the road. Looking around, she noticed that none of the other surrounding trees were so much as leaning. A frown curled her lips. She didn’t know much about trees or the forest, but something felt off. “Ser Harrold, can you—?”
Her question was interrupted by Septa Marlow’s shrill scream.
Whirling around, she and the other guards watched with wide eyes as a short, thin man in a green cloak sprinted away from the carriage and into the woods, something small and brown clutched in his fist.
No. Rhaenyra’s hands flew to her skirts, feeling around the folds and realizing with dawning horror that her belt pouch was missing. It must have come loose while I was lying down.
Racing over to the carriage where Ser Harrold lay upon the ground, she grabbed his hand and gave it a firm shake. “Ser Harrold, we must go after him!”
The knight groaned a little, eyes opening slowly. “Princess, my apologies—”
Septa Marlow was suddenly beside them, voice frantic. “The thief came from the trees!” she cried. “Struck Ser Harrold across the back of his head and—”
“I don’t care how this happened,” Rhaenyra snapped. “I care that we go after the bandit. Now.”
The septa stared at her incredulously. “Are you mad? We’re lucky that ruffian did no more than steal your purse. Kingswood bandits are known—”
Rhaenyra grabbed the woman by the shoulders, shaking her harder than she probably ought, but she was reaching the limits of her patience. Every moment they wasted talking was another moment the bandit had to flee deeper and deeper into the woods. “I don’t care! My mother’s ring is in that pouch, and I’ll be damned if I lose it to some thief!”
“Princess,” she sputtered.
Releasing the septa, Rhaenyra jumped to her feet. Ser Harrold would need time to recover. Marlow was useless. The guards would likely be more hindrance than help.
Running over to Ser Harrold’s abandoned horse, she grabbed the reins, shoved her foot into the stirrup, and hauled herself up into the saddle with far less grace than she’d exercised since her first time riding at age seven.
With a click of her tongue and a squeeze of her thighs, she urged the horse into a swift canter as she set off after the thief.