𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 have forsworn love. For love is not a possibility for the life they currently live, only a mere fairytale a mother would tells her young children. But for...
At the center of the training grounds, stood a sturdy wooden easel of a good size and width. On the three-legged easel was a circular tightly coiled straw mat tied securely from the bottom, where the legs meet, and the top, where the easel tapers. The middle of the straw coiled mat had a sewed-in linen fabric with a distinct drawn black dot, no bigger than a fist. A spot that marked the target.
It was her target. The bullseye. Nyrella stood at one end of the Overhang, while the easel and mat stood on the other. She carefully observed her surroundings and conditions first, before having the confidence to yield her bow and arrow. The King's Landing heat was beating down on her. At the same time, the wind was forgiving and gentle. There were no distractions or loud sounds to throw her off course.
She took a reassuring inhale. The longbow she held in her weaker hand was parallel to the ground and laid loosely to her side. She reached out towards the stand where her quiver stood for convenience. At random, she selected a wooden arrow. Her eyes moved towards the bow as her index and middle finger shifted slightly upwards over to the front of the arrow rest. She slipped the wooden arrow behind the two fingers, then pushed the arrow forward until the nock attached to the bowstring. Nyrella placed her leather-covered fingers accordingly— one finger above the arrow, two below.
In position, Nyrella brought her arms up together. The longbow perpendicular to the ground, while her arrow laid horizontal. Inhaling, she drew the bowstring back until her anchor point. The further she drew her arrow, the more her dominant hand tensed at the force. Her back muscles were being overused and the soreness escalated quickly as she continued to hold her position. She looks at the target, shifting her bow to aim at the bullseye. Her upper body was searing with pain for the little time she held her bow. Exhaling, she released.
She felt the whiplash of the bowstring slap her guarded forearm which prevented bruises or "kisses" as they are called. She kept her stance until she heard the familiar thump of the arrow meeting the target. Nyrella lowered her arms, bringing the bow down to her hips.
"Third time today," Jon amused, analyzing the performance.
Nyrella's face fell into a grimace. The arrow landed at the edge of the circular target, far from the bullseye. This was her third time since the start of her archery practice that she hit that exact same spot. It was impressive, but not the bullseye. All the other times, she missed the target completely.
"I don't need your mockery Jon," Nyrella sighed in frustration. She leaned her longbow against the stand of her quiver, then she proceeded to take off all of her leather apparatus. A string of curses left under her breath, a sign that her anger was seeping through.
Jon was going to say something in response, but Rhaegar put his hand on Jon's chest, giving the redhead a warning expression. Jon returned a begrudging look, yet understanding the circumstance. Rhaegar walked over to Nyrella's side, his hands behind his back, "Don't be too harsh on yourself. It's only been an hour or two of practice."
