Chapter Text
And I can go anywhere I want
Anywhere I want, just not home
And you can aim for my heart, go for blood
But you would still miss me in your bones
And I still talk to you (when I'm screaming at the sky)
And when you can't sleep at night (you hear my stolen lullabies)
Her family watches her fly on dragonback.
Jacaerys gazes to the heavens above, squinting up at the blinding sun. Dark shadows are cast below as a dragon and her rider soar through the sky, cutting through the air like hail in a storm. The dark-haired toddler reaches his hands up as he spots his mother on her mount, calling for her.
“Mama, mama!”
The little Prince squirms in the arms of his protector, who shares the heir’s ear – and his eyes. “That’s right, little Prince. Your mother is riding her dragon.”
Rhaenyra is laughing when she dismounts, spotting her boys awaiting her arrival. Jace is squirming so violently that Ser Harwin has no choice but to place the boy on the dirt of the dragonpit. The child toddles from the knight and into his mother’s arms.
“What are you doing here?” Rhaenyra asks, studying her son with a grin. He is not yet two-years-old, but the Prince is a handsome child with eyes the colour of honey and hair so thick Rhaenyra has it cut every sennight. “I thought you were sleeping, Jace.”
“He was asking for you, Princess,” the nurse maid says, smiling warmly at her charge. Jace buries his head in the crook of his mother’s neck and begins to suckle on his thumb. “Ser Harwin thought it best to bring him to the dragonpit to see you ride and mayhaps even see Vermax as well. The little Prince has been asking for his dragon.”
“Have you?” Rhaenyra asks, pushing back her son’s hair. She presses her nose to the silken locks, inhaling the scent of soap and honey. “Well, I’m sure Vermax will be happy to see you, sweetling. But first, we must go say hello to Syrax. She’s missed you.”
Syrax purrs like a cat when presented with her riders’ son. The dragon has an affection for the toddler, who eagerly presses his pudgy hands into her golden scales. Rhaenyra remembers the blinding fear she felt when she first brought Jace before Syrax, the babe wrapped in a bundle of furs. The fear had all been for naught; her dragon had taken to the infant like a ship to the sea.
Ser Harwin watches the display from a comfortable distance.
“Did you see?” Jace asks the knight once done with Syrax, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. The little boy regards the knight above everyone else, save for his beloved mother.
Ser Harwin kneels beside his Prince, so he can meet his eyes. It matters not that they are in the dragonpit or that Jace is content to look into the sky when speaking to the Knight. Ser Harwin prefers to be on the boys’ level, happy to dirty his armour by kneeling before the small Prince. “You’re a brave boy, lad. Braver than I.”
The Red Keep is bustling when they return.
Rhaenyra walks with Jace asleep on her shoulder, the excitement of seeing Vermax exhausting to the small Prince. Ser Harwin had offered to carry him, but Rhaenyra refused – growing wary of the whispers of the black-haired Prince and his white-haired father.
“I suspect he shall be asleep until dinner,” Rhaenyra comments as she places the toddler in the centre of her featherbed, keen to see him safe in the confines of her chambers. She did not want her son to return to the nursery just yet – sending the maid away with the promise of calling on her later. “You’ve exhausted him, Harwin.”
“He wanted to see you,” the knight says simply, leaning against the stone pillar as he watches his Princess – and his son.
In these most private of moments, she is not the heir to the Iron Throne but a mother. She presses soft kisses to her sons’ cheeks and runs a gentle hand through his riotous curls. It is with a content smile that she gazes upon his slumbering face, taking in plump lips and flushed cheeks and fluttering eyelids.
These are Ser Harwin’s favourite moments; the sight of his love with their babe.
“I wonder if our next one will share his look,” Rhaenyra says from the bed, voice soft, eyes warm.
Ser Harwin’s head snaps up.
“The Maester confirmed it this morning.” Rhaenyra holds his gaze and smiles brilliantly. “Another babe. Another boy, I am sure.”
Harwin’s approach to the bed is slow. The Princess watches him with eyes of amethysts, reaching for him when he is close enough to touch. Their hands intertwine and Harwin pulls her to him, hands coming to play with her loose braid.
He kisses the corner of her mouth first and then her cheek and then her neck. His lips draw constellations on her skin and she leans back, hands coming to rest on his cheeks. His beard is rough against his fingers and when she draws him in for a kiss, he breathes fire into her lungs.
“Let’s hope this one has your look, Princess.”
Rhaenyra bleeds her second pregnancy.
She sits on the small council, listening to her father’s advisors drone on about trade with Essos, when she feels cramping in her belly. It is a small thing, a tightening around her pelvis and easy enough to dismiss. She ignores the pain… until she feels blood dripping down her thighs.
Standing on trembling legs, Rhaenyra clears her throat.
The eyes of the most powerful men in Westeros turn to their Princess, taking in her pale and clammy skin.
“Apologies, my lords, but I must return to my chambers. I feel a sudden sickness coming on.”
The Princess of Dragonstone hits the ground before she is finished speaking, a pool of blood forming around her body.
It is Ser Harwin who rushes to her aid, gathering her small body in his arms and lifting her like a feather to the wind. He has held her in this way many times, but never with blood staining his hands and never before the men of the small council.
His panic is clear for all to see, but the Princess's sworn shield does not bend to the winds of fear. Instead, he brings her before the Maesters – who prod her swollen stomach and command bed rest, lest she wishes to lose the babe.
When Rhaenyra wakes, it’s to her sworn shield sitting by her side.
“Harwin.”
His head rouses from where it lay, his eyes tired and bloodshot.
“Rhaenyra,” he breathes, pressing searing kisses to her limp hands. “Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra.”
He has whispered the word a thousand times, but on this day, he speaks her name as if it is his absolution. It is heavy with relief and joy and when she feels his tears on her skin, she can taste his fear too. This man of undeniable strength, this knight of the seven kingdoms, is brought to tears by the woman who carries his child. His weakness is his love for his Princess.
She soothes him with a few gentle words, a hand on his hair and a kiss to his skin. They have known sadness before and have grown familiar with the comforts the other needs. But her small actions do little to dry his tears. His fear, it seems, is more powerful than her acts of comfort.
“It is alright. I am alright,” she whispers into his hair. His head is bowed over on her stomach, hand grasping flesh with a defiant desperation. “The babe lives. It was just a scare, Harwin.”
Her knight is haunted by the blood on his hands.
“I have seen men bleed, Rhaenyra. I have cut bodies in two. Every time you take a life, you see the amount of blood the body can hold. But I never imagined I would see your blood. I never imagined—”
His words break away and his head returns to its place on her stomach.
“Women bleed every moon, Harwin. We are used to such sights. Bringing a child into the world is the bloodiest sport of all.”
The little Prince doesn’t understand why his mother cannot leave her bed.
Jace pouts and pleads for his Mama to play with him in her solar, or join him in the Godswood. But the Princess simply winces and places a hand on her swollen belly, reminding him of all that he could not understand.
“I must stay abed, Jace. Your brother or sister wished to come early and has chained me to this bed.”
Jace glares at her belly. “I do not like him.”
Rhaenyra lets out a loud laugh. “That’s not kind. He’s not even born yet, Jace. You won’t know if you like him until you meet him. And I am sure you will love him, just as I do.”
“But you’re stuck!”
“Just for a little while,” Rhaenyra assures her son, who curls up beside her and offers the filthiest look to her stomach. The Princess looks up to see Laenor and Ser Harwin standing at the threshold of her bedchamber and she grins, knowing she has support. “And you have your Papa and Ser Harwin to play with while I am resting. Won’t that be fun? They may even take you to the training yard, if you ask nicely.”
Laenor scoffs. “That is no place for a two-year-old boy, Rhaenyra.”
“Humour me, husband,” Rhaenyra commands, before meeting the eyes of her sworn shield. “I am sure Ser Harwin will take Jace if you are busy, Laenor. I know how inconvenient it was to return from Driftmark.”
Laenor’s face softens. “You were ill, Rhaenyra. Of course I would return.”
In the years since Jacaerys was born, Laenor had taken to Driftmark for longer periods. He would abscond from the court for many moons, leaving Rhaenyra to battle the gossip alone. She was forced to pay a visit to High Tide once a month to ensure any babes that would take root in her womb would still be considered trueborn, even if they entered the world with the dark hair of House Strong.
But his return to court had been a long time coming. Laenor had little freedom on Driftmark to do as he truly pleased. His father was not as lenient as Rhaenyra and so, the friends Laenor collected at court were not widely welcomed at the seat of House Velaryon.
“Mayhaps Ser Laenor could accompany the Prince to the dragonpit, Princess?” Ser Harwin suggests. “I know how much the Prince enjoys seeing Syrax and Vermax.”
Rhaenyra smiles indulgently at her son, who perks up at the mention of his dragon. “Would you like that, Jace?”
Jacaerys stares up at his father as if he hung the moon. With Laenor away so much, the little Prince rarely saw his father by name. But absence allowed for admiration to grow and the toddler adored his mother’s husband.
“Come, son,” Laenor says with a great smile. “Seasmoke has missed you.”
When they are alone, Ser Harwin closes the curtains to her chambers and comes to lean on the post of her bed.
“How are you, truly?”
“Bored,” Rhaenyra groans, head flopping into the pillows. “And never alone.”
The midwives and nurse maids the Maester had brought in continue to mill around her solar, speaking amongst themselves.
“And how is the babe?”
“Unsettled.” Rhaenyra’s hand covers her belly, nearing its seventh moon. “He’s always moving, always turning within me. It keeps me awake and brings me little relief. Jace was never so active.”
“Mayhaps it is a daughter, then?”
Harwin thinks of a girl with violet eyes and silver hair, like her mother.
Rhaenyra shakes her head. “I keep dreaming of another boy.”
“You dream of many things,” Ser Harwin mutters, remembering restless nights and quiet whispers.
They hadn’t been together in moons, careful not to be caught under the watchful eyes of others. Rhaenyra had become grouchier with every sennight passed, but her sworn shield had never been far away – always lingering outside her chambers.
With a strained neck, Rhaenyra keeps her eyes on the turned backs of her healers when she beckons Harwin forward. “Come.”
The knight lumbers towards her, steps quiet. His princess reaches for his hand and places it on the underside of her belly. A drumming of kicks meets his palms, just as they did near two years prior when Jace was a babe in his mother’s belly.
“I know you have missed it,” Rhaenyra murmurs, enjoying his expression of awe. “He is healthy, Harwin. You must feel his strength.”
Harwin hums a response, his thumb tracing her skin.
“Strong, like his father,” Rhaenyra whispers, bringing his hand to her lips.
Rhaenyra’s second son comes in the night.
The labour is quick and painful, but Laenor is by her side and Ser Harwin is at the door.
When the small body is pulled from hers, he lets out a great cry. They hold him up to the world, this creature she has grown for nine moons, declare him healthy and place him in her arms.
Rhaenyra weeps at the weight of him, this boy who had caused such worry, and finds herself looking at another dark-haired son.
Her joy fades into fear when the babe begins to grow, showing the same dark curls as his brother and the copper eyes of his father.
“The whispers are growing cruel,” Rhaenyra vents to Harwin three moons after the birth. Her knight sits upright in her bed and nurses a goblet of wine as he watches the princess pace. Her skin is still slick from their coupling, her hair loose and long. “Vile gossip is nipping at our heels and Laenor has fled to Driftmark again. The Queen delights in it – she sees it as evidence of our unhappiness. And the boys… the court calls them Strongs when my back is turned.”
Harwin gathers her in his arms and presses a kiss to her forehead. “They are rumours, Rhaenyra. Just that. Simple gossip which will fade in time. The King believes the boys to take after the houses of their grandparents. If he does not believe the whispers, we shouldn’t concern ourselves with it.”
“But what if that changes?” Rhaneyra asks, heart beating hard in her chest. “We have been foolish, Harwin. We have risked our lives – and the lives of our sons – to indulge in the privilege of pleasure. If the King changes his mind, he will disinherit me. He could put me to sword.”
“Your father loves you, Rhaenyra,” Harwin reasons. “I have seen it. He holds you above all his other children.”
“Love is only blind for so long, Harwin!” Rhaenyra cries. “If the Queen is successful in her games of gossip, then our children will pay the highest price. We will be exiled… or worse, executed.”
Harwin holds his love in his hands and comforts his Princess, existing in the consequences of their sins.
When the rumours become too much, Rhaenyra escapes to Dragonstone.
The island of her birthright is a harsh place, with rocky shores and dangerous cliffs. It is the home of her ancestors. The blood of Old Valyria had claimed the island for themselves, birthing conquerors and dragonriders aplenty. Now, a Princess with silver hair claims the Island for family, including two sons and a knight with black hair.
Dragonstone is a grim and barren place, but her boys grow swiftly surrounded by the sea. Jace finds his strength on the island and Luke follows his brothers every step, toddling through the halls with focused eyes. Their mother rides a white horse on the rocky shores, her dark knight her constant companion and laughter always on her lips.
Most days they spend their time in Aegon’s garden, surrounded by dark trees, wild roses and bushels of cranberries. The boys play with wooden swords under the watchful gaze of Ser Harwin Strong, who teaches courage and restraint.
“To be a great knight, you must be a kind man,” Harwin murmurs, holding Jace by the arms after the young Prince had pushed his brother to the ground. Luke had cried to his mother, who wrapped the toddler in her arms and wiped away his tears. “And kind men do not hurt their younger brothers. Do you understand?”
Jace nods, biting down on his bottom lip. Guilt fills his eyes as he looks to where his mother sits, a tearful Luke in her arms. “I didn’t mean to hurt him, Ser Harwin. I promise.”
Harwin reaches out to his boy, grabbing his chin between his fingers. “You will be King one day, my Prince, and you will need your brother on your side. Go say sorry.”
The little Prince stands tall as he apologises to his crying brother, offering to let the toddler play with his wooden sword. Rhaenyra feels her chest swell as she watches her sons reconcile, looking over their heads to where Harwin stands; the pride of a father in his eyes.
“The boys love you,” Rhaenyra tells Harwin that night, as she brushes her hair. She is sitting at her vanity, watching her knight in the reflection of the mirror. He is peeling off his leather jerkin, exposing a battle-tested chest littered with a map of his victories. She knows his scars better than her own; has traced them and kissed them a thousand times. “They trust you. They listen to you.”
“Aye, they do,” Harwin murmurs.
Rhaenyra places the brush on the vanity, turning to face him. “I wish they knew.”
Harwin pauses, hands at the laces of his breeches.
“They can’t.”
“I know.” Rhaenyra’s children will be Velaryons, for their safety. For the crown. “But sometimes, it’s nice to imagine a different life.”
Harwin crosses the room, lifting her chin with his fingers, like he had done to their son just hours prior.
“I would not want a different life if it means I could not love you,” Harwin whispers, his fire still burning after all these years. “Do you understand, Rhaenyra? If I had the choice, I would always choose you. I would endure the rumours and the whispers if it meant I could watch you with our sons.”
Rhaenyra closes her eyes, her love for this man choking her lungs. “And I would choose you too. Every time.”
After all this time, his kiss is just as intoxicating. He steals her breath and breathes new life into her lungs. His touch burns her skin, dragging sparks across her flesh. When he licks into her mouth, Rhaenyra feels the weight of his want – an ocean which threatens to drown her. She gives in to it every time, her own desire a riotous river which demands attention.
Kissing Harwin Strong is like riding a dragon, Rhaenyra decides. His love is an endless sky and she feels like she is flying with every touch. Her bones sing with his kisses, her heart beats to his drum and Rhaenyra knows no pleasure better than the pressure of his touch.
Harwin picks her up, with little care for her weight. Walking to the bed, he deposits her in the centre of the furs – causing her to laugh loudly. He pulls at her shift with an experienced hand, leaving her bare to the cold night breeze.
Bearing two babes in two years had left its mark on Rhaenyra’s body. Long, silver streaks line the skin of her stomach, which has softened with time. Her breasts have sagged too, filling with milk she fed her children. The changes are enough to make Rhaenyra shiver against the breeze, uncomfortable.
But Harwin Strong does not look away. He stares at her, bare chest panting and eyes hungry. His desire evident from the hardness straining in his breeches, begging for release. The knight makes no move to relieve himself, instead placing his hand on her stomach, feeling the marks that inspire her discomfort for himself.
“Gods, you are beautiful,” Harwin whispers, leaning down to kiss her again. “My beautiful, sweet girl.”
He feasts on her for hours, licking into her core with little abandon. His tongue creates shapes in her folds and suckles on the rosebud at the peak of her womanhood, plucking moans from her mouth and nectar from her cunt.
“I love you,” she whispers, over and over again as she clings to his hair and begs him for more.
Harwin fills her up with a quick thrust, letting out a choked moan at the feel of her clenching around his cock. There is nothing more delightful than being inside Rhaenyra Targaryen, Harwin Strong decides.
The knight whispers his Princess’s name when he comes, a litany on his lips as he holds her trembling body in his arms. And just for a moment, their sins are forgettable – washed away with the tide of Dragonstone.
Jace is five years old when he sees his mother kiss Ser Harwin Strong.
He is just back from the training yard, his nose bleeding and his leg sore. He had been pushed over by Aemond again, who held his face in the dirt and screamed at him to keep his shield up. Ser Criston Cole had stood idly by until Aegon had pulled his brother off the Prince, offering him a hand to pull him from the ground.
The knight of the Kingsguard offered little sympathy when he saw Jace bleeding. “If you wish to be King, you’ll need to get used to blood, boy.”
Jace had bit his lip so hard he tasted blood in his mouth. He did not want to cry in front of his Uncles, or the kingsguard. They would call him weakling again and ring his head as they had done in the past.
So the little Prince begins the long walk back to his mother’s chambers, limping up the stairs and with a cloth to his nose. The blood pours from his nostrils, spattering on the floor and all over his jerkin. The fine blue fabric gifted for his name-day now had a large blood stain marring his father’s sigil.
Jace realises his mother isn’t alone when he hears soft whispers coming from her bedchamber. Her kingsguard weren't at their posts when the Prince entered the chambers, his feet soft against the stone.
“I hope it’s a girl this time,” a man says, voice too low to be Jace’s father.
“You are the only man in all seven kingdoms who would wish for a daughter,” his mother laughs, the sound like tinkling Dothraki bells.
A gruff chuckle reverberates through the room. “Would it be so bad? To have a girl with silver hair and her mother’s eyes?”
Jace crouches down behind a carved chest near the threshold of his mother’s bedchambers. It gives him enough cover to spy on those hidden by a sheer curtain. Jace soon spots two shadowy figures – his mother sitting on the bed, looking up at a man with broad shoulders and a gold cloak.
“That would certainly silence the whispers,” his mother says. “Although I fear it too late for the boys.”
“Whispers plague the most powerful, Rhaenyra. The boys will rise above it.”
“They should not have to endure it,” his mother whispers. “They will pay for our foolishness and I can do little to stop it.”
The man steps forward, grabbing Jace’s mother by the arms. The Prince can see his mother’s eyes widen in shock, but there is no fear in her face.
“Fuck the court and their whispers,” he says. “You are a dragon and you will be Queen. The court’s gossip is of no consequence.”
Jace watches as his mother’s face crumbles, as it so rarely does. “I’m worried, Harwin.”
The little Prince feels stupid he did not recognise the knight sooner. After all, Ser Harwin was a constant presence in his life – standing in the shadows behind his mother.
“The Queen is relentless in pursuing the rumours,” his mother continues. “And when she learned I was with child again, she told Laenor he would be lucky to sire a babe who looked like him! She speaks without fear, now, Harwin. If she is so bold to my face, what does she say when my back is turned? What does she say when she is alone with the King?”
The knight pulls her chin up, as he has done to Jace so many times before. “Rhaenyra…”
Ser Harwin leans forward, kissing the Princess with little restraint. Jace watches, appalled as his mother’s hands go to the knight’s hair.
Scrambling away from the chest and to his feet, the Prince bangs into a vase, causing it to smash on the stone floor.
“Hello?” His mother calls from the bedchamber. “Who’s there?”
Ser Harwin is pulling his sword from his belt as he rushes from the bedchamber, only to halt at the sight of a bloodied, black-haired Prince.
“Jace?” His mother gapes at the sight of him, rushing to his side. She kneels beside him, her hands coming to cup her son’s cheeks. “What happened?”
“I fell.”
“Jace, please don't lie to me,” Rhaenyra pleads, taking in her sons swollen nose and the way he held all his weight in one leg. “Were you hurt in the training yard? Did someone do this to you?”
Jace looks away from his mother, biting down on his lip again. He didn’t want to cry, but his mother’s kind eyes and soft touch was enough to cause his throat to close up and tears to well in his eyes.
“My love, don’t cry,” Rhaenyra murmurs, brushing away his tears as they fall. “Are you awfully hurt? Shall I call for the Maester?”
“No!” He shouts, shaking his head. “I don’t want them to know I cried.”
“Who, Jace?” Ser Harwin asks, hand gripping the pommel of his sword so tightly his knuckles turn white.
“Aemond,” he mumbles, hands coming to wipe his face.
Rhaenyra grits her teeth, the fury of all seven hells filling her heart and bursting across her body. Dragonfire had nothing on the anger of a mother, whose son wept before her.
“And what of Ser Criston Cole?” Ser Harwin asks, his jaw locked. Jace thinks he looks like a warrior, ready to storm into battle. “Was he there? What did he see?”
Jace shakes his head, unwilling to answer the knight.
Rhaenyra tightens her hold on her son, forcing him to meet her eyes. “You must tell us, Jace. You’ll not be in trouble, I promise.”
“But they’ll know I told…” Jace says, tasting the salt of his tears on his lips. “I don’t want them to know.”
Rhaenyra’s face folds in pain at the sight of her son so meek. “If they have hurt you, they must be punished. And if you do not tell me, I can promise you, Jace, that the truth has a way of being found out – regardless of whether we want it or not.”
The Prince stares at his mother and knows she has won this battle. He tells her of the fight in the training yard and the way Aemond had held him in the dirt. He tells her of Ser Criston’s words. With every confession, comes more anger from the Princess and the knight. Their wrath fills the room without words needing to be spoken.
When Jace is done, Rhaenyra inhales deeply and glances at her knight. “Ser Harwin will accompany you to the training yard from now on, Jace.”
“But—”
“And I will deal with Aemond and Ser Cole myself,” Rhaenyra cuts her son off, tucking his hair out of his eyes. She says the words for both her boy and her knight, who seems desperate to stride down to the training yard and beat the kingsguard within an inch of his life. “Now we must get you cleaned up.”
Rhaenyra washes the blood from her son’s face, dragging a warm cloth over his nose and neck. Jace watches her with the brown eyes of his father and asks, “Do you have secrets, mother?”
Rhaenyra meets the eyes of her eldest son. “Everyone has secrets, Jace.”
Once the boys are asleep, Rhaenyra finds Harwin speaking to Laenor – her husband already incensed.
“Cole deserves the sword,” Laenor spits. “He is meant to protect our sons, not bully them.”
“Cole is the Queen’s knight, we can do little to touch him,” Rhaenyra says, feeling exhausted. She clutches her belly as she sits down before the two men who occupy her life.
“Then let me touch him, Rhaenyra,” Harwin grunts. “I will kill him myself if you consent.”
“I do not,” Rhaenyra snaps. “If you were to kill Cole, you would be sent away from court. Worse, you could be put to the sword yourself. I need you here, by my side. Now more than ever.”
Harwin clenches his fists. “But he is allowing those cunts to hurt our boys.”
“Do you think I am not angry, Harwin? I want to strangle Aemond myself. If the world was just, I would have the power to inflict the same pain on my brother as he has done to our son,” Rhaenyra snarls. “But the world is not just and we are walking a delicate line. We must not flame tensions at court, lest we want to bring chaos onto this family.”
Rhaenyra shakes her head, clutching her stomach. “I will speak to my father about this, but we must be smart. This is not a game of gossip anymore. It is our lives.”
Rhaenyra tells her father of Jace’s fear when they break their fast the next morning.
The King listens to the story with eyes of disappointment and promises punishment for his son.
But in the end, there is little punishment for the Queen’s children.
Aemond is left to continue his lessons, his glare ever sharp when he stares at Jace and Luke. But the threat of violence is quickly quelled by the constant presence of the commander of the City Watch, who stands on the sidelines of the training yard with steel at his hips and fury in his eyes.
“I’ll protect them,” Ser Harwin promises, when midnight has fallen. They lie together in the aftermath of their coupling. Rhaenyra listens to her knight’s heartbeat. Harwin holds her heavy womb. “I’ll protect all of you.”
“I know you will,” Rhaenyra whispers, feeling a dread crawl across her skin as an uncertain future looms on the horizon.
Their years of secrets unravel with three things;
The birth of a third son, dark of hair
A fight in a training yard.
And a father unwilling to protect his child.
“Your intimacy with the Princess Rhaenyra is an offense that would mean exile and death... for you, for her, for the children!”
The Princess listens with her back to a wall and a tender heart which slowly breaks.
“Today, you publicly assaulted a Knight of the Kingsguard in the defense of your…”
The Lord Hand doesn’t speak the secret he knows to be true.
And neither does Ser Harwin.
“You have your honour and I have mine.”
Rhaenyra saves her tears for when her knight stands before her, stripped of his gold cloak and his freedoms. He was to ride off to Harrenhal and marry, leaving behind the rumours that had haunted his house for nearly a decade.
“Rhaenyra…” He whispers and suddenly her courage is gone.
Broken sobs rack her body as her tears flow freely. The heir to the Iron throne, a dragon rider and mother of sons, weeps for all she is about to lose. Her grief is an ocean and she feels she is drowning in it.
Harwin does what he knows how to do best: he comforts his Princess with an embrace. She buries her face into his chest, clinging to him. Bravery is a stranger in this moment and Rhaenyra curses her courage for failing her now.
“I don’t want you to go,” she confesses, her voice barely above a whisper.
Harwin presses his nose into her hair and speaks through his own tears, “I must go.”
The Princess and her Knight stand together, united in grief. They’re haunted by a loss they have yet to experience. Their love is not enough to save their secrets from the derision of the court and the Queen.
“I shall miss you,” Harwin breathes, pressing a searing kiss to the crown of her head. Pulling back, he cups her cheeks in his hands and brushes away her tears. “But you must know I regret none of it.”
Rhaenyra lets out a sob.
“Loving you has been the easiest decision of them all,” Harwin murmurs, fingers tracing the lines of her skin. “And gods, how I love you.”
Their kiss is sweet and slow and says everything they cannot say with words.
“You need only send for me and I will come,” Harwin promises. “I may be far away, but I will protect you and the boys. Always.”
Rhaenyra nods, tasting salt on her lips.
“You go. And I’ll stay.”
Ser Harwin Strong leaves his Princess with the promise of meeting again, but the world is not fair and dragons rarely get what they want.
Rhaenyra Targaryen screams at the sky when she learns of the fire at Harrenhal.
The letter confirming the death of the heir of House Strong is clutched in her hand, ruined by her tears.
The Princess stands in the eye of a storm, on the island Dragonstone and cries for all that she had lost.
Harwin is gone.
And her heart had turned to stone.
It is hours before she returns to the keep, where her sons are waiting for her. “Mother? Are you alright?”
Three boys with their father’s dark hair and copper eyes stare at the woman who gave them life. She is grief-stricken on this night, wild and willful and everything a Princess should not be.
“My boys,” she whispers, beckoning them to her side. She runs her hands through their curls as she grieves a man whose face they wear. “My loves.”
The Princess sits them before a fire and as they wait for the storm to pass, she says:
“I want to tell you a story about your father.”
Art credit: @buriedbloom on twitter // @salihace on instagram // @bloomsbury on tumblr. Please go check them out!
Scene inspo in this chapter: Normal People and a great fic by MissAtomicBomb called 'Dying Breed'
Song rec: my tears ricochet by Taylor Swift.
FYI, this fic is now done! Thanks for reading - comments are appreciated because I love feedback.