Harry Penrose

First Son of House Penrose | Prince Joffrey’s Sworn Heart | Well Known Bard In King’s Landing “Hal the Harper”

[princejoffreyvelaryon]

A Prince in the Middle of the Kingsguard

Thread with @ser-robert-darklyn & @hal-the-harper

(a part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood)

Being in the Kingsguard's designated area of the Red Keep was nothing unusual for Prince Joffrey. After all, it is where Ser Harrold spent a great deal of his time, and everyone in Kings Landing knew that wherever Ser Harrold went, Prince Joffrey followed.

But, the Kingsgaurd wing was not just solely for Harry and Joffrey. There was many others here to speak to, and the Prince loved nothing more than conversing with others.

Currenlty, Joffrey was waiting for Harry to come find him here. So, while he waited, he decided to pay another Kingsguard a visit. He walked through the rooms gracefully, waving at others who passed by, rings sparkling in the morning light as he did so.

Ser Robert Darklyn had been a constant figure in Joffrey's life, being Princess Baela and Prince Jacaery's sworn protector as well as a friend of their family in general. Joffrey had always admired the man, and his little brother Baelon had spoken about his armor quite a few times.

Joffrey peered through the corridor, making his way towards the knight. There he sat, quiet and thoughtful, cleaning his armor. Joffrey smiled at him. "Hello, Ser Robert! A fine day today, is it not?" He stepped closer, coming up to a little seat near Robert.

"May I sit and talk with you while I wait for Harrold?" He asked, sitting down on the plush pillow, fixing his cape so it did not wrinkle. Before Ser Robert could fully answer, Joffrey launched into his third question of the morning.

"May I ask the name of the smith who made your armor, if you know? Baelon has been asking about it, he has a fascination with fine armor, and he's seem to have taken a liking to yours!" Joffrey waved his hands towards the armor that was shining now due to Robert's care for it. He truly was curious, as he always appreciated an artists fine work, smith's especially. He knew the names of the smiths who made Harrold's armor, and in fact, Harrold himself spent quite a lot of time forging himself. What a wonderful skill to posses.

Joffrey looked up, thinking for a moment. "Perhaps I should like to ask the smith to make something for Baelon, for his nameday of course." He said, speaking more to himself than the man in front of him.

[ser-robert-darklyn]

(replying to the thread with @princejoffreyvelaryon and @hal-the-harper)

There was calm in rituals, ease in repetition. The mind free while the body diligently worked, small circular movements of the hand polishing the metal surface of the chest plate of his armor.

There was calm, ease, and there was silence. Or there were before Prince Joffrey rolled in like a wave, a flurry of words and energy. It was an almost daily occurrence, rarely the Prince and Ser Harrold where apart and when they were the Prince had no qualms in walking around the guards' living quarters looking for the other. Another thing Robert knew was that the Prince loved talking, to everything that had ears to listen, and there was no way of stopping him unless he was done and so his peace and quiet were gone.

Robert's dark eyes raised from the spot he was cleaning, before he could either greet the Prince or offer him a seat Joffrey was already sitting. "Good morning, Your Highness. It is a fine day indeed." He greeted with a polite little nod. He liked to think they were past bows and curtsies, Joffrey's presence was a constant here and he was always relaxed around them. Robert appreciated that.

With his focus now on the fast chattering of Joffrey he resumed the polishing of the dark metal, it was finely crafted but Robert rarely wore it anymore, preferring the one provided to all the King's guards.

"Uhm, I am not sure, it was a gift but I know it was crafted in Duskendale. I could ask if Your Highness wants." He proposed though he knew the Prince would have gone on talking even without his encouragement, Robert found this skill most impressive if not a bit intimidating.

[hal-the-harper]

"Robert Bobbert! I'm back!" Harry called as he pushed through the door, already shrugging out of his armor.

The afternoon patrol had been the price of a wager lost. An unjust wager, in Harry’s view. He could drink with any man in the Seven Kingdoms, but Ser Arneld was less a knight than a walking cask of ale. No man alive could hope to best him.

The duty itself was dull enough. A circuit of the gardens and stables while the rest of the garrison found better uses for their time. Harry did not mind overmuch. More often than not he dragged Robert along for company, or torment, depending on the day, mostly because Harry had appointed himself the sole warrior in the battle against whatever ancient, joyless spirit had possessed Robert at birth.

His helmet hit the bench first, followed by pauldrons, cuirass, plackart, and gauntlets. Before long, his side of the changing room resembled an iron graveyard. Soon he'd be rid of the rest of it, back in proper clothes, and free to spend the evening with Joff.

Harry balanced on one foot, wrestling with a stubborn cuisse.

"The most dangerous thing in the gardens is that blasted rose bush, robbybobbyboy," Harry began dramatically, wrestling one gauntlet off with his teeth, "I swear it has a personal vendetta against me."

A gust of air did little to free the blonde curls plastered across his forehead.

"I think I got a thorn stuck in my calf. Can you believe it? Survived tourneys, survived training, nearly died to horticulture. As soon as I get these greaves off, I need you to fetch some tweezers and—"

Oh.

Harry froze mid-hop as his one uncovered eye landed on Joffrey. Joffrey, smiling at him. Joffrey, sitting comfortably as though he'd been there all along. For one treacherous second, Harry forgot every thought in his head. Even waiting quietly, Joffrey looked like something painted onto the walls of a sept.

Gods, Harry was a lucky man.

"You're early!" he blurted. The words were immediately followed by his body attempting to launch itself across the room toward Joffrey. Halfway through the motion, however, Harry remembered Robert existed.

And was watching.

And sitting directly next to Joffrey.

Harry could practically hear his own soul leave his body.

"My lov—" he stopped so abruptly he nearly lost his balance. "—my liege."

A pause.

"Yes. My liege. Whom I have sworn faithful service to."

Another pause.

"Very normal liege-and-knight interactions."

His gaze darted toward Robert.

"Ser Robert. How curious to find you here as well."

As though their armor hadn't occupied neighboring spaces since the day they'd been knighted. Brilliant recovery, Harrold. Truly masterful.

Harry knew, rationally, that neither their friends nor their families would reject them. Yet the fear lingered all the same. Not for himself, but for Joffrey, for Rowena, or the whispers that followed people like shadows around the Capitol.

Robert had always been kind, but what if this was different? What if—

No, absolutely not. Harry refused to spend another evening trapped in his own head.

With deliberate force, he let himself flop backward onto the bench behind them.

Strategically, of course. From there, it would be remarkably easy to rest his head in Joffrey's lap later; at the same time, he could annoy Robert whenever the opportunity arose.

A flawless arrangement.

Harry bent one knee toward his chest and reached out with his foot to poke Robert squarely in the shoulder.

"What are you two talking about, hm?" he asked, pouting dramatically. "Let me guess. Robert Bobbert has finally agreed to join us for a night out?"

His grin widened.

"Did my darl—" he coughed into his fist. "—your Highness manage to convince our tragically reclusive friend?"

Because friendship was measured by how much one could annoy another before being punched, Harry hooked his toes in the hem of Robert’s tunic and tugged.

“Please say yes.”

Tug.

“Robert, I am begging.”

Tug.

“You cannot spend the rest of your life lurking in corners and staring thoughtfully into middle distance.”

Tug.

“At some point you must participate in society.”

Tug.

“Preferably while drinking.”

Tug.

“Preferably while dancing.”

Tug.

“Preferably while embarrassing yourself enough that I stop being the only one carrying that burden.”

Tug.

Harry shifted closer, close enough that his shoulder brushed Joffrey’s knee, close enough that he could pretend it was accidental, close enough that, if nobody was looking too carefully, he could enjoy it for a moment.

With a dramatic groan, Harry threw an arm across his eyes. What a miracle it would be to finally take Robert to have some fun, he was quite sure the man did not even know about his escapades as a bard! Through his splayed fingers, he peeked up toward Joffrey.

“Your Highness,” he said solemnly, “as my prince, I believe it is your duty to command Ser Robert to enjoy himself.”

[princejoffreyvelaryon]

new beginnings

a part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood thread with @hal-the-harper

Joffrey was so angry he could hardly breathe. His hands were as shaky as leaves and his heart seemed to pound harder than any drum he’d ever heard. Harrold had taken things too far this time, and Joffrey was left only to rage. 

The two had already fought about this earlier in the day, but Joffrey was not ready to let it go yet. Perhaps it was wrong of him, and perhaps he needed to stop being like this, but one thing had not stopped bothering him since this whole situation took place. Why did Harrold even do this? Because he was mad Joffrey dared to spend time with Lord Davos? Because he was mad Lord Davos helped Joffrey cut vegetables? They had fought, but he'd asked none of these questions. He felt as if he knew the answers, deep down, yet...

Harry had always been fiercely protective over Joffrey, preferring to be where he was at all times. That had never bothered Joffrey. And he wouldn’t have been so mad if Harrold had not messed up so badly to where his own brother was now involved. Poor Alesander, Joffrey thought, he won’t make it.

Alesander did not have the fiery passion Harrold did, he was softer and Joffrey did not think he could pull off whatever scheme he'd thought of to successfully fix this mess. It was his Harrolds fault, and Joffrey would let this be known once his sworn sword arrived.

He’d called him to his chambers almost a half hour ago. Late, of course. When is he ever on time? It only served to make his anger worse. But quickly, he was pulled out of his thoughts when he heard the door open. 

Harrold was not one to stall, and wasted no time examining Joffrey’s face and reacting to it. “Everything will be fine, Joff. Stop it with the pouting and the anger. Lord Allyrion is the one being ridiculous here, over a small joke I played... I knew he wasn’t a proper friend for you.” 

Harrold stood only a foot away from where Joffrey sat on his bed. He slowly made his way closer to Joffrey, his arms folded and his face so unserious, it irritated Joffrey. 

Through clenched teeth, Joffrey spoke back. “You put your brother through this mess, and for what? A stupid prank. Lord Davos did nothing to you, nothing! Yet you stand there and pretend you were justified in this and everything is fine. I can’t believe you, Ser Harrold.” Joffrey knew it  was childish to do so, but he couldn’t help but fold his arms back at Harrold and then turn his face away from him. 

He could not see Harrolds face now, but the rage was evident in his voice. “Stop calling me Ser Harrold. We’re so close and you can’t even call me Harry.” 

“That’s not the point!” Joffrey spit back. Tears welled in his eyes now, so offended by his dearest friend’s apathy towards the situation. He continued to look away. “How can you act this way…” 

Joffrey paused, voice thickening with the threat of crying. He knew his next words would hit a sensitive mark, but he intended them to do so. Perhaps if he could do that, Harrold would care more about the situation, and Joffrey could get answers. 

“Why do you act as though I only owe my time to you? Lord Allyrion was a friend, I did not mean to exclude you, but Harrold, your possessiveness of me has gone too far. I cannot turn my blind eye to this anymore. I want an answer.” 

Joffrey continued to sit on his bed, hugging himself for comfort as he waited for the response. But none came. Joffrey waited, and waited, and waited, but no rough and angry voice that belonged to his Harrold came. 

He almost got up from the bed, expecting to see that Harry had left, until he felt the bed dip under the pressure of another body. Harrold was sitting next to him now, blank faced. The Prince could do no more than scan his friend’s face, the dirty blonde curls that almost hid his eyes were more messy than usual. The dark circles under his eyes becoming more apparent to Joffrey the more he stared. Harrold’s soft lips tightened, and then began to move with his soft voice. 

“I came to Kings Landing for the sole purpose to be with you. I fought with my own twin brother for you. I announced before the whole court that we’d never be separated. I’ve spent every day since then by your side, basking in your light and hoping for a chance that you’d look at me or touch me the way I did you. How can you still not know? No, that’s wrong, how can you still pretend to not know?” Once finished, Harrold stared into Joffrey’s eyes.

Joffrey was stunned to silence, it was apparently his turn to now say nothing for another long pause. He watched Harrold’s unmoving face, a statue that watched him and waited for his response. 

The Prince’s mind was blank, the words he had just heard made his whole body feel numb and he could say no more than something he knew would set Harrold off. 

“I do not know what you speak of.” The words were false and bitter in his mouth, and yet Joffrey still said them. 

In an instant, Harrold sprung up from the bed, dangerously close to Joffrey and standing tall. “You liar! You pretend ignorance, and you drive me mad with it. I know for certain you remember the night at Jacaerys and Baela’s wedding. We were drunk, you and I, and we-“

“Enough!” Joffrey put his hands over his ears, refusing for the next words to be spoken aloud, lest it make them true. He began to truly cry now. His body hyperventilated with the sobs and he turned away from Harrold completely.

It felt almost another eternity before Joffrey felt long fingers on his back, rubbing comforting circles. Joffrey did not move, his back to Harrold and his crying continuing. 

“I am sorry for all of the grief I’ve caused you. I am truly sorry.” Harrold said, breaking the painful silence with a less angry tone of voice. 

“But no longer can I pretend, sweet Prince.” Harrold took a deep breath in through his nose. “I want you. I want you more than I have ever wanted anything before. I want you even though you think it’s wrong for us to want each other because of what society says. I’ll want you until I die, I’m certain. Our kiss has not left my mind since it happened, and I do not regret it. If you cannot face that truth now, I understand, but I won’t suffer your pretending any longer.” 

Joffrey heard, and he listened, but he could not respond. The pain in his chest did not allow him to, and his face remained in his pillows. He could not respond, and he knew exactly why.

Because it was all true. Yet he could never accept this truth. He was to marry one day, to have children, to do his duty to the realm and his family. There was no room for this. 

Joffrey waited yet another eternity before he felt the soft touch on his back evaporate. He heard footsteps and his door opening, but he did nothing to respond. He only lay there and cry. And cry. And cry. 

Months before...

Harry was helping Joffrey back to his rooms as best as he could, the two holding each other up for support as they struggled towards the door. Joffrey had never been so drunk in his life, and Harry seemed to be just as intoxicated as him. 

The wine at Jace and Baela’s wedding feast had been too tempting to pass up, and it was one glass after another until Joffrey realized what was happening. I’m drunk, he thought, but I don’t care. Strange…

Harry’s arms were strong and comforting on his shoulders, and he was not bothered by the touch in the slightest. He did not even care that they had been stumbling along to his bedroom, holding each other the whole time. Was it the alcohol? Or was the support of his dear Harry too comforting to let go of? 

They finally reached Joffrey’s room, and they both went inside, Joffrey making his way towards his bed immediately. “Ser, please stay a while. I am not ready to be alone yet… stay?” Joffrey pleaded, looking up at Harry. He felt… desperate? His heart ached and his body felt light with the alcohol, and he couldn’t stand the thought of not having Harry here for some reason. 

Harry’s face looked shocked, but he stayed, sitting next to Joffrey on the bed. Joffrey scooted closer to his friend, barely noticing when he scooted a little too close and their noses almost collided. “Oops! I’m… not balanced…” Joffrey laughed, putting his hand over his mouth. It was all too funny, he thought. 

But Harry was not laughing, and his face reddened. Upon further examination, Joffrey noticed he looked… sad. What was there to be sorrowful about this night? The prince pondered to himself, suddenly feeling his heart ache once again. To see Harry sad was too heartbreaking to handle.

“Ser… what’s wrong?” But Harry did not answer, and only let out a sigh. Joffrey decided to try again, but felt compelled to touch Harry suddenly. He knew his best friend showed affection through his warm embraces and soft touches, and Joffrey couldn’t help but want to repay it now. Even though he never did this, suddenly it didn’t feel scary. He felt lighter than ever.

Joffrey reached out with both hands and cradled Harry’s face, making him look at him. “Harry, what troubles you?” The red that filled Harry’s cheeks turned Joffrey’s stomach. He felt sick, but it wasn’t a bad sick… he couldn’t place the feeling. 

“Jacaerys and Baela were so lovely.” The words sounded pained as Harry struggled to speak. What was so bad about that? Joffrey was confused. 

“Yes… yes.” Joffrey felt tired, he couldn’t say much more than agree, but he continued to hold Harry’s face, now moving his thumbs to stroke his dear friends cheeks. 

Harry looked even more miserable now. “They kissed and I could tell they were in love. Their kiss… will we ever kiss someone in such a way?” Joffrey’s eyes widened at these words. 

“Of course! Harry!” Joffrey whined. “You’re who everyone wants to kiss!” He laughed, not letting go of Harry’s face still. Harry went into a silence once more, the two of them sitting there extremely close… 

Of course everyone wanted to kiss Harry. He was handsome, loyal, dedicated, and so kind… so kind… Joffrey swallowed hard. He looked down at Harry’s lips, imagining another girl kissing him. No! He thought, that’s not right.

Something seemed to take over Joffrey, because after that thought he could only think of those lips. The thought of another kissing them was not right, only Joffrey was allowed to… so he did it. 

Leaning forward, Joffrey did the unthinkable and kissed Harry. He felt no nervousness, as he was too far gone from the alcohol, but he was fully aware of what was happening all the same. It only felt right that he kissed his dearest man right now...

Their lips softly touched, and Joffrey could not think at all. Why haven’t we done this before? He wondered to himself. He went to deepen the kiss, pushing harder against Harry’s face, still holding it firmly. 

Harry seemed to melt under this pressure as he gave in and kissed back. Gently, Harry removed Joffrey’s hands from his face and began to push him on his back onto the pillows. 

Joffrey broke the kiss, looking up at his beautiful Harry. He felt as if he had been waiting an eternity to kiss him. *Why haven’t we before?He wondered again. I love him dearly. It’s only right that I kiss him! 

But, the prince was tired. The alcohol and events of the day finally caught up to him, and he closed his eyes. “Let’s go to sleep…” He hummed, smiling, still feeling Harry on top of him. But that feeling slowly went, as he felt Harry slide off of him. Joffrey didn’t open his eyes, but he felt his shoes slip off of his own feet. How peculiar… He thought, but the confusion ended quickly, as he could barely stay away. 

Hearing soft footsteps and an eventual close of his door, he fell asleep, dreaming of dark blonde curls and lips that would touch his. 

The smell of sweet cakes and burning candles filled Joffrey’s room while he fussed with his hair before the mirror. Everything had to be perfect when Harry arrived, and Joffrey’s hair was not cooperating, and that was not acceptable.

He ran his fingers through his hair for what seemed to be the hundredth time, expecting it to somehow fall into place. He sighed in frustration, then looked back at the table set up for him and Harry. 

It looked… romantic. His stomach turned with nerves at that thought. The thought someone might walk in and know what was happening… but he shook that thought out of his mind. His step-father had given him so many words of encouragement, and Joffrey couldn’t let them be for nothing. He also had a lock on his door, so that helped.

Looking back in the mirror, Joffrey once again ran his hands through the somewhat tangled mess and hoped for the best. His attention went to the door as he heard a knock, instantly forgetting his hair and his anxiety going up. 

He was here. And it was early. Harrold Penrose had never once been early to anything in his life without Joffreys help, and so it set his anxiety through the roof. Joffrey didn’t feel prepared enough, he thought he would have more time because of Harry’s unfashionable lateness, but alas, he was here early and Joffrey could only scramble to open to the door. 

Open the door… he thought with a frown. Harry never knocked, he had always entered Joffrey’s room without knocking. This always made Joffrey scold his sworn sword, telling him it was rude, but today it had served to make him sad. He knew things were different. 

They had not spoken for over a week, and it had been one of the hardest weeks Joffrey had ever suffered. Never in their lives together had they ever gone this long without speaking, and everyone at court had noticed. But Joffrey would fix this, his step-father had encouraged him to do this, making Joffrey feel a little less alone. Joffrey knew what it was that he wanted most in the world; to be with Harry. He could be brave to have him. 

After opening the door, he and Harry stood there, examining one another for a long moment. His messy curls were the same as always, his face unmoving as a statue as usual, but the dark circles under his eyes were even more pronounced. The guilt overtook Joffrey as he knew it was because of his actions that Harry was not sleeping. 

“Come in, Ser- or, I mean, Harry.” Joffrey clumsily corrected himself, using Harry’s preferred name now, as he knew he should have long ago. Sure it was proper to call Harry by his title and given name, but it was more proper that he called his own friend by what he wished to be called. 

Harry squinted his eyes, walking in and immediately staring at the food and candles on the table. His eyes now widened with shock, and his face was… blushing? Joffrey then began to blush with him. He had never seen Harry so flustered… it sent a rush of adrenaline through him. 

“What is all of this?” Harry said, waving his hand to gesture at the table Joffrey set up. “And do not dance around the question as I know you always do. Tell it to me plain and straight. What is the meaning of this?” 

Harry had his arms crossed, looking accusingly at Joffrey, yet still blushing. The two were too far apart… so Joffrey stepped forward to close some of the distance. Or perhaps, a little part of him just wanted to delay having to speak. He was stalling, just as he knew Harry hated him to do.

So he began, with shaky words and a beating heart that made it hard for him to focus on the man in front of him. But nonetheless, he knew he had to force the words out at some point, so he began. 

“Harry… I am sorry. I am so sorry for the way I have treated you. I…” He felt the tears threatening to fall, so he took in a deep breath. It was not the time to cry, Harry needed to hear this and Joffrey needed to be strong. 

Looking at Harry’s face gave him the strength to continue. The handsome, ethereal beauty of Harry in this candle-lit light was something Joffrey knew he would never look away from again. “This past week that we did not speak, I have never been so miserable. Without you, I cannot live. I cannot bear to be without your presence. You knew that all along, and I am sorry I could not tell you earlier. But it is true. To be with you… is all I want. Truly. I… I want you.”

Joffrey fell to his knees. He felt so weak, so miserable and pathetic as he sank and held Harry’s hand. Just his one hand, but a grip tighter than he’d ever given to him. Harry quickly bent over slightly. 

“Joffrey!” Harry called out, the worry in his voice making Joffrey’s heart ache. 

He couldn’t believe he had just spoken the words he had, and it felt all wrong, yet it felt completely right at the same time. He looked up at Harry, who returned his grip tightly. Harry looked the most shocked Joffrey had ever seen him before. 

“My heart calls only to you, Harry.” He said through tears that he could not control. Tears yet again. It seemed all the Prince had done this week was cry, and somehow he still had tears left in him to cry into the knees of his beloved Harry. 

He felt Harry’s other hand run his fingers through his scalp. Harry did not say anything, and the comfort of his touch made Joffrey continue on. 

“My love for you felt an unforgivable sin. Yet, I’ve discovered that the worst sin of all would be not loving you. That there is no wrongness in our love, though it is… unique.” He remembered all his step-father had told him. He remembered the fact that Targaryens were know for their… queer love, that what was wrong to others wasn’t necessarily wrong. Joffrey still had a hard time swallowing it, but he knew what was right. He knew it was all true and that Harry was who he wanted to love. 

It was silent for a moment. Then Harry let out an exasperated laugh. “Unique? That’s one word for it.” 

The prince scoffed. “Do not jest!” Joffrey could not believe Harry would joke at a time like this… Well, he could believe it, as Harry was always annoyingly joking. 

“Sorry, sorry.” Harry sighed deeply. “I do not know what to say. I’ve never heard you so…” Harry’s hand moved down from Joffrey’s hair to his cheek now, resting there. His green eyes widened and he swallowed hard, seemingly holding in his own tears. “You truly mean it?”

Joffrey angered at that. “If I did not mean it, I would not have said it. I could barely even say it, yet you doubt me?” 

“No, no, I do not doubt you… it is just hard to believe this is real. Please, stand up.” Harry then pulled Joffrey up, holding both of his hands and bringing him close. 

His sworn swords eyes left Joffrey only for a second to look at the table with sweet cakes. “This is for us? No, that is a stupid question, of course it is. You’re a sweet Prince, I’ve always said such.” Their hands were still interlocked, sending Joffreys heart through the roof and his hands shaking violently. But he continued to have a strong grip, wanting to give Harry his affection. 

Joffrey looked away, too embarrassed to look at Harry now as he spoke. “Yes, your favorite cakes are there… I lit those candles myself… uhm…” 

“Enough shyness. I need to know one more thing, sweet prince.” His voice now was so soft and caring, Joffrey wanted to sink back down to his knees. 

“Yes, Harry?” 

“Does this mean we are lovers now?” 

The question set Joffrey into another panic. He wanted to scream yes, and of course, but he couldn’t. Yes, they would be lovers, but not in the way others were. 

“I… I cannot promise you that you will be happy with me. We won’t be able to marry, ever, as we are… who we are. We won’t be able to join our hands together in front of the court, lest we want others throwing their food at us-“ 

Harry interrupted him quickly. “All things I know. I do not care. Do you?” 

Joffrey could have burst into tears again right there. He was certain now, that there was nothing to worry about. A weight lifted off of his chest, and he was ready to make the next step.

“…No, I do not care. I want you. I love you.”

He held up Joffrey's chin, pushing his face up slightly. "Good." Letting go, he hugged Joffrey now. A most unusual gesture between the two, but it was everything. Joffrey melted into the hug, and heard Harry say in his neck "I love you."

[hal-the-harper]

Harry’s boots felt like iron as he walked the corridor toward Joffrey’s chambers, every step heavier than the last. He had paced his own room for the better part of an hour, muttering half-sentences and playing out scenarios in his head where Joffrey slammed the door in his face, where he stood silent in that awful noble way of his, where he said nothing at all because he no longer wanted Harry.

He knocked. And immediately regretted it.

He never knocked. What was he doing?

He paced outside the prince’s chambers, his fingers tapping against the hilt of a blade he hadn’t remembered belting on. The hall was too quiet, too full of echoes and memories, ones he couldn’t outrun. Seven days without a word from Joffrey. The longest they’d ever gone since they were children. He missed him. Saints, he missed him.

He missed the curve of his frown when Harry teased him, the way his voice clipped with irritation but his ears flushed red like blooming roses. He missed waking to the faint sound of Joffrey’s steps, always lighter than they should’ve been. He missed tracing the memory of the prince’s back when sleep evaded him, missed, so much it hurt, the shape of someone who’d never quite left his heart since they were both too small to name it love.

He knew it now. It had been jealousy, thick and mean and bitter, that made him lash out. The fear that Joffrey would belong to someone else, someone proper, someone brave enough to say it first. So he’d said it instead, spitting the truth like venom. He loved Joffrey. He had always loved Joffrey. And love had made them cowards, both of them. Until now.

When the door opened, and he saw Joffrey—red-eyed, rumpled, blushing with effort and nerves—Harry’s breath caught. He saw the candles first, then the cakes, and for a moment he couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel, even. Just looked. Like some fool knight seeing a vision in a sept and mistaking it for the divine.

Then Joffrey dropped to his knees.

And Harry believed in gods again.

He could not breathe, could not move when those words spilled from Joffrey's lips, trembling and sure and more beautiful than anything Harry had ever heard. He could only kneel, inwardly if not in body, at the altar of this moment. He could only hold Joffrey’s hand, stunned, heart splitting open like a wound made new. A gift wrapped in sorrow and longing, finally laid bare.

He laughed. His face ached from smiling. It would not stop.

He tried to joke, of course he did. Called the love “unique,” because his mouth was faster than his brain. But the truth had rooted itself so deeply in his heart that it bloomed anyway, rising up, unstoppable.

And when Joffrey said it, when he chose him, truly, fully, Harry’s soul felt washed clean.

He pulled Joffrey closer, forehead nearly touching his, and let out a breath that felt like he'd been holding it since he was six years old.

“Do you know,” he whispered, eyes on the soft, shaken hands in his, “I almost kissed you in the tavern three moons past? You reached for me and our hands touched, just for a second, and I thought, ‘My gods, we fit. We fit, like they were carved for one another.’ It nearly killed me not to.”

He bent his head, kissing each knuckle of Joffrey’s hand like an oath. Soft, reverent. His atonement.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed against pale skin. “I should’ve come sooner. Should’ve said it first. Should’ve never let a whole week go by without hearing your voice.” He moved to Joffrey’s cheek now, kissing the trail where a tear had fallen, slow and tender. “You’ll cry no more. Not like this. Only joy, I swear it.”

Another kiss to his temple. Then one more, just beneath his eye.

“I’ve loved you since we met,” Harry said, smiling so wide it hurt. “Since we were two little fools sword-fighting with reeds by the fountain. Since you let me win just to see me smile, even though you hated to lose.” His voice trembled. “You were always braver than me.”

He leaned back only far enough to see Joffrey’s face, glowing in the candlelight.

“Now we get to have our sweet date,” he said, soft and playful, as if this moment wasn’t making the earth shift beneath them. “Though I swear, if you eat all the pickled beets again and leave me with none, I will rescind my declaration of undying love.”

He laughed, and it cracked open something deep and gleaming in his chest.

“Come, sweet prince. Sit with me. Let me love you now, the way I’ve always wanted to.”

[princejoffreyvelaryon]

Joffrey sat at his desk, finally finished with his schedule for the day. Harry’s and his schedule, that is. It was normal for him to write down all of Harrold’s duties for the day, helping him with being on time. His famous lateness paired well with Joffrey’s perfect earliness to anything. 

Even before they were lovers, Joffrey always did this. He didn’t contemplate why it felt so important, but he liked that Harry would always know where he was. If they ever needed each other, they could find each other. It was simple.

One important task of today he did not write down was on his mind. Haircut, he thought to himself. Poor Harry desperately needs one. His beautiful curls were beloved to Joffrey, but they’d grown wild and began to cover his sweet face, and that wouldn’t do. 

Joffrey had always cut Harry’s hair, but this would be his first haircut since their getting together. Would Harry distract Joffrey? Probably, yes, he thought. He used to distract me even before we became lovers, but now he’ll be even more insufferable!

Insufferable was surely not the right word, because it made Joffrey smile to think of Harry acting overly sweet as Joffrey cut the soft curls. His playful smile and loud laugh would cause Joffrey to blush, and he would scold Harry, only affectionately of course… 

Suddenly, the door swung open, and there was Harrold. “Sweet Prince! I’m sure you’ve missed me?” His joking tone was clear, but his affection was also present in the greeting. Joffrey only shook his head and smiled at Harry’s grand entrance. Though he still always came inside without knocking, of course, but that was the usual. 

He stood up from his seat, holding the paper in his hand. “Harry, dearest, there you are. Come, have you had breakfast yet?” Joffrey stopped, thinking for a moment. You idiot, you told the maids to send his breakfast to your room already.

He blushed. “Actually, don’t answer that, I had your food sent to my room here, I knew you’d accompany me.” Rolling his eyes at his own mistake, Joffrey went closer to Harry.

Harry huffed a laugh and spoke. “Do not be embarrassed, love, you know me all too well.” With that, Joffrey kissed his lover on the cheek, then grabbed his arm and pulled him close to the table. 

“Only a small kiss on the cheek? For what offense have I given this morning already!” Harry faked offense, smirking all while saying his words. Joffrey just put his schedule up to where Harry could see it. 

Joffrey clicked his tongue, shaking his head again. “Time to focus, Harry! We can kiss when we’re done.” He examined Harry’s hair for a short second, but then quickly looked back at his paper.

“So, here is our day, written out, as usual. We won’t be parted at all until about this time…” His finger pointed at the area of the paper where he’d written ‘Parents’. “I’ll be with my mother, and you’re to visit your father. It won’t be long and I’ll be safe, don’t worry. So just view this over, we’re not due for much today.”

His eyes traveled upward away from the paper now, back to the messy, excessively long curls. Harry’s eyes were squinted, reading the paper. It was sweet how engaged Harry was in Joffrey’s schedule for him. But Joffrey couldn’t contain his smile any longer and softly laughed. “But, darling Harry, before we begin our day, you’re getting your hair cut! It’s about time, really, I can’t see your beautiful face anymore. A shame for me, really, I like to look at you.” 

After saying a compliment to his beloved, Joffrey waited for him to react. Before, he never used to call Harry things like ‘beautiful’ and ‘gorgeous’, because he thought it indecent to say that to someone who wasn’t a lover… But now, it was different. Harrold was his lover, and it was exciting to see how Harry would react. Joffrey realized quickly into their relationship how much he wanted to say things like this, to call his Harry perfect and stunning and handsome and any other thing he could think of to describe this man before him. 

While smiling big, Harry raised an eyebrow, only pausing for a second. His hand suddenly held Joffrey’s face, and his eyes now were stuck on Joffrey’s lips. “Hm. So are we done here? I remember you saying we can kiss when we’re done.” 

“No! I just told you I am going to cut your hair! Sit in the usual chair, Ser! We can’t get distracted! I’ll go get the scissors…” 

Harry now sat in front of the mirror, faking annoyance at this task. “I cannot wait for this to be over with, I have big plans for us, love.” He smiled and looked up at Joffrey, with eyes that said everything, and gave him a sly wink that said even more. 

Joffrey blushed, yet again, and looked down at his scissors, pretending to examine if they were sharp enough. He couldn’t help but give in and give Harry the annoyed response he knew he wanted. “Oh, stop it! Whatever... plans you have, we will have time for later. I always add extra time for us to do as we please on the schedule! But not until your hair is fixed.” 

Harry barked out a laugh. “Adding bold things to our schedule, again? I only meant a romantic stroll through the gardens!” 

“Just sit still!” Joffrey began to thread his fingers through the dark blonde hair, making sure every knot was gone. He was confident in his ability to cut his hair, thanks to his step-sister Rhaena, and it was a most relaxing task if he was honest. 

It must have been relaxing for Harry as well, because he suddenly dropped the annoyed act and relaxed his body, humming as Joffrey’s fingers weaved their way through his hair. Joffrey smiled at this, then began to make the first cuts. 

Harry was silent for a bit, and Joffrey was as well as he concentrated on cutting each piece perfectly. Before he knew it, he was almost done, and ready to cut the shaggy bangs that covered Harrold’s green eyes. 

Joffrey took Harry’s chin and tilted it up. “Keep your head like this.” He resumed his work, but could feel Harry’s eyes on him. He decided to ignore it, but Harry made his staring known through his words.

“I like this view.” 

The Prince looked down and did his best to look angry. “Close your mouth and your eyes! You’ll get hair in them!” But Harrold only laughed at that. Joffrey knew his smile betrayed him, as he obviously was not mad at his lover. 

Joffrey made one last cut to his bangs, ruffled the curls, then stepped back. He nodded. Harry looked at himself in the mirror, smiling. “Perfect. Now let’s clean up all this hair and-“ Before he could finish his sentence, Harry sprang up and jumped into Joffrey’s arms, giving a kiss to his neck. 

“Thank you Joff!” He cheered, and Joffrey squeezed him back. He then pressed another kiss to Joffrey’s neck. And another-

The cursed blush was back on the Prince’s face now. “Harry! You’re getting hair all over my outfit!” He felt Harry’s breath on his neck as he laughed. Insufferable… but I love him. The Prince thought to himself. Joffrey hugged him tighter then. 

[hal-the-harper]

Harrold felt the sun warming the top of his head as he walked through the stone corridors, still smiling faintly at the memory of his father’s voice, proud and amused—“You look sharp, son. Cleaned yourself up at last?” Sebastion had ruffled his hair like he used to when Harry was younger, before settling into talk of training drills, House business, and the strange luck of spring rain delaying the hunts.

If only he knew.

Harry hadn’t lied, exactly; he had cleaned himself up. He just hadn’t said who had done it for him, or that the gentle hands that trimmed away the chaos of his curls were the same ones that, only hours earlier, had held his face like something precious.

Sebastion wouldn’t be angry, not really. He might be surprised, but not angry. He’d always liked Joffrey. The entire realm knew they were close, inseparable as boys and even more so now. But no one, not even Sebastion, knew how deep it ran. That his heartbeat sometimes followed the rhythm of Joffrey’s footsteps. That his entire schedule was in Joffrey’s hand. That the elegant trim he now wore was carved with care by the boy who also carried his affections.

Harry nodded along as Sebastion spoke, respectful, polite, even engaging. He liked his father. They had a good relationship, something rare enough among sons of lords. But still, even as they talked, Harry’s thoughts strayed; he wondered if Joffrey had finished eating, if he’d left the room yet, if he was cold.

Of course he’s cold, Harry thought as he turned the corner down the corridor that led to their chambers. He always is when I’m gone.

He didn’t even knock. Of course not. He never did. He opened the door slowly this time, quietly, slipping into the familiar space.

The room was perfect. Or his room, which he had turned into their room, quietly, day by day. He’d swapped out the darker tapestries for lighter ones, chosen with Joffrey’s eyes in mind. The fire was lit, even though the afternoon was mild. A book sat perfectly aligned on the table, one Harry had no intention of reading but knew Joffrey liked to glance through. The chairs were rearranged, slightly angled so Joffrey could watch the rain outside when it came, which he always said made him calm.

And there he was.

Joffrey stood at the window, arms folded loosely, staring out into nothing. His posture was composed, but Harry could see the faint movement of his shoulders, the slightest twitch that betrayed him. His prince was cold. Shivering. Waiting.

Harry didn’t speak right away. He let the moment stretch, savoring it. The presence of Joffrey, always a balm. Always his center. Then, quietly, he closed the door behind him and crossed the room without sound. His arms slipped around Joffrey’s waist from behind, his chest pressed warmly against the soft fabric of Joffrey’s robes.

He felt the shiver beneath his touch and smiled into the curve of his neck.

“Did you miss me, my dear?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t need one. He could feel it in every inch of Joffrey’s body, from the tension in his spine to the way his hands twitched like they wanted to reach back and hold Harry close.

“I missed you,” Harry whispered, letting his breath tickle the shell of Joffrey’s ear. “More than I should’ve. Spent half the conversation with my father thinking about the way your fingers felt in my hair.”

He let that linger, then tilted his head to press a kiss just beneath Joffrey’s jaw.

“He liked it, you know. The haircut.” A pause. “Said I looked sharp. Like a proper knight.”

Another kiss. This one lower, at the edge of Joffrey’s throat. “If only he knew who made me look that way.” His voice was softer now, slower. “What he’d say if he knew the prince he’s always called a good influence had his hands in my hair this morning, calling me beautiful.”

Harry leaned in fully, his grip around Joffrey tightening.

“I think he’d be pleased,” he said, smiling into Joffrey’s skin. “Because I am. More than I can say.”

And he stood there for a while longer, just holding him, letting the silence hum with all the things they didn’t need to say aloud.

“I love you,” Harry said simply, because he could, because he wanted to. “Even if you’re bossy. Even if you keep schedules like a clerk and pretend you don’t like when I ruin them. You’re my favorite thing to come home to.”

[princejoffreyvelaryon]

new beginnings

a part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood thread with @hal-the-harper

Joffrey was so angry he could hardly breathe. His hands were as shaky as leaves and his heart seemed to pound harder than any drum he’d ever heard. Harrold had taken things too far this time, and Joffrey was left only to rage. 

The two had already fought about this earlier in the day, but Joffrey was not ready to let it go yet. Perhaps it was wrong of him, and perhaps he needed to stop being like this, but one thing had not stopped bothering him since this whole situation took place. Why did Harrold even do this? Because he was mad Joffrey dared to spend time with Lord Davos? Because he was mad Lord Davos helped Joffrey cut vegetables? They had fought, but he'd asked none of these questions. He felt as if he knew the answers, deep down, yet...

Harry had always been fiercely protective over Joffrey, preferring to be where he was at all times. That had never bothered Joffrey. And he wouldn’t have been so mad if Harrold had not messed up so badly to where his own brother was now involved. Poor Alesander, Joffrey thought, he won’t make it.

Alesander did not have the fiery passion Harrold did, he was softer and Joffrey did not think he could pull off whatever scheme he'd thought of to successfully fix this mess. It was his Harrolds fault, and Joffrey would let this be known once his sworn sword arrived.

He’d called him to his chambers almost a half hour ago. Late, of course. When is he ever on time? It only served to make his anger worse. But quickly, he was pulled out of his thoughts when he heard the door open. 

Harrold was not one to stall, and wasted no time examining Joffrey’s face and reacting to it. “Everything will be fine, Joff. Stop it with the pouting and the anger. Lord Allyrion is the one being ridiculous here, over a small joke I played... I knew he wasn’t a proper friend for you.” 

Harrold stood only a foot away from where Joffrey sat on his bed. He slowly made his way closer to Joffrey, his arms folded and his face so unserious, it irritated Joffrey. 

Through clenched teeth, Joffrey spoke back. “You put your brother through this mess, and for what? A stupid prank. Lord Davos did nothing to you, nothing! Yet you stand there and pretend you were justified in this and everything is fine. I can’t believe you, Ser Harrold.” Joffrey knew it  was childish to do so, but he couldn’t help but fold his arms back at Harrold and then turn his face away from him. 

He could not see Harrolds face now, but the rage was evident in his voice. “Stop calling me Ser Harrold. We’re so close and you can’t even call me Harry.” 

“That’s not the point!” Joffrey spit back. Tears welled in his eyes now, so offended by his dearest friend’s apathy towards the situation. He continued to look away. “How can you act this way…” 

Joffrey paused, voice thickening with the threat of crying. He knew his next words would hit a sensitive mark, but he intended them to do so. Perhaps if he could do that, Harrold would care more about the situation, and Joffrey could get answers. 

“Why do you act as though I only owe my time to you? Lord Allyrion was a friend, I did not mean to exclude you, but Harrold, your possessiveness of me has gone too far. I cannot turn my blind eye to this anymore. I want an answer.” 

Joffrey continued to sit on his bed, hugging himself for comfort as he waited for the response. But none came. Joffrey waited, and waited, and waited, but no rough and angry voice that belonged to his Harrold came. 

He almost got up from the bed, expecting to see that Harry had left, until he felt the bed dip under the pressure of another body. Harrold was sitting next to him now, blank faced. The Prince could do no more than scan his friend’s face, the dirty blonde curls that almost hid his eyes were more messy than usual. The dark circles under his eyes becoming more apparent to Joffrey the more he stared. Harrold’s soft lips tightened, and then began to move with his soft voice. 

“I came to Kings Landing for the sole purpose to be with you. I fought with my own twin brother for you. I announced before the whole court that we’d never be separated. I’ve spent every day since then by your side, basking in your light and hoping for a chance that you’d look at me or touch me the way I did you. How can you still not know? No, that’s wrong, how can you still pretend to not know?” Once finished, Harrold stared into Joffrey’s eyes.

Joffrey was stunned to silence, it was apparently his turn to now say nothing for another long pause. He watched Harrold’s unmoving face, a statue that watched him and waited for his response. 

The Prince’s mind was blank, the words he had just heard made his whole body feel numb and he could say no more than something he knew would set Harrold off. 

“I do not know what you speak of.” The words were false and bitter in his mouth, and yet Joffrey still said them. 

In an instant, Harrold sprung up from the bed, dangerously close to Joffrey and standing tall. “You liar! You pretend ignorance, and you drive me mad with it. I know for certain you remember the night at Jacaerys and Baela’s wedding. We were drunk, you and I, and we-“

“Enough!” Joffrey put his hands over his ears, refusing for the next words to be spoken aloud, lest it make them true. He began to truly cry now. His body hyperventilated with the sobs and he turned away from Harrold completely.

It felt almost another eternity before Joffrey felt long fingers on his back, rubbing comforting circles. Joffrey did not move, his back to Harrold and his crying continuing. 

“I am sorry for all of the grief I’ve caused you. I am truly sorry.” Harrold said, breaking the painful silence with a less angry tone of voice. 

“But no longer can I pretend, sweet Prince.” Harrold took a deep breath in through his nose. “I want you. I want you more than I have ever wanted anything before. I want you even though you think it’s wrong for us to want each other because of what society says. I’ll want you until I die, I’m certain. Our kiss has not left my mind since it happened, and I do not regret it. If you cannot face that truth now, I understand, but I won’t suffer your pretending any longer.” 

Joffrey heard, and he listened, but he could not respond. The pain in his chest did not allow him to, and his face remained in his pillows. He could not respond, and he knew exactly why.

Because it was all true. Yet he could never accept this truth. He was to marry one day, to have children, to do his duty to the realm and his family. There was no room for this. 

Joffrey waited yet another eternity before he felt the soft touch on his back evaporate. He heard footsteps and his door opening, but he did nothing to respond. He only lay there and cry. And cry. And cry. 

Months before...

Harry was helping Joffrey back to his rooms as best as he could, the two holding each other up for support as they struggled towards the door. Joffrey had never been so drunk in his life, and Harry seemed to be just as intoxicated as him. 

The wine at Jace and Baela’s wedding feast had been too tempting to pass up, and it was one glass after another until Joffrey realized what was happening. I’m drunk, he thought, but I don’t care. Strange…

Harry’s arms were strong and comforting on his shoulders, and he was not bothered by the touch in the slightest. He did not even care that they had been stumbling along to his bedroom, holding each other the whole time. Was it the alcohol? Or was the support of his dear Harry too comforting to let go of? 

They finally reached Joffrey’s room, and they both went inside, Joffrey making his way towards his bed immediately. “Ser, please stay a while. I am not ready to be alone yet… stay?” Joffrey pleaded, looking up at Harry. He felt… desperate? His heart ached and his body felt light with the alcohol, and he couldn’t stand the thought of not having Harry here for some reason. 

Harry’s face looked shocked, but he stayed, sitting next to Joffrey on the bed. Joffrey scooted closer to his friend, barely noticing when he scooted a little too close and their noses almost collided. “Oops! I’m… not balanced…” Joffrey laughed, putting his hand over his mouth. It was all too funny, he thought. 

But Harry was not laughing, and his face reddened. Upon further examination, Joffrey noticed he looked… sad. What was there to be sorrowful about this night? The prince pondered to himself, suddenly feeling his heart ache once again. To see Harry sad was too heartbreaking to handle.

“Ser… what’s wrong?” But Harry did not answer, and only let out a sigh. Joffrey decided to try again, but felt compelled to touch Harry suddenly. He knew his best friend showed affection through his warm embraces and soft touches, and Joffrey couldn’t help but want to repay it now. Even though he never did this, suddenly it didn’t feel scary. He felt lighter than ever.

Joffrey reached out with both hands and cradled Harry’s face, making him look at him. “Harry, what troubles you?” The red that filled Harry’s cheeks turned Joffrey’s stomach. He felt sick, but it wasn’t a bad sick… he couldn’t place the feeling. 

“Jacaerys and Baela were so lovely.” The words sounded pained as Harry struggled to speak. What was so bad about that? Joffrey was confused. 

“Yes… yes.” Joffrey felt tired, he couldn’t say much more than agree, but he continued to hold Harry’s face, now moving his thumbs to stroke his dear friends cheeks. 

Harry looked even more miserable now. “They kissed and I could tell they were in love. Their kiss… will we ever kiss someone in such a way?” Joffrey’s eyes widened at these words. 

“Of course! Harry!” Joffrey whined. “You’re who everyone wants to kiss!” He laughed, not letting go of Harry’s face still. Harry went into a silence once more, the two of them sitting there extremely close… 

Of course everyone wanted to kiss Harry. He was handsome, loyal, dedicated, and so kind… so kind… Joffrey swallowed hard. He looked down at Harry’s lips, imagining another girl kissing him. No! He thought, that’s not right.

Something seemed to take over Joffrey, because after that thought he could only think of those lips. The thought of another kissing them was not right, only Joffrey was allowed to… so he did it. 

Leaning forward, Joffrey did the unthinkable and kissed Harry. He felt no nervousness, as he was too far gone from the alcohol, but he was fully aware of what was happening all the same. It only felt right that he kissed his dearest man right now...

Their lips softly touched, and Joffrey could not think at all. Why haven’t we done this before? He wondered to himself. He went to deepen the kiss, pushing harder against Harry’s face, still holding it firmly. 

Harry seemed to melt under this pressure as he gave in and kissed back. Gently, Harry removed Joffrey’s hands from his face and began to push him on his back onto the pillows. 

Joffrey broke the kiss, looking up at his beautiful Harry. He felt as if he had been waiting an eternity to kiss him. *Why haven’t we before?He wondered again. I love him dearly. It’s only right that I kiss him! 

But, the prince was tired. The alcohol and events of the day finally caught up to him, and he closed his eyes. “Let’s go to sleep…” He hummed, smiling, still feeling Harry on top of him. But that feeling slowly went, as he felt Harry slide off of him. Joffrey didn’t open his eyes, but he felt his shoes slip off of his own feet. How peculiar… He thought, but the confusion ended quickly, as he could barely stay away. 

Hearing soft footsteps and an eventual close of his door, he fell asleep, dreaming of dark blonde curls and lips that would touch his. 

The smell of sweet cakes and burning candles filled Joffrey’s room while he fussed with his hair before the mirror. Everything had to be perfect when Harry arrived, and Joffrey’s hair was not cooperating, and that was not acceptable.

He ran his fingers through his hair for what seemed to be the hundredth time, expecting it to somehow fall into place. He sighed in frustration, then looked back at the table set up for him and Harry. 

It looked… romantic. His stomach turned with nerves at that thought. The thought someone might walk in and know what was happening… but he shook that thought out of his mind. His step-father had given him so many words of encouragement, and Joffrey couldn’t let them be for nothing. He also had a lock on his door, so that helped.

Looking back in the mirror, Joffrey once again ran his hands through the somewhat tangled mess and hoped for the best. His attention went to the door as he heard a knock, instantly forgetting his hair and his anxiety going up. 

He was here. And it was early. Harrold Penrose had never once been early to anything in his life without Joffreys help, and so it set his anxiety through the roof. Joffrey didn’t feel prepared enough, he thought he would have more time because of Harry’s unfashionable lateness, but alas, he was here early and Joffrey could only scramble to open to the door. 

Open the door… he thought with a frown. Harry never knocked, he had always entered Joffrey’s room without knocking. This always made Joffrey scold his sworn sword, telling him it was rude, but today it had served to make him sad. He knew things were different. 

They had not spoken for over a week, and it had been one of the hardest weeks Joffrey had ever suffered. Never in their lives together had they ever gone this long without speaking, and everyone at court had noticed. But Joffrey would fix this, his step-father had encouraged him to do this, making Joffrey feel a little less alone. Joffrey knew what it was that he wanted most in the world; to be with Harry. He could be brave to have him. 

After opening the door, he and Harry stood there, examining one another for a long moment. His messy curls were the same as always, his face unmoving as a statue as usual, but the dark circles under his eyes were even more pronounced. The guilt overtook Joffrey as he knew it was because of his actions that Harry was not sleeping. 

“Come in, Ser- or, I mean, Harry.” Joffrey clumsily corrected himself, using Harry’s preferred name now, as he knew he should have long ago. Sure it was proper to call Harry by his title and given name, but it was more proper that he called his own friend by what he wished to be called. 

Harry squinted his eyes, walking in and immediately staring at the food and candles on the table. His eyes now widened with shock, and his face was… blushing? Joffrey then began to blush with him. He had never seen Harry so flustered… it sent a rush of adrenaline through him. 

“What is all of this?” Harry said, waving his hand to gesture at the table Joffrey set up. “And do not dance around the question as I know you always do. Tell it to me plain and straight. What is the meaning of this?” 

Harry had his arms crossed, looking accusingly at Joffrey, yet still blushing. The two were too far apart… so Joffrey stepped forward to close some of the distance. Or perhaps, a little part of him just wanted to delay having to speak. He was stalling, just as he knew Harry hated him to do.

So he began, with shaky words and a beating heart that made it hard for him to focus on the man in front of him. But nonetheless, he knew he had to force the words out at some point, so he began. 

“Harry… I am sorry. I am so sorry for the way I have treated you. I…” He felt the tears threatening to fall, so he took in a deep breath. It was not the time to cry, Harry needed to hear this and Joffrey needed to be strong. 

Looking at Harry’s face gave him the strength to continue. The handsome, ethereal beauty of Harry in this candle-lit light was something Joffrey knew he would never look away from again. “This past week that we did not speak, I have never been so miserable. Without you, I cannot live. I cannot bear to be without your presence. You knew that all along, and I am sorry I could not tell you earlier. But it is true. To be with you… is all I want. Truly. I… I want you.”

Joffrey fell to his knees. He felt so weak, so miserable and pathetic as he sank and held Harry’s hand. Just his one hand, but a grip tighter than he’d ever given to him. Harry quickly bent over slightly. 

“Joffrey!” Harry called out, the worry in his voice making Joffrey’s heart ache. 

He couldn’t believe he had just spoken the words he had, and it felt all wrong, yet it felt completely right at the same time. He looked up at Harry, who returned his grip tightly. Harry looked the most shocked Joffrey had ever seen him before. 

“My heart calls only to you, Harry.” He said through tears that he could not control. Tears yet again. It seemed all the Prince had done this week was cry, and somehow he still had tears left in him to cry into the knees of his beloved Harry. 

He felt Harry’s other hand run his fingers through his scalp. Harry did not say anything, and the comfort of his touch made Joffrey continue on. 

“My love for you felt an unforgivable sin. Yet, I’ve discovered that the worst sin of all would be not loving you. That there is no wrongness in our love, though it is… unique.” He remembered all his step-father had told him. He remembered the fact that Targaryens were know for their… queer love, that what was wrong to others wasn’t necessarily wrong. Joffrey still had a hard time swallowing it, but he knew what was right. He knew it was all true and that Harry was who he wanted to love. 

It was silent for a moment. Then Harry let out an exasperated laugh. “Unique? That’s one word for it.” 

The prince scoffed. “Do not jest!” Joffrey could not believe Harry would joke at a time like this… Well, he could believe it, as Harry was always annoyingly joking. 

“Sorry, sorry.” Harry sighed deeply. “I do not know what to say. I’ve never heard you so…” Harry’s hand moved down from Joffrey’s hair to his cheek now, resting there. His green eyes widened and he swallowed hard, seemingly holding in his own tears. “You truly mean it?”

Joffrey angered at that. “If I did not mean it, I would not have said it. I could barely even say it, yet you doubt me?” 

“No, no, I do not doubt you… it is just hard to believe this is real. Please, stand up.” Harry then pulled Joffrey up, holding both of his hands and bringing him close. 

His sworn swords eyes left Joffrey only for a second to look at the table with sweet cakes. “This is for us? No, that is a stupid question, of course it is. You’re a sweet Prince, I’ve always said such.” Their hands were still interlocked, sending Joffreys heart through the roof and his hands shaking violently. But he continued to have a strong grip, wanting to give Harry his affection. 

Joffrey looked away, too embarrassed to look at Harry now as he spoke. “Yes, your favorite cakes are there… I lit those candles myself… uhm…” 

“Enough shyness. I need to know one more thing, sweet prince.” His voice now was so soft and caring, Joffrey wanted to sink back down to his knees. 

“Yes, Harry?” 

“Does this mean we are lovers now?” 

The question set Joffrey into another panic. He wanted to scream yes, and of course, but he couldn’t. Yes, they would be lovers, but not in the way others were. 

“I… I cannot promise you that you will be happy with me. We won’t be able to marry, ever, as we are… who we are. We won’t be able to join our hands together in front of the court, lest we want others throwing their food at us-“ 

Harry interrupted him quickly. “All things I know. I do not care. Do you?” 

Joffrey could have burst into tears again right there. He was certain now, that there was nothing to worry about. A weight lifted off of his chest, and he was ready to make the next step.

“…No, I do not care. I want you. I love you.”

He held up Joffrey's chin, pushing his face up slightly. "Good." Letting go, he hugged Joffrey now. A most unusual gesture between the two, but it was everything. Joffrey melted into the hug, and heard Harry say in his neck "I love you."

[hal-the-harper]

Harry’s boots felt like iron as he walked the corridor toward Joffrey’s chambers, every step heavier than the last. He had paced his own room for the better part of an hour, muttering half-sentences and playing out scenarios in his head where Joffrey slammed the door in his face, where he stood silent in that awful noble way of his, where he said nothing at all because he no longer wanted Harry.

He knocked. And immediately regretted it.

He never knocked. What was he doing?

He paced outside the prince’s chambers, his fingers tapping against the hilt of a blade he hadn’t remembered belting on. The hall was too quiet, too full of echoes and memories, ones he couldn’t outrun. Seven days without a word from Joffrey. The longest they’d ever gone since they were children. He missed him. Saints, he missed him.

He missed the curve of his frown when Harry teased him, the way his voice clipped with irritation but his ears flushed red like blooming roses. He missed waking to the faint sound of Joffrey’s steps, always lighter than they should’ve been. He missed tracing the memory of the prince’s back when sleep evaded him, missed, so much it hurt, the shape of someone who’d never quite left his heart since they were both too small to name it love.

He knew it now. It had been jealousy, thick and mean and bitter, that made him lash out. The fear that Joffrey would belong to someone else, someone proper, someone brave enough to say it first. So he’d said it instead, spitting the truth like venom. He loved Joffrey. He had always loved Joffrey. And love had made them cowards, both of them. Until now.

When the door opened, and he saw Joffrey—red-eyed, rumpled, blushing with effort and nerves—Harry’s breath caught. He saw the candles first, then the cakes, and for a moment he couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel, even. Just looked. Like some fool knight seeing a vision in a sept and mistaking it for the divine.

Then Joffrey dropped to his knees.

And Harry believed in gods again.

He could not breathe, could not move when those words spilled from Joffrey's lips, trembling and sure and more beautiful than anything Harry had ever heard. He could only kneel, inwardly if not in body, at the altar of this moment. He could only hold Joffrey’s hand, stunned, heart splitting open like a wound made new. A gift wrapped in sorrow and longing, finally laid bare.

He laughed. His face ached from smiling. It would not stop.

He tried to joke, of course he did. Called the love “unique,” because his mouth was faster than his brain. But the truth had rooted itself so deeply in his heart that it bloomed anyway, rising up, unstoppable.

And when Joffrey said it, when he chose him, truly, fully, Harry’s soul felt washed clean.

He pulled Joffrey closer, forehead nearly touching his, and let out a breath that felt like he'd been holding it since he was six years old.

“Do you know,” he whispered, eyes on the soft, shaken hands in his, “I almost kissed you in the tavern three moons past? You reached for me and our hands touched, just for a second, and I thought, ‘My gods, we fit. We fit, like they were carved for one another.’ It nearly killed me not to.”

He bent his head, kissing each knuckle of Joffrey’s hand like an oath. Soft, reverent. His atonement.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed against pale skin. “I should’ve come sooner. Should’ve said it first. Should’ve never let a whole week go by without hearing your voice.” He moved to Joffrey’s cheek now, kissing the trail where a tear had fallen, slow and tender. “You’ll cry no more. Not like this. Only joy, I swear it.”

Another kiss to his temple. Then one more, just beneath his eye.

“I’ve loved you since we met,” Harry said, smiling so wide it hurt. “Since we were two little fools sword-fighting with reeds by the fountain. Since you let me win just to see me smile, even though you hated to lose.” His voice trembled. “You were always braver than me.”

He leaned back only far enough to see Joffrey’s face, glowing in the candlelight.

“Now we get to have our sweet date,” he said, soft and playful, as if this moment wasn’t making the earth shift beneath them. “Though I swear, if you eat all the pickled beets again and leave me with none, I will rescind my declaration of undying love.”

He laughed, and it cracked open something deep and gleaming in his chest.

“Come, sweet prince. Sit with me. Let me love you now, the way I’ve always wanted to.”

[some-call-me-menace]

you know how some people sleep with guns or knives under their pillows for protection? KEEP YOUR KNIGHT IN YOUR BED INSTEAD!! FOR SAFETY REASONS!! THAT'S YOUR LIVING WEAPON!!!! #mylivingweapon

[princejoffreyvelaryon]

Bed-rest

Starter with @hal-the-harper

(a part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood)

The two worst possible things had happened. The winter freeze had trapped everyone inside. Prince Joffrey could not stand being inside for long periods of time, and he could feel himself slowly going mad. He had cleaned his room hundreds of times, rearranged his belongings until everything sat at a perfect angle, and stared at the wall praying that this storm would end. His bones ached from the cold and his mind ached from every little worry that plagued him.

All of that, and his beloved Harrold was sick. Joffrey was in a frenzy over him. More of a frenzy over him than unusual.

This morning, he had noticed Harry looking rather flushed, and his forehead feeling terribly warm. His hands shook as he held Joffrey, and not from the cold. Joffrey immediately recognized that Harry was sick, his trembling and sweating giving it away quite quickly. But Harry continued to protest over and over again that he was fine.

"You are not fine! Stop saying that! Let me care for you now..." He'd scolded Harry, right before wrapping him tightly in a blanket and laying him down on his bed. It was usual for his love to deny any sort of sickness or injury that came his way, but Joffrey never fell for it.

The Prince had felt his sworn sword's forehead now what seemed to be a thousand times, he'd placed the pillows in a more comfortable position over and over again until it finally looked as though Harry was comfortable, and he had brought something for Harry to eat.

He listened to Harrold's coughs and further protests about his health not being of any worry. He ignored the protests and continued to dote on Harry every moment, being able to tell his lover felt miserable. It made Joffrey unable to keep calm. How could he be calm when his darling Harrold was not okay? He deserved to be cared for, just as he always cared for Joffrey.

Warm tea. Warm soup. Blankets. Pillows. What else did he need? How could Joffrey help him feel better? How long would it take him to recover? Did he need to call a maester? Should he call for Davos...

He turned his back to Harry, beginning to pace the room. Joffrey was speaking to himself now, worrying out loud. "What should I do now? I already did that, and that, and..."

The bed creaked as Harry shifted, trying to sit up. Joffrey looked back over to him quickly. "Harrold Penrose! Lay back down!" He rushed to Harry's side, sitting on the bed next to where he lay.

Harrold's head peeked out through the mass of blankets that Joffrey had bundled him in, his golden curls sprawling on the pillows. Joffrey ran his hands through that hair, his fingers massaging the others scalp. "Oh Harrold..."

"I know you think yourself incapable of catching an illness, but..." Joffrey moved to lay on the bed now, next to Harry, their faces close to each other. He continued to stroke the others hair.

He then pressed a quick kiss to Harrold's lips. "Just let yourself rest. I want to see you better again, so let me care for you. Please?" He frowned, pouting.

[hal-the-harper]

Harrold Penrose never got sick.

He was practically a legend in his own right. He broke his leg once as a squire and didn’t even cry. Got slashed across the ribs at sixteen and insisted on finishing the melee before letting the maester near him. His body was made for strength, for loyalty, for guarding delicate, golden princes from harm. Not for sweating through his nightshirt and coughing like a dockside drunk.

This was beneath him.

It had to be the oranges. That was it. When he was five, he caught a cold so vicious it rattled his little bones like a maraca. His grandmother, stern old Alyssa Penrose, had squashed roughly two hundred oranges into a jar and told him to drink until he glowed like a sunrise. Ever since, his body had held a grudge against illness. Or had, until now.

Because here he was, face hot and skull pounding, wrapped like a Seven-damned sausage in a pile of blankets, with Joffrey fluttering around him like a distressed maiden aunt.

He tried to insist he was fine. But it was difficult to sound credible when his teeth were chattering like dice in a cup. He’d opened his mouth to say something knightly and stoic, and instead made a noise like a kicked kettle.

Mortifying.

Meanwhile, his beloved prince had practically exploded. Fluffing pillows. Rearranging sheets. Dashing about like the keep was on fire. Blankets. So many blankets. Harry hadn’t seen this many layers since the last time he’d fallen into a linen chest. Pillows were stuffed beneath his head and behind his back like he was made of glass, or like he’d fought valiantly in the Snowstorm Rebellion and was now being honored posthumously. Food, tea, bitter tinctures (where did he even get those? They tasted like tree bark and betrayal), all of it forced upon him while his poor lips went terribly kissless.

And when Joffrey began to pace again, chewing on his fingers, muttering nonsense, looking like the world might end, Harry had finally had enough.

He sat up, or rather, tried to. His muscles felt like overboiled turnips, and he only made it halfway before the blankets got involved and he was flailing like a cat stuck in a tunic. Still, he’d been trying to reach Joffrey, to smooth that frown from his brow and press a kiss to that beautiful worried face. He could do that. He should do that. He would—

“Joff, I’m hardly—“

"Harrold Penrose! Lay back down!"

And oh.

“Yes, my prince.”

Well, that voice.

Something in him, some traitorous, melted part of his soul, obeyed without question. He flopped obediently back down, cocooned and warm and possibly dying (or just spoiled). Joffrey sat beside him like a vision from one of those overwrought summer romances Harry’s brother used to read aloud when she thought no one was listening.

Then the fingers came. Into his curls. Scratching gently at his scalp like he was some pampered hound and… gods… okay. Okay, this was dangerous. No knight could survive such tender petting. This was how beasts were broken, and he was going willingly.

And only then Joffrey kissed him.

It was quick. Chaste. But perfect.

It melted something feverish and trembling inside him.

So when his prince whispered that he only wanted to care for him, Harry didn’t protest this time. He simply let his head fall more deeply into the nest of pillows, letting himself be soft. Just for a moment, just here, just with him.

“Okay… okay… thank you, my love…” Harry hummed against Joffrey’s collarbone. “Maybe I should sleep somewhere else… I don’t want you getting sick as well…”

He reached up, his palm pressing gently to his prince’s cheek, and gave him the most pitiful, sniffly, utterly love-struck look he could muster.

Then, barely above a whisper, he rasped:
“… just… don’t call Davos. If I have to see that raccoon...”

Not because he hated the man. No, Davos was perfectly decent. Smart. Dangerous. Probably off snogging Ales in some broom closet right now.

And Harry would simply die if he had to see that on top of everything else.

He buried his face in Joffrey’s shoulder with a grumble, half-protest, half-purr. He’d allow this care. For an hour. Maybe two.

Maybe all night.

[hal-the-harper]

𓇢𓆸 SOMETHING STOLEN, SOMETHING REAL 𓆃

(Starter with @lady-of-sapphires)

The council chamber was cold, but Harry couldn’t feel it.

The heat had started at his neck, a slow creep like sunlight on frost, and it hadn’t stopped since. It spread down his spine and into his chest, flooding his limbs until his armor felt like molten iron. Too tight. Too loud. Too much.

He was sitting—he thought he was sitting—but he couldn’t feel the seat beneath him. Just pressure. Just heat. Just the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears like storm waves against cliffs.

“—and the match with Lady Rowena Grafton is to be announced at the feast next fortnight,” someone was saying. Someone important. Someone smiling.

That was all Harry heard before the words started slipping away, warping, dissolving into noise.

The engagement. It was real. It was happening. It had a name. A timeline. A feast.

He couldn’t breathe.

The air tasted wrong, too thin, too sharp, and his vision blurred around the edges like glass left too close to flame. His heart was drowning out the world, thudding so violently it rattled his teeth, his bones, the hollows of his ribs where Joffrey had once rested his hand.

He was going to be sick. Or scream. Or shatter.

So he fled.

He didn’t wait for Joffrey’s reaction. Didn’t wait for a look, a hand, an excuse that might have saved him if he’d only stayed. That was the story, wasn’t it? The tragedy etched into his bones. He never stayed. He never learned. He always burned.

You fly too close to the sun, and your wings come off in blisters.





Joffrey had been trying to speak to Harry about the wedding for weeks now.

Weeks of fumbled conversations, of hands reaching across sheets only to be pulled back. Of lingering glances across the training yard, the feast hall, the corridor outside their chambers. But Harry had stopped sleeping there. Stopped returning his gaze. Stopped letting him in.

Exactly why Harry had been avoiding him and their chambers altogether.

Because he knew. Knew what Joffrey was trying to say. Knew the wedding was close, that the ink had dried and the pearls were already sewn into the bridal veil. He knew it in the way Joffrey couldn’t meet his eyes some days. In the letters left unopened on the desk. In the silences that grew heavier than armor between them.

Harry almost had everything he wanted.

Five moons ago, he’d been ready to live a life in the shadows—watching Joffrey from afar, catching pieces of him in other men’s mouths and laughter, in brown eyes that weren’t quite the right shade, in side-smiles that were close but not his. He’d made peace with it. He’d learned to survive on scraps.

And then came the kiss. The confession.

Five moons of kisses between breaths, of laughing into each other’s collars, of moaning each other’s names like they were carved into holy stone. Five moons of wearing each other’s clothes and pretending it could last. Five moons of Joffrey curled into his chest like he belonged there.

Five moons, and now—

Now Joffrey was marrying Rowena Grafton.

Harry had been distant. He shouldn’t have been, but it felt wrong to want a man halfway to the altar. It felt like theft. It felt like trying to drink from a cup that was meant for another. And he couldn’t bear to be the one Joffrey would look back on with shame. The little secret. The story he’d never tell his children.

He couldn’t bear to see himself that way.

So, as the impulsive fool his mother always said he was, Harry did something reckless. Something stupid. Something that tasted like blood and desperation.

He went to Rowena.

She was beautiful, of course she was. Porcelain and dreamlike, with eyes like rain and hair that glimmered like moonlight. She looked like something from a song, a perfect match for a prince. She looked like someone Harry would’ve written poetry about once, if he hadn’t already bled all his words dry on Joffrey.

The gods would punish him for this.

Harry knew that. Knew it as he stood before her, hands trembling, breath shallow. Knew it when the words started pouring from him like wine spilled over stone.

“I was six the first time I saw him,” Harry started, eyes on his armor. “We were in the gardens behind the Red Keep. My father had brought me with him… he and the Queen were old friends, and it was all very boring, all talk of debts and feasts and bannermen.”

He swallowed thickly, eyes shining now. “But I wasn’t bored. Because I saw him. And I swear, my knees went weak. He had this wooden sword he refused to put down, even though it was nearly supper. He told me I’d never be a knight if I didn’t stop slouching. And I—Seven forgive me—I prayed that night for the first time in my life. Prayed to apologize. Because the gods must’ve been real to make someone like him.”

His fingers fumbled for the ring at his thumb, twisting it round and round until the skin beneath it ached. It was Joffrey’s ring. He wore it like a fool. Like someone who didn’t know how the story ended. “He looked like sunlight feels. You don’t understand what that does to a boy like me. How it follows you. Haunts you.”

He finally looked at her, meeting her eyes until his own stung. For once, Harry had no grin, no roguish wink to offer. He stood just inside the door, breath snagged in his throat like a thorn.

“I got over it. Or I thought I did. I grew up. Fucked my way through every person who looked remotely like him. Wrote songs I never sang. Learned to joke about it. Tell myself he’d marry someone fine and sweet and beautiful.” His voice cracked. “Someone like you.”

He dropped his gaze.

“And then he kissed me.”

The words thudded into the silence like stones dropped in water.

“I told him I loved him and he said it back. And then we kissed again. And again. Five moons.” He held up trembling fingers. “Five moons of wearing each other’s clothes. Of lying in his bed, counting freckles. Of falling asleep to the sound of his breathing. Of pretending it was all some stolen dream and not the most real thing I’ve ever had.”

He blinked. Hard. Tears clung to his lashes.

“I know he’s marrying you,” Harry said, quieter now. “I know. And I know how this ends. But I needed you to hear it from me before you heard it from him. Because he’s too gentle to say it. And I’m too selfish not to.”

He took a deep breath, looking past her now, to some faraway future he couldn’t reach.

“I love him. And I think he loved me. And maybe one day he’ll love you. Maybe you’ll have children, and I’ll hear about it in a tavern somewhere, and I’ll drink until I forget that they have his eyes.”

Harry stepped back, chest heaving. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted Joffrey to walk through that door and drag him away from this, to laugh at how reckless he’d been, to tell him he was worth fighting for.

But none of that happened.

So Harry turned, wiping at his face with the heel of his palm, breath catching again and again.

“But I had him. For a little while. And I can’t—Seven help me—I can’t pretend it meant nothing.”

He stepped back, one hand half-reaching toward her before dropping uselessly at his side.

“So I’m asking you to leave.”

The words were soft. Too soft. Barely audible over the fire.

“I know what I’m asking. I know how impossible it is. I know what it makes me. But I’m still asking.”

He laughed once, broken and wet and trembling.

“You can marry him. You probably should. He deserves someone kinder than me. Someone softer. But I’ll never stop fighting for him. I can’t. He sleeps on the left side of my bed. And he lives in the left side of my chest.”

His hand covered his heart, fingers curling like claws over his ribs.

“And I would hang a thousand times for saying it.”

Rowena didn’t speak.

That was what frightened him most.

Harry had expected rage, shrieking, a slap to his cheek, a scream that could crack glass and summon guards. He’d even braced for tears, for hurt, for betrayal. But not this. Not the silence. Not the way she sat so still, porcelain and perfect, like a painted maiden in some old Sept tapestry, too delicate to move.

His breath was ragged. He hadn’t meant to say it like that. But he also didn’t know how else to say it.

“I’m not asking for pity,” he said, even though he was, wasn’t he? “And I’m not asking for understanding either. I know how it sounds. I know what I sound like.”

[lady-of-sapphires]

The weeks since Prince Joffrey had proposed to Rowena had engulfed her life in an unfamiliar, stunning sense of relief. She knew for most girls the all consuming feeling should've been excitement, glee, or whole-hearted love, but she would not exchange this calm kind of comfort for any of those. In an existence where her nerves stood on edge so often their ends had become frayed from the tension, she was happy to be relieved. The Red Keep had been Rowena's home as much as Gulltown, and in some ways more, since she was small. She was of Gulltown, but Rowena was trained, educated, and made in King's Landing, her mother and siblings were happy here, and all her friends were here. Gulltown was beautiful, fascinating, and safer by far than the capital, but she spent her days at Baela's side in King's Landing, beloved by a circle of companions who found her spectacular rather than strange, and cherished—now protected—by Joffrey's affection and understanding, and the Royal Family's long-standing, happy acceptance of her as one of their own.

Every fiber of Harrold’s being seemed to stand juxtaposed to Rowena’s relief when he finally came to speak to her, she had wished for a while now they would have the chance to talk this new arrangement through, but she understood why it had not come to pass as a painfully familiar recognition dawned on her of the nervous desperation coursing through his system. She had never felt the passion, joy, and heartache he painted for her now as its own kind of master work, but the harshly tender anxiety that shook his voice and hands as he did was an ache she understood in the very marrow of her bones.

'He doesn't know'

The realization crashed into Rowena so hard it was a miracle she did not gasp it aloud, a choked "I—" thankfully not audible over his heartbreakingly charming childhood love story. He doesn't know why Joffrey asked Rowena to marry him, doesn't know he had not asked her to be his wife but his ally, doesn't know they had come to this agreement so she would never have to submit to anything she did not wish and he would never have to be with anyone except his Harrold.

It was quiet for a moment after he finished speaking and all she could do was stare at him blankly, so many thoughts spinning in her mind and not even the shadow of words she could grasp to express them that it entirely overwhelmed her. Then, Rowena put her head in her hands, unable to stop the quiet, embarrassed, baffled laughter, that made her ribs shake and very well may have sounded more like tears. She tried so hard to stop it the effort only made things worse for what felt like an age, and when she finally managed to catch her breath she could only look back up, shake her head, and apologize to the beautiful, baffled pair of brown eyes staring back at her.

"I—I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me, you didn't deserve that. I cannot deny I'm a bit upset, I would say because you seemed to think so little of me, but now it's clear you simply thought of me little, and with all you must've had on your own mind, I can hardly blame you for that." She straightened, trying to keep indignation out of her tone as she continued, "But I am upset you would so think so little of one of my dearest friends and the boy you love so much, I am not a lady of Faith and my trust is not easily gained, Joffrey however? He has wholly and implicitly earned both. I am upset because even though I understand it must've been very hard to come to me, if you had gone to him, he would've explained much better than I'm sure I am now this proposal came through his pursuit of a future with you."

Rowena took both of his hands in hers, out of sincerity or anxiety, even she herself could not say, "Harrold, please hear me when I say this if nothing else. Joffrey is one of my longest and best friends but I am not in love with him. He asked for my hand because a Prince cannot go unmarried forever, and we may have a parternship in which we can be happy and successful, not a romance or a marriage in any traditional sense of the word. He wants to love you, I want to allow my friend to live according to his heart, and me? Well, to be frank I am entirely disinterested in the physical aspects of that kind of relationship." She couldn't help the giggle that followed her confession, "You may ask any of my friends if you wish to verify, they've all known it is my particular sort of disposition for years. As far as romance goes, perhaps I am stuck somewhere between hopeless romantic and cold hearted cynic, I hope for it to find me and I have learned to stop expecting it. For now, I am happy with companionship, a life surrounded by friends, and my closest among them happy with the boy he has loved since they were children. So, may I please stay? Because I'd hoped to build that future for all three of us."

[hal-the-harper]

Harry sat on the floor of the solar.

Cold stone beneath him. Solid. Real. Anchor-heavy against his spine, even as the rest of him felt like it had been poured into the wrong shape. His armor clung like a second skin made for someone else. Too tight. Too loud. Too much. Like the walls were shrinking inward, like the world had narrowed to just this: the pressure, the panic, the ache of something too big to name pressing out from his chest.

His pulse was thunder in his ears. A storm off the cliffs. The kind that split trees and sank ships.

And gods help him, he was laughing.

Before he realized it, he was laughing. Not the charming, crooked kind that won over noble ladies and drunkards in taverns. This was sharper. Wilder. Half-mad. Half-sob. And then a real sob followed, traitorous and raw, and that only made him laugh harder, because what in all the godsdamned world was that about?

He didn’t do this.

He didn’t cry. He drank. He joked. He made an arse of himself until the sting dulled into something survivable. That was the trick. Fake it till you make it, and Harry always made it. Always had. That was the rule. That was the mask.

But not this time.

This time, the cracks split wider than he could patch.

His hands shook as he fumbled at the buckles of his gorget. The leather squealed in protest. One by one, he stripped himself of each piece: the vambraces, the mail, the breastplate. They clattered around him like the remnants of a shattered oath. His own little battlefield, and he the only fallen knight upon it.

His chest heaved. He laughed again. Or cried. Or both.

Harry didn’t know anymore.

He dragged both hands over his face to feel something solid. Something real. His own skin under his palms, proof he hadn’t been swallowed whole by this thing, this terror that had clutched at him ever since the council had announced the betrothal. He had tried to be calm about it. He had tried to believe the best of his beloved. But the truth was, Harry had never believed he was worth keeping. Not in a way that lasted. Not in the way Joffrey deserved. So he’d done what Harry Penrose did best: prepared for the heartbreak before it could arrive. Braced for it. Expected it.

He hadn’t even let Joffrey explain.

Because it was easier to imagine Joffrey choosing Rowena for love than it was to imagine Joffrey still choosing him. Loving him. Wanting him enough to twist his entire royal future into something that didn’t even exist in stories.

And now Rowena had come and shattered that whole neat little tragedy he’d written in his head.

He looked up at her, then down again, then up once more, like he was afraid she’d disappear if he blinked too long. His chest still trembled, his hands still shook, but there was something quiet in him now. An unfamiliar peace coiled at the edges of the grief. Not replacing it. Just softening it.

“Gods,” he said, voice rough like it had been dragged over stone, “thank you.”

He meant it. With every frayed, raw piece of himself.

“Thank you. For being Joffrey’s friend. For not being in love with him. For helping him… helping me, apparently, though I’m not sure I deserve it.”

Deserve. That word haunted him. He’d spent so long wondering what he had to do to deserve Joffrey’s love—how to earn it, protect it, not ruin it—that the idea of someone else safeguarding it alongside him had never once occurred to him.

He thought of Joffrey’s eyes. The way they crinkled when he smiled. The way he lit up around Rowena like he enjoyed her presence. Harry had assumed it was love. And maybe it was, but not the kind that would steal Joffrey from him. No, Rowena was the keeper of the flame. The guardian at the gate. Not the rival Harry had braced himself to resent, but the person who had understood. The one who had said yes to Joffrey so Harry didn’t have to lose him.

He laughed again, a real one this time, though it cracked on the way out.

“I thought it’d be easier hearing it from you, y’know?” he muttered. “Thought if someone was going to break my heart, it might as well be a stranger to it.”

He looked at her again. Blinked. Laughed softly.

“But you’re not a stranger, are you? Not to him. Not to this. You’re part of it. Of us, I guess… shit.” He ran a hand through his hair again, curls now an unruly crown of chaos. “I’m usually far more agreeable than this. Charming, even. I play the lute, the harp and everything else. I’ve been told my voice could coax milk from a goat. You’ll see, if you don’t flee the castle at first light.”

He made a vague, sweeping gesture toward her.

“I did not know folk could be like you,” he said. “Not drawn to… well. The physical trappings of love. But still full of it. Still true. I think that’s brave. Or rare. Or both. And it’s yours. It’s not for me to understand, only to be grateful for. And I am.”

He looked down at the ring on his finger, the one Joffrey had given him in secret, in shadow, in soft whispers between heartbeats.

“I’m glad it was you he chose.”

It was a strange thing, gratitude. Harry had never felt it with so much grief tangled in it, or so much awe. But here it was. Real and true.

He inhaled deeply. Let it out slow. Felt the storm inside him finally, finally begin to ebb.

“Of course you may stay,” he said, voice steadier now, almost light. “Please stay. Stay forever, if you like. We’ll build a bloody garden and name all the trees after people we don’t like.”

He sat up straighter, still cross-legged on the stone, and extended a hand through the air—awkward, wobbly, entirely sincere.

“May we start anew?”

A crooked smile played at his mouth, lopsided and earnest.

“I am Ser Harrold Penrose. But most call me Harry. I like music and cats. This ring belongs to my sweet prince Joff and when he hears of this, I daresay he’ll cry more than I just did.”

[hal-the-harper]

𓇢𓆸 SOMETHING STOLEN, SOMETHING REAL 𓆃

(Starter with @lady-of-sapphires)

The council chamber was cold, but Harry couldn’t feel it.

The heat had started at his neck, a slow creep like sunlight on frost, and it hadn’t stopped since. It spread down his spine and into his chest, flooding his limbs until his armor felt like molten iron. Too tight. Too loud. Too much.

He was sitting—he thought he was sitting—but he couldn’t feel the seat beneath him. Just pressure. Just heat. Just the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears like storm waves against cliffs.

“—and the match with Lady Rowena Grafton is to be announced at the feast next fortnight,” someone was saying. Someone important. Someone smiling.

That was all Harry heard before the words started slipping away, warping, dissolving into noise.

The engagement. It was real. It was happening. It had a name. A timeline. A feast.

He couldn’t breathe.

The air tasted wrong, too thin, too sharp, and his vision blurred around the edges like glass left too close to flame. His heart was drowning out the world, thudding so violently it rattled his teeth, his bones, the hollows of his ribs where Joffrey had once rested his hand.

He was going to be sick. Or scream. Or shatter.

So he fled.

He didn’t wait for Joffrey’s reaction. Didn’t wait for a look, a hand, an excuse that might have saved him if he’d only stayed. That was the story, wasn’t it? The tragedy etched into his bones. He never stayed. He never learned. He always burned.

You fly too close to the sun, and your wings come off in blisters.





Joffrey had been trying to speak to Harry about the wedding for weeks now.

Weeks of fumbled conversations, of hands reaching across sheets only to be pulled back. Of lingering glances across the training yard, the feast hall, the corridor outside their chambers. But Harry had stopped sleeping there. Stopped returning his gaze. Stopped letting him in.

Exactly why Harry had been avoiding him and their chambers altogether.

Because he knew. Knew what Joffrey was trying to say. Knew the wedding was close, that the ink had dried and the pearls were already sewn into the bridal veil. He knew it in the way Joffrey couldn’t meet his eyes some days. In the letters left unopened on the desk. In the silences that grew heavier than armor between them.

Harry almost had everything he wanted.

Five moons ago, he’d been ready to live a life in the shadows—watching Joffrey from afar, catching pieces of him in other men’s mouths and laughter, in brown eyes that weren’t quite the right shade, in side-smiles that were close but not his. He’d made peace with it. He’d learned to survive on scraps.

And then came the kiss. The confession.

Five moons of kisses between breaths, of laughing into each other’s collars, of moaning each other’s names like they were carved into holy stone. Five moons of wearing each other’s clothes and pretending it could last. Five moons of Joffrey curled into his chest like he belonged there.

Five moons, and now—

Now Joffrey was marrying Rowena Grafton.

Harry had been distant. He shouldn’t have been, but it felt wrong to want a man halfway to the altar. It felt like theft. It felt like trying to drink from a cup that was meant for another. And he couldn’t bear to be the one Joffrey would look back on with shame. The little secret. The story he’d never tell his children.

He couldn’t bear to see himself that way.

So, as the impulsive fool his mother always said he was, Harry did something reckless. Something stupid. Something that tasted like blood and desperation.

He went to Rowena.

She was beautiful, of course she was. Porcelain and dreamlike, with eyes like rain and hair that glimmered like moonlight. She looked like something from a song, a perfect match for a prince. She looked like someone Harry would’ve written poetry about once, if he hadn’t already bled all his words dry on Joffrey.

The gods would punish him for this.

Harry knew that. Knew it as he stood before her, hands trembling, breath shallow. Knew it when the words started pouring from him like wine spilled over stone.

“I was six the first time I saw him,” Harry started, eyes on his armor. “We were in the gardens behind the Red Keep. My father had brought me with him… he and the Queen were old friends, and it was all very boring, all talk of debts and feasts and bannermen.”

He swallowed thickly, eyes shining now. “But I wasn’t bored. Because I saw him. And I swear, my knees went weak. He had this wooden sword he refused to put down, even though it was nearly supper. He told me I’d never be a knight if I didn’t stop slouching. And I—Seven forgive me—I prayed that night for the first time in my life. Prayed to apologize. Because the gods must’ve been real to make someone like him.”

His fingers fumbled for the ring at his thumb, twisting it round and round until the skin beneath it ached. It was Joffrey’s ring. He wore it like a fool. Like someone who didn’t know how the story ended. “He looked like sunlight feels. You don’t understand what that does to a boy like me. How it follows you. Haunts you.”

He finally looked at her, meeting her eyes until his own stung. For once, Harry had no grin, no roguish wink to offer. He stood just inside the door, breath snagged in his throat like a thorn.

“I got over it. Or I thought I did. I grew up. Fucked my way through every person who looked remotely like him. Wrote songs I never sang. Learned to joke about it. Tell myself he’d marry someone fine and sweet and beautiful.” His voice cracked. “Someone like you.”

He dropped his gaze.

“And then he kissed me.”

The words thudded into the silence like stones dropped in water.

“I told him I loved him and he said it back. And then we kissed again. And again. Five moons.” He held up trembling fingers. “Five moons of wearing each other’s clothes. Of lying in his bed, counting freckles. Of falling asleep to the sound of his breathing. Of pretending it was all some stolen dream and not the most real thing I’ve ever had.”

He blinked. Hard. Tears clung to his lashes.

“I know he’s marrying you,” Harry said, quieter now. “I know. And I know how this ends. But I needed you to hear it from me before you heard it from him. Because he’s too gentle to say it. And I’m too selfish not to.”

He took a deep breath, looking past her now, to some faraway future he couldn’t reach.

“I love him. And I think he loved me. And maybe one day he’ll love you. Maybe you’ll have children, and I’ll hear about it in a tavern somewhere, and I’ll drink until I forget that they have his eyes.”

Harry stepped back, chest heaving. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted Joffrey to walk through that door and drag him away from this, to laugh at how reckless he’d been, to tell him he was worth fighting for.

But none of that happened.

So Harry turned, wiping at his face with the heel of his palm, breath catching again and again.

“But I had him. For a little while. And I can’t—Seven help me—I can’t pretend it meant nothing.”

He stepped back, one hand half-reaching toward her before dropping uselessly at his side.

“So I’m asking you to leave.”

The words were soft. Too soft. Barely audible over the fire.

“I know what I’m asking. I know how impossible it is. I know what it makes me. But I’m still asking.”

He laughed once, broken and wet and trembling.

“You can marry him. You probably should. He deserves someone kinder than me. Someone softer. But I’ll never stop fighting for him. I can’t. He sleeps on the left side of my bed. And he lives in the left side of my chest.”

His hand covered his heart, fingers curling like claws over his ribs.

“And I would hang a thousand times for saying it.”

Rowena didn’t speak.

That was what frightened him most.

Harry had expected rage, shrieking, a slap to his cheek, a scream that could crack glass and summon guards. He’d even braced for tears, for hurt, for betrayal. But not this. Not the silence. Not the way she sat so still, porcelain and perfect, like a painted maiden in some old Sept tapestry, too delicate to move.

His breath was ragged. He hadn’t meant to say it like that. But he also didn’t know how else to say it.

“I’m not asking for pity,” he said, even though he was, wasn’t he? “And I’m not asking for understanding either. I know how it sounds. I know what I sound like.”

[hal-the-harper]

⚔︎ SWORD, SHIELD, LOVESICK PROTECTOR ⚔︎

(Thread with @princejoffreyvelaryon)

“Oh, bring me a flagon, bring me a tune,

Bring me a lover ‘neath the silver-lit moon!

I’ve kissed me a lady with lips soft as lace,

And a bold, laughing rogue who could steal in embrace!

Well, who am I to argue, who am I to choose?

I’ll take every smile and none I’ll refuse!

For men or for maidens, for both or for none,

If they’re pretty and laughing, then I’ve already won!

So pour me more ale and I’ll drink to the night,

To the eyes that burn hot and the hands that hold tight.

If love is a treasure, then I’ll take my share

Be it from a bold knight or a lady most fair!”

The tavern roared with life, thick with the scent of spilled ale, smoke, and the warmth of too many bodies packed into too small a space. Harry stood atop a rickety table near the hearth, lute in hand, his cheeks flushed from drink and the thrill of the crowd’s adoration. His voice soared, rich and golden, weaving through the air like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The song was a new one; something half improvised, half inspired by a girl who’d laughed too brightly and a man who’d smiled too long.

“Oh, kiss me, my darlings, don’t make me decide,

Be it silk on your skin or the steel at your side.

Dark eyes or fair hair, I’ll not pick just one

For life’s far too short, and I’m far too much fun!”

The room erupted in cheers before he even finished the last verse. A wench threw her arms around his neck, planting a wet kiss on his cheek, while a burly sellsword clapped him so hard on the back he nearly toppled off the table. Harry laughed, wild and unbothered, his head thrown back in unrestrained joy.

"Another round for Hal the Harper!" someone shouted, and the crowd bellowed their agreement.

He hopped down from the table with graceless charm, landing heavily against the bar. His lute hung awkwardly over his back, curls damp and messy from sweat and heat. He didn’t care. For once, his mind wasn’t gnawing on what-ifs or clawing through his own shortcomings.

Here, he wasn’t Harrold Penrose, sworn sword, noble son, never quite enough.

Here, he was Hal.

A girl with curls like spun gold pressed a kiss to his cheek, giggling as she tucked a ribbon into his palm. A man at the bar, broad-shouldered and thick-bearded, was watching him with open admiration, and Harry winked in return, grinning when the man flushed and looked away.

Hal could flirt. Hal could be admired, desired. Hal wasn’t tangled up in thoughts of Joffrey’s cupid bow lips or the way his throat looked too soft, too inviting, when he laughed.

Hal wasn’t as desperately, hopelessly in love with Joffrey as Harrold was.

The tavern smelled of sweat, smoke, and stale bread, but to Harry, it might as well have been a royal hall. This was freedom—messy and loud and fleeting. Just him and the music. And the attention, gods, the attention felt good. It filled that restless, aching hollow left behind after too many days of watching Joffrey smile for someone else.

Didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter.

He leaned against the counter, grinning as the barkeep slid him another drink without asking. He lifted the tankard, ready to drink deep—

And saw him.

Joffrey.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Wide-eyed, cheeks flushed a deep, helpless pink. His dark hair was barely hidden beneath a hood, but no cloak could disguise the fine silk of his tunic, the rich embroidery at his collar. He looked utterly, heartbreakingly out of place among the rowdy commoners. And yet, he was staring at Harry like he belonged nowhere else.

Harry’s first thought was panic. Gods, did he come alone? The streets weren’t safe, not for a prince.

The second, sharper and guiltier: How long has he been watching me?

The third came with a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the ale: He looks beautiful like this.

Harry slouched against the bar, propping himself up with an elbow. His smirk curled lazily across his lips, though his heart hammered too fast against his ribs.

"Well, well. Did you like the show so much it left you speechless, my sweet prince?" He dragged the last two words out, playful and irreverent, though his voice came a little rougher than he meant. His eyes lingered too long on Joffrey’s face.

The prince didn’t speak. He just stared, his throat bobbing in a hard swallow. His cheeks were red, not from the room’s warmth, but from something else. Something Harry couldn’t name.

For a moment, the tavern’s noise seemed to fall away.

All Harry could hear was the rush of his own breath and the distant pounding of his heart. All he could see was Joffrey’s wide eyes, parted lips, and a look that made Harry feel stripped bare in the best possible way.

Gods.

"You shouldn’t be here," Harry murmured, quieter now. His throat was tight. He didn’t mean it. He never meant it.

But oh, he wanted Joffrey to stay.

[princejoffreyvelaryon]

Usually, the last place anyone would ever find Joffrey in was a tavern. He did not find them fun, nor did he ever have any reason to go. He despised the excessive drinking, overly loud partying, and the more… indecent things you’d find there.

But tonight was different. Tonight, Prince Joffrey could not find sleep, and decided to take a stroll around the castle. But his late-night stroll ended quickly when he spotted Ser Harrold leaving the castle. 

Joffrey couldn’t help himself but follow. He couldn’t help but obsessively think to himself; where is he going?

Though, in the back of his mind, he knew exactly where Harrold was going.

Joffrey avoided rumors like the plague, but ones about his best friend could not escape even his ears. He knew Harrold had been spending his time at taverns during the night… singing, perhaps? The specific details were unclear, but Joffrey knew it was happening all under his nose. 

He’d ignored it all until the moment he saw for his own eyes his sworn sword leaving the castle, and he knew he had to follow. Well, he didn’t have to follow, but he wanted to. He wanted to always be where Harrold was, whatever that meant for their relationship, he didn’t care to examine. Things felt right when he was with Harrold. He wanted to be apart of whatever silly thing Harrold was doing late at night, even if it meant Joffrey was to scold him, and then forgive him a moment later.

So now, standing in the tavern far away enough from Harrold to where he couldn’t see the Prince, Joffrey watched him. He watched him sing, drink, be kissed by ladies and men… and he could not keep his eyes off of Harry the whole time. 

Joffrey stood speeches, and had absentmindedly covered his mouth with his hand at one point. This… is my Ser Harrold. This is what he’s been doing this whole time?

Someone bumped his shoulder, suddenly. “He’s a real beauty, isn’t he? A great talent for music, and he’s handsome, it isn’t fair!” This person smiled at Joffrey, waiting for an agreement on the Prince’s part. Though, they had no idea it was Prince Joffrey Velaryon they were talking to.

He wasn’t dressed as a Prince, his clothes hidden by a cloak and he knew he was unrecognizable to everyone here, except Harrold. Suddenly, the person bumped his shoulder again. Joffrey took a good look at them, a girl he realized. Brown hair, brown eyes, tall, he didn’t know her.

“He is married, do not even consider it.” Joffrey said quickly. What possessed him to say such a thing, he could not know… Only that he knew he didn’t want Harrold to be married to her. Or anyone at this moment. For reasons he didn’t understand other than this girls loving eyes towards Ser Harrold bothered him. 

His eyes shifted back to Ser Harrold, watching him wink at someone. Joffrey felt sick. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He’d never felt such a sickness in his life, watching others handle his sworn sword as if he belonged to them. It was all wrong.

The girl who was next to him was still talking to Joffrey, asking him how he knew this singer was married, but Joffrey ignored her and began to walk towards Harrold. 

He came up to Harrold, who was about to drown in his cups. He watched as Ser Harrold noticed him, and waited for a reaction. Joffrey crossed his arms, continuing to stare. He said nothing.

Truthfully, he didn’t know what to say. To admit that he’d followed Ser Harrold here, or to get angry with him for never telling him about this harper he was… or, to tell Harrold that he didn’t like these ladies all over him. Though, he shook that thought away, because it was incredibly inappropriate, as there was no reason he should be mad that ladies are fond of Harrold… 

But Harrold’s voice took him away from his confusing thoughts. 

“Well, well. Did you like the show so much it left you speechless, my sweet Prince?” Harry said. He said it very stupidly, Joffrey thought, because it had made him blush. Why did he have to blush whenever Harrold said things like that? It was… stupid. 

Now he really couldn’t speak. He stood there, dumbfounded, face feeling hot and his sickness was worse. Not a sickness where he needed to rest, no, a sickness where he felt like he liked something about all of this. He liked something about the way Ser Harrold looked at him now, and it made his stomach turn. But it turned in a way that made him feel like a blushing maiden, not a grown man…

All of these feelings left him speechless, as Harrold just said. They seemed to be having a strange stare-off, until Harrold spoke again.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Somehow, those words broke Joffrey from his spell, and he was able to speak once more. “I shouldn’t be here? Neither should you! It’s late, Ser Harrold. We have… things, to attend to on the morrow. It is much too late for you to be… fooling around here.”

He did not mention that the rumors about Harrold were true, and he did not mention his anger at things that didn’t make sense to him. He just wanted to leave, with Harrold. 

Joffrey looked around, wary of everything and everyone around them. People stared at Harrold, not the Prince, and people wanted him. He grabbed Ser Harrold’s wrist gently. 

“Take me home, Ser Harrold”  

Joffrey said it as softly as he could, but something in Ser Harrold’s expression left Joffrey feeling… guilty. He almost could tell what Harrold was thinking in that moment, and it made him want to cry. 

The Prince sighed and looked around quickly, making sure no one was listening. “I do not care what you do here. You, uhm, have a nice voice.” Joffrey felt embarrassed saying so, and he blushed deeper. But he tried to get to his point. 

His voice was a whisper now, face close to Harrold’s ear. “I know I am a judgmental man, perhaps more than I should be, but I am not judging you here. I only want to go home, and I want you with me.” He held Harrold’s wrist firmly now, hoping to somehow show Harrold he was being genuine. 

“Your audience can have you another night, but I want you with me this night.”

[hal-the-harper]

Harry knew Joffrey only called him by his full name and title when he was vexed. Ser Harrold was his way of being furious. But Joffrey’s anger had always been a quiet thing, all crossed arms and pursed lips and narrowed, dark eyes. He was seething now, wasn’t he? But even that couldn’t keep Harry from admiring him, the way his dark hair framed his face, the way his mouth parted ever so slightly, as if he were struggling to find the right words.

Sweet, sweet Prince.

Joffrey took his wrist, ever so gently. Too gently. The touch was barely there, but it burned. Harrold’s tongue pushed against his cheek as he swallowed down the sharp, stupid thing he wanted to say.

If you’re going to touch me, do it like you mean it.

He was used to rougher men, hungrier women, people who wanted him. People who would fumble with the laces of his clothes, bite at his skin, take him. And yet here was Joffrey, touching him like he was something delicate, something to be held carefully. Harrold had never wanted to be wanted gently.

Until now.

Harry clenched his jaw, his tongue pressing against his cheek as he forced himself to breathe. Joffrey doesn’t want you. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing.

But then—

“You have a nice voice.”

Oh.

Oh.

So Joffrey did like his voice.

That was new.

Harry opened his mouth to say something. Something clever and biting, something to break the moment before it swallowed him whole, something to carve out an escape so he could fall back into their rhythm: his prince scolding, him teasing, both pretending not to notice the way they always gravitated back to each other.

Then Joffrey leaned in, his breath warm against Harry’s jaw, and every thought in his head stopped.

Maybe now he understands why they call it a sin.

Because it feels like something is burning through him, bright and unbearable, electric in his veins. It moves erratically under his skin, in his pulse, in the ache deep in his gut. He can’t tear this craving to bits. He can’t rip his own heart asunder and hope it’s better by morning.

Out. He needs to get out. Someone will dig this out of him. Someone has to. Maybe one person. Maybe a few. This time he won’t leave until he’s been satisfied, though at this rate, Harry doubts anything will be enough except—

"Your audience can have you another night, but I want you with me this night."

The words steal his breath. Heat pools low in his stomach, thick and unwanted. His breath comes shorter now, his lips parting before he can stop himself.

Joffrey does not mean it the way Harrold wants him to. He does not mean “take me to bed”. He does not mean “have me until morning”.

But Harry’s mind is a hungry, feral thing. It imagines. It craves. It feeds off scraps and pretends they are feasts.

Joffrey’s fingers tighten around his wrist, and Harry lets himself do something stupid.

He turns his hand, sliding his palm against Joffrey’s, entwining their fingers.

Their hands fit. Of course they do. It would be funny, if it weren’t so damn cruel.

He should let go. He should laugh and say something flippant, something to turn this moment into nothing at all.

Instead, he lets himself look. Lets himself trace the shape of Joffrey’s mouth, the words that had left them.

He wants to shut him up with a kiss.

He wants to swallow the words back down, take them inside himself, hoard them where no one else can hear them, where no one else can twist them into something that doesn’t mean “stay with me tonight”.

Why must Joffrey be so irresistible? Why must he mean nothing by it?

Harry closes his eyes for a brief, agonizing second. Then he exhales sharply, squeezing Joffrey’s hand once, before pulling away.

The loss of warmth nearly undid him. He wanted to hold it again. He wanted to drag Joffrey to some dark corner and press him against a wall and see if his prince still blushed when Harry’s mouth wasn’t just saying stupid things but doing them, too.

Instead, he laughed. He had to, or he’d go mad.

“Alright, alright, my sweet Prince,” he said, voice uneven. He turned away, busying himself with the laces of his tunic, like loosening them even a little could ease the unbearable heat in him. “You want me home? Home we go.”

A few people groaned in disappointment as he made his exit, but Harry barely noticed. He felt Joffrey close behind him, practically breathing down his neck. His skin burned at the thought of it.

The night air hit him like a splash of cold water as they stepped outside, but it wasn’t enough. Not enough to cool him down.

He walked quickly, boots thudding against the dirt road, heart still hammering. He was doing the right thing. He was getting out. He was being good.

Good as a knight.

Good as a friend.

Good as whatever his prince wanted.

Then he felt Joffrey’s hand, hesitating, but reaching for him again.

Harry stopped in his tracks. If Joffrey touched him now, if he took his hand again, he wouldn’t be able to let go. He turned, slowly, finally meeting Joffrey’s eyes. His sweet, foolish prince. So oblivious.

Harry didn’t think. He just acted.

He lifted Joffrey’s hood, pulling it further over his head like he was shielding him from the night, from prying eyes. His knuckles ghosted over Joffrey’s jaw, and that damn blush was still there, blooming down his throat.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. If he kissed him now, he’d never stop.

So he didn’t.

“Come on, love,” he said softly, hoping the endearment would go unnoticed. He turned back toward the keep, this time without looking back. “Let’s get you to bed.”

[princejoffreyvelaryon]

It had been impossible to find sleep after Harry and Joff had come home. The night had been full of tossing and turning, Joffrey re-playing the events of the night in his head and wondering what it all meant. What did it mean when Harry said those things that made Joffrey blush and turn away? What did it mean when they had threaded their fingers together, hands fitting perfectly and feeling as if they should be like this forever. What did it mean when Joffrey had hated the thought of other people looking at his Harrold with romantic intentions...

He knew what it meant, Joffrey was not stupid, he knew the answer to every single question. But, no, he could not admit it to himself.

So, when he woke up the next morning, overly exhausted and feeling an overwhelming amount of emotions, he did what he always did. Routine.

Joffrey's routine had never failed him. When his life was chaos, or his mind was in turmoil, he could always count on his routine to set his mind straight. His specific way of doing his hair, putting on his clothes, and decorating himself in jewelry was familiar and safe. And this morning routine of his just so happened to include writing down what Harrold Penrose was supposed to be doing each day.

Once he had deemed himself presentable for the public, he wrote down Harrold's schedule for the day. He explained in detail on a piece of parchment where his sworn sword needed to be at every hour of the day, adding little notes in the margins and making it as neat as possible.

His best friend was known for his lateness, never showing up anywhere on time and leaving others only to laugh or be frustrated. But Joffrey had taken it into his own hands to make sure Harrold was always where he needed to be, making sure his sworn sword was able to get all of his duties done. It was a way of showing how much he cared for Harrold, and how he would go above and beyond to help him. His love for Harrold ran deep, as a friend, as his sworn sword, as something else that he couldn't name... Setting the quill down after finishing the schedule, he picked up the parchment, feeling it crinkle in his hand. The exhaustion followed him even now after he had been awake for a while, but he did his best to ignore it. He re-read this schedule over and over again, feeling a certain way about the fact that Harrold and him would not be parted at all, not for a single hour, not a single minute, not for the whole day.

That was when he heard the door open. Typical of Harrold to enter without knocking, he thought fondly. He would have smiled and playfully scolded Harry, if he wasn't still thinking about last night. Thinking about Harry singing, other people kissing him, their hands together...

It was tense. Neither of them knew what to say, clearly. It now had turned into a game where they both examined one another without saying a word, waiting to see who would say what first. Joffrey looked at Harrold up and down, his blonde curls were messy and his eyes looked tired. But he still looked handsome, and there was no doubt about that.

The way his hair fell onto his face made Joffrey want to run his fingers through the mess, cradle his face, maybe. But friends didn't do that... What an inappropriate thought, he scolded himself.

His eyes trailed down to Harrold's chest. For no particular reason, of course. But that is when Joffrey noticed it. Harrold's shirt was wrinkled. His tunic a mess of fabric over him, and Joffrey knew he needed to fix it immediately.

"Your shirt." Joffrey said plainly, breaking the awful silence.

"What?" Harrold said with a scoff, as if he was amazed that was the first thing to come out of Joffrey's mouth.

Joffrey stood up, making sure to push in his chair as he left it, and made his way towards his sworn sword. "It is wrinkled, let me fix it for you."

Harrold still said nothing, looking shocked as ever as Joffrey's hands slowly reached towards him. The Prince's hands then finally met Harrold, pulling the shirt in areas where it was wrinkled, running his hands over it to smooth it out, and tugging at his collar that was out of place. It was a normal thing to fix your friends shirt, surely, a normal thing to graze their chest and feel the muscle there for only a second. They were best friends, after all. Joffrey wanted to help him more than anything in the world. It surely meant nothing if his fingers lingered over the fabric that was already fixed, feeling the muscle underneath...

Joffrey's eyes were focused on the shirt, and when it looked smoothed out enough he looked up, their eyes meeting. Harrold was somewhat taller than Joffrey, and so the Prince had to move his head somewhat to face him. The stare was intense, and it made Joffrey blush, stupidly, again. Why did Harrold's gaze have such an effect on him? When they looked at one another, why did it feel that Harrold was the only thing that mattered in the world, and that his gaze was the only thing that he wanted to know?

Joffrey looked away first, not being able to bear the tension anymore, even if he knew he didn't hate it. After looking away, he realized his hands were still placed on the collar of Harrolds shirt, so he quickly removed them and stepped back. "That's better."

Harry did not look away from Joffrey, keeping his burning gaze on the Prince. "Are you angry with me?" He said, lips moving into a frown that made Joffrey's heart hurt.

The two of them were used to un-serious banter, playfully arguing and Joffrey doing his best to contain his smile as Harry smirked the whole time. But this was not that. Harry sounded worried. Horribly worried that Joffrey had a problem with him now.

"No! No Harrold, no... I just..." Joffrey felt so terrible at that moment, his words would not come out. The last thing he wanted was Harry to think any of this was anger. He was confused, embarrassed, unsure of many of his feelings, but not angry.

Joffrey let out a breath through his nose, trying to steady himself. He had an idea. "I would like it if you would sing for me. Just me. I can add it to our schedule, make it happen later today, if you agree."

Please agree, Joffrey thought to himself, selfishly. Please let me see more of this part of you.

And suddenly, Joffrey's wishes had come true, when Harry then said, "anything for you, sweet Prince."

[alesanderpenrose]

A letter to my twin…

(A part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood)

Starter with @hal-the-harper

Alesander had re-read his letter to his brother so many times, it would be impossible to count at this point. Did it sound truthful? Would Harry be upset, happy, mad, or something else? Would Lord Davos be okay with me sending a letter that mentions him so many times, with some of those mentions being more false than true…? The questions were endless, but he knew this letter needed to be sent sooner or later. If he kept waiting, he knew he’d find Harry at the gates of Godsgrace, ready to fight whoever he thought was keeping Ales hostage.

But no, a hostage he was not, and he hoped this letter was enough to convince Harry of that. He hoped for a lot of things at the moment

As Ales watched the wax seal cool, all he could think about was Harry. He prayed this letter was enough to rid him of his anxieties, but he knew it wouldn’t. He knew Harry too well to know that he’d feel guilty, and that made Ales feel terrible in return. He missed his brother, and he wanted to reassure him he was fine in person, but this letter would have to do for now. It was time to send it.

-

To my dearest twin, Harrold Penrose,

Let go of that breath I know you’re holding in, Harry, I am happy to report to you that I’m fine. I am more than fine, actually. This has truly been the most enlightening week. I have no regrets about coming here, I even think it was fate that you decided to pull that prank.

I spent a lot of time wandering in Godsgrace, admiring how beautiful it is here, and how much better it is than Kings Landing. Perhaps I always wanted to explore parts of the world outside of Kings Landing and the Parchments more than I ever have admitted, and that’s why I was so eager to leave in your stead.

But I also wanted to help you, and help you I have.

Lord Davos and I instantly became friends upon my arrival, he is a man of intellect and possesses a great kindness that I admire in him. I know you’re fiercely protective over your Prince, but I don’t believe he truly meant Joffrey any harm, or had any other intentions with him. You know how friendly Joffrey is, and I now see Davos has a special sort of kindness. But all is forgiven between you and Lord Davos, as Davos has decided my being here is enough.

I expect to see a letter back from you soon, thanking me for my hard work, and a gift perhaps. One of those special notebooks I’ve been wanting, the ones with the embroidered flower covers…

But no, I jest with you, Harrold. Though, you truly are the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms, I will tell you that. Lucky that I went to Godsgrace. My charm apparently does not always fall flat, and my talent for writing has an actual purpose now, and I will explain it all to you.

The air here is actually breathable, their food is amazing, and the people are kind and generous. But what truly drew me in was the library. I’ve never seen such a library, Harry, I thought I was dreaming the first time I saw it! I can already picture you laughing at me for this, wondering what is so special about a library, but let me tell you this, Harrold. It is huge, has everything I could ever want, and it is absolutely out of order and filthy.

That sounds awful, I know, but I could not help but be ecstatic about it. I’ve been helping Lady Cissy with the library for years, it’s my passion, and I thought to myself; “Lord Davos could make use of me.” And he’s decided he wants to. It’s hard to know what he sees in me, but he has allowed me to stay and do the work I love most.

So, I’ll be staying for a while, fixing his library and getting to know him. Do not freak out, I chose to do this. I do not know how long I’ll be here, but I’m ready for this new responsibility.

Now you can tuck your proper Prince into bed every night, happily knowing everything is fine. Though, speaking of Joffrey, I sent him a letter as well reassuring my wellbeing. I hope he’s not been too hard on you, you truly caused the best turn of events with your silly little prank, and everyone is okay. I wrote to the rest of our family so do not worry about explaining to them where I am. I made up some story to Mother and Father telling them I took the wrong route to Lannisport and ended up meeting Lord Davos, and he took me back to Godsgrace. Very far from the truth, do not tell them!

Promise me you won’t worry yourself to death, and I promise you in return that I am fine. I’ll write to you every week, I promise this as well. I love you, brother. I’ll bring you back so many gifts, you will not even have the room for them. I knew Lord Davos would forgive you, as no one can ever stay mad at you. You’re too lovable, I promise that too.

Take care of yourself, and Joffrey, and our sisters, and Mother and Father. We will see each other again, soon I hope.

- Alesander Penrose

[hal-the-harper]

To my better half, Alesander Penrose,

You absolute little bastard.

I mean that with the full force of love in my heart and tears in my eyes, which—yes—are still in my eyes, thank you very much, because I refuse to let them fall. You should know, I had my boots on. I had my bag packed. I was about to sneak out into the night like some second-rate bard from one of your silly adventure stories, off to storm Godsgrace and rescue you from whatever terrible fate you’d obviously been trapped in. I even wrote a note. I was going to leave it in Joffrey’s shoe, for gods’ sake.

And then your letter arrived.

You always did know how to stop me in my tracks.

I don’t know what I expected to read. Some scrawl written under duress? A coded cry for help? I didn’t expect this. Didn’t expect you, sounding like yourself again. Happy. Lighter. (Alive.)

Gods, Ales. Thank you. For writing. For being okay. For being you.

I’m so glad you’re well. Genuinely. I’m glad you like the sun and the books and the bread and the fresh air and whatever else Godsgrace has blessed you with. I’ll even admit, quietly, that I might have smiled when I read that you’re working in a library. Of course you are. You probably offered to fix it before you’d even had a drink of water. You’re the most dependable man I’ve ever met, and I don’t say that lightly. I always knew you were meant for more than the Parchments and the palace walls. If a dirty library and a quiet lord with kind eyes is what gets you there, then so be it.

But please don’t fall in love with Lord Davos.

I mean it.

Do not fall in love with him, no matter how many soft smiles he gives you or how many poetic compliments he tosses in your direction. That’s exactly how he gets you. A pretty face is just a trap with eyelashes. You hear me? A trap. And I know you, I know how your heart jumps to reach the things it shouldn’t. Keep it in your chest. Keep it safe. He might be kind, but kind men break hearts too.

(And yes, that was hypocritical. No, I will not apologize for it.)

I’ll send you every notebook you could ever dream of if you promise to keep writing. I don’t care if your letters are short or full of dust and ink, I don’t care if you just ramble about books and soup, just write. Every week. No excuses. I’ll lose my mind otherwise.

As for me, don’t worry. I mean it. I’ve got both my legs, my health, and the full weight of my guilt to keep me warm at night. Joffrey hasn’t spoken to me since he found out what I did, and I deserve every moment of silence. I fear I think I’ll love him for the rest of my life. And I don’t think he’ll ever look at me the same again. Not after what I did. I embarrassed him. Hurt him. I let my feelings make me reckless. And now I’ve probably ruined the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

But I’m glad you’re okay. That makes it easier to breathe.

And I am proud of you. So proud. Godsgrace is lucky to have you. Davos is lucky to have you. And I hope you know how much I love you, how much I need you to be happy. You are the best part of me, Al. Always have been. My clever, brave, ridiculous twin who wandered into the desert and found a dream.

So take care of yourself. Truly. Eat well. Sleep. Be proud of yourself. And don’t you dare go falling for any dangerous noble boys who smile too sweet and own too many books. I’ll know.

I’ll write soon. And I’ll visit. I will visit.

I love you, Al. More than I can say in a letter.

Your twin,
Harry

P.S. Your story for Mother and Father is utterly ridiculous, and they will see through it. But I’ll keep the lie alive if you keep yourself alive. Deal?

[princejoffreyvelaryon]

HOLD YOUR KNIFE AND YOUR TONGUE

( a part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood ) starter with @davos-allyrion

Lord Davos Allyrion, Joffrey thought as he watched the young man sneak his way into the kitchens. I've found him at last!

This young Lord of house Allyrion had come to Kings Landing to assist Joffrey's mother, Queen Rhaenyra, and yet, he had made no move to properly greet Joffrey in all his time spent here. The greatest of slights, perhaps, or had he just forgotten? Whatever reason Davos had was irrelevant, as Joffrey was prepared to tell him exactly how he felt.

They had spoken before, although only through writing, but they definitely knew of each other. Davos had been rather... bold in his letter to Joffrey. It had shocked Joffrey into not responding, and he had been waiting for this man to arrive at Kings Landing to give him a piece of his mind. Davos and his betrothed Alannys were familiar as they had exchanged letters, and that thought had warmed Joffrey somewhat towards the Dornish Lord. If he is kind to Alannys I can surely be forgiving of his rudeness.

So now that he was right in the Prince's reach, Joffrey could not pass up this opportunity to talk to him. His feet moved quickly to follow Davos, entering the kitchen and trying to catch up to him as best as he could. Joffrey tried to remember how old this young Lord was. Twenty, perhaps? Of a similar age to Joffrey, they could surely become friends if this conversation went as Joffrey had planned it, he thought.

So, behind Davos, Joffrey called to him. "Lord Allyrion!" Stopping Davos in his tracks, he continued on. He spoke his mind as quickly as he could, the words pouring out faster than he intended. "You've been at Kings Landing for a long enough time and have made no move to greet me yet. Because you were so very bold in your letter to me, I thought perhaps-"

Joffrey's eyes widened to see Davos had pulled out a knife, something the Prince had not been expecting in the least. Am I that intimidating? He scanned Davos, who looked as if he was ready to defend himself from a monster coming to kill him. "Oh! No need for that! My good Lord, put that away! You're threatening a Prince of the realm, you know. You could be in serious trouble for this..."

The look on Davos face had made Joffrey feel almost guilty. He had been the one who followed Davos here, and he had immediately began to scold him... His thoughts went to Alannys and her knife collection. He had been overly familiar with individuals who had a knack for violence as of late, it did not scare him anymore, just made him wonder. He wondered about this boy in front of him, who's first reflex was to act as if he was being threatened with death. What was his life like? Joffrey did not know much about the Lord to house Allyrion, save the fact that he was helping his mother with her pregnancy. He must be kind, he helps my family, Joffrey thought.

Joffrey eased somewhat, hoping his calmer demeanor would help the other boy to calm. The Prince tried to smile. "But you are in luck. I'm a forgiving Prince who seeks your company rather than a fight with you. Let's... start over? I'm Prince Joffrey, as you know. I'm most interested to know what you're doing in these kitchens if you'd be so kind to tell me why. Are you hungry? Would you like to share a meal with me?"

[davos-allyrion]

Davos stared at Joffrey, his breath unsteady, his fingers clenched so tightly around the hilt of his dagger that his knuckles had turned white. His mind raced. He could have killed a prince. A prince.

Would they hang him? Burn him?

What kind of fool dares to creep up on a man of his reputation in the dead of night, in a place like this, in times as treacherous as these?

For a fleeting, desperate moment, the thought of turning the blade on himself crossed his mind, if only to prove this wasn’t some twisted, fevered dream. But no. Joffrey stood before him, alive and unharmed, though Davos had nearly gutted him like a pig.

He forced himself to breathe, to think. Joffrey Velaryon—Rhaenyra’s son, Alannys’ betrothed, the boy to whom he had written so boldly, so foolishly. He had braced for resentment, for cold disdain, not this: the prince dogging his steps like an overeager pup through the dim halls of the castle.

Davos exhaled slowly, willing his fingers to unclench. With deliberate care, he sheathed the dagger, the motion measured, as though convincing himself that the moment was real.

"Prince Joffrey," he said, inclining his head just enough to acknowledge the boy’s station. "Forgive me. It’s been a long journey, and I’ve had little rest. You startled me."

The apology felt foreign on his tongue, offered to someone who had stalked him through the shadows like a thief. His instincts roared to demand answers, to unravel whatever game Joffrey was playing, but his thoughts were still untangling themselves from the fog of panic.

"I prefer to be alone," he continued, his voice softer now, more restrained, the words measured as he carefully rebuilt the mask that had slipped. "But I suppose solitude is a rare luxury in a place like this, isn’t it?"

His gaze flicked toward the door, half-expecting more footsteps, more unwelcome company. The Keep was a labyrinth of whispers and watching eyes, the kind that sank their teeth into a man without ever drawing blood.

Davos let out a breath, a faint, humorless smile tugging at his lips, though it never reached his eyes. Curious, curious fool. "Perhaps I’m planning to dismember a body, my prince. The kitchens would be a fine place for it, don’t you think?"

He shook his head slightly, as if to dispel the thoughts crowding in from all sides. Davos had never been funny. He felt worn, unraveling at the seams, yet he remained upright. That had to mean something, didn’t it?

His gaze settled on Joffrey again. The boy looked younger than Davos had expected; soft around the edges, untouched by the weight of years. Or perhaps it was Davos himself who had grown old, time carving its marks deeper than he cared to admit.

"I come here because the food in King’s Landing turns my stomach," he said, the words coming easier now, blunt and unadorned. "I cook for myself when I can."

A pause. Joffrey’s lips twitched, his expression flickering with amusement.

What an odd royal, Davos thought.

Then, tilting his head, he added, "Do they not feed you well enough in the royal halls, or have you come to watch me poison myself?"

[princejoffreyvelaryon]

"You prefer to be alone?" That was a foreign concept to Joffrey. He despised being alone, so much that the next question out of his mouth was, "why is that?"

Maybe it was a rude question, or maybe it wasn't and Joffrey would get a life changing answer out of the other man. It didn't matter once he'd said it, Davos had already said an abundance of rude things, Joffrey recalled, so he could interrogate him somewhat. Joffrey had only ever known that when in the company of another, he was sound, and when he wasn't with someone, his thoughts were rampant and unbearable. To be alone is to suffer, as far as Joffrey understood it.

All of Davos' comments had not offended Joffrey, as they might have if Davos was another person, but they left Joffrey only smiling. "Ah, there he is. There is that bold Lord who spoke to me so rudely through a letter. I was wondering when you'd come back."

Joffrey rolled his eyes, as he did very often. "They feed me just fine, my Lord, and no, I've seen others be poisoned before and I'd rather not relive that..." His thoughts trailed to months ago, when his mother was poisoned. How afraid he'd been to see her so sick... he shook his head, trying to rid that image out of his mind. But the thought of his mother still stuck.

"You're here in Kings Landing helping my mother. I thank you for that, you're doing a kind deed for my family. That does not go unnoticed by me. Even when you point that knife at me. Even when you jest and say vulgar things to make me squirm." He looked softly at Davos, studying his face. The young man looked kind, but guarded, Joffrey thought. The kind of face he'd come to know on many who faced lots of trouble in their life. Joffrey had tended to believe almost everyone was kind and good, even when he had no basis for that belief. It was one of his flaws, or perhaps a good thing. He could not decide, but he'd decided he thought Davos was kind.

Not being able to help himself, he carried on talking. "So, what is this food you're cooking at the moment? I'm interested to watch you cook, if you'll allow me to. I'm also a Prince, so do not say no to me." Joffrey had to turn away so as to not laugh. If Davos could Jest, so could Joffrey.

[davos-allyrion]

"I prefer to be alone because it’s quiet. Because your thoughts are only your own when there’s no one around to pry them out of you." Davos didn’t look at the prince as he spoke, only at the kitchens ahead. "Not that you’d understand that. You don’t know silence, not really. You fill it before it can catch you."

Davos sighed, long and drawn out, making a show of ignoring Joffrey’s relentless chatter. The boy never stopped talking, one question piling onto the next, each leaving no room for an answer. Davos had no intention of indulging him. Instead, he turned away and busied himself unpacking the small hoard of supplies he had stashed in the pantry.

The maids would grumble about him sneaking his own provisions into their kitchen, but he didn’t much care. He was friendly enough with one of them—don’t judge him—and he knew his way around well enough to take what he needed without much fuss.

Joffrey, predictably, was still talking.

Davos ran a hand down his face and exhaled sharply through his nose. Then, without looking, he grabbed an apron off the hook and tossed it straight at the prince’s face. Joffrey caught it just before it could smack him in the nose—good reflexes.

"If you can’t be quiet, you should at least be useful," Davos muttered, turning away before he could see whether Joffrey actually put the thing on.

He set about soaking the rice, measuring the water with a practiced eye. When he turned back, the boy was still hovering, watching him like a particularly nosy gull.

Davos shoved a knife into Joffrey’s hand and gestured toward the cutting board, where a heap of vegetables lay waiting. "Start chopping."

He didn’t much like having people stand beside him, but at least this way, Joffrey’s hands were where Davos could see them. The only one who ever managed to sneak up on him was Nymeria, and even she had the decency to whistle a warning first.

It quickly became clear, however, that Joffrey had never chopped anything in his life. He held the knife and vegetable like a child handling a wriggling rat, unsure whether to cut it or fling it across the room. Davos watched in mild horror as the first few cuts mangled the poor thing beyond recognition.

"Seven hells," he muttered, crossing his arms as he leaned against the counter. "Did the vegetables offend you? What did they do to deserve this?"

Before Joffrey could fire back—because of course he had a retort ready—a familiar figure shuffled into the kitchen. Olene, the first maid Davos had ever encountered on his nightly visits, regarded them both with a glint of amusement. She bowed, first to the prince, then to Davos. The old woman had worked in the Keep longer than Davos had been alive. She knew what merited a bow and what didn’t. Davos, recognizing her silent judgment, bowed right back.

"Take it easy on him, my lord," she chided lightly. "Most princes and lords have never cooked a meal in their lives."

Davos snorted. "That much is apparent, madam Olene."

Still, she had a point. If Joffrey lost a finger under his watch, it would be Davos who bore the blame. The thought settled heavily on his shoulders, a familiar weight of responsibility. With a resigned sigh, he moved closer, his calloused hands enveloping Joffrey’s. Gently but firmly, he adjusted the grip on the knife, guiding his fingers into place.

"Here," he said gruffly, guiding the boy’s movements with a firm hand. "Push down and slide, pull up and sink. Keep your fingers tucked in unless you want to be known as the Nine-Fingered Prince."

He let go and stepped back to observe. The cuts were still uneven, still too clumsy, but at least Joffrey was no longer at risk of maiming himself.

Davos shook his head, his gaze lingering on the rice before he turned back to Joffrey. "This is why you lot shouldn’t be coddled like precious little kings," he muttered, just loud enough for the boy to catch. "A man ought to know how to feed himself. Then again," he added with a wry smirk, "at least now I’m certain I’d survive if you ever decided to stick a knife in my back."

[princejoffreyvelaryon]

"H-hey! It's rude to throw things!" Joffrey caught the white fabric that was flung at him, pouting. He held the apron in his hands, thinking for a moment how to properly secure the thing to himself. Despite being in the kitchens many times before, he'd never worn an apron... or fastened one himself.

Fumbling with the ties, he followed Davos to where he was beginning to cook his food. Joffrey watched over the other man's shoulder, completely engrossed in the way Davos seemed to know exactly what to do, whereas Joffrey had no idea of how to cook something.

Joffrey's eyes widened at the command Davos had just given him. Could he chop these correctly? Is there even a way to chop vegetables correctly? He looked down at the cutting board in terror, and began to chop the poor vegetable into sad, jagged pieces. It looked nothing like the food that he regularly ate! He gave a frustrated sigh.

His nose scrunched up at Davos with anger, and as he was about to fire back at him, a cook he was familiar with came into their presence. "Madam Olene!" He smiled at her. But his smile faded and a blush overtook his face at her comment, a completely truthful comment she had made, but embarrassing nonetheless. For the first time today, he said nothing.

Joffrey was suddenly surprised to see Davos had come closer to him, and even took his hands into his own. As he felt Davos hands show him the proper way to chop, he once again said nothing. He watched and tried his best to copy these movements Davos had made his hands go into his mind, hoping he could replicate them once he left his side.

At Davos' words, Joffrey's smile came back to his face once again, his confidence coming back. "Nine fingered Prince! Funny you should say that, I actually have almost lost a finger once! It was years ago when I first began to squire for my step-father, I was so nervous I somehow grabbed my sword blade-first! It wasn't hard enough that my finger came off, as you can see, but there was a lot of blood. I cried for days! Anyway, thank you for helping me."

Joffrey's focus went back down to the vegetables in front of him, chopping away and hoping these pieces were more acceptable. They did not look half bad to Joffrey, but to Davos he knew they probably were still far from being any good. He looked away from the food once he heard Davos' voice, quiet but noticeable.

"Oh don't be so sure! I can't stick a knife in your back, but I'll have you know that I am far more talented at the sword than any of my brothers, and I have a good amount of training with a bow and arrow. Knives are more my betrothed's area of expertise..."

Pausing, Joffrey thought for a moment about what he had just said. The fact that he just implied he would harm Davos with a sword or an arrow... He quickly backtracked his previous words, "n-not that I would ever use any of these weapons against you! I was just saying... I have other talents so I do not need to be familiar with a knife?" He frowned at his own words, knowing they were pathetic.

Quickly changing the topic, he went on talking. "Anyway, may I ask what we are cooking here? And if there will be enough for me? I am so hungry!" Joffrey smirked, hoping it would annoy the other man as he knew the other had made comments to simply annoy Joffrey.

Thinking for a moment, he forgot about trying to annoy Davos and had come up with a grand idea. "Oh, we can eat it in my room! My friends and I do that all the time!" His need for friendship never stopped, even when he was hunched over a pile of terribly chopped vegetables next to the Lord of house Allyrion, who did not seem to like him very much. But he is seeming to warm to me! I think... Joffrey thought to himself.

[davos-allyrion]

Davos let Joffrey talk. And talk. And talk. The boy had an undeniable talent for it, no one could deny that. As Joffrey prattled on about nearly slicing his own finger off while training as a squire, Davos worked, occasionally glancing up at his half-hearted attempts at chopping. It wasn’t good, but at least the vegetable wasn’t entirely unrecognizable anymore. Improvement, of sorts.

But it was Joffrey’s boast about his sword skills that finally made Davos snort, shaking his head in disbelief.

“More talented than your brothers?” Davos muttered, leaning against the counter. “That’s not saying much, is it? Half of them are still children.”

The words hit their mark, and Joffrey’s face twisted into an indignant scowl. Davos didn’t even bother to hide his smirk as Joffrey fumbled over his words, trying to dig himself out of the hole. As if Davos truly thought he was going to get skewered right here in the kitchen. He let the prince stew in his discomfort for a few more moments, enjoying the sight, before cutting in smoothly, his voice laced with the lightest touch of amusement.

“So, is it your betrothed I should be worried about, then?” he asked, the question not entirely a jest. He’d met enough highborn ladies in his time to know that a knife-wielding lady wasn’t to be underestimated. “If she’s better with knives than you, I’d best stay on her good side.”

Before Joffrey could launch into another one of his rambling, Davos turned back to his task, scooping out the insides of the eggplants. “We’re making mahshi,” he said, almost absently, his voice taking on a more instructive tone. “Stuffed vegetables. Rice, herbs, sometimes—”

And then, completely unaware of the turn Davos mind had taken, Joffrey invited him to eat in his rooms. Davos stilled for a heartbeat. His hands kept moving, but his mind was far away, piecing together the implications. Again? Was there some bet amongst the nobles to see who could get Lord Vulture into their bed first? Did he have a sign on his back?

With an exasperated huff, Davos set the eggplant down and wiped his hands on a cloth. Then, without warning, he grabbed Joffrey’s face, turning it sharply to study him in the dim light of the kitchen. It was a habit of his—a way to gauge a person’s thoughts, a quick, almost instinctual check. Some faces revealed more in certain angles, under different shades of light.

Joffrey blinked, startled by the sudden contact, but there was no trace of flirtation in his eyes. Instead, all Davos saw was that familiar, eager expression, like a puppy waiting for scratches.

“Good. Great. Thanks for not flirting with me.”

He gave a short chuckle, shaking his head. The prince wasn’t playing a game. He was just… nice.

Davos sighed again, then let Joffrey go, the fleeting annoyance vanishing from his face as he returned to his work, more calmly now. "We’re making mahshi," he repeated. "Eggplants filled with rice, herbs, spices. You’ll want lamb with yours, I imagine?"

For the first time since this chaotic lesson had begun, Davos glanced at Joffrey with something akin to warmth, maybe even a touch of fondness. And in that moment, he thought that maybe, just maybe, they could be friends after all.

He gave a slow nod as he continued his work, his tone shifting to something more thoughtful. “Sword skills come with a price, you know. I’ve got a scar from my sternum to my hip. You’ll get your share too, if you’re truly as proficient as you say.”

[hal-the-harper]

Stupid. He had been so stupid.

Harry paced the length of the room, fingers dragging through his curls, still damp from the bath he’d barely bothered to dry off from. The apology letter was crumpled on the table, creased with frustration. It had arrived with the dawn, sealed with the black wax of House Allyrion and stamped with that cursed hand sigil.

Davos Allyrion. The butcher of Godsgrace. The man with kind eyes and blood on his hands. The man who had held Joffrey’s hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Who had touched his wrist gently when showing him how to dice onions—onions, for the love of the gods—and Joffrey had laughed, low and warm, like he liked being taught. Like he liked him.

And so Harry, idiot that he was, had remembered the stupid vulture jokes surrounding lord Allyrion from court and the way he and Alesander used to pull pranks on their tutors and thought: why not? Why not have a laugh?

So he’d switched the silks in Davos’ bag with a paper mache vulture. Painted it himself, with a ridiculous little hat and all. Thought it’d be funny. Thought Davos would frown, mutter about insolent boys, and Harry could hand back the real silks and say just a jest, my lord.

He hadn’t expected Davos to leave. Hadn’t expected him to find the bird only once he was halfway to Godsgrace. Hadn’t expected the letter.

”Come to Godsgrace, Harrold Penrose, and offer your apology in person. Let me see if you have the courage to match your mockery.”

And now Alesander stood before him, travel cloak in hand, that familiar determined look on his face. Harry’s heart lurched violently against his ribs.

“Proper apology,” Harry muttered under his breath, half deranged. “He wants a proper apology! What, does he want a bloody sonnet?!”

His foot collided with a stool and he kicked it over with a satisfying clatter. Alesander, seated on the edge of Harry’s unmade bed, didn’t even flinch. Of course he didn’t. He just sat there, calm as still water, like he wasn’t about to do something insane.

“You’re not going,” Harry said, whirling on him. “You’re not. I don’t care if you think it’s clever, or noble, or funny. It’s not. It’s suicidal.”

Alesander blinked, a slow, silent sort of patience that only made Harry more frenzied. His twin could always be infuriatingly serene in a crisis. Probably thought he was doing Harry a favor. Probably was.

“Do you even know who Davos Allyrion is?” Harry demanded. “They call him the Butcher of Godsgrace, Al. People say he strangled a man in the middle of a banquet once. That he bathed in the river after burning six bandits alive. And that whole soft-spoken act? That’s how he gets you. He makes you feel safe, makes you think he’s tame, and then bam, you’re headless and roasting on a spit.”

He wasn’t even sure that made sense, but his hands were shaking and his heart hadn’t stopped hammering since he’d seen Alesander putting together a travel pack.

“And he likes Joffrey,” Harry hissed, pacing again, barefoot and half-dressed. “He likes him. He taught him to chop vegetables. Joffrey. As if the prince of the realm should be anywhere near a kitchen knife. Do you see how mad this is?”

Alesander raised a brow, but stayed quiet, which was worse somehow. Harry had no one to argue with, just himself, spiraling in the echo chamber of his own guilt.

“I never meant for it to go that far. It was a joke. A stupid joke. You remember the vulture masks from back home, the festival? I thought—” He laughed, bitter and hollow. “I don’t know what I thought. That he’d be annoyed, maybe. Not that he’d pack it.”

He rubbed at his face, eyes stinging. He had been through all stages of grief already, bargain was beneath him.

“If you go, and something happens—if he figures out it’s you, not me—if he hurts you—” His voice cracked. “I couldn’t live with that, Ales.”

He reached past Alesander, grabbed the Davos’ silks, neatly folded and wrapped, and a new letter, sealed with wax he hadn’t let himself think too long about. It wasn’t as good as groveling in person, but he’d rewritten it five times already, made it earnest, even poetic, if that helped.

Harry stood again, drawing in a sharp breath. He was shaking still, but more steady now. Resolute.

“I’ll send a courier. With all of this. With the silks, the letter. With—something.” He turned away, unwilling to look at his brother any longer. “But you are not going to Godsgrace.”

And if Harry had to chain him to the bed to make sure of it, so be it.

The room felt colder without Alesander in it.

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, still in the same half-dressed state from earlier, but now frozen. The silence had weight. Alesander’s absence echoed in the smallest details: the missing boots by the door, the teacup he always left half-finished, the faintest trace of his cologne still clinging to the spare cloak he’d left behind. Thoughtfully, maddeningly, he’d even left the damned jacket, Harry’s favorite one, the one he always borrowed when he was too lazy or too distracted to find his own.

Harry hadn’t slept. Not really. He’d collapsed on the floor sometime after dawn, knees buckled beneath him, Alesander’s jacket in a death grip against his chest. It still smelled like his brother; juniper and saddle soap, the faintest trace of lemon oil he used on his boots. That detail alone undid him when he woke again, hours later, the sleeves twisted up in his fingers like he could conjure Alesander back with force of will alone.

He had gone. Really gone. No cloak on the peg, no boots by the hearth, no sarcastic remark tossed over his shoulder as he vanished for the day.

Just the letters.

Four of them, written in his clean, sure hand. One for their mother and father, saying he’d gone to visit a friend in Lannisport. One for Daisy, firm and pleading: Don’t let Harry follow. Please. Not this time. One for Lily, so gentle it made Harry’s throat close: I’ll bring you something beautiful. A sand-silk scarf, maybe. The kind that glows like water.

And then his.

Short. Honest.

“I’ll fix this. I know you’re scared for me, but I’m not scared of him. You shouldn’t be either. Stay, Harry. Take care of them. I’ll come back soon.”

He hadn’t even signed it. Hadn’t needed to.

Harry searched the docks until his boots were caked in tar and his voice hoarse from asking. No one had seen a Penrose boy matching Harry’s face, or if they had, they lied. The guards were useless. The septons were worse. He paid a drunk fisherman for a lead that went nowhere and a fruit vendor who tried to sell him old oranges. He spoke to a merchant heading south—no, he hadn’t seen any boy matching that description, but the roads near Godsgrace? Cursed. Haunted, some said. Others whispered of men with no faces and horses that rode without sound.

Harry didn’t believe in curses. Not really. But he did believe in danger.

It was when he found the Seeker, a rail-thin man with sand-blasted skin and too many rings for someone without a noble name, that his hope broke entirely.

“No,” the Seeker had said, flatly. Harry had offered coin. Then more. Then a small ruby from a brooch Daisy had given him. Still: “No.”

“Why not?” Harry had snapped, voice pitched sharp with fury and fear.

The Seeker just looked at him with tired, pitying eyes. “Because I value my life.”

And that was that.

Now Harry sat slumped in the old sept at the edge of Flea Bottom, the only place he could find quiet, hands clasped tight between his knees like prayer might still work for someone like him. The light from the candles was dim and flickering, shadows crawling up the cracked stone walls.

He hadn’t cried. Not yet. But his throat hurt from holding it in.

Ales was out there. On his way to a place Harry barely understood and Davos Allyrion ruled like a myth.

And Harry had done this.

He felt sick with it. With the weight of his own stupidity. With the gut-deep, bone-sure knowing that if something happened to Ales, he would never forgive himself.

Never recover.

Their parents wouldn’t even know where he’d gone. They would think Ales was staying with a friend, that he was laughing, safe, somewhere familiar. Lily would expect her gift. Daisy would read her letter and trust him to stay.

But Harry couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

The prince was alone in the practice yard, stripping off a pair of sparring gloves. He looked up when he saw Harry. Harry didn’t bow. He never did. They had shared too many secrets, too many letters and bruised knuckles and dumb jokes for that. But today, his feet faltered on the flagstones as he followed Joffrey into the solar, doors closing behind them.

“I need time,” he said, voice rough, cracking under the weight of unshed tears. “Just a few weeks. I—I have to find him.”

The solar smelled of sweet citrus and rose oil. Everything was perfectly in place. Everything was always in place around Joffrey.

Everything but Harry.

He swallowed hard, knuckles white where they pressed into his armor. He couldn’t look up. Not yet. Not when he could feel the betrayal humming between them like a struck string.

“I know,” he said, quieter now. “I know I shouldn’t have pulled a prank on him… lord Davos didn’t deserve it. It was a joke, but not a good one. Not kind. Not fair.”

He curled his fists into the floor. Shut his eyes.

“I thought it would be harmless. I thought he was…” His throat closed up, and he couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t say I thought he was stealing you or I thought he was trying to take my place or I was jealous and I didn’t know what to do with it so I lashed out like a spoiled child.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” Harry said, after a moment. “Just don’t tell your mother. Please. She’ll pull me from your guard, and I—I couldn’t stand that.”

His heart was thudding so loudly now he could barely hear his own words.

“I’ll leave in the morning. I’ll find him. I’ll make it right. Just… please. I’ll leave my cloak here, I’ll leave the post, I’ll do whatever you want. But I have to find him. He’s my brother.”

Please.

The word sat between them like something fragile and unspoken. He couldn’t look up.

Not yet. He was afraid if he did, he'd see disappointment—or worse, pity—in Joffrey’s face.

Harry wasn’t sure which would destroy him faster.

[hal-the-harper]

⚔︎ SWORD, SHIELD, LOVESICK PROTECTOR ⚔︎

(Thread with @princejoffreyvelaryon)

“Oh, bring me a flagon, bring me a tune,

Bring me a lover ‘neath the silver-lit moon!

I’ve kissed me a lady with lips soft as lace,

And a bold, laughing rogue who could steal in embrace!

Well, who am I to argue, who am I to choose?

I’ll take every smile and none I’ll refuse!

For men or for maidens, for both or for none,

If they’re pretty and laughing, then I’ve already won!

So pour me more ale and I’ll drink to the night,

To the eyes that burn hot and the hands that hold tight.

If love is a treasure, then I’ll take my share

Be it from a bold knight or a lady most fair!”

The tavern roared with life, thick with the scent of spilled ale, smoke, and the warmth of too many bodies packed into too small a space. Harry stood atop a rickety table near the hearth, lute in hand, his cheeks flushed from drink and the thrill of the crowd’s adoration. His voice soared, rich and golden, weaving through the air like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The song was a new one; something half improvised, half inspired by a girl who’d laughed too brightly and a man who’d smiled too long.

“Oh, kiss me, my darlings, don’t make me decide,

Be it silk on your skin or the steel at your side.

Dark eyes or fair hair, I’ll not pick just one

For life’s far too short, and I’m far too much fun!”

The room erupted in cheers before he even finished the last verse. A wench threw her arms around his neck, planting a wet kiss on his cheek, while a burly sellsword clapped him so hard on the back he nearly toppled off the table. Harry laughed, wild and unbothered, his head thrown back in unrestrained joy.

"Another round for Hal the Harper!" someone shouted, and the crowd bellowed their agreement.

He hopped down from the table with graceless charm, landing heavily against the bar. His lute hung awkwardly over his back, curls damp and messy from sweat and heat. He didn’t care. For once, his mind wasn’t gnawing on what-ifs or clawing through his own shortcomings.

Here, he wasn’t Harrold Penrose, sworn sword, noble son, never quite enough.

Here, he was Hal.

A girl with curls like spun gold pressed a kiss to his cheek, giggling as she tucked a ribbon into his palm. A man at the bar, broad-shouldered and thick-bearded, was watching him with open admiration, and Harry winked in return, grinning when the man flushed and looked away.

Hal could flirt. Hal could be admired, desired. Hal wasn’t tangled up in thoughts of Joffrey’s cupid bow lips or the way his throat looked too soft, too inviting, when he laughed.

Hal wasn’t as desperately, hopelessly in love with Joffrey as Harrold was.

The tavern smelled of sweat, smoke, and stale bread, but to Harry, it might as well have been a royal hall. This was freedom—messy and loud and fleeting. Just him and the music. And the attention, gods, the attention felt good. It filled that restless, aching hollow left behind after too many days of watching Joffrey smile for someone else.

Didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter.

He leaned against the counter, grinning as the barkeep slid him another drink without asking. He lifted the tankard, ready to drink deep—

And saw him.

Joffrey.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Wide-eyed, cheeks flushed a deep, helpless pink. His dark hair was barely hidden beneath a hood, but no cloak could disguise the fine silk of his tunic, the rich embroidery at his collar. He looked utterly, heartbreakingly out of place among the rowdy commoners. And yet, he was staring at Harry like he belonged nowhere else.

Harry’s first thought was panic. Gods, did he come alone? The streets weren’t safe, not for a prince.

The second, sharper and guiltier: How long has he been watching me?

The third came with a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the ale: He looks beautiful like this.

Harry slouched against the bar, propping himself up with an elbow. His smirk curled lazily across his lips, though his heart hammered too fast against his ribs.

"Well, well. Did you like the show so much it left you speechless, my sweet prince?" He dragged the last two words out, playful and irreverent, though his voice came a little rougher than he meant. His eyes lingered too long on Joffrey’s face.

The prince didn’t speak. He just stared, his throat bobbing in a hard swallow. His cheeks were red, not from the room’s warmth, but from something else. Something Harry couldn’t name.

For a moment, the tavern’s noise seemed to fall away.

All Harry could hear was the rush of his own breath and the distant pounding of his heart. All he could see was Joffrey’s wide eyes, parted lips, and a look that made Harry feel stripped bare in the best possible way.

Gods.

"You shouldn’t be here," Harry murmured, quieter now. His throat was tight. He didn’t mean it. He never meant it.

But oh, he wanted Joffrey to stay.

[princejoffreyvelaryon]

Usually, the last place anyone would ever find Joffrey in was a tavern. He did not find them fun, nor did he ever have any reason to go. He despised the excessive drinking, overly loud partying, and the more… indecent things you’d find there.

But tonight was different. Tonight, Prince Joffrey could not find sleep, and decided to take a stroll around the castle. But his late-night stroll ended quickly when he spotted Ser Harrold leaving the castle. 

Joffrey couldn’t help himself but follow. He couldn’t help but obsessively think to himself; where is he going?

Though, in the back of his mind, he knew exactly where Harrold was going.

Joffrey avoided rumors like the plague, but ones about his best friend could not escape even his ears. He knew Harrold had been spending his time at taverns during the night… singing, perhaps? The specific details were unclear, but Joffrey knew it was happening all under his nose. 

He’d ignored it all until the moment he saw for his own eyes his sworn sword leaving the castle, and he knew he had to follow. Well, he didn’t have to follow, but he wanted to. He wanted to always be where Harrold was, whatever that meant for their relationship, he didn’t care to examine. Things felt right when he was with Harrold. He wanted to be apart of whatever silly thing Harrold was doing late at night, even if it meant Joffrey was to scold him, and then forgive him a moment later.

So now, standing in the tavern far away enough from Harrold to where he couldn’t see the Prince, Joffrey watched him. He watched him sing, drink, be kissed by ladies and men… and he could not keep his eyes off of Harry the whole time. 

Joffrey stood speeches, and had absentmindedly covered his mouth with his hand at one point. This… is my Ser Harrold. This is what he’s been doing this whole time?

Someone bumped his shoulder, suddenly. “He’s a real beauty, isn’t he? A great talent for music, and he’s handsome, it isn’t fair!” This person smiled at Joffrey, waiting for an agreement on the Prince’s part. Though, they had no idea it was Prince Joffrey Velaryon they were talking to.

He wasn’t dressed as a Prince, his clothes hidden by a cloak and he knew he was unrecognizable to everyone here, except Harrold. Suddenly, the person bumped his shoulder again. Joffrey took a good look at them, a girl he realized. Brown hair, brown eyes, tall, he didn’t know her.

“He is married, do not even consider it.” Joffrey said quickly. What possessed him to say such a thing, he could not know… Only that he knew he didn’t want Harrold to be married to her. Or anyone at this moment. For reasons he didn’t understand other than this girls loving eyes towards Ser Harrold bothered him. 

His eyes shifted back to Ser Harrold, watching him wink at someone. Joffrey felt sick. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He’d never felt such a sickness in his life, watching others handle his sworn sword as if he belonged to them. It was all wrong.

The girl who was next to him was still talking to Joffrey, asking him how he knew this singer was married, but Joffrey ignored her and began to walk towards Harrold. 

He came up to Harrold, who was about to drown in his cups. He watched as Ser Harrold noticed him, and waited for a reaction. Joffrey crossed his arms, continuing to stare. He said nothing.

Truthfully, he didn’t know what to say. To admit that he’d followed Ser Harrold here, or to get angry with him for never telling him about this harper he was… or, to tell Harrold that he didn’t like these ladies all over him. Though, he shook that thought away, because it was incredibly inappropriate, as there was no reason he should be mad that ladies are fond of Harrold… 

But Harrold’s voice took him away from his confusing thoughts. 

“Well, well. Did you like the show so much it left you speechless, my sweet Prince?” Harry said. He said it very stupidly, Joffrey thought, because it had made him blush. Why did he have to blush whenever Harrold said things like that? It was… stupid. 

Now he really couldn’t speak. He stood there, dumbfounded, face feeling hot and his sickness was worse. Not a sickness where he needed to rest, no, a sickness where he felt like he liked something about all of this. He liked something about the way Ser Harrold looked at him now, and it made his stomach turn. But it turned in a way that made him feel like a blushing maiden, not a grown man…

All of these feelings left him speechless, as Harrold just said. They seemed to be having a strange stare-off, until Harrold spoke again.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Somehow, those words broke Joffrey from his spell, and he was able to speak once more. “I shouldn’t be here? Neither should you! It’s late, Ser Harrold. We have… things, to attend to on the morrow. It is much too late for you to be… fooling around here.”

He did not mention that the rumors about Harrold were true, and he did not mention his anger at things that didn’t make sense to him. He just wanted to leave, with Harrold. 

Joffrey looked around, wary of everything and everyone around them. People stared at Harrold, not the Prince, and people wanted him. He grabbed Ser Harrold’s wrist gently. 

“Take me home, Ser Harrold”  

Joffrey said it as softly as he could, but something in Ser Harrold’s expression left Joffrey feeling… guilty. He almost could tell what Harrold was thinking in that moment, and it made him want to cry. 

The Prince sighed and looked around quickly, making sure no one was listening. “I do not care what you do here. You, uhm, have a nice voice.” Joffrey felt embarrassed saying so, and he blushed deeper. But he tried to get to his point. 

His voice was a whisper now, face close to Harrold’s ear. “I know I am a judgmental man, perhaps more than I should be, but I am not judging you here. I only want to go home, and I want you with me.” He held Harrold’s wrist firmly now, hoping to somehow show Harrold he was being genuine. 

“Your audience can have you another night, but I want you with me this night.”

[hal-the-harper]

Harry knew Joffrey only called him by his full name and title when he was vexed. Ser Harrold was his way of being furious. But Joffrey’s anger had always been a quiet thing, all crossed arms and pursed lips and narrowed, dark eyes. He was seething now, wasn’t he? But even that couldn’t keep Harry from admiring him, the way his dark hair framed his face, the way his mouth parted ever so slightly, as if he were struggling to find the right words.

Sweet, sweet Prince.

Joffrey took his wrist, ever so gently. Too gently. The touch was barely there, but it burned. Harrold’s tongue pushed against his cheek as he swallowed down the sharp, stupid thing he wanted to say.

If you’re going to touch me, do it like you mean it.

He was used to rougher men, hungrier women, people who wanted him. People who would fumble with the laces of his clothes, bite at his skin, take him. And yet here was Joffrey, touching him like he was something delicate, something to be held carefully. Harrold had never wanted to be wanted gently.

Until now.

Harry clenched his jaw, his tongue pressing against his cheek as he forced himself to breathe. Joffrey doesn’t want you. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing.

But then—

“You have a nice voice.”

Oh.

Oh.

So Joffrey did like his voice.

That was new.

Harry opened his mouth to say something. Something clever and biting, something to break the moment before it swallowed him whole, something to carve out an escape so he could fall back into their rhythm: his prince scolding, him teasing, both pretending not to notice the way they always gravitated back to each other.

Then Joffrey leaned in, his breath warm against Harry’s jaw, and every thought in his head stopped.

Maybe now he understands why they call it a sin.

Because it feels like something is burning through him, bright and unbearable, electric in his veins. It moves erratically under his skin, in his pulse, in the ache deep in his gut. He can’t tear this craving to bits. He can’t rip his own heart asunder and hope it’s better by morning.

Out. He needs to get out. Someone will dig this out of him. Someone has to. Maybe one person. Maybe a few. This time he won’t leave until he’s been satisfied, though at this rate, Harry doubts anything will be enough except—

"Your audience can have you another night, but I want you with me this night."

The words steal his breath. Heat pools low in his stomach, thick and unwanted. His breath comes shorter now, his lips parting before he can stop himself.

Joffrey does not mean it the way Harrold wants him to. He does not mean “take me to bed”. He does not mean “have me until morning”.

But Harry’s mind is a hungry, feral thing. It imagines. It craves. It feeds off scraps and pretends they are feasts.

Joffrey’s fingers tighten around his wrist, and Harry lets himself do something stupid.

He turns his hand, sliding his palm against Joffrey’s, entwining their fingers.

Their hands fit. Of course they do. It would be funny, if it weren’t so damn cruel.

He should let go. He should laugh and say something flippant, something to turn this moment into nothing at all.

Instead, he lets himself look. Lets himself trace the shape of Joffrey’s mouth, the words that had left them.

He wants to shut him up with a kiss.

He wants to swallow the words back down, take them inside himself, hoard them where no one else can hear them, where no one else can twist them into something that doesn’t mean “stay with me tonight”.

Why must Joffrey be so irresistible? Why must he mean nothing by it?

Harry closes his eyes for a brief, agonizing second. Then he exhales sharply, squeezing Joffrey’s hand once, before pulling away.

The loss of warmth nearly undid him. He wanted to hold it again. He wanted to drag Joffrey to some dark corner and press him against a wall and see if his prince still blushed when Harry’s mouth wasn’t just saying stupid things but doing them, too.

Instead, he laughed. He had to, or he’d go mad.

“Alright, alright, my sweet Prince,” he said, voice uneven. He turned away, busying himself with the laces of his tunic, like loosening them even a little could ease the unbearable heat in him. “You want me home? Home we go.”

A few people groaned in disappointment as he made his exit, but Harry barely noticed. He felt Joffrey close behind him, practically breathing down his neck. His skin burned at the thought of it.

The night air hit him like a splash of cold water as they stepped outside, but it wasn’t enough. Not enough to cool him down.

He walked quickly, boots thudding against the dirt road, heart still hammering. He was doing the right thing. He was getting out. He was being good.

Good as a knight.

Good as a friend.

Good as whatever his prince wanted.

Then he felt Joffrey’s hand, hesitating, but reaching for him again.

Harry stopped in his tracks. If Joffrey touched him now, if he took his hand again, he wouldn’t be able to let go. He turned, slowly, finally meeting Joffrey’s eyes. His sweet, foolish prince. So oblivious.

Harry didn’t think. He just acted.

He lifted Joffrey’s hood, pulling it further over his head like he was shielding him from the night, from prying eyes. His knuckles ghosted over Joffrey’s jaw, and that damn blush was still there, blooming down his throat.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. If he kissed him now, he’d never stop.

So he didn’t.

“Come on, love,” he said softly, hoping the endearment would go unnoticed. He turned back toward the keep, this time without looking back. “Let’s get you to bed.”

[hal-the-harper]

⚔︎ SWORD, SHIELD, LOVESICK PROTECTOR ⚔︎

(Thread with @princejoffreyvelaryon)

“Oh, bring me a flagon, bring me a tune,

Bring me a lover ‘neath the silver-lit moon!

I’ve kissed me a lady with lips soft as lace,

And a bold, laughing rogue who could steal in embrace!

Well, who am I to argue, who am I to choose?

I’ll take every smile and none I’ll refuse!

For men or for maidens, for both or for none,

If they’re pretty and laughing, then I’ve already won!

So pour me more ale and I’ll drink to the night,

To the eyes that burn hot and the hands that hold tight.

If love is a treasure, then I’ll take my share

Be it from a bold knight or a lady most fair!”

The tavern roared with life, thick with the scent of spilled ale, smoke, and the warmth of too many bodies packed into too small a space. Harry stood atop a rickety table near the hearth, lute in hand, his cheeks flushed from drink and the thrill of the crowd’s adoration. His voice soared, rich and golden, weaving through the air like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The song was a new one; something half improvised, half inspired by a girl who’d laughed too brightly and a man who’d smiled too long.

“Oh, kiss me, my darlings, don’t make me decide,

Be it silk on your skin or the steel at your side.

Dark eyes or fair hair, I’ll not pick just one

For life’s far too short, and I’m far too much fun!”

The room erupted in cheers before he even finished the last verse. A wench threw her arms around his neck, planting a wet kiss on his cheek, while a burly sellsword clapped him so hard on the back he nearly toppled off the table. Harry laughed, wild and unbothered, his head thrown back in unrestrained joy.

"Another round for Hal the Harper!" someone shouted, and the crowd bellowed their agreement.

He hopped down from the table with graceless charm, landing heavily against the bar. His lute hung awkwardly over his back, curls damp and messy from sweat and heat. He didn’t care. For once, his mind wasn’t gnawing on what-ifs or clawing through his own shortcomings.

Here, he wasn’t Harrold Penrose, sworn sword, noble son, never quite enough.

Here, he was Hal.

A girl with curls like spun gold pressed a kiss to his cheek, giggling as she tucked a ribbon into his palm. A man at the bar, broad-shouldered and thick-bearded, was watching him with open admiration, and Harry winked in return, grinning when the man flushed and looked away.

Hal could flirt. Hal could be admired, desired. Hal wasn’t tangled up in thoughts of Joffrey’s cupid bow lips or the way his throat looked too soft, too inviting, when he laughed.

Hal wasn’t as desperately, hopelessly in love with Joffrey as Harrold was.

The tavern smelled of sweat, smoke, and stale bread, but to Harry, it might as well have been a royal hall. This was freedom—messy and loud and fleeting. Just him and the music. And the attention, gods, the attention felt good. It filled that restless, aching hollow left behind after too many days of watching Joffrey smile for someone else.

Didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter.

He leaned against the counter, grinning as the barkeep slid him another drink without asking. He lifted the tankard, ready to drink deep—

And saw him.

Joffrey.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Wide-eyed, cheeks flushed a deep, helpless pink. His dark hair was barely hidden beneath a hood, but no cloak could disguise the fine silk of his tunic, the rich embroidery at his collar. He looked utterly, heartbreakingly out of place among the rowdy commoners. And yet, he was staring at Harry like he belonged nowhere else.

Harry’s first thought was panic. Gods, did he come alone? The streets weren’t safe, not for a prince.

The second, sharper and guiltier: How long has he been watching me?

The third came with a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the ale: He looks beautiful like this.

Harry slouched against the bar, propping himself up with an elbow. His smirk curled lazily across his lips, though his heart hammered too fast against his ribs.

"Well, well. Did you like the show so much it left you speechless, my sweet prince?" He dragged the last two words out, playful and irreverent, though his voice came a little rougher than he meant. His eyes lingered too long on Joffrey’s face.

The prince didn’t speak. He just stared, his throat bobbing in a hard swallow. His cheeks were red, not from the room’s warmth, but from something else. Something Harry couldn’t name.

For a moment, the tavern’s noise seemed to fall away.

All Harry could hear was the rush of his own breath and the distant pounding of his heart. All he could see was Joffrey’s wide eyes, parted lips, and a look that made Harry feel stripped bare in the best possible way.

Gods.

"You shouldn’t be here," Harry murmured, quieter now. His throat was tight. He didn’t mean it. He never meant it.

But oh, he wanted Joffrey to stay.

[princejoffreyvelaryon]

A Nameday Party Perfect for a Prince

A part of @asongofgoldenfireandblackblood

Challenge: Write a scene involving your character celebration their name day.

Featuring @the-pearl-of-the-realm & @rideroftheredqueen & @lordhusband & @hal-the-harper

It seemed every nameday he had, Joffrey Velaryon was bound to cry at one point or another. This year was no exception.

He felt this was the point in his life where he had the most wonderful people around him, the most love, and the most happiness. All leading to the most perfect nameday he could ever have had.

He appreciated every single gift given to him, made sure to thank every person properly, and put every item in his room in a safe place to be brought out and examined again at a later time. But, there were two gifts that stood out among the rest, though he would never say that in fear of others feeling their gifts were lacking. Because truly, he felt grateful of every single thing he received, but two things had sent his heart soaring like no others had.

First; The gift from his closest friend, steward, and sworn sword, Harrold Penrose. Harrold had proudly presented Joffrey with a small box, eyes eagerly watching him and waiting for him to open it. As Joffrey brought the item out of where it was secured carefully, it poked his finger. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to hurt for a short second.

"You've given me something that bites, Ser Harrold!"

Upon further examination, the item brought tears to the Prince's eyes. It was a silver seahorse, a figurine that was clearly crafted from Ser Harrold's own hands himself. Joffrey knew of the metalwork hobby Harrold had taken on as of late, but to know that he had learned this craft to then make something for Joffrey himself had meant the world. Joffrey had been collecting small seahorse figurines ever since he was a child and his most favorite toy had been a wooden seahorse, and the gesture meant even more to know that Harrold knew that, and made this himself.

It wasn't perfect by any means, rough in some areas and spiky in others where it should not be, which is what had hurt his hands as he brought the seahorse out. But, the imperfections are what made it perfect to Joffrey. It was made with love, overruling the misshapen parts.

Joffrey had cradled it in his hands carefully, making sure to not poke himself again. He did his best to refrain from crying, but he was so happy that he could not. "My collection could never have been complete without this. Thank you, Ser Harrold."

He planted a kiss to his sworn swords lightly freckled cheek, making sure it was short and proper, blushing at the public intimacy. He could not express his gratitude any other way and a kiss and tears that had made others laugh or swoon at the Prince.

Second; A gesture from his beloved step-sister, Princess Rhaena. His other truest friend besides Harrold, he and Rhaena had a friendship that he cherished with his whole heart. Rhaena had gifted Joffrey a lovely quiver, which had a Velaryon seahorse inlay on its outside, and was encrusted with rubies and garnets to represent Targaryen red. He had held it carefully, smiling a most genuine smile at the thoughtfulness of this gift. He had hugged her, a short hug but a firm one, once again all too aware of how others might see this intimacy, but still wanting to show her how much he appreciated her.

But, that gift itself was not what had taken its place as Joffrey's most favorite gift. It was the party she had planned for him. Of course Princess Rhaena was the one to plan a party at the beach of Driftmark, there was no other who would go out of their way to surprise Joffrey with a celebration like this. The idea of going to Driftmark with his beloved friends and family, spending time by the beach, and knowing it was all planned by Rhaena was enough to bring the dreaded tears back to his eyes. "A most thoughtful gesture, step-sister, you have truly made my nameday memorable."

Being eight and ten had felt the best thing in the world when he was on Driftmark, surrounded by people he loved and who loved him. Princess Rhaena had even been able to plan for a slide to be set up, leading to the ocean. It sent his friends into a frenzy of who as able to try it first and who was allowed to go down with Joffrey, the nameday man himself.

What had made him even happier and more emotional was to be with his beloved grandparents at this celebration. He continuously waved to them as he swam, watching as they watched their grandchildren from the shore of Driftmark beach. "You should come down the slide with us, grandmother and grandfather!" He said enthusiastically.

No nameday had ever been so perfect, he thought to himself as he felt the rocks on his feet in the water, and saw his loved ones smile at him, wishing him a happy nameday.