- Summary: It was during Rhaenyra’s and Laenor’s wedding feast, that the king noticed something he was blind to for far too long.
- Paring: targ!reader/Harwin Strong
This whole work is inspired by this brilliant anonymous ask:
- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, has striking resemblance to her late grandmother Alyssa and is younger sister of Rhaenyra. These events happen after The Flames We Hide. To read all the chapters in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.
- Rating: Explicit 18+
- Word count: 3 532
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff
The evening air carries the scents of roasted meats, spiced wine, and fresh flowers into the grand hall, mingling with the vibrant sounds of revelry. The hall is a living tapestry of silks, banners, and candlelight, casting everything in hues of crimson and gold. A sea of finely dressed lords and ladies flows beneath the arched ceiling, the thrumming heart of the grand wedding feast of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon.
You arrive with the grace and splendor expected of a Targaryen princess, a vision that commands the attention of every eye that lands on you. The dress you wear is a rich deep plum, the color of ripened plums at dusk, lined with golden thread that shimmers in the light. The sleeves are long and bell-shaped, flowing with each movement, while the bodice is tightly laced with intricate embroidery of dragons in flight. Around your neck, a delicate chain bears a pendant of a dragon curled around a glittering ruby—a gift from your father. Your silver hair is braided in intricate patterns, falling down your back with hints of shimmering ribbons intertwined through each strand.
You sit beside Rhaenyra at the high table, your twin sister glowing with happiness under her finely woven veil. She leans toward you with a playful smirk. “I see you’ve decided to steal the attention for yourself tonight, Y/N. Not even the newlywed princess is safe from your charms.”
You laugh softly, returning her smirk. “It’s not stealing, dearest sister, merely borrowing for the evening.” Your eyes flick toward the bustling crowd, scanning the faces, seeking a particular one even as you engage in idle conversation.
You find him across the hall—Ser Harwin Strong, the Breakbones, the man who has captured your heart in ways you would never openly admit. His broad shoulders and easy smile cut a striking figure amidst the revelers. He leans against a pillar, eyes fixed on you with a heat that makes your pulse quicken. Even from here, you can feel the intensity of his gaze, the unspoken challenge in those dark eyes. A smirk pulls at your lips. Tonight is not just about celebrating your sister’s marriage—it is a dance, a game of fire and shadow that you and Harwin have played many times before.
As the feast progresses, the lords and ladies rise from their seats, drawn to the center of the hall where the dancing begins. You stand, gracefully gliding down the steps, the train of your gown trailing like liquid night behind you. Many lords vie for your attention, each more eager than the last to have the honor of a dance with the daughter of the King.
You indulge them—one by one, offering your hand with a practiced smile that promises nothing but amusement. Lord Beesbury twirls you first, his steps light but unremarkable. Lord Tyrell is next, his flattery sweet yet forgettable. Each time the music swells, you shift, gliding seamlessly into the arms of another suitor, all while casting sly glances over your shoulder to see if Harwin is watching.
And he is. His eyes never leave you, following every step, every spin, the set of his jaw tightening each time you turn away just as he moves closer. You can feel his impatience building like a storm, the tension of the game heightening with every dance.
Finally, after what feels like endless teasing, you find yourself caught in a whirl of movement, spinning until you are only steps away from him. Harwin’s expression is a mix of hunger and frustration as he makes his move to claim you at last.
But just as his hand reaches for yours, you slip away, turning instead into the arms of a young knight from the Westerlands, offering him a dazzling smile that is only for show. “My, Ser Harwin, are you growing weary of this dance already?” you tease, your voice lilting as you catch his gaze. You can see the fire in his eyes, a silent vow that he will not let you slip away so easily next time.
When the dance ends, the Westerlander knight bows low, eyes filled with admiration as he releases you. And as you turn, Harwin is there—closer than before, a step ahead of any other. This time, you do not pull away when his hand grasps yours, his grip firm and warm, sending a shiver down your spine. His voice is low, rough with suppressed desire, as he murmurs into your ear. “Do you truly believe you can keep running from me, Y/N?”
You tilt your head, lips curving into a smirk as you meet his gaze fully, violet and brown heat clashing. “Run, Ser Harwin? I am only leading the chase.”
Without giving him the satisfaction of a response, you spin away from him, the hem of your dress sweeping across the floor as you are swallowed back into the crowd. You glance back over your shoulder just long enough to catch the frustration in his expression before disappearing into the throng of lords and ladies once more. Harwin will catch you like he always does—of that you have no doubt. The thrill is in making him work for it.
But for now, the game continues, and you savor every moment of it.
The night is young, and so are you—dragon-blooded and bold, playing with fire and reveling in the heat that comes with it.
The music swells, a lively tune that fills the hall with mirth and energy, but it does little to settle the unease that creeps into King Viserys’ chest. Seated at the high table, he holds a goblet of wine, though he has barely touched it. His gaze drifts from one side of the room to the other, watching the mingling guests, the lords and ladies spinning in intricate dances. Yet his eyes keep returning to the center of the hall, where Rhaenyra and Daemon move together with a fluid grace that borders on impropriety.
His brow furrows as he watches them—his daughter and his brother. The distance between them is too narrow, the smiles exchanged too familiar. Even now, after all these years, Viserys cannot fully discern what lies behind those shared glances. His hand tightens on the armrest of his seat, his knuckles whitening with the effort to maintain composure. The court is watching; he cannot afford to let his concerns show. Not here. Not tonight.
But then, from the corner of his eye, something else catches his attention—a flash of deep plum silk, a braid of silver hair glinting in the candlelight. His eyes shift, narrowing as he tracks the movement, and there you are, his younger daughter, Y/N, weaving through the crowd with that same effortless grace, the very image of your late mother Alyssa in her youth.
Viserys watches as you glide from one partner to the next, a playful smile ever present on your lips. Each lord who steps forward is charmed, entranced even, but there is one figure whose presence never strays far from your orbit—Ser Harwin Strong. The son of his current Hand, a man known for his strength and loyalty, but also for the intensity of his gaze, a gaze that now rests solely on you.
Viserys leans forward slightly, frowning as he observes the exchange unfolding before him. Harwin moves closer, clearly intent on catching you, and you—ever the playful one—tease him with fleeting glances, spinning just out of his reach each time he draws near. The way your eyes gleam with mischief, the way you turn your back only to glance over your shoulder at him, invites more than just a dance. It’s a game, and one that is all too familiar to Viserys, who remembers his own youth, and the thrill of such pursuits.
But then Harwin catches you. His large hand wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, closer than what is proper for a dance in front of the entire court. Your laughter rings out like silver bells, light and teasing as you push back against him, yet the way Harwin’s hand lingers—fingers splayed possessively against the silk of your gown—does not escape your father’s notice. The look on Harwin’s face is far too unguarded, a mixture of admiration and longing that sends a jolt of concern racing through Viserys.
Viserys’ chest tightens as he watches you lean in, saying something that makes Harwin’s smile sharpen, though the words are lost to the music and laughter that fills the hall. Then, just as quickly as he caught you, you slip away again, your skirts swirling as you twirl out of his grasp, leaving Harwin standing in the middle of the floor with a look of mingled frustration and desire. The scene plays out before Viserys like a vivid memory, like something he should have noticed sooner, something he should have acted upon long before tonight.
His eyes narrow as he follows the thread of events with growing unease. You laugh and dance your way out of the hall, light-footed and swift, and though Harwin remains behind for a few moments, his gaze tracks you with the keen eye of a falcon. Then, as discreetly as he can manage, Harwin moves toward the exit, following you.
Viserys’ grip on his goblet tightens until he fears it might shatter in his hand. He remains rooted to his seat, unwilling to cause a scene, yet the implications churn in his mind like a dark tide. The daughter who bears his blood, a Targaryen of pure lineage, slipping away with the son of his Hand? It is unthinkable—and yet, Viserys cannot ignore the undeniable connection between the two of you. The way you moved in tandem, how easily you played off one another as if you were two parts of a whole. It stirs something in Viserys, a deep-seated dread that this could lead to something more—something he has not prepared for.
His gaze shifts, and he meets the eyes of Lord Lyonel Strong. The Hand is seated farther down the table, looking distinctly uncomfortable, as though he too is aware of the precarious position his son is placing him in. When their eyes lock, Viserys does not miss the brief flash of unease in Lyonel’s expression, followed quickly by a nod of acknowledgment, as if to say he understands what Viserys is thinking. And, undoubtedly, he does.
The memory rushes back, clear as day—months ago, when Lyonel Strong came to him with a proposition a second time. “Your Grace,” Lyonel had said, his voice steady and filled with the gravity of a man who understood the weight of his words, “there are many fine matches to be made for your daughter, Y/N, from prominent houses across the realm. But I would humbly suggest that what my son Harwin offers may be worth more than mere lineage. His devotion to the princess is unwavering, and his love is without question. He would be a husband who honors her above all else, a union built on something deeper than mere alliances.”
At the time, Viserys had dismissed the notion—politely, but firmly. His daughter was a Targaryen, and surely she deserved a match that would strengthen their house politically, not merely satisfy matters of the heart. Yet now, watching the scene unfold before him, Viserys finds himself second-guessing his decision. Could there be merit in such a match after all? Could Lyonel’s words hold more truth than Viserys had been willing to see? But then again, to allow such a thing would be to acknowledge a love affair that has clearly grown far beyond simple courtly affection.
Viserys’ thoughts whirl, torn between the duty of a king and the love of a father. He knows that if he raises the matter now, it could cast a shadow over the entire evening, drawing unwelcome attention to something that should remain hidden, if only for the sake of peace. And yet, can he afford to remain silent, knowing the path that such unchecked desire could lead his daughter down? His gaze flicks back to the entrance where you vanished, and a part of him itches to rise from his seat, to go after you and demand answers.
But he stays rooted in place, forced into inaction by the eyes of the court and the weight of his crown. Instead, his gaze returns to Lyonel, and he sees the older man swallow nervously before looking away, clearly wishing to be anywhere else. The tension between them is palpable, unspoken yet undeniable.
Viserys takes a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. The decision he makes next could have lasting consequences, for both you and the realm. As the music swells and the laughter of the court continues around him, the king’s mind churns, trapped in a web of duty, love, and fear.
For now, he decides to wait—he will watch, and if Harwin oversteps again, then the matter will be brought to light. But the seed of doubt has already taken root in Viserys’ heart, and it will not be easily dismissed.
The night is long, but Viserys’ thoughts are longer still.
You slip through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, your heart thrumming in your chest as you make your way deeper into its shadowed recesses. The sound of music and laughter fades behind you as you reach a secluded passage, hidden away from the eyes of the court. This path is familiar, a secret shared only between the two of you. You’ve met here before, during stolen moments when the weight of duty and the eyes of others became too much to bear. The flickering torchlight casts long shadows along the stone walls, giving the space an almost dreamlike quality. Yet there is nothing dreamlike about the tension that crackles in the air as you wait, anticipation coiling like a serpent beneath your skin.
Footsteps echo faintly down the passage, the heavy tread unmistakable. A smirk tugs at your lips as you press your back against the cool stone, the thrill of the chase still buzzing in your veins. He always catches you in the end; it’s a part of the game, a part of the dance you both know so well. You hear him approach, his steps purposeful, a hunter closing in on his prey. You hold your breath, relishing the thrill of being caught, knowing what comes next.
And then he’s there—Ser Harwin Strong, towering and fierce, the firelight casting sharp angles across his rugged features. He looks at you with that smoldering gaze, dark and intense, his chest heaving as he closes the distance between you. “You run from me as if you ever wanted to get away,” he says, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.
You don’t reply with words, only a wicked smile that dares him to come closer. And he does, with a predatory grace, until his body is pressed against yours, trapping you between the stone wall and his broad chest. “Caught you,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw while the other grips your waist possessively.
Before you can retort, his lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s all fire and hunger, the pent-up tension of the night spilling over as he devours you with a need that’s impossible to hide. You kiss him back with equal fervor, fingers tangling in his dark curls as you pull him closer, desperate to close the distance that’s been kept between you all night. Every touch, every bite and nip, is laced with the emotions you can’t express openly—a love too dangerous to voice in the light of day, but undeniable in moments like this.
Harwin’s hands roam over your body with a familiarity that sends heat pooling in your core. He tugs at the laces of your gown, his fingers rough but practiced, until the fabric loosens and falls away, exposing the soft skin of your neck and shoulders. You gasp against his lips as he nips at your throat, the scrape of his teeth drawing a moan from your lips. His own garments follow suit—his tunic and belt discarded hastily, the sound of cloth hitting stone echoing faintly in the small space.
The air between you crackles with a desperate need, the kind that’s built up over countless stolen moments, secret touches, and longing glances. There’s no pretense here, no titles or duties—only the raw, unfiltered connection between you. Harwin’s hands slide down your waist, gripping your hips firmly as he lifts you, pressing you harder against the wall. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, gasping as you feel him against you, hard and ready. The anticipation coils tightly in your belly, every nerve alive with want.
His eyes meet yours for a fleeting moment, and in them, you see everything he can’t say aloud—devotion, desire, and the promise that he would burn the world for you if you asked. But words are unnecessary now. You reach down, guiding him until he’s pressed right where you need him most. There’s a brief, charged pause—a moment where everything hangs on the edge—and then he pushes into you in one smooth, powerful motion.
The world tilts, pleasure and need blurring everything else as he sets a rhythm, hard and fast, the way he knows you both like it. It’s familiar and yet never loses its edge—each thrust, each gasp, sending sparks of electricity through you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, biting down on the rough skin to muffle your cries, while his own growls of pleasure vibrate against your ear. His hands grip you tightly, fingers digging into your flesh as he moves, driving into you with a force that leaves you breathless.
But it’s not just the physical pleasure that binds you in this moment. It’s the intimacy, the shared understanding that this is where you both belong—together, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world. Here, you are not a princess, and he is not merely the son of the Hand. Here, you are simply two people who have found something rare and precious, something that defies the rules of the world you live in.
He kisses you again, slower this time, a searing heat beneath the tenderness as he deepens the connection between you. Your bodies move in sync, finding that perfect rhythm that drives you both higher, closer to the edge. You can feel it building, a tightening coil of pleasure that threatens to snap at any moment. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, a desperate plea, and he responds with your name in kind, low and reverent.
The world narrows to just the two of you—the heat of his body, the rough press of stone at your back, the intoxicating scent of sweat and desire. And then, with one final thrust, the tension breaks, pleasure crashing over you like a wave, drowning you in bliss. Harwin follows a heartbeat later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself deep, his body trembling with the force of his release.
For a long moment, neither of you move, the air thick with the aftermath of your passion. You stay entwined, foreheads pressed together as you catch your breath, your heartbeats slowing in tandem. His hands are still on you, holding you as if he’s afraid you might slip away even now. And for a moment, the world is quiet, all worries and responsibilities forgotten in the haze of sated desire.
But reality is never far away. Slowly, you both come back to yourselves, and he reluctantly pulls back, letting you slide down until your feet touch the ground once more. There’s a flicker of regret in his eyes, a wish that this moment could last longer, but he says nothing as he helps you adjust your gown, his touch gentle now.
You smooth down your skirts, fixing your hair with a practiced ease, though the flush of your skin and the brightness in your eyes would give you away to anyone who looked closely enough. Harwin lingers, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a soft, almost reverent caress. “You always make me chase you,” he murmurs, his voice laced with fondness.“
And you always catch me,” you reply, the smile on your lips tinged with affection. “Perhaps I simply enjoy the chase.”
He chuckles, but there’s a seriousness in his gaze as he cups your face in his hands, holding you still for a moment longer. “One day, I won’t let you run again,” he says quietly, the promise heavy in the air.
You don’t answer, not with words. Instead, you lean up to kiss him one last time, slow and lingering, tasting the bittersweet mix of what you have and what you cannot yet fully claim. When you pull away, you give him a final smile before slipping out of the shadows and back into the world where duty and decorum await.
Harwin remains behind, watching you go with a look that holds both longing and resolve. He knows this is far from over.
- Summary: You sneak out of the Red Keep again. And as alway, Harwin is there to chase you down.
- Paring: targ!reader/Harwin Strong
- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin sister of Rhaenyra and has striking resemblance to her grandmother, Alyssa. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.
- Rating: Explicit 18+
- Word count: 3 599
- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff
- A/N: I've never posted anything so fresh in my life. This work is just written, like a few minutes ago. I don't usually post my works so soon. They tend to sit way longer before being posted, especially if they are supposed to be made into a series. Those works are posted once all parts are complete, or way, way close to being done. I've slept like two hours, maybe. My blood is 90% coffee. Luckily, it's my day off. 😅 As always, I'll see how you guys like this before it becomes something larger. Enjoy! ❤️
The chill of the night air is a welcome contrast to the stifling warmth of the Red Keep as you slip quietly through the hidden passageways beneath Maegor’s Holdfast. You’ve navigated these shadowy tunnels since you were a child, memorizing each twist and turn like a whispered secret shared only with you. The cool stone beneath your hands feels like freedom as you push through the last concealed door, emerging into the moonlit streets of King’s Landing.
The city is alive, even in the depths of night. You breathe in the scent of the sea mingled with smoke and distant perfumes, savoring the feeling of anonymity that only these stolen excursions bring. You’ve always felt as if you were a dragon bound in chains within the walls of the Keep, and here, at least for a little while, you are free.
You keep your hood low, concealing the distinctive silver-gold hair that marks your heritage. The cobblestones beneath your feet are slick from the earlier rain, and the shadows dance with flickering torchlight as you weave through narrow alleys, away from the watchful eyes of your father’s guards.
The tension between you and your father has grown unbearable in recent moons. He sees in you too much of his mother, Alyssa, and perhaps that is why he clings so tightly. You can’t breathe under his watchful eye, can’t stretch your wings when he’s always hovering, reminding you of duty, decorum, and the precarious balance of the realm.
But here, no one knows you as the princess, no one sees the crown’s burden pressing down on your shoulders. Here, you are simply a shadow among shadows.
The night hums with the distant laughter of taverns and the murmurs of lovers hiding from prying eyes. You’re about to turn a corner when a rough hand reaches out from the darkness, yanking you into an even darker alley.
“Now what’s a fine lady like you doing alone in these parts?” A low, sneering voice slithers out from the gloom. You tense, instinctively reaching for the dagger hidden at your hip, but there’s no time to draw it before you’re shoved roughly against the wall. Two more men step into view, all grinning like wolves who’ve cornered a lost lamb.
“You’re far from home, aren’t you?” one of them taunts, his breath reeking of stale ale.
You glare up at them, defiance burning in your eyes. “I assure you, you’ve made a grave mistake tonight,” you hiss, your voice edged with the fire that runs through your blood.
“Is that so?” The leader laughs, leaning in closer. “I think we’ve found ourselves a little bird with some fight.”
Before you can spit back a retort, there’s a sharp whistle from the shadows, and suddenly the men stiffen. The leader barely has time to turn before a strong hand grabs his collar and slams him face-first into the wall beside you. He crumples to the ground with a groan.
“Seems you lot forgot whose streets you’re crawling through,” a familiar voice says, smooth as velvet and rich with amusement.
Ser Harwin Strong steps into the faint light, his broad frame and easy confidence radiating a quiet authority that sends the other two men stumbling back in fear. His hand rests on the pommel of his sword, but it’s the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth that unsettles them more.
“Run along, boys, before you find yourselves missing fingers or worse,” he advises in a tone that suggests he’s making them a very generous offer.
They don’t need to be told twice, bolting into the night like startled prey. Harwin watches them go before turning his attention to you. The glint in his dark eyes tells you he’s more amused than surprised to find you here, as if he half-expected it.
“You have a peculiar way of taking your nightly strolls, princess,” he says, the smirk widening into a grin. “I should have known I’d find you stirring up trouble.”
You roll your eyes, gathering your composure as you adjust your cloak. “I can handle myself, you know.”
“Clearly,” he chuckles, giving a pointed look at the discarded dagger still in your hand. “But I doubt King Viserys would agree if he knew his daughter was sneaking into Flea Bottom on a whim.”
You lift your chin defiantly. “I wasn’t in Flea Bottom.”
He arches a brow. “You’re not far from it.”
Silence hangs between you, broken only by the distant clamor of the city. The moonlight catches the chestnut in Harwin’s eyes as he studies you, his expression softening into something less playful and more sincere. “Y/N… You know I can’t let you stay out here. I’m supposed to be your protector, after all.”
“Are you my guard now, too? I thought you were just Rhaenyra’s Gold Cloak protector.”
His lips twitch at that. “Rhaenyra doesn’t run off nearly as much as you do.”
You let out an exasperated sigh, stepping away from the wall and back toward the street. “You’re insufferable, Harwin.”
“And you’re reckless,” he counters, reaching for your arm as if to steer you back toward the Keep. “Come on, before you get us both into even more trouble.”
But you’re not done with the night just yet. You twist free of his grip, darting back into the alley. “Catch me if you can, Ser Breakbones!”
For a heartbeat, Harwin simply stares after you, caught between disbelief and admiration. Then he shakes his head with a low chuckle and gives chase, the sound of his footsteps pounding behind you as you race through the winding streets.
The thrill of it all—the wind in your hair, the laughter bubbling in your chest, and the sound of Harwin’s voice calling your name—feels like flying. You know he’ll catch you eventually, but for now, you’re just out of reach, teasing the line between freedom and the inevitable return to your gilded cage.
But that’s part of the dance, isn’t it? The chase, the daring escapes, and the knowledge that while he may be tasked with returning you to safety, a part of him enjoys the game just as much as you do.
And for tonight, that’s enough.
The pounding of your heart echoes in your ears as you dart through the narrow streets, your feet barely skimming the cobblestones. Harwin is right behind you, his heavy boots making it clear he’s gaining ground. You can’t help the exhilarated laugh that slips past your lips, feeling the cool night air whip through your hair. For a brief moment, you almost wish he wouldn’t catch you, just so you could revel in the rush of freedom a little longer.
But then you hear his voice—low, deep, laced with a blend of exasperation and amusement. “Y/N, you’re only making this worse for yourself!”
You glance back just in time to see the determined gleam in his eyes, and before you can react, his hand closes around your wrist. You let out a surprised gasp as he spins you, tugging you close until your chest is flush against his. You can feel the heat radiating from him, his breath ghosting over your lips as he stares down at you with a mixture of desire and reprimand.
“You truly are a wild thing, aren’t you?” His voice is husky, rough with the thrill of the chase.
“Perhaps,” you murmur, a sly smile tugging at your lips, “but you seem to enjoy it.”
Without giving him a chance to respond, you tug him into the shadowed alleyway beside you. The darkness wraps around you both, cloaking you from any prying eyes that might still be wandering the streets. There’s a moment of tension, of anticipation crackling between you like lightning in a summer storm.
You push him back against the stone wall, your hands fisting in the front of his tunic as you pull him down to meet your lips. The kiss is fierce, hungry—born of a shared need that has simmered beneath the surface for far too long. Harwin’s hands are quick to respond, gripping your waist with a possessive strength that sends shivers down your spine. He tastes of salt and warmth, of nights spent in armor and the fire that burns within him.
There’s no room for words now, just the frantic rustle of fabric as your fingers work to loosen his breeches, his own hands tugging at the ties of your skirts. The air is thick with the scent of desire, mingled with the cool, damp earth and stone around you. Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you free him, your bodies already pressing together with the desperate anticipation of what’s to come.
When he moves into you, it’s with a practiced ease that speaks of all the times you’ve stolen moments like this before. Your head falls back, a soft moan escaping your lips as he fills you, the familiar stretch and heat drawing gasps from both of you. For a heartbeat, you both remain still, savoring the way you fit together, the way your bodies seem to crave this connection as much as your hearts do.
“Gods, Y/N,” Harwin groans, his voice low and strained. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
You smile against his lips, your nails digging into his shoulders as you start to move, setting a rhythm that’s as familiar as it is intoxicating. “Better than dying in the Keep, caged and suffocated,” you manage to whisper, your voice breathy with desire.
He lets out a deep, rumbling laugh, but the sound quickly fades into a grunt as your hips grind against his. The tempo between you quickens, each thrust driven by pure, unbridled need. There’s a primal urgency in the way you cling to each other, as if the world outside these walls doesn’t exist, as if all that matters is this moment, this passion, this escape.
His hands grip your thighs, lifting you slightly as he presses you harder against the wall, deepening the angle until you’re both lost to the rhythm of your bodies. Every movement draws a gasp, a moan, a whispered name into the darkness. Your nails rake down his back, desperate to hold onto the sensation building within you. He’s rough and tender all at once, his control fraying with each stroke as he buries his face in the curve of your neck.
“Y/N… you drive me mad,” he rasps, his breath hot against your skin.
You bite down on your lip, stifling a cry as he hits a particularly sensitive spot, pleasure coiling tight in your belly. “Good,” you manage, your voice breaking on the word as your hands slide into his hair, tugging him closer, demanding more.
The pace is relentless now, both of you moving in sync, lost in the frantic need to reach that edge together. You’re barely aware of anything but the feeling of him inside you, the way your bodies collide with a desperate intensity. His name slips from your lips again and again, a plea, a prayer, as the pleasure builds to an unbearable peak.
When release finally crashes over you, it’s like wildfire spreading through your veins. Your body trembles, tightening around him as you shatter, a cry breaking free from your throat. Harwin isn’t far behind, his grip bruising as he thrusts deep one final time, a guttural groan spilling from his lips as he finds his own release. He holds you there, chest heaving, his forehead pressed against yours as you both ride out the last waves of pleasure together.
For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your ragged breathing mingling in the darkness. The intensity slowly ebbs away, leaving behind a warmth that’s almost tender as you both come back to yourselves. Harwin’s thumb traces a gentle line along your jaw, his eyes soft as he studies your flushed face.
“Reckless, wild, and impossible,” he murmurs, but there’s no scolding in his tone, only fondness.
You lean into his touch, a contented smile tugging at your lips. “And yet you keep coming back, Ser Harwin.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, slow and sweet this time. “How could I not? There’s no taming a dragon, but gods be damned if I don’t love the fire.”
For a moment, you allow yourself to savor the warmth of his embrace, the comfort of his presence in the midst of all the chaos that defines your life. But the night is waning, and the world beyond this alleyway is still waiting.
Reluctantly, you begin to disentangle yourself, smoothing your skirts and adjusting your cloak. Harwin mirrors you, straightening his tunic and tightening the laces of his breeches. There’s a lingering heat in his gaze as he watches you, as if he’s already thinking about the next time he’ll chase you through these streets.
“Come,” he finally says, extending his hand with a grin. “I suppose I should get you back before anyone notices your absence… though I doubt I’ll be able to explain why you’re looking so disheveled.”
You smirk, taking his hand as you step back out into the moonlight. “That’s your problem, Ser Breakbones. I’ll leave the excuses to you.”
With a chuckle, he leads you back toward the Red Keep, but not before stealing one last kiss under the stars, a reminder that, for all the rules and restrictions of your world, some fires simply can’t be contained.
The flickering light of the hearth casts dancing shadows on the walls of the private dining chamber, illuminating the worn but sturdy wooden table where Lord Lyonel Strong and his son, Ser Harwin, sit across from one another. The aroma of roasted meats and spiced wine fills the room, yet Harwin barely touches his food, his mind lost in thought as he absently stirs his cup of wine.
Lyonel watches his son with keen eyes, noting the subtle tension in his posture, the way his gaze drifts toward nothing in particular as if he’s waging some silent battle within himself. They’ve shared these private dinners often, moments away from the demands of the court, but tonight there’s a charged undercurrent in the air that neither man can ignore.
After a long silence, Lyonel clears his throat and decides it’s time to broach the subject. “You seem distracted, Harwin. A rare occurrence for you.” His tone is gentle, probing, as he carefully measures his son’s reaction.
Harwin’s head snaps up as if he’s been startled out of his thoughts. He forces a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s nothing, Father. Just tired, perhaps.”
Lyonel isn’t convinced, but he decides to tread forward nonetheless. He takes a deliberate sip of his wine before speaking, choosing his words with the precision of a man accustomed to walking the tightrope of politics. “There’s been much discussion in the Small Council of late regarding alliances and… strategic marriages.”
Harwin tenses slightly, though he tries to mask it with a casual nod. “That’s always the way of things, isn’t it? Who’s being sold to whom for power and coin this time?”
Lyonel’s eyes narrow, noting the edge in his son’s voice. “In this case, it concerns someone close to you. The King is making plans for Princess Y/N. It appears he’s leaning toward a betrothal to the heir of House Blackwood.”
The words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, Harwin’s face betrays nothing. But Lyonel’s sharp eyes catch the brief flicker of something—shock, anger, and something dangerously close to despair—before Harwin schools his features into a stoic mask.
He swallows hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. “House Blackwood,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s… she’s to be sent away, then.”
Lyonel arches a brow, watching the way his son’s knuckles whiten as he grips the edge of the table. “It would seem so,” he replies slowly, studying every nuance of Harwin’s reaction. “The marriage would be advantageous for the realm—bringing the Riverlands more firmly into the fold, securing loyalties through blood ties.”
Harwin’s gaze drops to his plate, the food now entirely forgotten. His mind races, a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions churning within him. The mere idea of Y/N being wed to someone else—of her being taken away to some distant castle, away from the Red Keep, away from him—it’s unbearable.
And Lyonel sees it, clear as day. The horror settles over him like a weight as he begins to piece together what Harwin’s response truly means. He knows his son—knows that Harwin has never been one to be so easily unsettled. For him to react this way… there must be something more, something deeper beneath the surface.
“Harwin,” Lyonel says, his voice now laced with a quiet urgency. “You’re taking this news rather hard, considering it is not your place to determine who the princess marries. Why does this trouble you so?”
Harwin clenches his jaw, fighting to keep his emotions in check. But his father’s probing gaze is relentless, cutting through the defenses Harwin has so carefully constructed over the years. “It’s not—” he begins, but the words catch in his throat. He can’t find a plausible excuse, can’t weave a tale that would satisfy his father without revealing too much.
Lyonel’s expression darkens as he begins to draw his own conclusions, his shrewd mind piecing together the puzzle. His eyes widen slightly in realization, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features before settling into grim understanding. “Harwin…” he breathes, the name laced with a mixture of disappointment and concern. “Tell me you haven’t done something foolish.”
Harwin’s silence is damning. His hands tighten into fists on the table as he struggles to find the words, his heart pounding in his chest. He doesn’t need to confirm it; his father already knows.
The weight of Lyonel’s realization crashes down like a hammer. He leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face as he exhales a long, weary breath. “Gods help us,” he mutters, more to himself than to Harwin. “You’ve gone and entangled yourself with the princess, haven’t you?”
Harwin’s gaze remains fixed on the table, shame and defiance warring within him. He knows there’s no point in denying it now. “It wasn’t supposed to happen,” he admits hoarsely, his voice thick with emotion. “But I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop myself.”
Lyonel closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as the full implications settle in. “You fool. Do you have any idea what this could mean? What could happen if this gets out? The scandal, the danger—not just to you, but to her?”
“I know,” Harwin snaps, his voice strained, as if the very acknowledgment of the truth is tearing him apart. “But I… I care for her, Father. More than I should. More than I’ve ever cared for anyone.”
The raw confession hangs in the air, and for a moment, Lyonel can only stare at his son with a mixture of anger and pity. He sees the turmoil in Harwin’s eyes, the desperate, reckless need that has clearly consumed him. This isn’t just a passing infatuation or a dalliance. It’s something far deeper, something that could lead to ruin if it’s not carefully managed.
“Harwin,” Lyonel finally says, his voice low and grave, “you’ve put us all in a precarious position. If the King suspects, if the wrong person finds out, it could be the end of not just you, but our entire house. You must let her go. The marriage will happen, and you cannot interfere. Do you understand me?”
Harwin’s fists tremble as he fights back the overwhelming urge to protest, to scream that it’s impossible, that he can’t just let her go. But he knows his father is right. He knows the reality of their situation, knows that they are both trapped in a world of politics, duty, and expectations that neither of them can escape.
“I understand,” he finally grits out, though the words feel like ashes on his tongue.
Lyonel’s gaze softens slightly, a hint of sympathy bleeding into his stern expression. “I do not doubt your feelings, son, but some battles are not meant to be fought. And this is one you cannot win. You must think of what’s at stake.”
Harwin doesn’t respond, unable to trust himself to speak without betraying the depth of his anguish. Instead, he nods stiffly, forcing himself to swallow the pain that threatens to overwhelm him. He can’t imagine a future where Y/N belongs to someone else, where she’s out of his reach, but he knows he may have no choice in the matter.
Lyonel watches him with a heavy heart, knowing he’s asking the impossible of his son but also knowing it’s the only way to avoid disaster. “Be careful, Harwin,” he warns quietly, his voice tinged with regret. “Love is a powerful thing, but it can also be a weapon if wielded recklessly. Do not let it destroy you.”
The room falls into silence once more, the crackling fire the only sound between them. Harwin’s gaze remains fixed on the flames, but his thoughts are far from the warmth of the hearth. They’re with her—always with her—no matter how impossible the road ahead may seem. And even as he tells himself to let go, to do what’s expected, he knows in his heart that the fire between them isn’t something he can simply snuff out. It burns too bright, too fiercely, and like all dragonfire, it may yet consume them both.
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