𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄 ᯓ★
⤷ harwin strong x fem!targaryen!reader
synopsis — as the prospect of marriage to a man you know you will never love looms closer, you take drastic measures and recruit the aid of your sworn shield to prevent it from happening.
warnings — canon typical misogyny, references to arranged marriage, reader has bad opinions on marriage, angst, excessive use of 'princess', virgin! reader, reader is described with valyrian features (silver hair & violet eyes etc) and has pubic hair, fingering, suggestive content, harwin is high-key obsessed.
word count; 4.3k
okay, this is my first time writing for harwin, and writing semi—smut, which is something i want to write, but i want to build up to it, so sorry if it ends quite abruptly. anyway, i had loads of fun writing for my pookie harwin, so if you want more please let me know!! i hope you enjoy <3
likes, comments & reblogs are always appreciated<3
“Princess!”
The deep rumble of your sworn shield’s voice thunders through you, though you do not stop. His shouts of worry do not deter you from your path.
Your footfalls, padding in quick succession against the stone floor of the Red Keep, bringing you further and further away from the Kings solar, are entirely overshadowed by the heavy thumps sounding behind you, the clanking of metal drawing nearer.
You don’t stop running.
You are causing a scene.
Fortunately, it is the hour of the eel. No one is witness to your outburst save the man chasing after you.
“Princess!” He calls again. Louder, this time. Closer, too.
You don’t stop until a firm hand clasps your forearm. His touch sends a shiver down your spine, momentarily distracting you from your goal.
He does not release you, aware you may take off running again if he does so. Rather, he turns you around, gently, always gently, until you are met with his armoured chest. You look down, not wanting your sworn shield to witness you like this, though you know he has seen much worse than a troubled Princess upset about her duties.
Lower lips pulled between your teeth to stop the trembling, your chest heaves as you realise what you have done.
Stormed out of your fathers chambers in a fit of rage and ran away from the man assigned to protect you.
But this is not something he can shield you from.
You exhale shakily and he loosens his grip on your arm, but is reluctant let go.
His gruff voice sounds in your ears, a familiar tone that has come to comfort you in times like these, “what is the matter, Princess?” You can detect naught else but concern woven into his deep timbre.
How can you explain what troubles you? How can you, when the reason for your woes is the sole duty you are to complete in this life?
Marriage.
As the days passed, you were acutely aware that the time you spent unmarried was drawing to a close. You do not want a husband. You do not want to be strapped to a man twice, perhaps even thrice your age. You do not want your entire existence to revolve around a man, when there is so much you have yet to do in this life.
Your heart longs for exploration, not to be trapped in a loveless cage, wings clipped and forced to submit.
Your Lord husband will be your master, and you his childbearing puppet.
That is not the life you want.
But you are a Princess. a Targaryen Princess, at that. It is your duty to marry a nobleman of your fathers choosing. Your line is dying out, and there are few left who can claim their Valyrian heritage. It has been engrained in you that you must bear children, heirs for the continuation of the Targaryen family line. But after what happened to your mother— mama, come back. I miss you. Please— the horrifying thought that your husband may choose to save a babe over you swarms through your mind, a nauseating feeling in your stomach. After all, Viserys Targaryen was widely known for his great love for Aemma Arryn, yet not even that was enough to save her from the blade. The curse that is the unyielding want for a son.
You do not want children. You do not want a husband. You want to be free.
And to make matters worse, he has chosen Jason Lannister, of all wretched people. The Lord of Casterly Rock. A pompous prick who will not see you but instead your Valyrian features, dragon blood in your veins and status as royalty.
He was denied Rhaenyra, and so has come back vying for you, the second daughter, the second best.
And then, Rhaenyra, the child your father favours above all else, neglecting you to give his special heir all the attention, all of the love.
She was given free choice over whom she wanted to take to husband. But not you, no, you have to be bound to a Lannister for the remainder of your miserable life.
It’s not fair. I won’t do it. I can’t. I—
“Princess?” Your watery eyes refocus on his visage, taking in his expression of worry, dark eyebrows knitted together, lips pulled into a firm line. He is stood firm before you, thick fingers remain curled around your forearm, working to ground you in the moment.
“I..” you sigh, swallowing thickly, your weight shifting from foot to foot. Brows furrowed as you try to sift through your complex thoughts, to provide your most staunch protector with a response. No words come to mind, your mouth cannot form words. But you wish to ease his concern, to rest his mind.
Harwin waits, patiently. Not pressing, not pushing you for a response.
He knows what you need, even without you saying it.
He knows you better than you know yourself.
He lets go of your arm, it falls back down to your side.
“He wants me to marry— Jason Lannister,” the disgust is evident from the purse of your lips, the way his name falls from your mouth as though the very thought of him is poisonous. You watch his jaw tick at your statement, fingers clenching into a fist at his side. There is a moment of silence before you continue, “I know it is my, my duty, to marry a Lord, to continue the Targaryen line, but I am not ready to be a wife. To be his wife.”
I do not think I will ever be.
“You need not justify yourself to me, Princess,” he shakes his head, and his understanding makes you pause, filling you with a warmth you didn’t realise you were lacking.
You swallow, nodding your head.
A moment later, you gather your thoughts and begin the walk back to your chambers, much less frantic this time. Harwin falls into suit half a pace behind you, the shadow you have come to know and appreciate. With him, you are no longer alone.
When Harwin Strong was first assigned as your sworn shield, you did everything in your power to make him leave, not wanting to be constantly followed. He persisted every time you managed to slip from his field of view, forcing him to chase after you. You are sure he would hear your cries in the night, when everything was too overwhelming. When all you wanted was your mother back, your fathers love, your sisters attention. No one heard your weeps but him. No one knew of your peril, your constant solitude, save the man who swore an oath to protect you from harm.
He has never mentioned this, but by the way he hovers, ever vigilant and always watching, you know it is more than keeping an oath. Harwin has grown to care about you, but you remain oblivious to what extent. He plans to keep it that way. Though it is growing increasingly difficult with each passing moment spent in your company.
You look back at him for a moment, lavender gaze focused on his deep brown, warm and welcoming. “I do not know what to do, Ser Harwin,” seeking advice from the man who has somehow become your closest confidant. Your voice is quiet, and your expression troubled.
Harwin would do anything to turn your frown into the gleeful smile he has come to grow and love. The way your lilac eyes gleam, the soft, melodic giggles that fall from your plush lips, the way your nose scrunches. It is his favourite expression of yours, and he has dearly missed it as of late.
He shakes those thoughts from his head, “my apologies, Princess, I do not think I can be of aid in this matter.” It pains him to not be able to do anything, bound by his own duty, otherwise he would gladly slay the man if it meant you did not have to marry him.
Matching your pace beside you, his hand forms into a tight fight on the pommel of his short sword. He wishes he could do more, for his sake as well as your own. He wishes to see you contented, and being the wife of a Lannister will not ensure that. Harwin is almost certain your peril will worsen.
You sigh, hand reaching up to toy with the silver curls that cascade loosely down your shoulders, over your cream dress, accented with hints of canary, “I— cannot marry him. I can’t.” Voice broken and uneven. The next words ache as they leave your mouth, resigning yourself to a fate of hollow despair, “but there is no way out of it, is there?”
The heart wrenching sight of you peering up ay him, wide-eyes swelling with tears once again, pains him. The knight must force the feelings of rage stirring within him. Rage at your father for failing to notice, or care how much you are hurting by this decision. Rage at that prick Jason Lannister for daring to try to make you his. He will not treat you like you should be treated. He will keep you caged, a pretty bird to show off at court and to birth his heirs, where you should be coveted and appreciated, but respected above all.
Harwin cannot, will not stand by and passively let this happen to you. He knows how this will be your ruination.
“Jason Lannister is undeserving of you. You should not be strapped to some old Lord.” The gruffly spoken statement, true yet bold, escapes before he has the chance to think about it. He swallows thickly as you pause and watch him carefully, acutely surprised. “My apologies, Princess.” His head dips, “that was too forward of me.” He does not regret his words, still, he is aware of the professional role he must maintain.
Shaking your head, you assure him, “You may speak freely in my company, Ser Harwin,” while tucking a stray lock of pearly hair behind your ear.
How he yearns to run his hands through your pretty tresses.
He is not entirely sure you would appreciate the whole truth of his opinions on this matter, but he grunts softy in acknowledgement nonetheless. He says nothing more and you soon reach the doors to your chambers. A part of you wishes the walk was longer, unwilling to leave the company of your sworn shield.
Yet, his calloused hand turns the doorknob and opens the heavy oak door for you, “good night, Princess. I hope sleep comes easily to you.” He knows it won’t. Not tonight. Not after your conversation with the King.
Still, this is your nightly tradition. He opens the door for you, and you bid each other a good night before you disappear inside your rooms and he stands guard like the ever faithful watch dog until another knight comes in his place to allow Harwin his own respite.
“Thank you, Harwin.” Is your reply, head lowered slightly. You barely take a step into your doorway before you pause, turning to face him. His expression both soothes and increases your nerves tenfold as you swallow, “I do not— wish to be alone.”
He seems surprised by your offer, one you have never extended before. You persist, “please?”
Doe-eyed and pouty lipped. How could anyone ever refuse you?
“Alright, Princess,” he concedes, nodding his head and following you inside your chambers, acutely aware of the boundary being broken, the line between professionalism and.. something else entirely blurred with each step he takes into your rooms.
They are grand and lavish and so very you. He smiles.
He follows you to the centre of the room, beside a plush couch, where you gesture for him to sit.
The two of you sit closer than strictly allowed. Not quite touching, but you are close enough to see each stubble the lower half of his face. Your gaze flickers to his lips for a moment, before you realise and correct yourself. If he notices, he makes no mention of it.
Your sworn shield is quiet, watching you, waiting for you to initiate something. You sigh, fingers fiddling with the fabric of your dress. An idea has come to you, but you aren’t sure how to approach the subject. “If I required your assistance with.. something, would you be willing to aid me?”
His response is immediate. “What is it you need help with, Princess?”
Better to tell him outright.
“Lord Jason will call the betrothal off if he discovers I have been,” a beat, you look down coyly, “taken, by another man.”
Seconds, minutes, hours pass, frozen in time. The bear of a man in front of you is completely still.
“Harwin?”
He seems to spur back into life, choking on air before managing to gather his composure, “what?”
“I want you, Harwin. I, I wish for you to take my maidenhead.”
Your words make his heart flutter in his chest, and he feels heat stirring in his loins. But he spurs the notion away, he will not take advantage of you when you are in this state, desperate and frantic, willing to do something you may regret in the morn.
Biting your lip at his lack of response and clear hesitation, you continue, “I would not ask this of you unless I were certain it is what I want.” And it is what you want, you have come to realise. It has taken long to decipher your feelings towards your most stalwart protector, your closest companion, but now that you have, everything has cleared. You want him. In a way you have never wanted anyone before.
He has been waiting, yearning, dreaming of this moment. But yet,
“I cannot make an indecent woman of you, Princess,” he sounds regretful he cannot do more to help you. His morals stand in the way. Gods, he really is unlike any other man you have encountered before. It only makes you desire him more.
You take a deep breath, resting a gentle palm on his armour clad thigh. “If, if my father had given me an option. A, a choice on whom I would wish to spend the rest of my days with, it is you I would have chosen.” Your bare your whole truth to him, something you hope you will not regret.
His mouth parts as he stares at you, taking in your statement, deconstructing every word, every possible meaning. Surely he must be dreaming. A rough hand comes to rest on your cheek, tilting your face closer to his, confirming you are very much real. Your breaths mingle as you find yourself leaning closer, gaze flicking between his deep brown eyes and his lips you want to press your own to.
“Princess.. if we do this, it cannot be undone.” His breath blows softly against your face.
“Do you want to do this?”
He would do anything you asked of him.
His thumb, calloused from the constant handling a sword, brushes over your cheek. Your eyes flutter at the warming action, leaning into his touch. “Were I not sworn to you, Princess, I would have been one of the contenders vying for your hand.” He admits.
Your gaze softens as you take in his words mixed with the comforting rhythm of his thumb dusting against your cheek.
Testing the waters, you inch closer, lips only a hair away from his. Your gaze flickers to his eyes, and he nods, a small, minuscule moment you would’ve missed entirely had you not been watching intently.
When your lips meet, soft, tender, perfect, it feels as though the stars have aligned and everything finally makes sense. His mouth is gentle, always gentle, as it moves in rhythm with yours. Your eyes flutter shut and you follow his lead.
Hands resting on his armour clad chest, you swing one of your legs over his thick thighs, straddling him. You ignore the cold, unyielding metal indenting your legs in favour of kissing him. He grunts against your mouth at the movement, hands moving to your hips to steady you. He squeezes the flesh beneath your dress.
When you both must come up for air, you rest your forehead against his.
“Are you certain this is what you want?” Harwin asks, looking deeply into your eyes, searching for any slight inclination of hesitation.
He finds none. “I have never been more sure of anything, Ser. I have.. toiled with the idea of what this would mean. Of what it would mean to, to belong to you. That is what I want, what I desire.”
His eyes close shut as he takes in what you are saying. What you are implying. Harwin fears this may send him into an early grave. He has dreamed this moment many a time, but not once has he ever believed it would become a reality. You want him. You want him. You want him.
Still deep within his own mind, he barely notices when you shift off his lap, grasping his hand and tugging him to a standing position. His body moves before his brain can catch up. Then, holding his forearm, you make work at his wrist cuffs, fiddling with the latches. His gaze is unfocused as you move his limbs, shedding him of his armour.
“How do you wear this everyday?” You ask while removing his breastplate. It is heavier than you expected. “I think I would go mad.”
This is what brings him back to the land of the living and he chuckles, a deep sound that reverberates through your chest, sending your heart into a fluttered frenzy, “I could say the same about those gowns you wear, Princess.” He gestures to the very one you are still clothed in, the laces of your corset pulled tight.
Although he greatly enjoys the feel of your delicate hands removing his armour, you are going so incredibly slowly he starts to assist you in the final sections, the pile of metal on the table growing larger until Harwin is stood in his undershirt and breeches once you removed the chainmail with his assistance. You can see tufts of deep down chest hair poking past his undershirt.
He is so wonderfully handsome. You think, hand dusting over his broad, broad chest, hardened with muscle.
Though before you can go further, see more of him, he gestures for you to turn around, “s’your turn now, Princess. Let me aid you out of your dress.”
You oblige, turning your back to him. Swinging your silver locks over your shoulder to give him access to the lacing at the rear of your gown, you feel heat stirring within you as his thick fingers pull and tug at the ties and it slowly losses. His hands move across your back in what is akin to a caress, and you let out a shaky exhale at the feeling.
Taking his hand, you step out of your gown and turn back to face him, dressed only in your shift. His fingers seem to toy with the hem, his brow quirking. A silent question as to whether you wish to stop.
That is the last thing you want.
So, you grasp the hem and pull the last piece of clothing hiding your body over your head, discarding it somewhere on the floor.
Harwin’s breath hitches as he drinks you in, taking in your naked form, from the soft swell of your breasts with pebbling nipples from exposure to the cold air, to the unmarred flesh of your stomach, to the dainty patch of white curls that hides what he longs for most, to your soft thighs he wishes to bury his head between.
His hand reaches out to cup your waist, bringing you closer, “you are truly gorgeous, Princess.” It is a great understatement. Never before has he met someone as breath-takingly wonderful as you. You are a Goddess come to life, he is sure of it.
The way you flush at his flattery only fuels the growing heat in his loins.
Harwin makes you feel seen, wanted, desired.
You watch as he removes his undershirt, bearing his chest to you. Thick, deep brown curls cover the expanse of his middle, and your fingers drift over the raised skin of his scars.
“If you wish to stop, you need only say the word,” he breathes as he lays you down on your bed, watching you sink into the pillows and the silken sheets.
You tug on his shoulders, pulling him down so your faces are level. He nose nuzzles against the side of your face, propped up on one elbow while the other explores the map of your naked flesh.
Your fingers move across the top of his back, feeling the taut muscles beneath. "I do not.. know what to do." You admit quietly, dipping your head.
He must sense your nervousness, "it is not nearly as intimidating as it first seems, Princess. But if you wish to stop, say the word and we will never speak of this again."
You nod in acceptance of his words, chest warming at his unwavering care and consideration for you. Your sworn shield always knows what to say to ease your worries.
“Have you touched yourself before, Princess?” Harwin asks gruffly, leaning back to look into your eyes.
“I.. do not know how,” you admit, face flushed in embarrassment at your severe lack or knowledge and experience in this endeavour. “Will you teach me?”
He feels his breeches tighten at your coquettish visage, shifting underneath him, hands moving tantalisingly over his chest. He parts your thighs, revealing the sweetness hidden at the apex. Your pretty cunt clenches around nothing, aching, yearning for his touch. A shaky breath escapes your lips when his large hand cups your mound it its entirety. “Is this what you want, Princess?”
A breathy whine and an eager nod is your response. His finger runs slowly, tantalising through your folds, collecting your wetness on his digit. He circles your pearl. You mewl. “Harwin..” You wriggle beneath him at this strange sensation.
“Does that feel nice, Princess?” His breath is hot against the side of your face. He continues his ministrations on your most sensitive area, two thick fingers circling your pearl, before edging one into your tight hot wet cunt. You gasp, eyes wide, fingers curling tightly around his other forearm at the intrusion.
It is a sensation wholly foreign to you, yet as his finger pushes in in in, the coil in your stomach tightens and you bite your tongue to prevent whimpers escaping your lips.
His locks brush against your face as he presses his forehead against yours, his finger now knuckle deep inside of you. *Seven Hells, you are tight.* He knows he is going to have to stretch you out, prepare you properly so you feel as little pain as possible when he takes you, breaks you open on his cock, carves a home for himself inside of you.
Your soft little whimpers you try to hard to repress fall prettily from your lips, a melodic tune, when he edges a second finger in, his thumb still circling your pearl.
His digits part inside you, eliciting a sharp gasp followed by fingernails digging into his forearm. Thick fingers slowly thrust inside of you, all while Harwin utters soft praises into your ear, speaking your name in reverence as though it— you are the only thing that matters in this world.
“Fuck..” the curse falls from your lips as the ache within you grows, bleeding into pleasure as he stretches you out.
A coil tightens deep within your gut, his ministrations edging you nearer and nearer to falling off completely.
Your eyes shut as your mind begins to haze at overwhelming pleasure taking over your senses.
“That’s it, Princess,” he urges as you teeter over the edge, preparing to fall into the abyss. Your breathing is uneven as you cling to your protector.
The coil threatens to snap. You daren’t open your eyes. His fingers don’t stop.
Suddenly, you are overcome by a forceful surge of pleasure. White-hot and dizzying. You do not know whether or not a cry of ecstasy tumbles from your mouth, or if your reaction is entirely silent. You legs move, unable to stay still with the force wracking through your body.
Still, his intruding fingers do not stop. They continue to work until you are spent and panting in the aftermath of the wave.
Breathy and uneven, dazed and confused, you cannot lift your head to look at him, “what.. what was that?”
He chuckles at your lack of knowledge, and withdraws his digits. You feel empty at the loss of contact. “That was your peak, Princess. The height of your pleasure.” His voice is gruff and ever so comforting.
He intends to bring out many more from you this night, and all the nights to come.
Your head falls to the side as you absently note that Harwin has unlaced his breeches and stripping them from his body.
Then, he is atop you again, handsome face merely inches away from yours. “I liked it,” you tell him, and he smiles.
“I’m glad, Princess.”
The face you make when you reach your peak is one he wishes to have the privilege of seeing, of causing, for as long as you will let him.
The remainder of the night is spent with your most valiant protector delivering upon your wishes, fulfilling your desires and making you feel things you never thought to be possible.
And now, as you succumb to the allure of sleep, warmed by the bear of a man by your side, you think that being a wife won’t be so bad, so long as Harwin is the man you can call husband.
