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I Can Hear My Heart Beat Like a Sword on a Shield | Harwin Strong | House of the Dragon

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], frustrated, rough, needy, words, smut, minors DNI, very rough, he knows how to please a woman, taunting, climax, hes a big man, I want to bite him, consensual!

Summary: You're the daughter of Viserys I Targaryen. You convince your father to allow you to train with a sword. The Knight who is responsible for your lessons seems entirely resistant to your charms. You take this as a challenge and see just how much it takes to break down the resolve of a man who is more accustomed to breaking bones.

POV: Reader / You, no personal descriptions

Word Count: 9,466

A/N: This has taken me weeks and I'm still not happy with the pacing but I've spent too much time on it to just delete it.

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

You paced slowly in a wide circle around the hidden courtyard, boots scuffing over ancient flagstones, faded by time and the memory of countless footsteps. You had tried to pick the quietest place in the castle, well away from prying eyes. Turning, you studied the area, it was old and neglected, but you had found the courtyard as a child and had fallen in love with it. Ivy crawled up the cracked walls, their leaves glossy and tenacious, clinging to every fissure carved by seasons past. Moss softened the edges of the ancient stones, and a cool breeze carried the scent of damp earth and old stone, tinged with hints of wildflowers blooming in forgotten corners. There was an old statue of a dragon near the archway into the courtyard, small and stunted, covered in moss, but you loved it. Having named it and talked to it as a child while you waited for your dragon to hatch and grow into a size you would be able to ride. Here and there, shafts of sunlight slipped through a latticework of overgrown branches arching overhead, dappling the courtyard floor in shifting patterns of gold and green.

At last, your father had agreed to let you learn how to swing a sword, though his reluctance was palpable. It had taken weeks of arguments, your voice calm but insistent, reminding him that if you were old enough to take to the sky on dragon-back, you were old enough to defend yourself on the ground. Still, you suspected his approval was reluctant, offered only because he could not imagine you ever truly in danger on the ground. But, he couldn’t fault your argument, ancient rules specified in Westeros that women were forbidden to wield a sword, but your ancestors few shoulder to should with the women of their family and claimed the land as their own. So, here you were, heart drumming with impatience, waiting for the swordsman who would teach you to wield sharped steel.

You stopped mid-step as a broad shadow fell across the courtyard entrance. Harwin Strong appeared, towering in worn leather armour, his presence impossible to ignore. His dark eyes swept over you with an assessing calm, a far cry from the steely look he reserved for battlefields, and the distant clang of the training yard faded to the hush of your anticipation.

"What are you doing here, Harwin?" you said, folding your arms and narrowing your eyes in what you hoped was a regal stare. "I am waiting for my tutor. I have no need for a knight."

A faint, knowing smile played at the corners of his mouth. "I am to be your tutor, Princess," Harwin replied, his voice deep and steady as the stones underfoot.

You stared, momentarily caught off guard. "I am to fight you?" The words left your lips half in disbelief, half in awe. You glanced at his substantial frame, rumours of his strength echoing in your mind. "If nothing else, my father has a sense of humour," you muttered, eyeing the broad sword at his hip. "To pair me with Harwin 'Break-bones' Strong."

A chuckle rumbled in Harwin’s chest, brief but genuine. “It’s not a fight, Princess. It’s a lesson, if you’ll let it be.” He stepped further into the courtyard, the leather of his boots rasping over the stones, every inch the imposing figure you’d heard about in stories whispered by squires. Yet, his movements, broad-shouldered but controlled, held no threat. He drew his sword from his belt, the metal gleaming as shadows slipped along the blade’s edge.

“Show me how you’d hold it,” he said, and held the sword out to you, hilt first. The weight of his attention was as heavy as the weapon itself. You hesitated only a heartbeat before closing the distance and wrapping your fingers around the cool, leather-bound grip. It was heavier than you’d imagined. The balance wobbled as you lifted it, your arms tense beneath the strain. Harwin’s hands stayed at his sides; he didn’t move to correct you, not yet. Instead, he tilted his head, one eyebrow arching as he studied your posture. “You may ride dragons,” he said, “but swords don’t soar. They demand your patience, and your strength. Show me what you know already.” Your pulse thudded in your ears. You squared your feet, straightened your back, determined not to let Harwin see you falter as you raised the blade, ready for his judgment.

The sword shook ever so slightly in your grasp, betraying nerves you tried hard to conceal. You recalled fragments of lessons snatched from stray glimpses at the training yard: the way a squire held his wrists, the stance knights favoured sparring with Sir Christian. Mimicking them, you raised the blade into what you hoped was a passable guard, shoulders taut and jaw set.

Harwin watched in silence, his expression unreadable but not unkind. He circled, steps measured. “You grip it too tightly,” he observed, voice low. “Let the sword become part of your arm, find its balance, Don't fight against its weight."

You swallowed and loosened your fingers slightly. The hilt settled more naturally into your palm, heavy but manageable. Harwin reached out, slow and deliberate, tapping your elbow to encourage a subtle adjustment. You tried to ignore the lightening that flicked up to your shoulder at his touch, disregarding it as nerves, you were being taught by one of the most dangerous swordsmen in Westeros.

“Better. But if I struck here…” His hand hovered by your exposed shoulder, “…you’d be open to attack, defenceless.” Heat prickled at your cheeks, but you refused to look away as he corrected your posture. “Swordplay isn't just about brute force. Breathe, Princess. You should wield the sword in the same way you would swing a fist. In a fight, you are not sword and man, but one thing fused together.”

His voice carried the assurance of someone who had taught many, but never with the gentle care he offered now. You met his gaze, holding the blade steady, stubborn pride flickering in your chest.

“Show me how to do it right,” you said.

His mouth quirked just so, almost a smile. “With pleasure.”

Harwin’s hand lingered at your elbow, strong and reassuring, before gliding down to adjust your grip. His touch was careful but unavoidably intimate, his fingers calloused but gentle as they coaxed your hand into a proper hold. He stepped in behind you, close enough that you caught the faint warmth of his breath and the scent of leather and soap.

“Like this,” he murmured, his voice lowering just for your ears, his guiding hand covering yours around the hilt. The proximity made your pulse flutter in strange, unfamiliar ways. You could almost feel him smiling when you exhaled slowly, trying to breathe out some tension coiling within you.

He didn’t move away, he was just teaching you, you tried to convince yourself. Nothing more.

“Trust the sword, Princess,” Harwin said, letting his words, and the way his arm briefly brushed your side, hang between you. You risked a glance up, only to find his dark eyes fixed on you, the corners crinkling with a challenge and something softer.

Harwin cleared his throat, stepping back just enough to restore a respectful distance, his expression settling into measured focus.

“Now,” he said, the word clipped but not unkind, “show me a basic strike, slowly, as you recall it.” Yet even as his tone shifted into that of a tutor, a charged silence lingered in the small space between you, as if neither of you had quite left that moment of closeness behind.

He watched you with keen attention. “Bring gloves to your next lesson, I don’t believe callouses and cuts should adorn the hands of a princess.” he held out his hand, revealing the calloused toughened skin as if to punctuate his statement.

***

Weeks passed, and with each one, your movements grew surer. The ache in your shoulders faded, replaced by a quiet thrill when your muscles carried the sword more easily than the day before. The thick leather gloves shielded your hands from blisters, but the weight of the blade and the steady rhythm of practice left their memory in your muscles. Each lesson taught you how to move more fluidly: the right pivot of your hips, the spring in your step, the subtle flex of wrists encased in soft, sweat-dampened leather.

You found yourself looking forward to your time in the courtyard, not just for the challenge, but for Harwin’s company. He was unlike the other knights, who treated your ambition as a curiosity, as something to be tamed or ignored. Or even occasionally, they attempt to pursue you. Harwin’s attention was steady, his encouragement just enough to coax your confidence forward without ever patronising. When you landed a well-timed parry or remembered a complex manoeuvre, his eyes would glint, not with surprise, but with satisfaction, as though he’d expected nothing less from you.

He seemed to take a quiet pride in your stubbornness, even as you pressed him with questions or tried, with deliberate mischief, to get a rise out of that solid, stoic calm. If you made a mistake, he corrected you gently; if you succeeded, his low praise felt like sunlight after rain. You began to enjoy the way you could tease the edges of his composure, sometimes finding laughter in the places where sternness was expected.

You looked forward to each morning, where you could be wholly yourself: fierce, determined, clever, and unafraid. With Harwin, that part of you was not just allowed, but welcomed. He was unlike any man you had ever met. He was not intimidated by your station or saw it as nothing more than a way to improve his own. Not only that, but he knew you out ranked him, and he seemed to have no problem standing in his station not stretching out to seize yours. This was something that started to make your heart flutter a little every time your title fell from his lips.

***

Again you were back in the courtyard away from prying eyes. You adjusted your stance, deliberately exaggerating the tilt of your sword. “Like this?” you asked, raising an eyebrow with a mischievous edge, words dancing somewhere between jest and challenge. “Or will you have to show me again?”

Harwin’s lips twitched, almost betraying a smile before he forced his expression back into that careful neutrality. “If you keep holding it that way, Princess, I’ll be forced to correct you every time. Though I’m starting to suspect you don’t mind.”

You couldn’t quite stifle the quiet laugh that escaped. “Perhaps you’re a better teacher than I expected,” you said lightly.

His gaze lingered on you a heartbeat longer than necessary, professional demeanour intact, but a warmth in his eyes as he nodded for you to continue. “Then let’s see how well you’ve learned,” he murmured, but the air still shimmered with hints of the moment you’d just shared.

He drew his sword, the motion effortless, almost lazy, as though the blade weighed nothing whatsoever in his grip. For one heartbeat, you studied his stance. Then, with a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth, you raised your own.

“Ready, Princess?” His voice hinted at mischief, speaking your title almost like a taunt.

You squared your shoulders, determined. “Don’t go easy on me, Sir Harwin. Or is that what you always do for your pupils?”

He only smirked. “Not for ones who make a sport of challenging me.”

You lunged, blade glancing toward his side. In one smooth movement, he parried, the jolt running up your arm even through the thick leather of your glove almost making you drop the sword. He turned your blade aside and flicked his wrist, sending you stumbling, though not enough to fall. You narrowed your eyes, lips curving into an answering smirk.

“Too slow,” he chided, circling you with deliberate calm. “Again.”

This time you feinted left, then slashed right, he knocked your blade away as if absentminded, the flat of his sword swatting your attempt aside. You caught the glint of challenge in his eyes and, emboldened, pressed forward with a series of swift strikes. Each met by his patient defence, until you grew almost reckless with frustration.

“Is that truly your best, Princess?” he taunted, stepping in close, the words brushing your ear as he turned your sword with a deft, practiced twist. "Have you learned nothing in the last weeks?"

“Are you always this insufferable?” you shot back, breathless and laughing despite yourself.

His answering grin was devastating, all teeth and warmth. In a final, dizzying exchange, you overextended just as he had planned. In a heartbeat, he caught your wrist, disarmed you in a flourish, and spun you around, your back pressed to his chest, both your hands caught in his much larger one, your sword clattering to the flagstones.

He held you there for a single, electric moment. “Careful,” he murmured, voice low and only for your ears. “Your guard slips when you’re distracted.”

You could feel his laughter in the way his chest moved behind you, in the steadiness of his grip, firm, but gentle, and entirely inescapable. For half a heartbeat, neither of you moved, the air between you shimmering with all the things you did not say.

Your cheeks still tingled from the press of his body and the thrill in his voice, but you straightened, gathering your dignity like a cloak around your shoulders. Every inch of you was transformed, chin lifted, shoulders squared, gaze sharpened to a dagger's point. You fixed Harwin with a look as cold and unyielding as palace stone, the sort of gaze that had once quieted boisterous lords twice your age, that left softer courtiers faltering mid-sentence.

“I could command you to let me win, Sir Harwin,” you said, voice slicing through the hush with effortless authority.

“But where would be the challenge in that?” He countered.

You stepped forward, closing the gap almost brazenly, reclaiming your sword from the flagstones without breaking his gaze.

“Or…" he started. "Perhaps you prefer to keep your advantage because you fear what might happen when I’m your equal.”

"I could have you thrown in the dungeon for speaking to me like that." You quipped.

For a moment, he just stared, the mask of the stoic knight slipping. Something hungry and admiring flickered in his eyes. He offered no apology, didn’t even try to mask his smile. Instead, his voice dropped, reverent and admiring all at once: “If that’s meant to frighten me, Princess, you’ll have to try harder. But I must be honest with you, I’ve never before enjoyed being put in my place quite so much.”

The cool command in your eyes sharpened as his words, brazen and openly, delighted at your authority. Something in his unrepentant grin kindled irritation beneath your skin, hot and electric. Unexpectedly, you lunged, blade flashing toward his midsection with far more force than before.

Steel met steel—the sharp ring echoing between the old stones as Harwin caught your blow. For a heartbeat, your faces were only inches apart, his arm locked against yours, every muscle in his body coiled and thrumming with restraint.

“Careful,” he warned softly, laughter threading through his words, the warmth of it brushing your cheek. “Or are you planning to call a dragon the moment you start losing ground?"

You pressed, relentless, trying to break past his guard, but he matched you, step for step, breath for breath. Halting each strike with deliberate precision. Sweat beaded at your temple; beneath your tunic, your heart hammered, not from exertion but from the dizzying closeness, the danger woven into every touch of his blade to yours.

Frustrated, you tried a bold feint, twisting hard and pivoting around his back, but Harwin was too quick. He followed your movement, crowding in, chests nearly brushing, his sword trapping yours in a tight lock.

“Is that anger I see?” he murmured, his breath stirring the hair near your ear. “Or something else, Princess?” His lips curved into a half-smile that was both challenge and invitation, the line between opponent and something more flickering dangerously beneath the surface.

You met his gaze, chest heaving with effort and defiance. “It's murderous rage” you whispered, the words slipping out rough and unguarded, sword forgotten for a heartbeat as the world shrank to just his eyes and the arch of his mouth.

“Oh,” he breathed, voice gone ragged, “Is it really?”

A slow smile curled your lips as you caught his gaze, letting the words hang between you. “Yes” you replied, voice honeyed with challenge. “Then perhaps it’s lucky for you, we’re on solid ground, Sir Harwin. I think you’d find your confidence a little harder to hold if you had to face me in the sky.”

His eyes widened a fraction, his grin edged with admiration and a hint of defiance. “Is that a challenge, Princess, or a promise?”

You tilted your chin, feigning regal dismissal. “Only an observation. Not everyone is so brave when dragons are involved.”

He leaned in just enough that his words danced over your skin. “I suppose it’s a good thing my lessons are limited to the sword, then. For now.”

***

That night, you lay sprawled amidst a tangled mess of linen, the old stone ceiling above painted silver by moonlight leaking through your open window. Your muscles thrummed with the ache of hours spent in the courtyard, shoulders stretched, wrists still tingling with the remembered jolt of steel clashing against steel. But amid the soreness, there was something sharper: the memory of Harwin’s hands, warm and steady over yours, the press of his chest, the grin that had lingered even after you’d tried to humble him.

You rolled onto your side, heartbeat stuttering at the thought of his voice, teasing you, daring you, matching you challenge for challenge. Had he really meant it? That sly promise, that admission he never minded being put in his place by you?

A smile ghosted over your lips. You pressed your cheek to your pillow, the scent of sun-baked linen and distant wildflowers almost enough to drown out the heat curling in your belly. Almost.

Tomorrow would bring another lesson. Another chance to test the boundaries between you, to see how far you could push before he pushed back, and maybe, just perhaps, to see where the careful dance of steel and with might lead. But then the little voice that lived in the back of your mind raised its voice. Your father would have chosen the night to train you carefully. He would have ensured it to be a man who upheld your honour, regardless of what you said or did.

You ground your teeth, wondering if teasing you would be the only boundary that Harwin would cross, or if you could coax him a little further over the line so carefully marked in the sand.

You closed your eyes, still feeling the phantom weight of a sword in your palm, the phantom warmth of his breath at your ear. Sleep came slow and sweet, anticipation for morning threading through every dream.

***

By sunrise, your anticipation felt sharper than any blade. You met Harwin’s gaze in the empty courtyard, already mustering your best innocent expression as you hefted your sword, just a little off-balance, just enough to invite correction. Invite his hands to your body. The mossy stones still glistened with dawn dew, the hush broken only by the soft rasp of your boots as you circled each other.

Harwin’s brow quirked, suspicion warring with amusement as he noted the defiant tilt of your shoulders. “You seem eager this morning, Princess,” he remarked, voice mild.

“Perhaps I’m just eager to see how many times I can catch you off guard, Sir Harwin,” you replied, flashing a wicked smile.

“Well, I believe the running total thus far is zero, Princess.” he smirked, your title again falling from your lips as a taunt.

You darted in with a feint that left your guard deliberately exposed. Harwin’s hand shot out to steady you, his arm strong and encompassing around your waist as he corrected your stance. For a heartbeat, you leaned into the contact, eyes alight with mischief.

'That’s once,’ you thought low, barely louder than the breeze.

It took him half a second longer to let go this time. “If this is your new tactic, Princess, to make me believe you're worse at fighting than the day before. ” His hand lingered a fraction too long, his thumb brushing the curve of your hip before retreating. "It will not work."

Undeterred, you lunged again, weaving careless errors into your motions just enough to summon his hands to your arms, your shoulders, the small of your back. Each time, the touch was both correction and invitation, the air around you humming thick with unspoken delight.

You lost track of the lesson’s intent, counting only the points of contact, the glint of challenge in his eyes, and the slow, knowing smile that grew with every pass and every ‘accident’ that drew you into his orbit.

By the time your breaths came ragged you knew that: in this dance, winning mattered less than seeing just how close you could get—how many times he’d catch you, and how many more you’d let him.

By the tenth “mistake,” Harwin had grown a little suspicious but said nothing, his hands almost hovering now, as if expecting you to tumble into him with the next step. The next time your foot slipped deliberately, you caught his gaze deliberately and lingered in his hold a lingering moment longer, your fingers brushing over his as if accidentally.

“Careful, Princess,” he murmured. “One of these days I might not be so quick to let go.” the last words seemed to tumble from his lips without his permission, slipping past his carefully controlled demeanour.

“Maybe I don’t want you to,” you shot back, your voice steady and low, heat simmering in the spaces between your words.

He stilled, surprise flickering through his eyes before giving way to something softer, something that matched the coaxing warmth beneath your ribcage. But you didn’t break eye contact; instead, you twisted your sword loose from his grasp, letting it clatter harmlessly to the cobbles where it had spent most of the morning, having been cast from your hand by him time and time again.

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the hush of the courtyard and the shallow rise and fall of your breathing. The morning air shimmered between you, fraught with tension; your sword rested in the cobbles at your feet. Harwin looked down at you, the lines of duty and desire etched plainly across his face. Tradition demanded space, decorum, a knight should never presume, especially not with a princess. Yet, his hands hovered uncertain on your arms, at the same time apologising for their proximity and greedy for more.

“You know I shouldn’t,” he said, voice low and careful, as though names and titles still stood between you. But his words betrayed him, trembling on the cusp of want. You stepped closer, chin high with royal defiance, but your voice softened to a thrum meant for him alone.

“I grow weary of should and shouldn’t, Sir Harwin. What do you want?”

For a moment he did not speak, the answer not fit for courts or courtiers. But they were not here, it was just you and him in a quiet, forgotten courtyard. In his pause, everything unspoken grew bolder, the brush of his finger at your wrist, the throb of your pulse beneath his thumb. “I want…” He faltered, then caught your gaze, armour falling away. “I want you.” The admission hung between you, heavier than any sword, sparking electricity that flicked between you.

You tipped your head, a smile flickering over your lips. “Then take what you want, Sir Harwin.”

He swallowed, eyes searching your face as if memorising it. "Princess…" His voice was rough, apology tangled in its cadence. "You are a princess of the realm, meant for thrones and crowns. I am only Harwin Strong—son to a lesser lord, sworn to serve, to kneel, never to reach above my station. There are lines that men like me do not cross.” The words were earnest, heavy, as though he hated them and couldn't be free of them.

Duty carved a chasm between you, deeper than old stones or ancient vows, but for once, you saw it for what it was: fear and desire warring in the shadows of his dark gaze. You stepped closer still, the tension between you both softened only by the way your fingers lingered at the fastenings of his sleeve. “Then come as only Harwin, not a Knight of Westeros.”

Harwin drew in a deep, steadying breath, the weight of oath and history haunting every line of his face. Without a word, he stepped back, drawing his sword not in challenge, but in surrender. He went to one knee before you, broad shoulders bowed, both hands resting atop the upright pommel. The gesture was stark, ceremonial, a knight’s fealty laid bare. His head bowed, dark hair falling over his brow, he looked every inch the lesser son of a lesser house, his name only known by the ferocity he fought battles, made humbler still beneath your gaze. “Princess,” he murmured, voice hoarse with feeling, “In all that I am, I am yours to command.”

You paused only long enough to let silence draw out between you. Then, quietly, you spoke: "Come to my room tonight." Harwin's head snapped up, eyes searching your face, the battle between duty and desire sparking up again behind his eyes. He looked as if he might protest. But you didn’t give him the chance to answer. With regal composure, you bent to retrieve your sword from the stones, the motion deliberate, giving him a moment to look at you without you looking back. Without another word or backward glance, you strode from the courtyard, the echo of your footsteps and the ache of anticipation left in your wake. The invitation hung in the air, shattering the last remnants of distance between what was expected and what you truly wanted.

***

That night, your chambers felt too large, every shadow grander and more insistent in the candlelight. You paced, restless, trailing your fingers along the intricate carvings of your bedposts, the velvet hangings, the row of flame-lit mirrors catching the anxious flicker in your eyes. Your skin still hummed with the echo of the day's sparring, each correction, each glance, while outside your window, King's Landing slumbered beneath a swath of low clouds. You dismissed your guard with a single, steel-voiced command, locking the heavy door after his footsteps faded. Still, Harwin did not come. The great clock in the corridor ticked away the hush of midnight, second thoughts gathering with every passing moment, was this doubt, or decorum, or the weight of a knight’s conscience anchoring him elsewhere? Your impatience sharpened. With a sweep of silk, you wrapped yourself in your pale robe.

Through winding corridors shrouded in the hush of midnight, you slipped barefoot, your bare feet cold and silent against ancient stones. The hush of old oaths and forbidden longing clung to every step. You paused outside Harwin’s door, your pulse thrumming in your throat, cool stone at your back, candlelight from a nearby sconce gilding the grain of the heavy oak. There, before you could raise a hand to knock, the world held its breath a line not yet crossed, wanting, waiting, the threshold between longing and the unknown.

You hesitated, breath shallow, before letting your knuckles rap softly against the wood. For a moment, there was only silence, a hush so heavy it felt as though it could suffocate you. No answer. You pressed gently on the handle. To your surprise, the door yielded, swinging inward on silent hinges. Inside, the chamber was dim, candles burning low in the sconces, hemmed with quiet shadow. And there, at the end of his ornate bed, stood Harwin. Still clad in armour, leather and dark metal catching the flickering glow, he looked every inch the knight, save for the uncertainty coiled in his stance. His hands hung tense at his sides; he was not surprised to see you, but the room pulsed with restrained energy. For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke, each waiting, perhaps, for the other to break the silence first, for duty or desire to win out.

The silence stretched, thick and electric, until it nearly hurt to hold it. Harwin’s eyes locked on yours, dark and unreadable but roiling beneath the surface, every inch of him braced against the force of your arrival. He didn’t move. It was only his hands, curling and flexing at his sides, leather creaking faintly in the quiet, that betrayed him. You crossed the room, slow and deliberate, letting the door close behind you with a click that seemed to echo through the stone.

“Princess,” he murmured, the word faltering between warning and prayer. “It isn’t right. You know it.” Yet, he didn’t step back, didn’t look away. His jaw worked, as if he might swallow the urge to close the distance entirely. You lingered in the glow from the candlelight, heart drumming in your chest, letting the tension between you spin out, taut, fierce, and strangely sweet.

“If it isn’t right, why haven’t you sent me away?” you asked, voice pitched soft and low, daring him to answer. He swallowed, gaze darting to your mouth and back.

“Because I cannot command you,” he said at last, voice gone hoarse, “not when you’re standing there.” He finally looked away, but only to fix his eyes on the window, as if seeking strength from the city beyond. “You risk everything just to be here,” he continued, struggling and every word sounding heavier than the last. “And I—if I take one step toward you, I won’t know how to stop.”

You stepped forward, closing the gap until only a hand’s breadth remained between you and him, until his breath, warm and uncertain, mingled with yours. The gauzy shift of candlelight caught in the dark planes of his armour and the quiet, pained longing in his eyes.

“I command you tell me to stop, if that is what you wish for me to do.” You whisper, your fingers brushing the rough buckles and battered edges of his armour, tracing the hollows where metal met leather, letting your touch linger just a moment longer. His jaw clenched, the muscle flexing beneath sun-browned skin; you could see him wrestling with words that never came. He swallowed, Adam’s apple shifting in his throat, but his lips didn’t part to offer a protest. The distance between you fizzled to nothing, tension winding tighter with every slow heartbeat. His breath shivered out, ragged, as if he might break—or give in—at any moment.

You drew back the smallest fraction, just enough to make him chase your nearness if he chose. Your lips curved, the edge of a secret hiding in your smile.

“Is this how a knight guards his honour?” you teased, voice a breath against his cheek. “Standing sentinel over temptation instead of sending it away?”

His eyes flickered, caught between chastened and desperate, and his hands clenching tighter at his sides, as though fighting with everything he had not to reach out and touch you. For a heartbeat, no one breathed.

“You look as though you’re about to leap into a duel,” you murmured, feathering your touch from his collarbone down along the leather strap across his chest, deliberate, shameless in your want.

He let out a laugh that was barely more than a growl, his restraint slipping. “I’d sooner face a dozen blades than you, Princess.”

You moved your hand and took his fist, deliberately, eyes never leaving his face. With a quiet confidence, you guided his hand, flattening his palm and pressing it firmly to your waist, just where you wanted him. His jaw clenched tighter, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he went rigid beneath your touch, torn between wanting to pull back and being utterly powerless to do so. It was your decision, your pace, his strength held fast by your invitation rather than his intent. The air pulsed with the certainty that, for all his size and training, in this moment every boundary belonged to you. You held him there, daring him to say no, meeting his wide, hungry gaze with a slow, smile. His resolve might have been legendary, but right now, it bent without protest beneath the weight of your will.

With a low, desperate sound, Harwin broke, his resolve shattering as he caught your mouth with his own. The kiss was hard and fast, edged with the weeks of want and denial, his lips claiming yours with a rough, needy hunger that matched the pounding of your heart. He tasted of leather and steel, his jaw scratchy with stubble as he deepened the kiss without finesse or apology, every stroke of his tongue against yours a ragged, artless plea. His hands, strong and demanding, fisted in your silk robe, dragging you closer until there wasn’t a breath of space left between you, the planes of his armour biting through the thin fabric of your dress. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers twisting in his hair, as if you could drag him any closer, under your skin, into the hammering pulse beneath your ribs.

Suddenly, his grip shifted, he swept you off your feet and tossed you effortlessly onto the bed, your body bouncing lightly atop the rumpled covers. You landed sprawled, dress askew, hair tumbling over your shoulder, eyes wide as you looked up at him. Harwin remained standing, chest heaving, silhouetted in the flickering candlelight. His gaze pinned you where you lay, something raw and possessive glittering in his dark eyes. Keeping his focus on you, he began to strip away his armour with deliberate slowness: buckles unfastened, leather and steel falling piece by piece to the floor. The candlelight gilded every line of him, shadow tracing the breadth of his shoulders as he unfastened his breastplate and let it drop. You watched, spellbound, while his hands moved to the next piece, every movement deliberate, methodical, as if undressing before you was an act of worship, of offering, a promise unfolding.

At last, he pulled his shirt over his head, leaving only his trousers in place. For a moment, Harwin stood utterly still, the flickering candlelight catching on the hard lines of his chest and shoulders, each muscle gilded in gold, his skin mapped by old scars and sun. He looked almost carved from stone, breathing hard, the rise and fall of his chest quick and uncertain as he watched you watch him.

"Must I command you, Sir Harwin?" you asked, your voice a thrum in the quiet as you shifted, deliberately pushing your legs apart. The silk of your robe rustled softly, riding up your thighs until it barely grazed the curve of your hip.

The air in the room seemed to tighten, the candle flames flickering as if caught in a draft, dancing shadows over the planes of Harwin's chest. Your eyes held his, a silent, simmering challenge, the weight of the moment drawing out between you like a spell, taut, tenuous, thrumming with every quickened heartbeat.

His breath shuddered out, gaze darkening as it swept over you, the hunger in it so intense you could almost feel it as teeth on your skin. Every line of him seemed to vibrate with restraint.

Harwin’s gaze flashed from want to resolution in an instant. With a purposeful step, he moved to the end of the bed, his eyes never leaving yours. Then, as if his own desire finally broke the last thread of his reserve, he dropped to his knees.

His hands found you first, fingertips blazing trails up the silk of your robe, skimming your legs with a hunger that matched your own. When his palms reached the juncture of your thighs, he paused, hands pressing gently inward, thumbs brushing the curve of your hip, asking, not demanding, desire thrumming beneath the surface.

Raising his eyes to yours, he hooked his elbows under your knees and, in one smooth motion, dragged you to the edge of the bed.

With a low, ragged breath, Harwin bent his head and pressed his mouth to the inside of your thigh, his lips gentle, grazing the sensitive skin. You felt his breath first, warm and quick, and then his tongue, tracing a slow, deliberate path upward.

He paused just for an instant, his hands tightening on your hips as if asking permission. Before he settled between your legs, his broad shoulders spreading you wider, his breath hot against the core of you.

At the first touch of his tongue, you couldn’t contain the low moan that escaped your lips. Harwin’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into your thighs as he held you open, his mouth working with a single-minded intensity that left you breathless.

He took his time, his tongue stroking, teasing, drawing out the pleasure until you were trembling beneath him. Each dip and swirl seemed to echo through your body, a symphony of sensation that built until you were arching off the bed, your hands fisted in his hair as you sought more.

The rumours were true, he made love with the same ferocity that he waged war.

When he finally focused his attention on the bundle of nerves at your centre, you nearly came undone. He circled it with the tip of his tongue, flicking and sucking with a rhythm that had your hips bucking shamelessly against his mouth. Each stroke was a masterpiece of sensation, his tongue flat and broad one moment, pointed and precise the next.

He alternated between gentle laps and fierce, fluttering suction, never letting you acclimate or catch your breath. The stubble on his jaw rasped against your inner thighs, a rough counterpoint to the slick heat of his mouth. You could feel the vibration of his growls and hums of pleasure against your most sensitive skin, each one sending shockwaves coursing through your body.

It was too much and not enough, each stroke winding you tighter until you were teetering on the edge of release. Your fingers tugged at his hair, urging him closer, deeper, your body strung taut with need. Every muscle was tensed, reaching for the climax that hovered just out of reach, your breath coming in ragged pants as you revelled in the exquisite torture of his tongue.

Without warning, Harwin slid a finger inside you, then another, filling you in a way that made your breath catch and your back arch. His fingers curled, stroking that sensitive spot inside you in perfect counterpoint to the relentless rhythm of his tongue.

The added sensation was all it took to send you flying over the edge. Your climax hit like a wave, crashing over you with an intensity that left you gasping, your body clenching around his fingers as you came undone. Harwin held you through it, his tongue and fingers never ceasing, dragging out your pleasure until you were left trembling and boneless beneath him.

When the last tremors of your climax subsided, Harwin withdrew his fingers gently and sat back on his heels, his breath coming in ragged pants. He looked almost dazed, as though shocked by his own actions, by the fact that he'd allowed himself to lose control and touch you in such an intimate way.

His eyes met yours for an instant, dark and wide, before he dropped his gaze to his hands, still glistening with your arousal. A muscle ticked in his jaw, his throat working as he seemed to grapple with the weight of what had just transpired between you.

There was a vulnerability in his posture, a kind of wonder and disbelief, as though he couldn't quite reconcile the knight he'd always been, with the man who'd just knelt before a princess and worshipped her with such desperate hunger.

You leaned forward, catching his face in your hands, and kissed him. It was a kiss that spoke of gratitude and desire in equal measure, your lips moving softly, reverently against his. You could taste yourself on his mouth.

Harwin responded with a low groan, his lips parting to allow you to deepen the kiss. His hands came up to frame your face, fingers threading into your hair as he anchored you in place. The kiss grew heated, your tongues tangling in a sensual dance that left you both breathless.

There was something almost unbearably tender about the way he kissed you, as though he was pouring all the words he couldn't say into this one gesture. You felt it in the way his hands trembled against your skin, in the reverent brush of his lips, the soft, shuddering exhale as he pulled away.

"Princess, I can't," Harwin whispered, his voice ragged with emotion. His eyes were dark with a mixture of desire and desperation, his hands trembling as they cupped your face.

"Please," you replied, shocking yourself with how much the word sounded like you were begging. Your voice was barely more than a whisper, but it seemed to echo in the space between you, heavy with longing.

Harwin's breath caught, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones as if he could soothe away the need in your voice.

You took his hand, your fingers intertwining with his, and gently pushed yourself back on the bed. With a soft, guiding pressure, you drew him with you, your eyes locked on his as you wordlessly invited him to follow.

Harwin's breath caught, his gaze darkening with a mix of desire and disbelief as he realised what you were asking. For a moment, he hesitated, his body trembling with the effort of once again holding himself back.

But then, as if the last of his resolve had finally crumbled, he moved over you, his large frame settling between your thighs as you guided him into place. The muscles in his arms flexed as he held himself above you, his eyes never leaving yours.

There was something almost reverent about the way he looked at you, as though he couldn't quite believe that this was happening. His hands skimmed down your sides, tracing the curves of your body with a gentleness that made your breath catch.

As he settled against you, you could feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of your robe, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress. Your heart raced, your body trembling with anticipation, as you arched up into his touch, silently urging him to close the last bit of distance between you.

With a tenderness that belied the tension thrumming through him, Harwin's hands found the tie of your robe, his fingers working the knot with deliberate care. The silk fell away slowly, the edges parting like a curtain to reveal the soft curves beneath.

For a moment, he simply looked at you, his gaze reverent as it traced the lines of your body. His hands followed suit, fingertips grazing your skin with a gentleness that made your breath hitch. He touched you as though you were something precious, something to be cherished and worshipped.

You lay beneath him, bared to his gaze, your skin flushed with warmth and want. Harwin's touch was everywhere, skimming your ribs, tracing the curve of your hip, brushing the swell of your breast. Each touch was featherlight, teasing, a promise of more to come.

He bent his head, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, your neck, the hollow of your throat. Each kiss was a question, a whispered plea for permission. And you answered with your body, arching into his touch, your hands tangling in his hair as you urged him on.

As the heat between you built, Harwin's touches grew bolder, his hands mapping the curves of your body with increasing confidence. His lips trailed lower, tracing the swell of your breast before his mouth closed over one sensitive peak.

You gasped, your back arching off the bed as he sucked gently, his tongue swirling around your nipple. He lavished attention on first one breast, then the other, until you were writhing beneath him, your fingers clutching at his hair.

Slowly, teasingly, his hand skimmed down your stomach, his fingertips grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You parted your legs willingly, eagerly, your body aching for his touch.

When his fingers found your centre, you were already wet again and wanting, your body responding to his touch like a flame to tinder. He circled your entrance with a gentle, teasing pressure, then brought his fingers to his mouth, carefully placing them in this mouth and drawing them out, his eyes fixed on yours. Then he returned them to between your thighs.

You moaned, your hips bucking upwards, seeking more of his touch. He obliged, his fingers slipping inside you, filling you with a delicious friction that had you seeing stars.

His thumb found the sensitive bud at your centre, circling it with a gentle, teasing pressure that matched the rhythm of his fingers inside you. The dual sensations were nearly overwhelming, your body trembling on the edge of release.

As he brought you closer and closer to the brink, his lips found yours once more, swallowing your moans and gasps. His tongue tangled with yours, mimicking the movement of his fingers, the rhythm of his thrusts.

Each stroke of his fingers was a masterpiece of sensation, winding you tighter and tighter until you were teetering on the edge of release. Your body was alight with pleasure, every nerve ending singing with the intensity of it.

You could feel the tension building, coiling deep within you, each touch and stroke stoking the flames higher. Your hips moved of their own accord, bucking and writhing, seeking more of the delicious friction.

Harwin responded with a low groan, his fingers moving faster, harder, his thumb circling your clit with increasing pressure. The sensations were almost too much to bear, your body trembling and shaking as you reached for the peak.

And then, with a final curl of his fingers, you were tumbling over the edge. The climax hit you like a tidal wave, crashing over you with a force that left you gasping and shaking, your body clenching around his fingers as you came undone.

As the wave of pleasure subsided, Harwin placed a gentle kiss on your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment before he pulled away. "Please," you whispered again, your voice soft and breathless in the quiet of the room.

He tilted his head to look down your body at your hand, one finger slipping just below the waistline of his trousers. His breath hitched at the sight, his body tensing as he realised what you were asking.

Your fingers toyed with the fabric, tracing the hard planes of his stomach, the coarse trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath his waistband. You could feel the heat of his skin, the tension coiled in his muscles as he held himself perfectly still above you.

Slowly, teasingly, you slipped your hand beneath the fabric, your fingers brushing against the hard length of him. He was hot and heavy against your palm, his body responding to your touch with a shudder.

You circled him with your fingers, exploring the texture and shape of him with a gentle, teasing pressure. He pulsed in your hand, his breath coming in ragged pants as he fought for control.

With a soft, encouraging squeeze, you guided him closer, your eyes locked on his as you wordlessly invited him to take what he needed. He hesitated for a moment, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

But then, with a low, shuddering groan, he gave in. His fingers fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, his hands shaking with anticipation as he worked to free himself from the confining fabric.

As the last button came undone, he pushed the trousers down over his hips, his hard length springing free. He was fully exposed to you now, his body laid bare before your gaze.

You took him in your hand, your fingers wrapping around his girth with a gentle, teasing pressure. He was hot and heavy in your palm, his skin like velvet over steel, pulsing with the beat of his heart.

Your touch was electric, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through his body. He bucked into your hand, his hips moving of their own accord as he sought more of the delicious friction.

His eyes were locked on yours, dark and intense, filled with a desperate hunger that matched your own. You could see the need in his gaze, the desire that had been building between you for so long, finally given free rein.

With a soft, encouraging squeeze, you guided him closer, your eyes locked on his as you wordlessly invited him to take what he wanted. He hesitated for a moment, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

But then, with a low, shuddering groan, he gave in, his hips bucking forward as he pushed into your hand. His eyes fluttered closed, his head falling back as he lost himself in the sensation of your touch.

You watched him, mesmerised by the play of emotions across his face, the pleasure, the relief, the desperate hunger. It was intoxicating, the power you held over him in that moment, the trust he placed in you as he let himself go.

With a final, decisive movement, Harwin kicked his trousers off, leaving him fully naked before you. There was no more hesitation, no more holding back. The consequences of his actions no longer mattered in the face of his overwhelming desire for you.

He moved towards you with a newfound purpose, his eyes dark with intent. You could see the determination in his gaze, the raw, primal need that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long.

He repositioned himself on the bed, his large frame looming over you as he settled between your thighs. You could feel the heat of his skin against yours, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress.

His hands skimmed up your sides, tracing the curves of your body with a possessive touch. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "I need you, more than I've ever needed anything in my life, Princess.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a thrill of anticipation coursing through your veins. You arched up into his touch, your body responding to his words with a fierce, aching need.

He took your mouth in a rough kiss, his tongue tangling with yours as he poured all of his desire, all of his longing, into the embrace. You could feel the urgency in his touch, the desperation that had finally been unleashed.

As he broke the kiss, his eyes locked on yours, asking a silent question. In response, you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him to take you.

With a low groan, he surrendered to his desire, his hips bucking forward as he buried himself deep inside you. You gasped at the sensation, the feeling of being filled, completed by him, both overwhelming and intoxicating.

As he began to move, his thrusts were slow and deep, each one seeming to strike a chord within you. You could feel the tension building again, coiling tighter and tighter with each movement of his hips.

His hands roamed your body, tracing the curves of your hips, the swell of your breasts. He touched you as if he were trying to memorise every inch of your skin, as if he couldn't get enough of the feel of you.

You met his thrusts with your own, your hips rising to meet his, your bodies moving in perfect sync. The only sounds in the room were the mingled symphony of your moans and the creak of the bed beneath you.

As the tension built, his thrusts became faster, harder, each one seeming to push you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel the urgency in his movements, the desperation as he sought his own release.

But Harwin had the stamina of a seasoned warrior, and he was determined to bring you to the peak of pleasure again and again, his own form to torture for your past teasing. And torture you, he did.

His hips snapped against yours, his body moving with a relentless, driving rhythm. Each thrust was deeper, harder, more intense than the last, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body.

You could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter, your body wound as taut as a bowstring. Your moans turned to cries, your fingers digging into his skin as you urged him on.

Still, he didn't stop, his body moving with a tireless, unrelenting energy. He drove into you again and again, each thrust pushing you closer to the brink.

You could feel the pleasure building, the tension rising and tighter until it finally snapped, sending you tumbling over the edge into pure, blissful release.

Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you, each one more intense than the last. Your body clenched around him, your climax drawn out by his relentless thrusts until you were left trembling and boneless beneath him.

But even as you felt him coming closer to the edge, his own release tantalisingly within reach, he displayed an incredible show of willpower. With a low groan, he pulled out, sitting back on his knees between your legs.

His chest heaved with the effort, his skin glistening with sweat. He fisted his length in his hand, his fingers wrapping around the base as he began to stroke himself.

You watched him, enamoured by the sight. His hand moved with the same relentless, driving rhythm that had brought you to the peak of pleasure so many times.

His eyes were locked on yours, dark and intense, filled with a desperate hunger that matched your own. You could see the effort it took for him to hold back, to maintain that razor-thin edge of control.

As he continued to stroke himself, his breath came in ragged pants, his muscles tensing as he fought for control. You could see the tension building, coiling tighter and tighter until it finally snapped, his release spilling over his fist and onto your stomach.

In the aftermath, he sat back on his heels, his chest heaving with the effort. His eyes were still locked on yours, a silent communication passing between you.

"Next time," you whispered breathlessly, your finger trailing up the mess he had left on your stomach. "This stays inside."

He collapsed onto the bed next to you, pulling you close. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, his eyes sparkling with amusement and affection.

He met your gaze, his eyes still twinkling with that same mix of amusement and affection. His lips curved into a full-blown smile, both tender and teasing at the same time. He kissed your neck.

"Is that a command, Princess?" he asked, his voice low and playful. "Because I think I could be persuaded to obey." He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "Next time, I'll make sure it stays inside. Every last drop."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a thrill of anticipation coursing through your veins. You knew that he meant every word, and the promise of what was to come was almost enough to make you lose your breath all over again.

"I should make you a bath," he whispered into your hair, his voice warm and tender.

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, a blush staining your skin at his words. But you met his gaze unflinchingly, a playful smile on your own lips.

"I think I'd like that," you replied, your voice soft and teasing.

He chuckled, the sound low and rich in the quiet of the room. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before untangling himself from your embrace.

As he slipped from the bed, you couldn't help but admire the play of muscles across his back, the strength, and power evident in every line of his body. He moved with

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