harlon has just been granted a private audience with his grace, @vaeles.
it was a brazen idea. brazen, indecorous, and all too unlikely to work, and yet… there harlon was, against all odds, standing face to face with the king of all things — again. and though so very much had changed, both between and around them, it seemed that the racing of his rabbit heart had not. it thumped in his chest uncomfortably, echoing throughout his body, threatening to drown out the precious sound of the kingsguard’s retreat. harlon watched them out of the corner of his eye with his quivering hands clasped behind his back, waiting for their moment of peace at last, before finally allowing his gaze to settle once more on his new king, and dear old acquaintance, vaeles targaryen.
looking at him, harlon felt something inside of him shift and buckle — a yielding of an unspoken sort. powerful men made him nervous, nervous in ways little else in this world ever could, and there were none as powerful as he: the war-won soldier, the king, the dragon, the god. he commanded the skies, the seas, and the land in-between. it was beyond harlon’s understanding that one single person could be so important, so immortal, and so he focused on what he could understand.
vaeles, above all else, was a man made of flesh, bone, and sensation. a man he’d once known, however briefly it had been, and a man once wanting and now willing to be alone with him still. that, he felt, was more important than any other title he held. yes, that was something he could most certainly work with.
thus, harlon pivoted and turned his mind’s eye towards the past. he had not won vaeles’ favor that fated night by groveling at his feet or vying for a sliver of the power he commanded. no, he, in all of his eager, relentless, and puppy dog-eyed enchantment, had earned it by surrendering himself to the current of curiosity and desire they’d found themselves adrift in; had won it by treating one of the most handsome young men he had ever seen as though he were ordinary, despite the so very extraordinary features which suggested otherwise.
if fate had favored such a fool then, could he not hope that it might favor him once more? they were older now, more experienced and made weary with time. it did not seem so preposterous to him that a myth made man trapped in a den of vipers with vultures circling close overhead might want a reprieve from his role in the unfolding story that was his life, even if only for a moment; and while harlon was no warrior, no wife to be, and no one of any particular importance, he did believe that this — the invisibility of his existence, the freedom on offer in such undiscovered darkness — could be something of value, if the king so wished it to be.
having already bet his life and whatever dignity the greyjoy name could still lay claim to, harlon sauntered forward undeterred by convention and planted himself before his host. he was too close for a man of his station, too far when compared to their first meeting, and so just right for whatever undetermined space they would occupy now. quickly, quietly, and with a curious glint in his eye, a warm wash of brown flitted about his grace’s face, wanting to take note of everything he’d missed. stationed so high above them all, it was always so difficult to get a good look at the man who was to lead them. a small voice at the back of his mind wondered if it was intentional.
“would it humor your grace to know that i almost gave your men a false name?” he asked, gaze caught on the scar running through the king’s lips. that’s new, he mused, mind plagued by the thought of what it might feel like against his own — intrusive, irrelevant, and yet entirely compelling. “alas, i feared they would not think highly of such a stunt, understandably so.” harlon canted his head then, audibly jostling his dangling pearl cluster earrings as he did so, and smiled — dimpled, true, and undoubtedly kittenish. when his eyes flitted back up and landed on a rare violet bloom, they held a plea, the same one that echoed in his words: i mean you no harm. "a pity that such mischievous trickery cannot suit me as well as it once did you."
