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mrsmaxwelllord · 8 months ago

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Summer Storm

Pairing: Harwin Strong x Martell Lady!Reader

Summary: Harwin leaves King's Landing to protect the three youngest princes from the dangerous rumor circulating in the Red Keep. Upon arriving home, he discovers that his father had another plan to put an end to the rumors once and for all.

or, Harwin marries a Martell who can see ghosts.

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: For now, only Arranged Marriage.

A/N: I think it's important to make two things clear before you start reading.

There is no Harwin/Rhaenyra in this story. Harwin returned to Harrenhal with the intention of putting the past behind him and the relationship they had is only briefly mentioned.

The Reader can see ghosts and has visions of the future. This is very important for the plot I have in mind, but it will be explained better in the following chapters (It will be important to the plot but have it in mind it isn't the central point, I intend to explore the relationship between the two more).

The only reason Harwin Strong agreed with his father about returning to Harrenhall was to protect Princess Rhaenyra’s children. His sole goal was to protect their honor and keep them safe from the nasty rumor about their parentage.

He knew he had made an irreversible mistake by letting Ser Criston get under his skin — this was exactly his goal, he realized later —, losing his temper and giving him the reaction he was looking for sealed his fate at King's Landing. He also knew that he had to part with the boys, by staying he would only allow the rumor to grow and strengthen. Even though he loved them so dearly, it was the right thing to do.

Harwin didn’t question his father any longer and left. The goodbye was particularly hard with Jacaerys and Lucerys, with little Jofrey it cut especially deeper for he would not be allowed to see him grow as he had had the chance with the two eldest boys. The farewell with Princess Rhaenyra was strange in a way he didn't imagine could be possible, not after so many years in camaraderie: she was awkward and had the expression of someone who wanted to confess something, but could not do it. In the end, she only looked at him with teary eyes and nodded her goodbye. He spent the whole trip home thinking about this interaction, wondering what it meant.

Only when the five towers of Harrenhal were visible in the distant horizon and he could see the Gods Eye’s waters, did his father break the news to him. He was to marry. He was to marry that very same day, as soon as he set foot at the castle in matter of fact.

He was not only to marry a Dornish Noble, he was to marry a Martell. Not one of the ruling Lord Martell’s children, since he had made clear — not with his words but with his actions thoroughly King Viserys’s reign — that he would not get involved with Westeros’ society, but a not-quite-distant relative. One important enough to join Houses with the King's Hand without being an embarrassment or cause mockery.

Harwin was beside himself with rage. He did not come back to Harrenhall to marry, certainly not to someone he never heard of before. He thought his father old fashioned and archaic for even considering an arranged marriage. They were almost through the castle gates when he calmed down enough to be able to hear the arguments his father was making.

“It will not be enough to just leave, Harwin,” Lyonel reasoned. “I fear nothing we ever do will be enough to silence the whispers, but this could be a new beginning. By marrying we give the people a new narrative and, if the seven heavens bless us, it will make them forget. At the very least, it’ll be something new and exciting to talk about. They will spare the boys.”

It was exactly what Harwin wanted — and desperately needed — to hear: that he could undo the harm he did to the boys. He felt so guilty for unleashing his anger on Ser Criston that his hands started to shake even when thinking about that odious day. So when Lord Lyonel explained to him the proposition in this particular light, he was glad to take it. He would do just about anything for the boys.

He accepted the marriage and promised his father he’d compromise to learn to be the Lord of Harrenhal. A good, just Lord. And a respectable husband also, even though this part of the promise was more complicated to comply with.

Harwin remembered his mother then. His parents' marriage was also arranged and his mother would occasionally tell him, Larrys stories about her coming to this very same castle. Harrenhal was rumored to be haunted, it was said these halls were full of ghosts and misfortunes, that the ruling lords were cursed to fall every century. Lady Strong never told her sons how afraid she was of the prospec of living in those dark walls, yet they could hear her hidden and forgotten fear; Harwin, who was raised to be Lord Strong one day, remembered one evening swearing to protect his future wife from the curse. A silly thought from his boyhood, he dismissed it. Yet, when thinking about what his bride would be like, he knew it was likely that the same fear could make itself known in your heart.

Harwin held no grudge against his betrothed, he knew it was likely that the choice was also not yours to make. You were in the same position, to be married to a stranger, so he made another commitment. To himself, this time. Like his parents’ marriage, he wanted this one to work out and, for this, you would’ve to work together and trust each other. But there would be no love involved, it was not possible, he already had his children and his priority was their well being. People would expect him to have heirs of his own one day, but this was a topic for the future. For the time being, he only had the heart to work one compromise at a time.

The first time Harwin met his Wife, he didn't see you entirely: you were wearing a thick veil that covered all of your face and your dressing concealed the rest of you. Harwin's acknowledgment of Dorne was limited to what the Maesters told him in his youth and what people said in King’s Landing about their costumes, but upon one look at you it was clear you were making a statement. You were clearly dressed in Dornish fashion, a thick satin fabric in a deep shade of blue that he realised was supposed to match his House’s color. The dress did not lack beauty, with its golden suns embroidered on the hems and also the extra piece of gold jewelry you wore in your neck, wrist and fingers. Harwin wondered if the fabric of the dress was enough to keep you warm on this winter day and if all the pretty little details were to spur him on or to show the power of House of Martell.

The first meeting concerned him immensely. His intention was to study you and decide what course of action he should take based on his first impression of you, but you only managed to confuse him further than he already was with you.

Upon being introduced to you, you were only polite and even-tempered, he dared think you were a bit too… placid. He couldn’t make anything out of your replies, it felt to him you only answered with what you thought he wanted to hear. Which he also thought was in contrast to your so bold choice of clothing.

He sat beside you at the main table and tried to have a meaningful conversation with you — as meaningful as a conversation with someone you know nothing about can be — yet got so frustrated that the only thing he could do to alleviate it was to drink the wine. It was not that you lacked intelligence in your little observations and answers, but Harwin could tell you were hiding something behind your clever words. It was like you were trying to dodge him yet it only made him so much more curious about you.

When it was time for the bride and groom’s dance, he realised what was wrong. For most of the feast, you drank and ate very little and your hands were always hiding in your lap under the table. Only when he held your hand did he realize you were shaking and cold. So very cold.

You were just as nervous as he was, that comforted him somehow. To know he wasn’t alone in all his mess.

Harwin danced with you for as long as he could, which wasn’t really much. Yet it was enough to find out the two of you strangely could synchronize well together. He still could not see your face under the veil, but he had a feeling you smiled back at him when the song stopped.

The time for the wedding ceremony arrived faster than you expected it to.

Even though there were fireplaces alight everywhere in the hall, you felt cold. Your hands, which had briefly stopped shaking while you were dancing with Harwin, started shaking again with more force than before. You were terribly nervous, thanking the Gods for the veil preventing your expression from being revealed to the crowd watching you. But soon, that too would be taken from you.

The ceremony itself was short and according to the customs of the Faith of the Seven, after you excused yourself and changed into a proper wedding dress and a yellow cloak symbolizing the House Martell. It happens at the Sept of the Castle, with a rather old Septon blessing the union. After the seven vows were made, it was time to exchange the clocks. Since your father couldn’t come with you to the Riverlands, it was your uncle who removed the clock from your shoulders; then Harwin carefully placed the blue cloak on your shoulders and lifted your veil.

You held your breath and made sure to look in his eyes to study the expression on his face. The veil was only an old custom, one you were partially glad for, but mostly afraid of. It conceals your expression but also your appearance, not that the way you looked was of any significance. In fact, your appearance didn't make any difference at all for the marriage, if Ser Harwin disapproved of it the union would happen anyway.

To you, the veil only served to make the wedding kiss an even more anxiety-filled moment, the anticipation was killing you and you suspected your soon-to-be husband felt the same way — if his endless questions about you and your likes were of any concern. If he thought of you ugly, you only wished that he could not show it in front of all those watching eyes— it would be your first kiss and the start of your life as a Lady, it would hurt too much to watch his face squirm with displeasure.

To your relief, there was no squirm of displeasure from Harwin. His eyes initially only looked at yours, then it ran through your face… Your eyebrows, your hair, your cheeks, your nose, then finally your mouth. In which he fixated for as long as he could before he looked up into your eyes again and followed with the ceremony.

“With this kiss I pledge my love” both you and Harwin say in harmony and he leans down to kiss you. His lips are soft and sweet and he kisses you slowly, carefully, with one hand he holds yours and the other he guides your face up to better kiss you. It lasts only a moment yet it leaves you feeling inebriated.

“…and take you for my lady and wife” Harwin finishes, with the delicious thick accent of his.

“…and take you for my lord and husband.”

The feast that followed the wedding was extravagant. With delicious food made in both RiverLand’s and Dornish’s costumes to please both parties, even though your own party was small and consisted only of your uncle, a few knights, and some maids that had come to serve you in your new home. You had brought with you a few barrels of Stronwine as a gift to your father-in-law and he seemed to thrive in its rich flavor and high alcohol content.

The guests, most of them Lords from Riverlands and friends to Lord Strong, were happy, singing and dancing to the songs. Your brother-in-law was nowhere to be seen. Your now officially husband was seated by your side at the main table and, just like before, kept on asking you all kinds of questions.

You thought it was a good sign, the questionnaire about your family, friends and life in Sunspear showed interest in you. Yet it was difficult to answer it all, you did not know his character just yet and preferred to keep the more delicate matter to yourself until you were sure he was trustworth; that he would not judge and make your life hell. So you kept your replies neutral and tried to keep the conversation about him; you asked him how was being Captain in the City Watch, what was life at the Red Keep like, what he enjoyed doing in his spare time, if he had any. You considered asking him about Princess Rhaenyra and her children, but decided against it. You thought it wise not to corner a hounded man — not when he was known as Breakbones.

You danced with him again and again during the party, actually enjoying his company and quickly quit. Despite your concerns, because you knew he had lost his temper and attacked the Queen’s sworn shield, he seemed to be a gentle and composed man. Harwin is devastatingly more handsome than you expected him to be, his hair is half up allowing you to better enjoy the strong features of his face. His clothes were a dark shade of blue that almost matched his eyes and gave him a solemn aura, you couldn’t help but notice.

When it was time for the bedding ceremony, you were beside yourself with worry. You knew what to expect but the prospects of it did not please you, yet, once again, Harwin eases your anxiety and just leads you to his chambers without drawing attention from anyone instead of following the traditional ceremony.

He leads you to the Kingspyre Tower, where the castellan’s chambers are at, it is the tallest tower and it takes a long time to get up there. Harwin uses this time to ease your worries with comforting words, he says he does not wish to see you concerned. And it almost helps, it is almost enough for you to believe his words.

Once in his chambers, he locks the door from the inside and seats you at the biggest canopy bed you’ve ever seen. You wait for him to start, not sure of what exactly he expects of you, but he leaves you in the bed alone and goes to fix glasses of wine in the bedside cabinet. You decide to take matters in your own hand and quickly unlace the dress, leaving you only in your chemise, then you make yourself more comfortable and wait for him to turn.

When he does turn, he is taken back by your lack of clothing, but goes to your side and gives the glass. Unlike in the feast, you drank almost all of it. You need the bust of confidence.

“Are you still nervous, m’lady?” he asks with a sweet smile, his tone has that accent of his you came to adore.

You decided to go with the truth this time.

“Yes, my lord. I find it difficult to feel anything else at this time.”

Harwin takes a long sip from his cup and takes your hand in his.

“I meant it when I said you had nothing to worry about.”

“Thank you” you say, because words are failing you by now. Your hands are shaking again, but Harwin looks at you so gently it becomes hard to believe he’d willingly hurt you. You want to trust him, you truly do.

“I’ll be honest with you” he starts, suddenly looking away and, for a moment, you believe he’ll talk about the young Princes. “I want this marriage to work.”

“As do I, my lord..” you reply, confused.

“We’ll be Lord and Lady of Harrenhal one day and it’ll not come without difficulties. If we want to rule with honor and dignity, we’ll have to understand and respect each other. I want us to work together.”

“I want the same, Harwin.”

“I must tell you a few things then, so we know where we stand. Set some boundaries.”

“Is it about Princess Rhaenyra’s children?” you finally ask, catching up to his meaning.

It caught him off guard, he turned to you and his expression tells it all. The conformations of the histories you’ve been listening to about your husband. You smile sadly. You had really hoped it was all just rumors.

“So what they say is true.”

Harwin wants to deny it, but he decides to start this marriage with honesty so he simply nods. And it is as a huge weight is lifted from his back, he sighs deeply as if he is finally able to breathe again.

“Do you honestly wish to work together?” you ask him, looking into his eyes. “It’ll take time and a great deal of effort, but I think that if you’re willing to, we can manage it.”

“There’s nothing I want more.”

...

Notes: Couldn't help but write my own piece about the beloved Harwin "Breakbones" Strong. He just screams "arranged married plot"! and I could not simply make it easy from him!! I want to see him suffer a bit.

This will have a follow up!

Let me know what you think!

#harwin strong #harwin strong fanfiction #harwin strong x reader #harwin strong x you

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aemondwhoresworld · 1 year ago

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MAE rec. (still UPDATING)

𝐒𝐄𝐑. 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐖𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆

≡ this is my SER HARWIN STRONG recommend list!

≡ i don’t own any of these works. also i wanted to thank you to all the author for writing such an amazing works! 🤍

≡ please be free to recommend more fic if you have any other angsty, fluff, etc fic

≡ if you have any other HARWIN STRONG fic recommend, please feel free to include it in!! 🤗

𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐒 𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐍. rec

⌗ one-shot

SECOND HEIR — by @imagines-all-day-everyday

LOVING HANDS — by @letaliabane

THE COMMANDER’S TRYST — by @house-strong

ALONE — by @thesithdiaries

STRONG BONDS — by @itsgameofthronesimagines

SILVER TONGUE — by @itsmeatballworld

⌗ series

THE WHITE DRAGON — by @misguidedasgardian

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mgcldydrms · 2 years ago

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Dance With Me ( Harwin Strong )

requested by anon: Can you write a little blurb about Harwin Strong asking Reader for a dance?

word count: 0.8k

warnings: none, except for fluff

pairing: harwin strong x fem!reader

author's note: it took me some time to complete this blurb, but I finally did it. I really hope you all enjoy this one.

navigation | main masterlist | hotd masterlist | taglist

Your eyes wandered around the grand room. Almost everyone in Westeros had come together in King’s Landing to celebrate yet another year of Viserys as the King of the seven Kingdoms. As his second oldest daughter, you were attending as commanded, even though you would rather spend your time doing something else.

As you glanced around the room, you noticed that almost everyone was out of their seats and on the dance floor. They had huge smiles on their faces. They must be really enjoying themselves, you thought to yourself as you let out an almost inaudible sigh. Even Rhaenyra, your older sister by a year and a half, was dancing with someone.

You looked over to your father, who was talking to Lyonel Strong. You had no idea what they were talking about, however, before you could move closer to where they were and listen to the schemes they were conjuring up, you heard your name being called.

Your eyes opened wide, recognising the voice clearly. Slowly, you turned around and looked up at those brown eyes that already watched you.

A gentle smile graced Harwin Strong’s lips as he looked down at you. You couldn’t help but smile brightly at him, a light blush gracing your cheeks while your eyebrows were slightly raised, waiting for him to say something.

“Would you like to dance with me, Princess?”

Harwin held his hand out for you, lightly wiggling his fingers while he waited for you to make a decision.

While you contemplated whether to take his hand and dance with him in front of everyone, which was somewhat of a nightmare for you because you hated being the centre of attention, you turned your head slightly to the side, looking over your shoulder, quickly noticing that your father and Lord Strong had stopped talking and were now looking as expectantly at you as Harwin Strong.

Viserys, your father, nodded his head, encouraging you to take up the young man’s offer. You knew that he only wanted the best for you. He had noticed the glances you stole at Harwin Strong, always staying a bit longer when he was around, exchanging secret smiles that got noticed by both fathers, King Viserys Targaryen and Lyonel Strong.

You let out a small breath you didn’t know you were holding before you turned around again, a bright smile on your lips as you looked up at Harwin, who was still holding his hand out for you.

“Of course.”, you stated, putting your hand in his while you got up from your seat.

Harwin had a proud smile on his lips while he guided you to the dance floor, almost everyone’s attention on you. You were able to catch your sister’s eyes, who instantly wiggled her eyebrows, making you lightly giggle, luckily without anyone noticing.

Rhaenyra was the first one to find out about your crush on Harwin Strong. She encouraged you to talk to him whenever you could, sometimes even pushing you towards him, which usually made you bump into him, seeing as though you were the clumsy one out of the two of you. Thankfully, it helped, and it always encouraged you to strike up a conversation with him.

Once you made it to the dance floor, you turned around and stood face-to-face with the young man in front of you. Both of you had bright smiles on your lips. Anyone who didn’t notice the sparks flying between you was blind. There was so much chemistry between you. Everyone could see it.

Both of your fathers wore proud smiles on their lips, knowing the next big thing they had to discuss with one another.

As soon as the music started again, you and Harwin, along with the other guests, moved your bodies to the rhythm of it. You weren’t the perfect dancer, however, you were decent enough to manoeuvre your way around the dance floor.

Harwin couldn’t help but admire the way you danced and quickly noticed that you were always wearing a smile on your face, whether it was from being embarrassed because you missed a few steps or because you were enjoying yourself, he didn’t care. Harwin loved seeing that smile. It brightened his day.

One dance ended, and another one began, and you felt as though you didn’t want to stop. You wanted to keep on dancing, and the young Strong too. He wanted to be as close to you as appropriately possible.

The two of you wanted to dance the night away with one another, and the longer you were on the dance floor, the lesser you cared about everyone’s eyes on you. The only thing that mattered to you at that moment was to have Harwin Strong this close to you, talking to him, laughing with him … feeling his touch.

#harwin strong x reader #harwin strong imagine #harwin strong blurb #harwin strong x you #harwin strong x Targaryen!reader #harwin strong x fem!reader #harwin strong fanfiction #harwin strong fluff #house of the dragon imagines #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd imagines #hotd x reader

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dedicatednotobsessed · 2 years ago

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The Sellsword [Harwin Strong x Fem!Reader]

Other HOTD stories [requests open]

Summary: Surviving in Fleabottom can be a challenge although you knew how to survive the streets, not being afraid of killing any man as long as it meant your survival. The older you became, the more who recognized your skill and you became a sellsword. You ended up in a chance encounter with a gold cloak, Ser Harwin Strong and you prove him wrong when he challenges your skill as a female sellsword….

WARNING: This one shot contains sexual content. Please read at your own risk.

Gif doesn’t belong to me ❤️‍🔥

You smirked lightly as you sat across from your pal, who called himself Dagger, your hand clasped in his. You were in the depths of Fleabottom where most of the other cutthroats tended to spend their time gambling and in the arms of whores. Most of them were an unusual sort, yet you called them family.

“I am telling you that you can not win, Dagger,” You taunted watching his plump face turn red, the two of you struggling in an arm wrestle match: a test of strength.

Cheers erupted around the table as you slammed his hand on the table, the man grunting in defeat. “One day, I will win.”

“Ah, that day is not today, my friend,” You said with a small smirk while taking a long drink of your ale.

“Alas.” A scrawnier man came over clapping you hard on the back. “Y/N constantly proves that she is strong, for a woman.”

You narrowed your eyes a bit after finding your composure from the slap. “Oi, do you want to try your hand at me, Fang?” You questioned with a cocked brow and smirked when he stuttered. “That is what I thought.”

You set your empty cup on the table with a small laugh. “I just find it amusing you lot are afraid of a little girl!” You teased. “The most fearsome men in all of Fleabottom are scared of a little delicate girl!”

Your laugh continued to grow as you sat back down, smirking while your eyes scanned over the men. Dagger was the biggest of them all with a big belly hanging out of the bottom of his tunic. Fang and Claw were twin brothers, both as scrawny as one another with each one having features similar to a face of a rat.

“Are you being a cocky shit again, Y/N?” A gruff voice spoke up.

Your smirk widened and lulled your head at Darreth, a man of pale skin which made his dark hair stand out. “I would never think of such a thing.”

Darreth snorted as he set a fresh cup of ale in front of you while placing a hand atop your head. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

You smiled and thanked him quietly for the ale before taking a drink. After your father got murdered, Darreth found you begging on the streets and took you in as a daughter from the young age of eight. He taught you how to be a Sellsword as himself and was able to make a name for yourself before you were the age of five-and-ten.

You let out a long sigh, your eyes flickering up when you heard Darreth scoff. Your eyes connected with the blue eyes of a gold cloak, a small smirk forming on your lips.

“Is there something you need?” You called to him noticing his gaze lingering a bit longer than it should.

The gold cloak watched you for a moment before a chuckle passed his lips as he walked closer. “I want to make sure you are all right.”

You raised a brow. “What do you mean? Do I seem as though I am in any danger?” You questioned.

The man hesitated a bit as his eyes scanned over your features, the smug smirk clear on your face. “No, it appears not.”

You tilted your head as you looked the man over. His dark curly hair suited him well, making his blue eyes stand out from the rest of his appearance. He was quite handsome, even if he was a dog to the King- as Darreth liked to call the city watch.

“Why don’t you try your hand at a test of strength against me?” You suddenly offered.

The man chuckled a bit. “I can not, I’m afraid.”

You tilted your head with a small smirk as you stood up, walking around the man a bit. “The gold cloaks are supposed to be some of the strongest men…if you are to protect the king after all.”

“Leave the dog alone, Y/N,” Darreth spoke up although you ignored him.

“It should not be too hard for a gold cloak to beat a simple Sellsword,” You taunted looking over the man.

The man chuckled and nodded. “I guess you are correct.”

You hummed as your smirk grew. “And what is the name of my opponent?”

“Ser Harwin of House Strong,” He introduced himself with a nod.

“Well, Ser Harwin of House Strong,” You began while walking back towards your table. “Let us see if you can beat me.”

“What are the stakes here?” Harwin questioned as he sat across from you.

“It’s simple really. I will give you what you wish if you win and you give me what I wish if I win.”

Harwin chuckled a bit. “And what do you wish for if you win?”

You smirked lightly as you held your arm up, your elbow on the table. “That will be a surprise.”

Harwin returned your smirk, clasping his hand in yours. You could tell it was quite a challenge when your arm began to shake as he tried to slam your hand down but you were quick to overpower him.

You let out a laugh when you slammed his hand down, everyone cheering for you.

Harwin blew out a breath, a chuckle passing his lips. “Well done.”

You smirked lightly. “I believe I deserve my reward, Ser Harwin.”

“Ah, yes. That was our wager.” Harwin chuckled a bit. “How much gold would you like?”

You raised a brow at him before you stood up, walking behind the man. Your fingers lightly ran over his armor while you tilted your head as a small him passed your lips. “And who said I would like gold?” You purred in his ear.

Your eyes went up to Darreth who narrowed his eyes as he watched you, your smirk only widening. You ran your hands down Harwin’s armor before taking his hand and helping him stand, leading him away from the rest of the group.

You took him down the narrow paths of Fleabottom, holding onto his hand to make sure he does not get lost.

“I should get back to my duty,” Harwin said after a moment as he pulled you to a stop.

You looked up at his piercing blue eyes, smirking wide. “Fuck your duty,” You whispered while leaning up so your face was inches from his.

You laughed lightly as he just watched you while leading him through the door of a brothel. You swayed your hips a bit, leading Harwin into an empty room before turning towards him.

“Tell me, Ser Harwin,” You began, fiddling with the laces on your tunic. “Have you ever laid with a woman?”

Harwin chuckled a bit at the question. “If you must know, I have.”

A small hum passed your lips while you looked down at your tunic. You untied your tunic and slipped it off your body, moving onto your belt and boots next. You noticed the gold cloak watching you and you smirked more, letting your breeches fall next. As a Sellsword, you never dressed as a proper lady; something Fang and Claw taunted you about quite often.

You walked closer and began to untie Harwin’s armor for him beginning with his gauntlets. “I wonder if any of those women are as good as me,” You said softly, tilting your head as you helped him with his chest armor.

Harwin hooked two of his fingers under your chin, his other hand going to your waist to bring you closer to him. “Let’s find out,” He whispered and leaned down kissing you deeply on the lips.

You returned his kiss hungrily as your hands went to his breeches, sliding them down with ease. Your smirk widened widened as you grinded your hips into his to gain a bit of friction, your hand going down towards his cock.

You released the kiss, your hand tugging up and down as you helped him with his tunic. You moved your hands up to his bare chest while you slowly pushed him back onto the bed, climbing over him after he laid down.

You kept your eyes on Harwin as you traced patterns on his chest. You have been with both men and women and you always enjoyed being the one in charge. You have found a certain arousal from it.

You gripped his cock once more guiding it towards your cunt. Harwin gripped onto your hips tight as you helped him inside of you, a moan passing your lips.

You began to move your hips against his as he went further inside of you, moans of satisfaction coming out from the two of you.

Harwin grunted as you began to lightly bounce while your breasts clapped against your chest. You arched your back, furrowing your brows as he began to go faster, gripping onto you tighter.

You felt yourself reaching your limit soon enough, your bounces becoming faster the faster Harwin thrusted inside of you.

You let out a loud satisfied moan when the two of you reached your limit, laughing as some of your hair fell in your face. You smirked down at Harwin, the two of you trying to regain your breath.

“Did I prove to be right, Ser Harwin of House Strong?” You purred, pushing back some of his curly hair.

Harwin returned your smirk while he relaxed back on the silk pillows, admiring your natural state. “I do not know about that,” He said in a teasing tone. “We could get confirmation if you are the best woman I have slept with when the moon is upon us…only to make sure.”

You smirked and leaned down close to his ear. “Meet me here when it turns the hour of the owl,” You purred and winked at him before climbing off with a giggle.

Harwin watched you, chuckling lightly as you got dressed and left the brothel in a rush. You knew you were to get an earful from Darreth however, you deserved your reward against Ser Harwin and the many rewards he was to give you the more times you snuck around with him with every visit to Fleabottom he had paid.

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ireneispunk · 8 months ago

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How They Hold You x HoTD Men

i saw these photosets and could NOT refuse! so here are the HoTD men and how (i imagine) they would hold you included: aemond, daemon, jacaerys, aegon, criston cole, harwin strong

+bonus

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aemondsbabe · 9 months ago

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What is Owed

summary: the gold cloaks raid the brothel, you make a deal to secure your freedom

pairing: harwin strong x lyseni!reader x daemon targaryen

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, reader is briefly described as having lyseni features (pale hair, purple eyes) but no other physical descriptors are used, mentions of sex work, reader is a sex worker, breast/nipple play, dirty talk, double penetration, piv sex, anal sex, anal fingering, regular fingering, squirting, unprotected sex, double creampie oh jeez, oral (m receiving), handjobs, hands on necks, "whore" is used both as a pet name and degradingly we love innovation, big hulking men idk, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 7.7k

a/n: so sorry for being away! wasn't intentional, just busy with life things! but god i missed writing and i'm so happy to finally have this one done! daddies galore!

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

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A barely concealed sigh of disgust leaves your lips, which remain pulled into a tight, docile smile as some lord, whose name you couldn’t be bothered to remember, finally finishes over your bare chest with a beastly grunt, his hips twitching as you stroke him through it.

Took his sweet time, you think as you rise to your feet and quickly grab one of the spare cloths stashed in the nearby vanity to wipe his spend from your chest. Depositing the cloth in a nearby basket, you take a moment to right your dress and run your fingers through your pale hair. Finally, you turn back around and eye the man still lying across the ornate chaise catching his breath.

You glance at his trousers, still haphazardly piled on the floor, before checking him once more, smirking when you see that his eyes are still closed. Carefully, you make your way over to his trousers and kneel once more as you grab for the heap of fabric; keeping your eyes on him, you swiftly rifle through the pockets and smile triumphantly as you pull a few coins from one – one golden dragon, three copper stars, and a half-penny.

Grinning, you toss the man’s trousers back onto the floor before quickly grabbing the small coin purse you keep tucked away beneath the chaise, way back toward the wall and covered by the ends of one of the red satin curtains that cover the windows of the brothel – the perfect hiding spot until you can move them to the more secure lock-box beneath your bed.

“Mmph,” the lord sighs, stirring finally just as you drop the last coin into your pouch. Shoving it back beneath the chaise, you quickly rise to your feet with a placid smile just as he finishes stretching.

“Some wine for you, my lord,” you smile, keeping your voice light and sweet in just the way the Madam likes as you offer him a goblet, “To replenish your strength.”

“Yes, yes,” the older man mumbles, paying you no mind as he busies himself with the buttons on his tunic, “Fetch me my trousers,” he commands, brushing you off with a wave of his hand.

“Of course, my lord,” you nod, teeth gritting as you set the goblet back down before grabbing his blasted trousers with an eye roll. He all but snatches them from you with a pompous little hum, not even looking in your direction. Once again behaving as the Madam demands, you merely stand by while he redresses, hands clasped demurely in front of you as you wait to be of service once again, or, hopefully, to kindly escort him to the door.

You don’t mind working in the brothel, not really, especially knowing that it could be much worse – you could’ve ended up as one of the many beggars that line the streets of Flea Bottom or, more dreadful still, stuck as a slave back home. It was luck, really, that brought you to the brothel in the first place, back when you were still stumbling half-blind with grief around the fish market by the docks only to be plucked up by chance by a few of the girls from the brothel. They’d brought you back here, promising that the Madam would take you in, that you’d earn great money with your exotic looks.

One of those things had been true – the Madam was very happy to take you in. Technically, you do also make great money… for the brothel; only a small percentage is ever paid back to the workers and, for your circumstances, that just won’t do. Which is precisely why you sometimes took a little tip for yourself, especially if your client for the evening was of higher status; it’s not as if they’d miss, or even notice, a few missing coins.

As far as you’re concerned, it’s a flawless system.

You’re brought out of your short reverie by another sigh from the lord as he polishes off the goblet of wine you’d offered some moments ago and once more, your lips quirk up into a pleasing smile, “Leaving so soon, my lord?”

“Mm,” he merely grumbles before flashing you a lecherous grin, his yellowed teeth making your stomach turn, “Worry not, girl, I’ll be back before the tournament’s over.”

“Wonderful,” you sigh, grimacing internally as you make a half-step toward the arched doorway, “I’ll see you out.” Blessedly, the lord makes no more of a fuss and lets you lead him to the entryway, sparing you one final nod before slipping down the dimly lit street.

You remain in the doorway for a moment more, arms crossed over your chest as you gaze outside, relishing the feel of the cool night air against your skin. After a moment, though, your eyes narrow when you realize the streets seem much quieter than usual. At this hour, there would normally be more people about – some returning from a long day of work, others already stumbling around drunk, but tonight there were only a few scattered people roaming about.

“Strange…,” you murmur to yourself, absentmindedly running a finger over the gold chain around your neck, your fingers brushing over the small key hanging from it. Sparing a glance up at the Dragonpit looming on the nearby hill, you finally close the door with a shrug. Returning to the room you’d serviced the lord in, you glance around quickly to make sure the coast is clear before you retrieve the small coin purse from beneath the chaise, smiling at the weight of it as you carry it swiftly back to your bed, to your little lockbox, wholly unaware of the envious gaze on your back.

“Commander on the floor!” One of the Gold Cloaks shouts as Daemon prowls into the hall, a self-righteous smirk on his lips as the drum of fists against chest plates ceases.

“When I took command of the Watch, you were stray mongrels,” he growls, dark violet eyes surveying the men around him, “Starving and undisciplined!”

He pauses for a second, heart pounding with the heady sensation of power as he prepares to do what his dear older brother cannot – punish. Too long have the streets of King’s Landing, of his city gone to the Seven Hells; controlled by crime and near-anarchy when they should be controlled by him, by the dread of his authority.

“Now, you’re a pack of hounds,” his voice rises as he speaks, as he breathes life into his men, “You’re sated and honed for the hunt!”

Howls erupt around the hall, making the prince’s lips stretch into a vicious grin – his men were ready, ready to rule with the iron fist Viserys lacked.

“My brother’s city has fallen into squalor!” He says, pacing down the room, “Crime of every breed has been allowed to thrive!”

His chainmail clinks with each of his heavy steps, pride swelling in his chest as many of the soldiers nod their heads along with him. It was true, after all, everyone knew it. Viserys may have the crown, the damned throne, but the dragonfire in his veins had run cold long ago. The blood in Daemon’s burns hot, however; centuries of power and glory fuel his fires, flowing through him like the lava in the Dragonmont.

“No longer,” he grunts, pausing at the end of the hall, the silken cloth draped over his shoulders shining in the light of the torches lining the room as he turns to eye his men, smirking at the blood lust evident on their faces, “Beginning tonight, King’s Landing will learn to fear the color gold!”

A loud bang wakes you sometime later and you sit up with a small gasp, clutching the linen bed sheets. Whipping your head around, you can see the dark night sky still looms heavily over the city through the slats in the window – you must’ve not been asleep very long.

Another cry from somewhere outside finally gets you moving and you quickly wrap yourself in an embroidered silk robe, tying it loosely around your waist as you move closer to the door, your ears perked at the sound of frantic whispers. Poking your head through the beaded curtain that separates the sleeping quarters from one of the hallways, you finally spot a familiar face in the dim candlelight.

“Genna!” You whisper, waving one of the other working girls over, “What’s going on, what’s happened?”

“Gold Cloaks!” She hisses, working quickly to stuff an armful of dresses into a small bag, “They’ve gone mad, they’re rounding up damn near everyone out there!”

“Gone mad?” You echo, brows pinching together as you look toward the entrance, another muffled cry from outside catching your attention, along with the sounds of metal clanging against metal.

Genna merely nods as she practically shoves past you to get into the room before quickly loading her bag with various perfumes, oils, and loose jewelry from one of the vanities, “One of the regulars came by, woke everyone up,” she explains as she quickly ties the bag off, “They’re taking in anyone who’s so much as nicked an apple from the market.”

Your eyes go wide at her words, head ringing as blood rushes to your cheeks. Thankfully, she seems too busy to notice you glance warily at your bed, knowing your lockbox with weeks worth of lifted coins is tucked neatly below it.

“I’m telling you, if you’ve pocketed even one extra groat, you’re as good as dead,” She shakes her head as she slings her bag over one shoulder, “Get out while you can, yeah? I think they’re a ways away st–”

A deafening crash from the front of the building cuts her off, the both of you shrieking. Your heart pounds in your chest at the sound of men’s voices; yours and Genna’s heads swivel to face one another at the same time before you both glance at the large wardrobe in the corner of the room – big enough for someone to climb inside of.

It seems you both have the same idea at the same time, each of you scrambling toward the cupboard. She’s a second behind you, though, her hefty bag slowing her by an instant and she yelps as you pull the wooden doors closed, pinching one of her fingers. You push yourself as far back in the cramped space as you can, trying to tuck yourself behind the hanging coats and dresses.

Finally, you stay as still as possible, chest heaving as your back presses into the wood behind you. You hear a muffled curse from Genna before she shrieks as heavy footsteps flood into the room.

“Shut it, whore!” A guard yells and the sound of a harsh slap makes you cover your mouth with a hand.

“Careful!” A different voice shouts as more heavy footsteps sound outside, “She’s a woman, not a shadowcat,” the new voice admonished, “Take her outside with the others, then go ahead and take the wagons to the dungeons below the Keep. No harm is to come to any of them, understood?”

“But the Commander sai–”

“I don’t give a shit what the Commander said,” the man all but growled, “I am your superior still, soldier, you take orders from me; I’ll worry about him. The night’s gotten out of hand as it is.”

“Yes, Captain,” the first man grumbles after a second. Heavy footsteps sound for an instant before Genna shrieks again, “I said shut it, whore!” The man’s voice is a bit muffled this time, further away.

“Tell the Commander I’m searching in here!” The second voice calls out gruffly; silently, you curse.

You hold yourself as still as possible as the muffled sounds of opening drawers and cabinets sound from outside the wardrobe, slowly but surely getting closer to you. Your heart leaps into your throat as the wardrobe doors are tugged open, yet you hold yourself still and squeeze your eyes closed, a naïve part of you hoping the soldier would just overlook you.

Of course that doesn’t happen.

“I do see you, you know,” the gruff voice sighs, his eyes on you, “Come on, out,” he commands.

Finally, you open your eyes and peek at him through gaps of fabric, warily taking in his appearance. Your eyes widen at his size, truly a mountain of a man, with curly dark hair and matching dark eyes, clad in metal plate armor with a familiar golden cloak around his shoulders. The look in his eyes is neutral, if not sympathetic, but you still don’t move, rooted to the spot.

With another sigh, he shakes his head at you and beckons you forward with a wave of his hand, “Please make this easy.”

When you still don’t move after a few more seconds, the man grumbles and reaches in, shoving past various articles of clothing until he grabs at your forearm and pulls you, stumbling, from the wardrobe.

“Let me go!” You cry, struggling in his grasp like a fish on a line, “Let me go, damn you! I haven’t done anything!” You shriek loudly, uselessly kicking your feet as he holds you steady at arms length.

“Easy!” The dark-haired man shouts over your screeches, “If you’ll just calm–”

“What’s this?” Another voice questions from the doorway, making both of you pause. Your eyes widen when you see the man, dressed in the same gold cloaked armor as the one holding you, though this one has purple eyes and pale white hair cascading over his shoulders, complete with a familiar face you’d seen before in the shadowy corners of the brothel, “Is that her?”

Her? You balk, glancing between the two men, They were looking for me?

The brunette stays silent for a moment, bushy brows furrowed together as he looks between you and the prince, brown eyes meeting two sets of purple, “She’s not… one of his, is she?” He asks quietly, only confusing you more.

Prince Daemon merely chuckles and shakes his head as he traipses toward you with a smirk. “Ohh, no, definitely not,” he mutters, squeezing your cheeks in one large, gloved hand as he forces your face to lift up toward his, “No, my dearest brother would never dare betray his wife so.”

He tilts your head from side to side, studying your face carefully, before making you face him once again as the other guard keeps hold of your arm, “What’s your name, girl?”

You glance between the men, caged in between their large frames, before finally telling them, each syllable merely a whisper on your lips.

The prince repeats it with a smug smile, the sound of your name on his tongue makes your head spin. “Ah, see, just as I thought,” he smirks, a pleased twinkle in his violet eyes, “A Lyseni whore.”

The other man merely grunts, though you don’t miss the way his dark brown eyes flit over your form appreciatively. Daemon moseys around the room, eyes scanning over the row of matching twin beds lined against one wall. “Which is yours?”

“I… I don’t sleep in here, my pr–”

“Lying won’t do you any good, you know,” he smirks, “We’ve had eyes and ears all over the city for months, including here. So, I’ll ask again. Which bed?”

You hesitate, only for a moment, before nodding at the bed to the far right. Your mind reels as Daemon begins his search, Someone was spying in here? One of the other girls?

“Aha!” He says after only a moment and your heart sinks as he pulls your small wooden lockbox out from its hiding spot. He drops it down onto your bed with a gloating smirk and you glance up just in time to see one of the prince’s pale hands reaching for the key at your neck, easily tugging it off the chain as you gasp and jerk once more in the other man’s grasp. “That was a gift from my father!”

“Daemon, please,” the other man sighs tiredly, scrambling to hold you in place once more, “Was that truly necessary?”

“Don’t start with me, Strong,” the prince huffs, moving to unlock the box, “You’ve spoiled my night of fun enough as is.” A low whistle sounds from his lips as he flips open the lid, quickly shuffling through the various coins, small pieces of jewelry, and other trinkets you’ve managed to swipe.

“Seems we got the right one after all,” the man holding your arm, the one apparently called Strong, murmurs, nodding toward you.

“Of course we got the right bloody one,” Daemon scoffs, violet eyes rolling in his head, “I only know of two Lyseni whores in this city and it certainly isn’t the other one.”

“Mysaria!” You whisper lowly, eyes widening as puzzle pieces begin clicking together in your mind.

The prince merely laughs, looking between you and the other knight as if you’ve just told some hilarious joke. “Finally figured it out, eh?” He teases, sauntering over to where you’re still being held.

As soon as he’s in reach, the guard holding you grabs your other arm as well, holding them both behind your back as if you’d be stupid enough to try anything against two Gold Cloaks. Even if you did manage to free yourself, what would be the point in running now?

“Seems we have a clever whore on our hands, Strong,” Daemon drawls, grinning when you flinch as he grips your jaw, forcing your eyes to meet his once more, “And a pretty one too. You must earn enough to pay your keep, no? A little exotic flower like you is bound to get plucked at often enough.”

You wait for him to continue speaking but he doesn’t, he simply waits, eyes boring into you as if he’s trying to read your thoughts. For all you know, he can – you’ve heard whispers around King’s Landing of how the Targaryens were supposedly closer to Gods than men.

“I suppose so, my prince,” you all but squeak a moment later, unable to bear the intense silence any longer.

“Then tell me,” you gasp as he suddenly turns your head, directing your gaze toward the small wooden lockbox strewn open on your bed, “Why does a well paid whore need to steal? Hm?”

“I wasn’t stealing for me!” You blurt, chest heaving.

“Then why do it?” You startle slightly as the knight behind you speaks, his grip on your wrists loosening enough for you to relax some in his grasp. For someone so gruff and intimidating, there was a distinctive warmth to his voice – a soft, kind lilt.

With a sigh, you glance between the two men before speaking, “I send it back to my family, once every other moon or so.”

“You send money to your family,” Daemon echos, purple eyes narrowed suspiciously, “In Lys, I presume?”

You simply nod, your eyes downcast as the men share a look over your head.

“Why do you need to send them money?” The Strong guard asks as he releases your arms, brown eyes watching you closely.

“My father was a merchant,” you begin, nervously fiddling with the tie on your robe, “He would travel to Volantis a few times a year to buy the more exotic goods shipped in from cities further east, from the other side of Slaver’s Bay, to bring back to sell in Lys. He could get a better price for them at home, Westerosi ships rarely go any further than our ports and they were willing to pay more.”

“And then, one time he left for Volantis and… never came back,” you continue, your voice only a raspy whisper as the back of your throat tightens, “We received word some months later that there had been a slave rebellion in the city and that my father had been killed in it. So, now I send money back so that my mother and siblings are able to pay for our house, because in Lys, if you can no longer afford your land you –”

“You risk becoming a slave yourself,” the brunette knight finishes, sighing sympathetically when you nod.

“How very touching,” the prince mutters, though you can see pity clouding his eyes as well.

“Perhaps we should just let her go,” the Strong guard says after a moment, making you whip your head toward him in shock, “She isn’t a danger to anyone.”

“She may not be,” Daemon says, crossing his arms over his broad chest, “But a drunken, disgruntled lord who’s discovered his gold missing certainly is.”

The brown haired man hums thoughtfully at his reasoning and both of them eye you for a moment, silence falling over the room.

Shifting your weight from foot to foot, you silently reason that you have two options – convince them to free you or wind up in a cell beneath the Red Keep. Being locked away simply isn’t an option, not for you, as that would mean being unable to send money to your family and although petty theft doesn’t carry the penalty of death, you know that if anything were to happen to them, you’d wish it did.

Gathering your courage, you look between the two men, eyeing them up and down. “Perhaps,” you start, loosening the tie on your robe just enough to bare your cleavage just a bit more, “I could convince you that I’m worth much more as a free woman?”

“Little minx,” the prince rasps, stepping toward you and grasping at your jaw once more, “Maybe you’ll prove useful after all,” he says cryptically.

Before you have time to dwell on his words, he releases you and busies himself with quickly unbuckling his plate armor, letting the chest and torso pieces noisily clank on the floor as they fall against a pile of gold cloth.

You gasp as Daemon grabs you by the hips and pulls you to him, pressing himself against you tightly as his rough hands roam over your soft curves. You can’t help but giggle as an appreciative grunt leaves his lips, violet eyes darkening as they meet yours.

“Daemon,” the other guard starts with a sigh, hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

“Come, ser Strong,” the prince growls, hastily turning you to face the brown eyed man. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip as you look him up and down, the corners of your lips quirking up into a small smile when you see the flush on his cheeks, “It would be rude to turn down what our little mouse is so generously offering, hm?” The feel of Daemon’s hands on your body makes your eyes flutter closed for just a second, only to snap back open when he roughly grabs at your breasts just as his teeth press against the column of your throat, eliciting a soft cry from you.

“O-Oh!”

“See? Listen to that,” Daemon says, words muffled against your skin, “She likes it, don’t you?”

You quickly nod your head yes, head clouded by the feel of the prince’s length as it presses against the small of your back, hard enough to be felt through the trousers they wear under their armor. He chuckles as he suddenly cups your center, the silky fabric of your robe pressing against your already aching flesh, and nips at your neck once more before releasing you.

“Go,” he murmurs, giving you a gentle push toward the other knight, “Make the stubborn bore more comfortable.”

Biting your lip, you approach the man with a little grin. Standing before him, you move your hand to his shoulder, to the buckles of his plate armor.

“Is this okay?”

All he gives you is a curt nod, but it’s enough for you. With another reassuring smile, you pull at the leather buckles, unstrapping them one by one until he grabs at his chest plate and sets it on the floor, more gentle with it than Daemon had been.

Pausing for a second, you cock your head to the side curiously. “I know him,” you say with a nearly bashful smile, nodding your head at the prince, “But what do I call you, Ser?”

“Harwin, my lady. Just Harwin.”

Still sensing hesitance from him, you decide to be bold and gently take one of his hands and place it on one of your breasts, peering up into his deep brown eyes all the while. Your lips turn up into a pleased smile at the low groan that rumbles from his chest and you marvel at how warm his touch is through your robe, though before you have time to linger on it further, Harwin surges forward and presses his lips against yours.

You still for a second, not having expected such boldness from a man who had held so much back thus far. Getting your wits about you, you quickly respond in kind and move your lips with his, leaning into him a bit more as you grab at his shoulders. A pleased hum leaves your lips as his hands begin exploring you, seeming to grab and knead at any bits of you he can like he’s been starved for touch for years.

He groans into the kiss once more when you nip at his bottom lip, prompting him to slip his tongue into your mouth, which earns a small whimper from you as one of your hands slips down from his shoulder to rest on his toned, muscular chest.

The sudden feel of another presence at your back makes you jump slightly – you’d gotten so wrapped up in Harwin that you’d nearly forgotten that Daemon was still in the room, though the knowledge that he’d been watching the two of you sends an excited zing up your spine.

“Oh!” You gasp as he begins nipping and biting at your neck once more, soothing the marks he leaves behind with his tongue. Your lips move against Harwin’s as another pair of hands begins exploring you, impatiently tugging at the tie around your waist until your robe falls open. A whine leaves you as the knight’s hands immediately cup your bare breasts, kneading them and savoring the way your soft skin feels against his palms. At the same time, Daemon nearly growls as he presses himself against your ass, grinding his length against you as his hands grip at your hips and waist.

“I believe you said something about convincing us?” He mutters against your neck, grinning when you pull away from Harwin and meet his gaze as you turn to look over your shoulder, brow raising when you see he’d taken the time to strip off his tunic at some point.

“Quite right, my prince,” you grin, looking between the two men once more before slipping off your robe, leaving you bare as it pools on the floor. Your cheeks flush at their appreciative groans, skin prickling at the way you can practically feel their eyes on you.

With another little breath, you lower yourself to your knees between them and immediately skim your hands over their strong thighs. Ever eager, Daemon quickly unties his trousers, a predatory gleam in his purple eyes as he frees his hardening length.

You bite your bottom lip at the sight of it and quickly reach up to wrap a hand around it, marveling at the way it hardens steadily under your touch. “I think you’ll find I can be very persuasive,” you murmur, softly licking over the tip before sealing your lips around it and suckling gently while you gaze up at him, batting your lashes enticingly.

“Fuck,” he breathes, long fingers threading into your hair as his head tips back. You grin around him, bobbing your head while you stroke over the rest of his length with a hand, laving your tongue over the head.

Not forgetting about Harwin, you shift your gaze to him as your other hand palms his length where it presses against the rough fabric of his trousers, already hard and wanting. That seems to be the final straw for him and he scrambles to undo the ties, brown eyes glued to where your lips are wrapped around the prince’s hard cock.

Your eyes widen when his length finally springs free and you let Daemon slip from your lips as your mouth falls open. “Seven Hells,” you murmur, watching as Harwin strokes a hand over his cock, a proud smirk on his lips.

“Well now, that must be where your damn stubborn attitude comes from, Strong,” the prince teases, chest heaving as you continue stroking a hand over his length.

Unable to resist, you brush the knight’s hand away before grasping his cock in your own, heart skipping a beat as your fingers hardly touch around the girth of it. You lean over and lick up the length of him, from the base to the very tip, before taking him into your mouth, bobbing your head in the same way you did with Daemon.

It takes a few moments, but eventually you settle into a good rhythm – stroking one man’s member with your hand while you suck and lick at the others, swapping every few moments or when one of them gets impatient enough to tug you over by the hair.

It’s easy to lose yourself in the cacophonous sounds of grunts and growls above you, at the way each man’s fingers thread into your hair differently. Daemon’s grip is much rougher, more commanding, as he drags you exactly where he wants, pushing and pulling your head along his cock in an exacting rhythm.

Harwin, on the other hand, is more gentle — his tugs seeming more like suggestions than commands. Unlike the prince, he strokes over your hair gently as you attend to him, letting you set your own pace. Anytime your eyes meet his, he looks at you with awe almost, hairy chest heaving as his hips twitch, holding himself back from fucking your face in the way he wants.

Daemon has no such qualms, hasn’t the patience to resist tugging at your hair as he presses your mouth lower and lower down his cock, relishing the way you choke and sputter. His violet, half-lidded gaze sends shivers through you each time your eyes meet, the look in his eyes echoing the fierce dragon’s blood flowing in his veins.

Surprisingly, it’s Harwin that breaks first, tossing back his head with a low groan after some minutes and pulling you off of his cock.

“What—?” You scarcely get the word out before his lips are on yours once again, tongue licking into your mouth.

“Need you,” he mumbles simply, glaring as Daemon snickers behind your back. “Please,” he breathes, voice softer this time.

“You needn’t ask,” Daemon drawls, pressing himself against your side as his hands paw at your breasts, pinching and pulling at your nipples and chuckling at the way you whine, “She’s a whore.”

You roll your eyes playfully at the remark and grab Harwin’s hand, leading him toward one of the bigger rooms of the brothel. “That may be true, but perhaps I like a man with some decorum, my prince,” you call over your shoulder, chuckling as Daemon follows hot on your heels.

You lead the men to one of the fancier rooms, one laden with imported ornate rugs and silken lamps that give it a warm red glow, complete with a giant circular daybed with plenty of room for all three of you. After all, if the brothel is empty, why not take advantage of it?

Putting on your very best show, you push at Harwin’s hairy chest until he sits back on the edge of the bed before walking over to him with a sly smirk, hips swaying enticingly. A chuckle leaves your lips when his eyes widen as you climb on his lap, your thighs bracketing his.

“Is this ok –” His lips are on yours before you can finish the question; the both of you move a bit more desperately now, though his touches are no less attentive as his hands skim over your waist and up your back.

Suddenly, you’re tugged away from Harwin’s lips with a little gasp as one of Daemon’s hands laces through the hair at the crown of your head, drawing you back until your spine is arched.

“Forgetting someone?” He teases, lightly wrapping his other hand around your neck in a way that sends pleasant tingles down to your already aching center. You shake your head no, teeth biting into your bottom lip as Harwin’s cock twitches between your legs.

“Never, my prince,” you murmur, smiling into the kiss as Daemon presses his lips against yours. His movements are more urgent than Harwin’s and it soon dissolves into a battle of teeth and tongues; you mewl into his mouth when the hand around your neck slides down your chest and palms eagerly at one of your breasts.

Though they’re closed, your eyes roll back as Harwin leans forward and begins mouthing at the side of your neck, his wavy hair tickling your shoulder. Soon enough, both men are pawing greedily at your chest, making your head spin – both of their touches are so different: where Daemon is rough, pinching at your nipple until you gasp and whine into his kiss, Harwin is gentle and uses his thumb to tease at the other until he feels you shivering on his lap.

The knight surprises you once more when his touch skirts down over your stomach before his fingers run through your folds, making you jerk from Daemon’s grasp with a moan. Your cheeks flush slightly at the sight of the little victorious grin on Harwin’s face as he expertly circles your pearl, watching closely at the way his touch makes you squirm and grind down against his hard length.

“That’s it,” he husks, grunting as your grasp tightens on his shoulders, nails digging into his lightly tanned skin, “Need to warm you up, don’t I?”

Beside you, Daemon scoffs as he stands straight once more, fingers still threaded through your hair. “Please,” he huffs, sliding closer to where you sit on the knight’s lap, until his length is practically brushing against your cheek, “Whores don’t need warming, Strong. You may as well take her.”

Before you have time to so much as register the jab, Harwin slips a thick finger inside you in the same instance that Daemon manhandles his cock into your waiting mouth, muffling your whimpers. Both men growl as they take you, the knight’s finger fucking easily into your wet channel as the prince’s length slides against your tongue once more.

You can hardly do more than ragdoll in their grasp, mewling while Harwin fingers you open, adding a second digit after a moment and crooking them in a way that makes your hips rut eagerly into his touch while Daemon takes from you as he pleases, fucking into your throat with loud growls and grunts.

Below you, Harwin groans as he easily presses a third finger into your heat, watching you carefully as he does and smirking when you show no signs of discomfort. “Think you’re ready for me,” he murmurs, chuckling when you nod your head as best as you can. As desperate as you are to be filled properly, you can’t help but let out a little petulant whine as he pulls his fingers from you.

“Patience,” he grunts, shifting you on his lap enough to reach between your bodies and fist his length, grinning at the way you squirm eagerly as he runs the head through your slick folds. His chest reverberates under your palms when he growls as he finally grabs at your hips and pulls you down steadily over his thick cock, half-lidded eyes staring down at where you both connect, “Fuck, there you go.”

You pull away from Daemon with a loud gasp, sucking in a lungful of air, chest heaving as your walls pulse around the knight, savoring the way his stretches you open. “Gods!” You cry, wriggling in his hold as you grind against him, your hips moving of their own accord.

Daemon huffs, annoyed, and tries dragging you back onto his cock a few times to no avail, quickly becoming irritated at the way you mindlessly clench your jaw closed each time Harwin’s cock presses against the sensitive spot within you.

“Poor little whore,” the prince sighs exasperatedly, once again tugging your head back until your eyes meet his, “Too distracted, hm?”

You open your lips to reply, only to gasp dazedly as Harwin thrusts up into you from below, muscular thighs flexing under your own. “Give her a moment,” he grunts, gripping your hips to guide you over his length.

The prince merely tsks, pulling at your hair again until your eyes pop open; a shiver goes through you at the smirk that graces his lips, as if he knows something you don’t. “Tell me,” he starts, carding his long fingers through your hair, “Have you ever taken two cocks at once?”

“N – fuck!” You gasp, eyes rolling back briefly as Harwin ruts up into you quickly, evidently excited by the idea, “N-No.”

“Hmm,” Daemon hums, smirk only widening, “Then I know just the way to get your attention.”

He moves away from you quickly, letting your head flop back uselessly as he walks swiftly to a small cabinet in the corner of the room where the Madam keeps a small stock of massage oils and lotions. You straighten just in time to watch as he stalks back over to you and Harwin, a vial of oil in hand. “I trust you have at least some experience with this, yes?” He questions, letting out a pleased hum when you nod.

The two men share a look between them and you mewl as Harwin lays back against the day bed, pulling you with him until you’re lying against his chest, making you gasp as the change in angle presses his length squarely against the most sensitive spot within you.

“Hold her steady,” Daemon murmurs behind you, uncorking the little bottle of oil.

The knight grunts when you tighten around him and one of his hands abandons its hold on your hip to cup one of your cheeks, his touch surprisingly delicate for a man of his stature. “Excited?” He questions, brown eyes studying your face carefully.

Any reply dies on your lips in lieu of an eager gasp when you feel the prince’s presence behind you, his hips nearly touching your rear as he slots himself between Harwin’s legs. Still, you nod your head earnestly, sending pearlescent hair cascading over your shoulders to pool on the knight’s chest.

Harwin’s chest rumbles with a satisfied hum, though you’re left gasping at the feel of one of Daemon’s hands deftly parting your arse cheeks, swiftly followed by massage oil being drizzled between them, filling the room with the scent of lavender. When you jolt slightly at the feel of a finger skirting over your entrance, the prince is quick to reprimand you with a sharp slap to the rear, leaving your skin tingling in its wake.

“You’re going to be good for us?” Harwin questions, drawing your attention back to him as he smooths a thumb over your cheekbone.

“Y-Yes, yes,” you nod listlessly, breaths staggered as Daemon fingers you open, expertly preparing you. Again, you earn a pleased hum from the man below you.

The next few moments pass in a blur – your head spins as the prince readies you and Harwin placates you all the while with gentle caresses and kisses, even snaking a hand between your bodies to rub at your aching pearl.

Finally, Daemon seems satisfied and pulls his fingers from you before slotting himself against you, quickly slicking up his cock with more of the oil before pressing the head against your opening, grinning smugly when you press back against him.

“Fuck, there we go,” he rasps, carefully sliding his length into you until his hips meet your backside.

A high, whining keen is pulled from your lungs at the stretch, tingles shooting up your spine and making you shudder at the feel of being this filled. You can do little more but gasp, pinned between two muscular bodies, as the men start to move. The feel of it is like none other, a constant push and pull as they thrust in and out of you in tandem.

“G-Gods, fuck!” You finally cry, managing to suck in a lungful of air as your nails dig into Harwin’s chest.

The knight beneath you isn’t faring much better than you are, a near constant stream of deep grunts and groans leaving his lips as he feels you tighten on his cock. “By the Seven, you feel divine,” he mumbles, making you cry out as he pulls you to him, strong hands encircling your waist as he mouths at your shoulder, biting at your skin.

Above you, Daemon’s violet eyes remain fixed on your ass, savoring the way it bounces each time his hips smack against it, watching as his length spears into you again and again. “What a good little whore,” he grunts, words short and clipped as he clenches his jaw. A stuttered moan is pulled from you as he grabs at your backside, fingers do doubt leaving bruises in their wake as he gropes you, “Taking us so well.”

Your muscles tense at the praise as your high threatens to overwhelm you, looming in a small pit in your belly that’s growing bigger and bigger with each passing second. Your walls tighten around Harwin again, making him hiss beneath you.

“Gonna, Gods, I –” you cry, eyes squeezing shut as the knight bullies the sensitive spot within you, pounding against it with each rough thrust, making your words die on your tongue.

Thankfully, Harwin understands perfectly, balancing on that thin precipice himself – the cacophonous litany of your moans and whines along with the lewd, wet sounds of their cocks plunging into you again and again only serving to push him further to his own end.

“That’s it,” the knight rasps, grabbing your chin with one hand and directing your attention toward him once more, “Go on, peak, let me feel it.”

His command, along with another hard smack to your rear from Daemon, send you hurtling over the edge with a sharp, loud cry. You lose all sense between them, muscles clenching and relaxing rhythmically as your whole body seems to erupt into flame.

The gorgeous look on your face, along with the steady pulse of your walls around him, finish Harwin as well. A deep groan, complementary to your own high-pitched whines, is all but punched from his chest as his length twitches within you, painting your walls with his spend.

As your peak slowly settles, like waves receding at low tide, you’re left gasping, clinging to Harwin as Daemon still thrusts wildly into you, chasing his own high. Desperate to feel you clench around him once more, the prince reaches around, over your hip, and his greedy fingers quickly find your bud.

“Oh!” You gasp, squirming in the knight’s grasp as the prince’s fingers roughly rub against your pearl, forcibly dragging you right back to the edge you’d just fallen from.

“Come on,” Daemon grunts, tugging you up by the shoulder until your back presses against his chest, deep, vicious grunts filling your ear, “One more, little whore, fucking do it for me.”

You scramble in his hold, lips parting in a silent cry as your muscles jerk in sharp, uncoordinated movements. Unable to extract yourself from his hold, the overstimulation finally gives way to blinding pleasure once more and you peak with a loud, piercing yelp.

Daemon grunts behind you, pleased, as your walls all but force a high from him as well. He thrusts into you a few more times, groaning at the feel of your slick coating his fingers and pooling between your bodies. Finally, he lets go, grumbling low words in a language you don’t understand as he fills you.

The only sounds in the near empty brothel is the sound of staggered pants as the three of you catch your breaths, content to do little more than lie in a heap for a few moments.

It’s Daemon that moves first, pulling himself from you with a muted grunt before swaggering over to a small vanity, pulling up and tying his trousers as he goes.

Harwin soothes you with gentle touches as he pulls away, keenly aware of the way you wince at certain movements, overly sensitive now. “Are you okay?” He asks, voice gentler now as he surveys your body, “Nothing hurts?”

You can’t help but chuckle at his concern, so unused to men caring for you once they finish. “I’m fine, I assure you,” your lips quirk into a smile as you soothe his worries, a little sigh leaving your lips as you settle back against the silken sheets that cover the daybed.

“Here,” Daemon grunts with indifference as he tosses a clean cloth at you, more than familiar with the layout of the place, “To clean yourself.”

You huff softly and roll your eyes playfully before grabbing the small towel and standing to wipe spend and extra oil from your skin, making a mental note to heat water for a proper bath as soon as the men leave.

It’s then that it occurs to you that they may not let you stay, what if even this wasn’t enough to secure your freedom, to get them to overlook your transgressions?

“So,” you start, discarding the cloth in a laundry basket by the vanity before turning and facing the men, surprised to find Harwin’s eyes already on you, “Forgive and forget, yes? The debt has been paid, etcetera?”

They share a look as they dress themselves, Daemon loosely pulling on his armor, opting to tuck most of it beneath an arm, though Harwin takes the time to fasten his properly.

“Oh, I think you’ve more than convinced us to spare you, little minx,” the prince drawls, eyes roving over your still nude form as he approaches you and takes your chin between two long fingers, “As for your debt, well…”

You grin as he trails off, two pairs of purple eyes sliding over to Harwin.

“There’s still the interest to consider,” he murmurs with a little chuckle, dark eyes sparkling with mirth.

thank you for taking the time to read! hope you enjoyed! :)

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starogeorgina · 2 months ago

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𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫

Pairing: Harwin Strong x reader x Rhaenyra Targaryen

Warnings: Praise kink, threesome, breeding kink, fingering, oral sex, swearing

“Why am I not surprised to find you like this?”

You look over your shoulder to see Harwin grinning at the sight before him; the bulge in his breeches was obvious.

“How long have you been watching?” The room was hidden deep within the castle walls; only you and your two lovers knew about it.

“Too long.”

Hearing a desperate moan, you return your attention to Rhaenyra, who was face down in the bed with her ass sticking upwards. You swipe the flat of your tongue over her dripping cunt, taking great pride in making her so wet.

Harwin comes up behind you and starts to massage your breasts through the fabric of your dress. He kisses your neck, “These are getting so large.”

“You are distracting me,” you giggle.

“Hmm, soon these will be filled with milk for the babe.”

In roughly seven moons, the new addition to your family would be safely in your arms, much to everyone involved delight. Both you and Rhaenyra found yourself in similar situations, both in need of heirs and with husbands who prefer the company of others, and Ser Harwin was the savior the both of you needed, not that he minded being kept a secret. The knight took great joy in seeing the both of you swell with his seed.

You slide two of your fingers into Rhaenyra’s cunt, making sure she was ready for Harwin’s cock. “You’re taking my fingers so well.”

“She always does,” using his free hand. Harwin brushes Rhaenyra’s hair out of her face. “Always such a well-behaved princess, I can’t wait to see the both of you pregnant with my child at the same time.”

“Do you think Ser Harwin would enjoy that Y/N?” Rhaenyra says. Her peak was approaching fast; she began rocking her hips back onto your fingers. “It would be our dirty little secret; nobody but us would know how good a job he has done by helping to create heirs for our houses.”

“I think Harwin would thrive off that,” you kiss the knight while feeling Rhaenyra come apart on your fingers.

“You’ve done such a good job making our princess reach her peak. Go sit in front of Rhaenyra so she can do the same while she takes my cock.”

Doing as Harwin says, you move to sit in front of Rhaenyra on the bed and pull your dress up to your waist, baring your glistening cunt for them both to see. After a few moments of reposting, Harwin sinks his cock deep into Rhaenyra while she pry’s your knees apart, gently spreading your folds and pushing her tongue into you.

“Even after being stretched out, your cunt is still so warm and tight,” Harwin says, praising her.

Rhaenyra got off on being praised more than you did; calling her a good girl was the quickest way to get her wet. You grip onto the sheets tightly. “You’re doing such a good job eating me out.”

Rhaenyra smirks up at you; she knew exactly how to fuck you. “Your taste is addictive.”

You could tell Harwin wasn’t going to last much longer; his cock was always throbbing after he watched you and Rhaenyra be intimate. You throw your head back and moan loudly when Rhaenyra slides her fingers into you and begins to suck on your clit.

The room is filled with the sounds of skin slapping together, moans, and panting.

You take a tight hold of Rhaenyra’s long white hair, keeping her in place as you cum on her fingers and mouth. “Oh fuck, fuck! You've done so good, such a good girl.”

She keeps her mouth on you and flicks her tongue over your sensitive clit as Harwin thrusts a few more times then comes inside her.

“Gods, the two of you will be the death of me.”

Harwin's seed was strong, and you had no doubt Rhaenyra would be pregnant soon, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep trying.

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painted-flag · 5 months ago

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Between the Pages - A HOTD x Fairytale Series.

✧.* A series of classic fairytales rewritten with the characters of House of the Dragon.

✧.* note: this series will act as parts in separate universes. characters from the show may appear in multiple parts, but play different roles. each fairytale will not be exactly as they have been told, as i do prefer to take more creative liberty. with that said, i do try and preserve the elements that make them classics in the first place, minus any misogynistic/bigoted values (i'm looking at you Disney's Peter Pan, my enemy #1).

✧.* an x reader series, but with limited/no use of Y/N.

Snow White - Jacaerys Velaryon

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ Snow White and the Seven Bandits.

Little Red Riding Hood - Cregan Stark

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ Part 1/2. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ Part 2/2.

Beauty and the Beast - Aemond Targaryen

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ Part One. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ Part Two: TBA .𖥔 ݁ ˖ Part Three: TBA

Sleeping Beauty - Daemon Targaryen

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ release date TBA

Peter Pan - Benjicot/Davos Blackwood

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ release date TBA

Cinderella - Aegon Targaryen

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ release date TBA

The Little Mermaid - Lucerys Velaryon

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ release date TBA

Rapunzel/Tangled - Harwin Strong

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ release date TBA

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witchofhimring · 1 year ago

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Being the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen

Rhaenyra Targaryen x daughter reader (platonic)

Reader can either be read as the child of Laenor, Daemon, Criston Harwin or other

-As her only daughter you are especially cherished. The moment they place you on her chest she instantly, unconditionally loves you. While she does not have favorites, you are cherished.

It was with one last agonizing push that Rhaenyras only daughter came screaming into the world. "A daughter, your Grace!" With trembling arms Rhaenyra took her daughter from the midwife. Y/n Velarion's e/c eyes opened and Rhaenyra instantly fell in love. Secretly, she had always harbored hopes of having a girl. She knew the realm prayed for a son, but deep inside Rhaenyra yearned for a girl. A daughter to love and cherish and protect her from all that she herself had suffered.

-You are absolutely doted on my your mother. She makes sure you have the best of everything. She loves to order sweets brought from all over and give them to you in elaborately decorated boxes. She has you all decked out in red and black clothing. Rhaenyra likes to do your hair and make elaborate hairdos. Whether for a special occasion or any normal day she takes great pleasure in showing off how pretty you are!

Y/n squealed in delight as Rhaenyra pulled out a box. Knowing that it held some kind of delight behind its wooden covering you wasted no time in hastily opening it. Tiny hands seized the sugar covered fruits from Dorne. The mother giggled as with great enthusiasm Y/n chomped away at them. "Remember to share them with your brothers!" Rhaenyra called out to her daughters. "Gods I love her." Rhaenyra thought.

-Because of the political situation you are heavily guarded. Your friends/ladies in waiting are carefully picked amongst Rhaenyra's closest allies. From the time you are old enough to walk she hires a personal guard to follow wherever you go. This is especially true if Otto, Alicent or Criston Cole are near. Unlike with her sons I don't see Rhaenyra letting you near your uncles. Partly because it would be seen as inappropriate but also for safety sakes.

-Princess Rhaenyra, Princess of Dragonstone, eldest child of Viserys and heir to the throne, ran in great haste down the hall. She payed no heed to the sudden stairs of people. Most of the time she would care, but not now. Not when she noticed her brother Aemond speaking with her baby girl under the Weirwood tree. She did not know his intentions and frankly, did not care. None of Otto Hightowers grandchildren would be in any position to harm her daughter. "Y/n." Rhaenyra hurried down the path to see two children quite peacefully reading a book. Aemond was the first to look up and scowled. Rhaenyra didn't like it. Even something as innocent as this could insight trouble. Gods know Otto might even consider marrying the two if he could get away with it. A perfect way to tether the Princess of Westeros to himself forever. She would never let that happen.

-Obviously you will have a dragon from day one, if there isn't an egg already placed in the cradle. She will likely want you to have a new one rather than an older one. This is mainly because she worries an older one might be too aggressive and large for tiny you to manage. Of course she will take you for flight on Syrax, high in the sky. She uses these times to bond, even going on short daytrips for fun.

If she gives you an egg:

Rhaenyra cradles the large opaque egg in her hands. It was a good size, this dragon would be healthy. It was placed right beside the infant who was roused to the waking world. Her large e/c eyes focused on the egg with such intensity that Rhaenyra could hardly believe it. Her fingers brushed against the thin hairs that had just started to sprout up. Her little Targaryen.

If you claim your own dragon:

She would have preferred Dreamfyre. That dragon was so gentle and lovely, a perfect fir for her gentle daughter. Not fucking Tessarion. Anxiously Rhaenyra waited as Y/n advanced forward. The dragon keepers were on standby. But if Tessarion became volatile then......... The great dragon moved its head. The Valyrian coming out of Y/n's trembling mouth would barely be heard over the beasts rumbling. Horrified, Rhaenyra moved to intercede. But suddenly the dragon lowered its head and Y/n's hand placed itself on its snout. "Look mom! I'm a dragonrider!"

Riding a dragon with her daughter:

At five years old Y/n mounted a dragon for the first of many times. Rhaenyra had been hesitant. Normally Targaryen's took their children on a flight during babyhood. But in her anxiety Rhaenyra waited until her daughter was slightly older. She had a small harness made for the baby and herself. Part of Rhaenyra didn't want to stay on the ground, but Y/n was a Targaryen, a Valyrian ancestry going back thousands of years. The dragons wings expanded and in a great bounding leap Syrax was in the air. Y/n's small form was shaking and Rhaenyra wrapped an arm around her. They stabilized once above the clouds. Y/n finally had calmed down. Soon, she was giggling and enjoying the height. Rhaenyra smiled.

-When it comes to betrothals Rhaenyra will wait until you are grown before any of that comes to fruition. Like her father she will let you chose. That is, up until the events of episode 7 where Vaemond makes his bid for Driftmark. Even though she will not be aggressive about it, your attention will be directed to Cregan Stark. Of course you will get the talk, and what to expect during pregnancy/childbirth. Your also likely to get a new wardrobe. This is even more expected if where your moving to (think Winterfell and Dorne) has a drastic change in weather compared to Kingslanding/Driftmark. If you do end up married then she will make frequent visits to where you live.

Everyone bellow was mingling during the Red Keeps most recent party. Everyone except for Rhaenyra and Y/n. Mother and daughter observed the happenings bellow, talking in low voices. "Have you met anyone who appeals from you?" Rhaenyra closely watched her daughters expression. Y/n's eyes skimmed the handful of eligible bachelors that a Princess of the realm could take. "Hmmmm. Uncle Aemond is looking rather appealing these days." Y/n jested. Rhaenyra snorted. None of Otto's grandchildren would ever taken her daughter to wife. Only last week Alicent had requested a possible betrothal between their two children. As far as Rhaenyra was concerned, that would only happen over her dead body. "Who is that?" Rhaenyra's eyes lit up. Now this was a much better match. "That is Cregan Stark."

Extra

What is your fathers relationship with you (excluding non cannon father)

Harwin Strong:

Like with his sons he is very close with you. Your his only daughter and so he is very protective. He will hold you as a baby and try to be there for everything. First words, steps and your progression into adulthood. He likes to carry you on his back during his time off. Even though you are a girl you will likely be taught to fight if you so chose. Although that will be in secret. I think that as the daughter of Rhaenyra and Harwin you will feel like you all are a great big family.

Leanor Velarion:

Your his only biological child. Because of this the family dynamic will change, with Laenor being far more involved with his family.1* Rhaenyra and Rhaenys will push hard for him to be a good father, the best he can be. Its a rocky start. But he gets better and does his best. Your time together is usually one on one with Laenor. Stuff like taking you on dragonrides and going to Driftmark.

Criston Cole:

This one is a doozy because he can't be sure until you are older that your his (given that Rhaenyra's likely got involved with Harwin shortly after marriage). But once he finds out....wow. Because as much as he loathes Rhaenyra he can't bring himself to hate the daughter. He will, very subtly, try to ingratiate himself to you. This will be sneaky and behind Rhaenyra's back. Of course Alicent will get wind of this making Otto aware. He will absolutely try to use this to his advantage. This of course puts Criston in a very difficult position.

Daemon Targaryen:

This pregnancy takes place shortly before the marriage to Laenor, meaning Rhaenyra was pregnant although very early on. I have a feeling Daemon might not even know the baby is his, thinking it is Harwin Strong's. So he as nothing to do with you until the funeral of his second wife. It was there that Rhaenyra reveals he has another daughter. The reason he was not informed earlier is because she was worried someone might get ahold of the note and Daemon was in Pentos all this time. This revelation will be surprised. When your parents marry he will take an interest in your education. You are expected to be an example of pure Valyrian, perfecting Valyrian and being a dragon writer. The two of you will sometimes read together and he likes to tell stories of his adventures.

Note: I'm gonna make one for Alicent and maybe Aemond. If you guys want me to make any more of these then please feel free to requested☺

#rhaenyra targaryen #house of the dragon imagine #rhaenyra x reader #rhaenyra targaryen x reader #rhaenyra x daemon #rhaenyra x harwin #rhaenyra x criston #laenor velaryon #daemon targaryen #criston cole #harwin strong #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd imagine #house of the dragon x reader #hotd x reader

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wholoveseggs · 2 months ago

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Kinktober - {Day Twenty-Five}

{<- kinktober masterlist}

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List} {Kinktober}

{Harwin Strong x whore!Reader} Request {Anon}: Kinktober request for Ser Harwin Strong, spanking please🤭🍑

♡♡♡ Yessssss anon!! I wish we had more Harwin onscreen!! Rhaenyra has TASTE ..♡♡♡

2k words - Kinks: public sex & lots of spanking ...

When a tourney was held in the city, it always led to a celebration that made the streets buzz with excitement. The taverns were packed, the ale flowed endlessly, and every brothel knew they would have a busy night. Tonight was no different, knights with heavy coin purses, drunk on victory and violence, were spilling into the streets.

Inside the brothel, the Madame clapped her hands, calling for your attention. “Alright, ladies, look alive. The winner will be flush with coin, but don’t turn down the others. They’ll want to celebrate too, so make sure you see two, three, or more.”

You nodded along with the other girls, glancing at the mirror one last time. You tightened your corset, adjusted the cut of your bodice, and arranged your hair in a way that made your eyes look bigger and more innocent than they were. Satisfaction tugged at your lips as you appraised your reflection.

Out in the large tent where the celebration was in full swing, knights were already filling every corner with their bragging, laughing, and loud toasts. The air was thick with the scent of ale, sweat, and fire-roasted meat. Music and chatter hummed in the background as you made your way through, easily falling into your rhythm, sidling up to men who sought the company of a woman. You let their hands wander as you settled on their laps, whispered encouragements and playful words, and soon your pockets grew heavy with coins.

The loudest cheer of the night came when the champion himself entered the tent. Harwin Strong. He was hard to miss, a massive man with broad shoulders, a strong jaw, and a presence that made everyone else seem smaller. He was wearing the cloak of his house, and as he moved closer, you could see the sigil embroidered into the fabric.

He settled at a table surrounded by fellow knights, their boasting continuing while Harwin mostly listened, sipping from a goblet of wine, his face relaxed and faintly amused. Something about his quiet confidence drew you in. Without thinking, your feet carried you toward him.

You curtsied when you approached, hoping to be noticed. A few of his companions turned to you first.

“Well, look what the gods have blessed us with,” one of them smirked, raising his mug. “A beauty for our champion, eh?”

Harwin glanced up at you, his eyes taking in your form with interest but no rush. “You want a drink, love?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that sent a spark of warmth down your spine.

You accepted the goblet he offered and smiled. “Thank you, ser.”

“Go on, sit with him,” another knight said with a chuckle, sliding a coin across the table. “Our champion deserves the best company tonight.”

Harwin leaned back in his chair, a faint smile on his lips as he watched you. The invitation was clear, so you settled on his lap, immediately aware of his strength as his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. The firmness of his thigh beneath you, the warmth of his body, it was impossible not to lean into it

“You fought well, ser,” you said, your fingers trailing along his arm, feeling the muscles under his tunic. “A well-earned victory.”

He smiled at that, the weight of his gaze resting on you. “I appreciate it,” he said, his voice low, vibrating through you as his hand tightened slightly around your waist.

"Bet she’d like to see you wield that sword of yours again, eh?" one of the knights teased with a bawdy laugh.

"Leave her be," Harwin said, though there was no malice in his voice. His fingers brushed absentmindedly along the edge of your skirts, grazing the bare skin of your thigh.

“You’re a proper gentleman,” you said with a teasing smile, letting your legs part just enough for his hand to slip higher if he wanted. He didn't move, instead watching you with a slight quirk of his lips.

He was patient and gentle, even while you tried your best to spur him on, and the longer he waited, the more your frustration grew.

The men around you continued their rowdy conversations, boasting about their feats in the tourney, their drunken voices filling the air. Harwin, however, remained focused on you. His fingers finally ventured further under your skirt, stroking your skin in slow, lazy circles. The touch was light, too light, but the promise of it made your heart race.

You shifted against him, letting him know that you welcomed his touch, but still, he took his time, his gaze never wavering.

The longer the evening went, the more you found yourself forgetting the crowd around you. Harwin’s touch was both gentle and firm, driving you to distraction as he slowly teased you under the table, never fully giving you what you wanted.

By now, the other girls had already begun to entertain their marks more openly. The tent was filled with soft gasps and moans, the sound of bodies moving together in dimly lit corners. But Harwin seemed in no rush.

His thumb finally pressed against your wet center, stroking gently while his fingers slipped inside you. Your breath caught, but the only reaction you received was a smile. He was watching you intently, studying your expression as he began to pump his fingers inside you.

You bit back a moan, gripping his tunic, your body begging for more.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "You’re quite the pretty thing, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice thick with lust as his fingers pushed deeper. "How much for a night with you?"

You swallowed a gasp "Three gold coins,"

"That's a steep price, love."

You leaned into his touch, letting your breath caress his ear. "A champion could afford me, don't you think?"

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a thrill of anticipation through you. "Is that so?" he mused, his fingers curling inside you. You bit back a moan, trying to keep yourself from moving against him, from begging him to take you here and now.

"I suppose a champion could afford to be a bit greedy." He nipped at your ear, his beard scraping your skin.

"Then take me to bed, ser," you murmured, pressing a soft kiss against his throat.

"And what about a bit rough?" he asked, his thumb pressing down on your sensitive nub. "Would you be alright with that, little dove?"

You whimpered, your hips rocking against his hand. "Please,"

He smirked, pulling away and withdrawing his fingers. The absence of his touch left you cold and wanting, but before you could complain, he rose from his seat, wrapping his cloak around your shoulders.

You could feel the jealous looks of the other women as you passed by, their envy a tangible thing. It had you grinning, knowing you were about to have a champion all to yourself.

"So, do I get to see the sword that won the day, ser?" you teased, trailing your fingers over the bulge in his trousers.

"Is that why you chose me, love?" he chuckled, his grip tightening on your waist. "You like watching men fight?"

"I like seeing men win," you replied, leaning into him. "And I like a man who can win a battle, a tournament, and a woman's heart."

He laughed, a low, warm sound that sent a tingle of pleasure down your spine.

You could barely close the door behind you when Harwin suddenly spun you around, pinning you to the wall. His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you effortlessly and pressing his hardness against your center. The feel of him, thick and hot, made your mouth water.

He claimed your lips in a searing kiss, his hands squeezing your ass and pulling you closer. His mouth was demanding, his tongue dominating yours, and all you could do was cling to him and surrender.

"That's it, love," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "I'm going to take what I want, and you're going to give it to me, aren't you?"

"Yes," you moaned, arching against him, desperate for more.

"Good girl," he murmured, his mouth trailing along your jaw, nipping at the tender skin of your throat. "Such a good little whore."

He pulled away from you and pushed the cloak off your shoulders, letting it pool on the floor.

"Take off the dress, love," he ordered, his gaze heavy with lust.

You did as he commanded, letting the gown fall to the floor, exposing yourself completely. You felt his gaze rake over your body, drinking in every inch of bare skin.

He quickly tugged off his own clothes, tossing them aside, leaving his strong, muscular body bare to your eyes. Your gaze traveled over the expanse of his chest, taking in the scars, the hard planes of his stomach, the thick shaft of his cock, and the way it twitched under your scrutiny.

He stepped closer, his hands gripping your hips, spinning you around and bending you over the edge of the bed. You felt the hard line of his cock press against your ass, and you couldn't stop the whimper that escaped your lips.

"You like that, love?" he rasped, his hands running over your curves, squeezing and groping, sending jolts of pleasure through your body. "You like it when a man takes what he wants?"

"A man like you? Yes," you moaned, rocking your hips against him.

He chuckled, and his hand came down hard on your ass. You gasped, the sting of his palm sharp but strangely satisfying.

"That's it, pretty thing," he growled, his hand coming down again, and again, spanking you with a steady rhythm that had your core aching. "Let me hear you sing."

Your fingers curled into the sheets, your breath coming in short, ragged pants. Each smack of his hand sent a wave of pleasure through you, your skin heated and sore, but still, you craved more.

You cried out, arching your back and pressing against him, silently begging for more.

He obliged, his hand coming down harder, the slap echoing in the room, and then he stopped, his calloused palms caressing your sore flesh, soothing the ache.

You could feel his cock, hard and hot, pressed against your ass, and a moan fell from your lips as he pushed into you. The stretch was exquisite, filling you to the brim, and the delicious burn made your head spin.

He let out a groan as he began to move, slow and deliberate. His hands gripping your hips and pulling you back into his thrusts.

You moaned, gripping the sheets, your body aching for more. "Please," you begged, pushing back against him, needing him deeper, harder.

The room was filled with the sounds of your cries, his grunts, and the slap of skin on skin. His hands were rough and demanding, his cock thick and hard, and you surrendered yourself to the pleasure, your body shaking with need.

Your fingers twisted into the sheets, your breath coming in short, sharp pants as he continued to thrust into you, each push bringing you closer to the edge.

You were so close, and all it took was one last rough smack, the sting of his palm causing you to shatter, crying out as the pleasure swept through you.

Harwin followed right after, pulling out just in time to spill himself across your back, his breath ragged. You collapsed onto the bed, your skin flushed and tingling from the mix of pleasure and pain.

After a moment, he leaned over, wiping his release off your back with a rag. His touch was surprisingly gentle now, a contrast to the rawness of the encounter.

"That was lovely, my lady," he said, pressing a kiss against the small of your back. "Are you alright?"

You turned, propping yourself up on your elbows, giving him a lazy smile. "Quite,"

"Good." He grinned, his eyes trailing over your form. "I shall fetch us some wine, and then we can continue our celebrations, if that suits you."

You laughed, nodding. "It certainly does."

"How much for you to stay all night?" he asked, reaching for his coin purse.

"No charge, my lord," you purred, leaning into his touch. "After all, you're the champion tonight."

He smiled, his gaze darkening with lust. "Indeed, I am.”

{<- kinktober masterlist}

#kinktober #kinktober 2024 #lissaskinktober24 #harwin strong #harwin strong smut #harwin strong x reader #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon fic #house of the dragon smut #house of the dragon x reader #hotd #hotd fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #hotd x reader #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf

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theforgottenmcrmy · 6 months ago

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Second Sons (Ser Harwin Strong x Reader)

᯽ Please note that this is an overall Part 25 to the series Growing Strong. The masterlist, and part 1, can be found HERE ᯽

Pairing: Ser Harwin Strong x Tyrell! Female Reader

Warnings: GOT typical sexism, canon divergence, a couple curses, canon typical violence, canonical character death, a couple people rip off Olenna Tyrell's lines because she's an icon

Summary:

A short flight, and he would return to his mother. To his siblings, except for Jace, who was hopefully safe and probably still in the Vale. To his cousins, and his betrothed. To his friends. And to the man who had offered him more fatherly guidance than probably any other had in his life, regardless of the personal cost to himself.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoy reading this one as much as I did writing it. I have one more tentative part planned to connect the events of s1 to s2, but depending on how episode 1 on Sunday plays out, I may tie it into the plot of that episode. I'm not sure yet if I'll keep writing this story into s2 while its airing, or wait until after it's out. But if I do end up waiting until it's out in its entirety, I can almost guarantee I'll at least have one shots or related hand canons posted since those are fairly easier to whip up.

Prince Daemon Targaryen was well on his way to speak with the dragonkeepers to ensure Caraxes was adequately prepared for a flight to Riverlands.

The queen had yet to grant him her permission to depart Dragonstone- as Maester Gerardys had so kindly informed him the day prior - but her lack of approval would not change the inevitable. The Riverlands were essential territory to the war that was all but upon them, and Prince Daemon was of the belief that the arrival of a dragon upon his doorstep would be most efficient in swaying Lord Grover Tully to remember his oath.

The same notion had sent the eldest Velaryon princes, Crown Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys, to the Eerie, then the North, and to Storms End respectively. The princes, and their dragons, had left Dragonstone the evening prior. As Daemon strode through the halls of his family’s ancestral keep, shadows from the rising sun filtered in from windows throughout. It was near midday, and not a word had been received yet from either prince.

Fortunately, not enough time had passed for such a fact to become a concern, even for Rhaenyra. Jacaerys, if he’d been wise, would have flown on Vermax to Claw Isle, where the loyal Lord Bartimos Celtigar’s household would have offered him shelter for the evening, before braving the rest of the flight to the Eerie the next day. Any raven he might have sent the evening prior would not have been received so soon. The same could be said for Lucerys, who had most likely been taken in by Lord Borros Baratheon and treated to a feast that would have lasted well into the night.

Prince Daemon - or was he Prince Consort now? - did not know exactly what compelled him to travel through Dragonstone’s training yard on his way to speak with the dragonkeepers. Perhaps it was the dreadful reminder in the back of his mind that once his business was finished with them, he was expected to return to the Chamber of the Painted Table, to the grueling politics that did not cease despite the Velaryon princes’ departure.

But what Prince Consort Daemon Targaryen did know was that Dark Sister hung heavy at his side with every step he took. The blade sang to him, even now, calling for the spilling of blood. Green blood. It had been quite some time since Daemon felt drawn to the alluring chaos and thrill of battle. The past few years on Dragonstone had been some of the most peaceful years of his life. Perhaps he might have grown content with such tranquility, given his rather tumultuous youth. But all thoughts of that had been swiftly set aside upon the slaying of his brother - most likely by the efforts of that scheming Hightower bitch of a queen - and the loss of another daughter.

The precious life lost was the first casualty of the Green’s treason, and was not likely to be the last. But for their Visenya, for Viserys, Prince Daemon would see all of the Hightowers to a just end. And, if said ends occurred between Caraxes’ maw, or by the sweep of Dark Sister, all the better.

Given the time of day, Prince Daemon had not expected the Dragonstone’s training yard to be occupied. If he had, he might have chosen another route to achieve his means. But as he entered the cavernous room, the familiar sound of a blade meeting a stiff bag of hay filled his ears. The usual guards, a pair each, posted by the entrances on either side of the room watched in silence as a lone figure sparred with a training dummy in the middle of the yard.

The young Lord Selwin Tyrell-Strong wielded not a wooden practice sword, but a real one. Each slice that tore through the air resulted in straw leaking from the dummy and drifting slowly to the floor.

Prince Daemon knew he ought to have ignored the boy and continued on his way, but something gave him pause. He watched with scrutiny as the young lord, who was so focused he had yet to become aware of the prince’s arrival, went through his motions. The confident, smooth movements, a varying but ultimately repeating set of strikes and blocking imaginary blows, were clearly more muscle memory than any conscious thought. The preciseness of the strikes, despite the target being stationary, were decently placed and well informed, the lordling having aimed for weak spots that would exist in an opponent's armor, and, of course, the heart. It was apparent that Lord Strong and whatever various masters at arms had instructed the boy thoroughly.

Though there was still room for improvement, even Prince Daemon was forced to admit the boy held decent promise, particularly for his age. Perhaps the bold show at dinner two nights past was not merely an isolated spectacle at all, but rather an indication of something more.

But Prince Daemon was wise enough not to always speak the thoughts that came to his mind. He had no duty to compliment the boy’s form, and certainly no desire to inflate a young lord’s ego.

So instead, Prince Daemon called out, “You seem to be in the wrong place, My Lord.”

With a small jump, Selwin halted his movements at once. To his credit, his grip on the blade remained firm as he slowly brought it down to his side. “My Prince?”

Daemon walked towards him slowly. His gaze was appraising as the young lord turned to him as he approached.

“I am told many of our guests are in the Chamber of the Painted Table, undoubtedly eager to take advantage of every moment they can obtain with our new queen,” Daemon explained simply.

Selwin took a steadying breath, visibly regaining composure from the exercise. “I shall leave them to it, then.”

Daemon’s brows raised. “You are not one for politics?”

“If I need to be,” the boy answered carefully, his focus flitting back to the training dummy.

“But it is not what compels you to rise for the day.”

It was not a question, but still, Selwin answered.

“That has always been my mother’s area of expertise. And my brother Derrik is a far better student of hers in that subject than I could ever hope to be.”

Daemon did not fail to notice how Harwin Strong went unmentioned. The Lord of Harrenhal might have been born to inherit it, but Daemon knew Harwin had little desire for ruling and even less patience for courtly designs. Harwin Strong was Lord of Harrenhal solely because his honor and sense of duty bound him to be. Daemon Targaryen enjoyed the luxuries his title and residence at court had brought him, but even he could not deny that, at some level, he and Lord Harwin Strong were cut of the same cloth. They were men both far more at ease in the training yard, if not the battlefield, then in a ballroom gallivanting about solely for society’s amusement.

And as Prince Daemon sized up the Lord of Harrenhal’s youngest son before him, he surmised that perhaps the apple had not fallen far from the tree.

“Ah yes, Derrik Strong- your late uncle’s namesake.” However, Daemon had spoken his truth at the dinner two evenings past: it truly was younger, not the older, of the Tyrell-Strong boys that resembled their late uncle, Ser Derron Tyrell. Unable to refuse the urge, Daemon gently goaded, “Our queen, on the word of your mother Lady Tyrell, I am sure, has told me he is quite intelligent for his age.”

Selwin said nothing.

“It must be heard, living in his shadow,” Prince Daemon prodded.

Lifting his sword, as though to inspect the blade, Selwin refused to take the bait. “I do not believe that I do. We are merely… different. We possess different strengths. He is more knowledgeable about court and politics, and I am more comfortable here, training.”

“But it is said that you are to inherit either Higharden or Harrenhal someday- and your brother is to inherit the other. You will rule somewhere, someday.” They might not have been the Iron Throne, but neither of the boy’s potential inheritances were anything to scoff at.

“Then I shall. It is my duty, and I will endure it, as my father does.”

Daemon did not doubt that. The Strong sense of stubbornness runs true. “And what if your brother challenges your succession?” he posed then. “He could, as you well know. Regardless of what Lady Tyrell and Lord Strong have decided, he is the eldest. When your mother and father are gone, by all laws of the land, he could pursue both seats of power, and the realm at large would not find fault in him for doing so.”

“I do not believe Derrik would go against our parents wishes,” the young lord asserted calmly. He lowered his blade once more, and fully turned to the prince. As Selwin met the Rogue Prince’s critical eye, his jaw tightened. “But even so, if that is what my brother desires, I would not stand in his way.”

“You would truly stand aside?”

“He is my brother, Your Highness. I would sooner fall on my own sword than willingly spill his blood.”

“You care for him.”

Selwin repeated, “He is my brother, Your Highness.”

They were seemingly at an impasse in the conversation, and yet, Prince Daemon felt surprisingly satisfied with the boy’s response. A few moments of silence passed between them, the Rogue Prince looking upon the youngest Tyrell-Strpng boy thoughtfully.

Eventually, Prince Daemon recalled what he had originally set out to do. The dragonkeepers would start to wonder where he was, even if they didn’t dare to ask after him.

So Daemon conceded, “Very well then, My Lord. I shall leave you to your practice now.”

Selwin bowed his head, but said nothing in response to his departure.

Prince Daemon turned to continue on his way, but hesitated. Quietly, so as not to be overheard by the guards dutifully keeping watch, he advised, “Mind your stature while blocking. Your left flank is a bit too exposed- you might stave off your opponent's blade, but anyone with merely half their wits about them will take advantage of it and deal you a nasty blow to the ribs.”

Selwin nodded appreciatively.

Prince Daemon finally did as he had announced, and continued across the yard. Not bothering to turn his head entirely, he called back to the young lord some final parting advice.

“Do keep practicing though, Lordling. One never knows when they may be called upon to lift a sword for their queen."

Lord Larys Strong, recently reaffirmed Master of Whisperers to King Aegon, Second of His Name, unrolled his most recently received correspondence with care.

Faint screaming echoed off the stone halls and walls surrounding him. Such was the consequence of having his office in dungeons of the Red Keep. All prisoners who ended up on this particular floor, the one just below the Black Cells, never rose above it again, but Larys was able to come and go as he pleased. And he would be lying if he denied that he derived a bit of pleasure from the fact.

Of course, he had his living quarters elsewhere, in a more socially acceptable part of the Red Keep. But for his official workspace, he had chosen this.

The King - both Viserys, and then Aegon, thought Larys’s choice of office, which was little more than a rooted out cell with a desk and chair, was rather peculiar. But Larys had been quick to remind each of them that such a location was extremely practical for his profession. And the convenience of being so close to those he was entrusted with wringing out information from, no matter the cost, could not be overstated when considering his physical limitations.

Larys scanned the letter briefly. It was from Harrenhal. Ser Simon Strong was more than happy to heed Larys’s request to provide him information from within the keep’s walls, and to relay information Larys provided to him back to others in return. Slowly, but surely, doubt was being sewed into Harrenhal’s soil. Doubts of its lord, who had been physically absent for years, and doubts of the credibility of the Targaryen princess who the Lord of Harrenhal would undoubtedly support in the upcoming war of succession.

Not too much longer now, and his brother’s steward, Lord Dannis Chambers, might have a mutiny on his hands.

Just as Larys had intended.

Larys smiled to himself as he retrieved some parchment and a fresh quill from the desk drawer. As he penned his response to his uncle’s letter, the candle’s throughout the room flickered.

He could not afford another failure. Not now, with the Hand of the King watching and scrutinizing his every move.

To say that Lord Otto Hightower had been more than displeased with Larys after Lady Tyrell had failed to be eliminated from the political landscape would be a severe understatement. Not only had Lady Tyrell reunited with Larys’s insufferable brother, her husband Harwin, but the pair had already reached Dragonstone with their children. And from Dragonstone, they had begun to communicate with Harrenhal, Highgarden, and other reliable allies, Larys assumed, to begin coordinating aid for Rhaenyra’s cause.

But now that the cow had been milked, there was no squirting the cream back up its udders. And all Larys could do, and what he had been moderately successful in doing thus far, was mitigating the situation he had found himself in. Controlling what he could control.

That was not a new mantra to him, having been born a crippled second son. He owed the life he currently enjoyed entirely to his particular talent of making the most of what he was given, and using it to his advantage.

Larys faintly heard himself idly humming along as he finished his letter, rolled it up, and sealed it. He set it aside to be sent out by raven the next morning. Then, he reached into the desk drawer and withdrew another piece of parchment.

There were so many relations Larys had to tend to these days. But tend to, he would. The Dowager Queen, the Hand, the new King... It did not matter that Larys was not truly loyal to any one of them, so long as they each believed him to be.

Their belief in him directly correlated to more power. More power meant more control. And what had Larys always exceeded at?

Controlling what he could control.

Sewing seeds of doubt. Cultivating the crops of chaos.

And watching as the realm in the name of Hightower Greens, in the name of the Targaryen Blacks, in the name of whoever found themselves in power- burned.

The humming continued as Larys penned his next correspondence.

To My Dear Cousin, Alys…

“Tell me, Your Highness, what exactly does Vhagar eat?”

Prince Aemond Targaryen credited the countless etiquette lessons his mother subjected him to throughout his youth for his strength in resisting snapping back a sarcastic response.

This one- was it Ella? Elle? …Either way, she was polite with her questioning at least. Shy, almost.

“Whatever she likes,” Aemond replied, giving her a small smile that made the poor girl flush as red as the tomato on her plate. Ellyn, that was her name. “She still enjoys hunting for her own food, on occasion. However, most of the time, I ensure she is provided with only the most exquisite quality of pork and beef.”

For almost three full days, Aemond had been hosted at Storm’s End. He’d allowed himself to be swooned over by the majority of Lord Borros Baratheon’s daughters, all while assuring the Lord of Storm’s End of the heaping rewards he was to receive should he pledge himself to Aegon’s cause. Privately, Aemond was a bit cross at having such a large part of his future- his godsdamned wife- decided for him, but when his mother put the proposal before the small council, he knew he could not, would not, voice his disapproval.

For Aemond was nothing if not a dutiful son. His mother’s lack of empathy for his position, the infuriating care she still held for Rhaenyra, and her insulting unwavering loyalty to his oaf of an older brother aside.

For his mother, Aemond would give up his own choice of a wife. And though he knew in his heart that he deserved nothing less than a true Targaryen for a bride, being a true Targaryen himself, he would settle for a Baratheon girl. For his mother, Aemond would play envoy, remain polite, mind his tongue, and secure Baratheon’s allegiance. For his mother, Aemond might have been willing to give up all semblance of himself, if only to save her and their family.

“Hm,” another of Lord Borros’s daughters, Maris, chimed in, and most unwelcomed at that. “It would seem the dragons eat better than some of the small folk these days.”

Aemond only remembered her name due to the alarmingly large number of times the young woman had managed to vex him thus far.

He bit his tongue. Again. “A sad reality King Aegon wishes to rectify, My Lady.”

Maris’s attention fell back down to her plate. But under her breath, she muttered, “Doubtful.”

Another sister- whose name also escaped Aemond, but he knew her to be the eldest- gave Maris a stern look from across the table. “Maris!” she reprimanded in a hushed voice.

Maris did not look apologetic in the slightest. Instead, she looked rather determined. It was a small wonder where her stubbornness came from, given her sire. “What? ‘Tis true. You know the small folk are always the ones who suffer the greatest when the realm goes to war. Nobility may suffer financial losses, or political standing. But it won’t be us out there, going hungry. Spilling our own blood in the name of others.”

“I will not assume that you plan to grace any battlefield with your presence, My Lady,” Aemond replied, his tone clipped. “But you may rest assured that should my half-sister refuse to acknowledge Aegon as our king, I will meet any army she may gather head on.”

Maris’s eyes hardened. “The odds would be in your favor though, wouldn’t they? Why, what is a thousand men versus the likes of Vhagar?”

“Maris, please,” Ellyn begged her. To Aemond, she inquired sweetly, “All of this talk is futile, is it not, My Prince? Surely there will be no war. Princess Rhaenyra will see reason.”

“We can only hope,” Aemond said placatingly.

Perhaps his half-sister would see reason. But Aemond doubted Rhaenyra to come to terms with her situation whilst Daemon was beside her, filling her head with incendiary thoughts. Even if Rhaenyra yielded to Aegon, Daemon would need to be dealt with.

It was a good thing Aemond was more than up to the task.

“I do hope you are engaging in appropriate topics of conversation with His Highness,” Lord Borros said from the opposite end of the table.

His lordship had been distant, seldom engaging in conversation throughout Aemond’s stay. Nay, it was mostly his daughters and wife that had attempted to get within his good graces. Not to say that Lord Borros had been rude in a sense- but he had not been very welcoming, either. But that was just as well with Aemond; he was not in Storm’s End to make new friendships. He was simply to sway Lord Borros to support Aegon, and to ensure his continued loyalty to the crown, select one of his daughters to be his bride.

“Of course, Father,” the youngest daughter replied quietly.

Aemond did a double take. The girl had said no more than five words in his presence the entire stay thus far. Seldom had she even made eye contact with him.

Her name was Floris, Aemond recalled. Of the four, Lord Borros’s youngest daughter was indisputably the most attractive, a fact of which was obviously a source of pride for Lord Borros. But she was the youngest, not yet flowered. She was rather soft spoken, too. The girl was still innocent to the true nature of the world in which she would be expected to thrive. In a peculiar way, the youngest Baratheon girl reminded Aemond of his sister, Helaena.

Aemond had yet to formally choose which one of the girls was to be his future bride. But he knew he would not be choosing Floris.

“His Highness was merely enlightening us of the many ways King Aegon intends to help the less fortunate in the realm,” Maris shared with her father, smiling sweetly at the man whilst sarcasm dripped with her every word. Once Lord Borros looked appeased, Maris dared to shoot Aemond a challenging smirk.

Aemond would most certainly not be choosing Maris as his bride, either.

Before he could contemplate a witty response, the doors to the dining hall were thrown open hastily. A visibly fatigued servant rushed in.

Lord Borros rose from his seat at once, his dark brows furrowed deeply. He bellowed, “What is the meaning of this?”

“My Lord,” the servant boy bowed. “A visitor just arrived. He is in the courtyard now.”

“A visitor?” Lord Borros echoed, still frowning. “At this hour? Well, who in the Seven Hells is it?”

Though the messenger did not address him, Aemond did not miss the wary glance the boy threw in his direction before he answered his lord.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon, My Lord. He comes bearing a message from Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

…

For his mother, Aemond had agreed to be civil.

But as for himself, Aemond knew he could not let the opportunity before him slip through his fingers. And as the intoxicatingly wicked ideas filled his head as to how he might turn this chain of events in his favor, all thoughts of the Dowager Queen, his sweet sister Helaena, and her young, vulnerable children faded far into the recesses of his mind.

Prince Lucerys Velaryon, newly reaffirmed heir to Driftmark, and future Lord of the Tides, followed the soldiers escorting him though Storm’s End with his back straight, and his head held high.

He knew very well what- who- was waiting for him when he would arrive in whatever hall Lord Borros welcomed him in. The mountain of a dragon lurking beyond Storm’s End upon his arrival with Arrax was enough of an indication of who awaited him inside.

But his mother had sent him to Storm’s End with a purpose, and a message to deliver. He would not let nerves break his composure, nor deter him from his task.

The guards finally parted before him, opening the doors to the hall within. Lucerys clung to his resolve as he stepped forward. Thoughts of his purpose gave him courage, despite his daring to wonder whether Aemond would be the only Targaryen he would soon come face to face with.

Lord Borros Baratheon sat upon the Storm’s End throne up ahead. Various soldiers and nobles lined the room. Closest to Lord Borros were three younger women, who Lucerys assumed could only be his daughters. Amongst them, with long pale hair that contrasted against the waves of dark hair so similar to Lucerys’s own, was his uncle, Aemond.

Aemond, who looked far too smug with Lucerys’s current predicament. It was such a shame that Lucerys did not plan to grant him any further satisfaction from it.

Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled from the windows and ceiling above. But Lucerys pushed onwards, and forced himself to take a few more steps into the room.

“Lord Borros,” Lucerys called to him, “I’ve brought you a message from my mother, the queen.”

Lord Borros’s expression as he beheld him was a rather peculiar one. The lighting was a bit poor in the hall, but Lucerys could have sworn the Lord of Storm’s End looked particularly pale.

However, the words that came out of Lord Borros’s mouth were anything but meek.

“Yet a few days ago, I received an envoy from the king. Which is it? King, or queen? The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it.”

The Lord of Storm’s End found his own joke rather funny. The shoulders of one of his daughters, the fourth one standing beside Aemond, shook with silent laughter. Lucerys did not deem the observation worthy of a response.

“What is your mother’s message?” Lord Borros eventually bid him.

Aemond still smirked at him, but Lucerys refused to meet his eye. Instead, he wordlessly held out his hand. One of the guards who had escorted him stepped forward, grabbed the sealed parchment from his gloved hand, and walked forward towards the throne. He deposited the scroll in Lord Borros’s awaiting hand, but despite the message finally being within his grasp, the recipient still looked frustrated.

“Where’s the bloody maester?!”

An awkward silence filled the air as the maester in question shuffled through the crowd. As he did so, Lucerys took a moment to properly assess Lord Borros Baratheon. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d hoped to find in such an angry face- perhaps a trace of his grandmother, Princess Rhaenys. A familial resemblance was plainly evident in their shared shade of dark brown hair, at the very least. However, there certainly was no shared similarity between Lord Borros and that of his father, Ser Laenor Velaryon. His father had always taken after the Velaryon complexion, and Lucerys could not recall his father frowning enough times for him to deduce whether it resembled Lord Borros’s currently gruff expression.

All the while, he felt Aemond’s eye boring into the side of his face.

The maester had finally appeared and taken the scroll from his lord’s hand. While the maester read over his mother’s message, and subsequently relayed the contents to Lord Borros, Lucerys took the moment to calm his gradually rising nerves.

Lucerys tightened his jaw. What precisely was Aemond hoping to accomplish by staring at him so? He would not be goaded into engaging with him, for nothing beneficial could possibly result from that. Not but a little over a week ago, Jace and his uncles had been unable to make it through a mere family dinner without blows being exchanged.

Lucerys gripped the pommel of his sword with a tightly clenched fist. Granted, it was the same sword that Selwin and Lord Harwin had determined was not the most suitable for him, but it was a sword nonetheless. Lucerys could only pray to the Seven that he would not have cause to draw it- he had promised his mother as much, after all.

The maester excused himself, and it was as though all eyes, even Aemond’s, fell upon the Lord of Storm’s end as they eagerly awaited his reaction.

“Remind me of my father’s oath?” Lord Borros scoffed. “King Aegon at least came with an offer: my swords and banners for a marriage pact.”

That was news to Lucerys, and information he planned to pass on to his mother when he returned to Dragonstone. But he would not let his surprise show.

“My Uncle Aegon has cause to want to buy your allegiance with such a promise, My Lord,” Lucerys replied carefully. “The price of honor is high, but it is always one worth paying.”

Lord Borros scoffed. “Honor… I do not know if your mother can define such a word, boy.”

Lucerys fought the immediate urge to rise to her defense. But Lord Borros’s comment was a peculiar one. Aemond must have thought so too, as he finally tore his eye off of him and looked towards the Lord of Storm’s End inquisitively instead.

“Nevertheless,” Lord Borros continued on, his increasing irritation evident with each word, “Let’s say I do as your mother bids… Which one of my daughters will you marry, boy?”

Lucerys could not bring himself to even steal a glance at the daughters in question as Lord Borros gestured to them. “My Lord, I am not free to marry. I am already betrothed to my cousin Rhaena Velaryon.”

Lord Borros looked over at Aemond. “I’d heard as much… So you come with empty hands?”

Was upholding an oath and maintaining honor not enough motivation to support the realm’s rightful queen? Was loyalty so easily able to be bought?

Lucerys’s gut sank, but he refused to let it show. He might have been young, with plenty still to learn, but he knew a lost cause when he saw one. The atmosphere of the room shifted, churning faster and steadily brewing into a storm.

“Go home, pup. And tell the bitch your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog that she can whistle up at need to set against her foes.”

Lucerys’s jaw tightened once more. He managed to ease up on the tension just enough to get out, “I shall take your answer to the queen, My Lord.”

He had turned and taken two steps when another voice called out.

“Wait!”

Lucerys let out a small sigh, but forced himself to turn back around.

“My Lord Strong,” Aemond crooned mockingly at him.

Nearly all rational thoughts fled from him as the insult hit his ears. Lucerys took several steps forward back into the room, but instead of Lord Borros, it was Aemond that he approached.

“The lighting in here is poor, Uncle,” he said to him. “So I will forgive the mistake your remaining good eye has made. But Lord Harwin Strong is far from here, and both of his sons as well.”

One side of Aemond’s lip threatened to curl up into an angry snarl. Unfortunately, he did not yet take the bait. “Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm, trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?”

“Your brother’s throne?” Lucerys echoed with disbelief. At that moment, he was unsure of whether he held anger or pity for Aemond, who sounded so certain of his brother’s claim to the Iron Throne. “I will not discuss such gross accusations with the likes of you, Uncle, for you can hardly be considered an unbiased party. And I will not fight you. I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”

“A fight would be little challenge. I’d rather you pay the debt you owe me.”

Aemond reached upwards and removed the patch that covered what remained of his left eye. Even with the poor lighting, Lucerys could see the blue gleam of the sapphire that had taken the injured eye's place some years ago. Lowering his hand, Aemond threw his overcoat aside, and unsheathed a dagger from his hip.

“Here is a knife, just as the one you had that night. Put out your eye, and I will let you leave.”

Aemond threw the dagger downwards, and it skittered across the stone floor. It came to a still at the halfway point between him and Lucerys.

“One eye will do,” Aemond prattled on. “I would not blind you. I plan to make a gift of it to my mother, actually.”

Lucerys wasn’t entirely sure whether the Dowager Queen would be pleased with such a gruesome gift. Regardless, his answer to his uncle would have been the same.

“No.”

Aemond’s smirk faltered. “Then you are craven as well as a traitor.”

“Not here,” Lord Borros warned.

Instinct alone forced Lucerys to retreat a few steps backwards when Aemond suddenly stalked towards him.

“Give me your eye, or I will take it, bastard!”

Aemond scooped up the knife he had thrown onto the floor with an obviously practiced ease. With similar swiftness, Lucerys unsheathed the sword at his side, holding it out before him defensively.

“Not in my hall!” Lord Borros roared, rising to his feet. “I want no blood shed beneath my roof. The boy came as an envoy, and he shall leave as one.”

Aemond’s nostril twitched.

To the men who had escorted Lucerys into Storm’s End, Lord Borros commanded, “Take Prince Lucerys back to his dragon. Now.”

As the guards moved about him, Lucerys held Aemond’s eye as long as he dared. Eventually, he relented, sheathing his sword and following the escort out of the hall.

By the time he was returned to the yard, the rain had begun to pour. Arrax, spotting him despite the sheets of water, cried out to him. Lucerys approached him with a determined pace. Once he had reached the dragon, he looked over his shoulder.

Vhagar was nowhere to be seen.

Lucerys closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he turned back to Arrax. As he commanded his mount to remain calm, to focus, and to listen to him, he allowed himself to think of their destination.

It was a short flight back to Dragonstone, just as it had been to Storm’s End. The poor weather, which was not ideal, would most likely add some additional delay to the flight. But if Lucerys remained centered, and if Arrax obeyed him, they would make it back safely.

Lucerys would return back to Dragonstone. He did not know what Lord Borros’s refusal meant for the queen’s cause, but he knew beyond a doubt that his mother would not be angry with him for his failure. If he knew anything at all in those harrowing moments, he at least knew that.

His heart pounded madly, betraying everything he had just asked of Arrax, as he saddled up, and the pair ascended into the stormy sky.

Steam filled Aemond’s eye and ears as he watched Lucerys be escorted out of the hall.

He might have taken the moment to allow himself to recompose, and excuse himself to his guest chambers to clear his head before he did something foolish. He might have taken the high road and walked away, had he not been incensed beyond the brink of sanity by a single childish remark.

A snicker came from beside him.

“Was it one of your eyes he took, or one of your balls?” Maris taunted, raising a mocking brow at him. She shrugged nonchalantly. “I suppose I should be glad you shall be choosing one of my sisters to wed. I want a husband with all his parts.”

A blood red haze carried Aemond out of the hall and into the stormy night.

With a careful hand, and an even more cautious step forward, Selwin opened the door to the library at Dragonstone.

He stuck his head inside the chamber, just past the doorway. He did not dare to breathe as he patiently waited a moment and listened. Nothing but the sounds of the softly flickering flames and the cracking of wood met his ears, until-

A faint crinkle of a page, as a page was turned.

“My Lord?”

Selwin stood up straight, and his eyes were wide as they landed upon the source of the noise.

Lady Rhaena Targaryen, who was seated in a red plush chair beside the flames contained in a rather grand stone-carved fireplace, beheld him with a befuddled expression.

“Lady Rhaena,” Selwin all but blubbered, his cheeks feeling a bit warm from being caught in such a poor state of decorum. “Forgive me, My Lady. The queen granted me permission to peruse the library earlier this afternoon, but I did not anticipate it already being occupied.”

Lady Rhaena’s expression shifted seamlessly from curiosity to one of slight amusement. She gestured vaguely around the room. “No trouble at all, My Lord. ‘Tis hardly as though there is not plenty enough room for the both of us.”

With her blessing, Selwin took another step into the room and allowed himself to fully take it in. It was far grander than he had imagined it to be. Although, that ought not to have been too surprising. The Tagaryens weren’t exactly known for doing anything on less than a grand scale. Rows and rows of books and scrolls comprised many aisles, with each aisle running the length of the room on either side. Beyond the shelves, the warm orange rays of the setting sun bled into the room.

In the very center of the room, to his immediate left, was a large stone table. Various books and scrolls were piled atop of it, as though they had been recently browsed, or perhaps were awaiting the return to their respective places upon the surrounding shelves.

Lady Rhaena, who had been watching Selwin with a keen eye, had an open book resting on her palms. Still a few paces away, Selwin could not make out exactly what the contents of the pages pertained to, but he did not believe the words to be of the common tongue.

“Are you particularly fond of reading, Lord Selwin?” she inquired politely, rising to her feet.

As she moved to approach the table beside him, Selwin suddenly found his boots to be alarmingly intriguing. “Not particularly,” he mumbled. “My older brother is far more inclined to take to scholarly pursuits than I.”

Lady Rhaena placed her book, the pages still open to where she had paused in her reading, upon the stone table. “...But?”

“I must admit, I do enjoy a bit of history, My Lady.”

“Truly?”

At the sound of her genuine surprise, Selwin mustered enough courage to meet Lady Rhaena’s eyes once more and nodded. “Our maester in Highgarden used to tell me all about the histories recorded and housed in the Citadel. And while those sound fascinating, I was always far more interested to hear about the accounts kept here, in Dragonstone. Is it true there are texts here from Old Valyria?”

“A few,” Lady Rhaena confirmed. Her fingers absentmindedly brushed the pages of the open book before her. “Since the queen has given you her permission, you would be more than welcome to read some of them, as well as whatever else you are able to find in here…. However, might I make a recommendation for you to start with?”

“Please do.”

Selwin watched as Lady Rhaena disappeared momentarily down an aisle of shelves on the right hand side of the room. She returned a moment later with another book in her hands. As she resumed her place before the stone table, Selwin turned to mirror her stance.

Lady Rhaena carefully opened the book. Her eyes skimmed the text rather quickly as she turned its pages. Then, she abruptly stopped. As she looked back up at Selwin, she offered him a smile. “Perhaps this may satiate your interest. For a little while, at least.”

Selwin read over the first couple of lines.

… In the year 73 AC, Harrenhal was without a master once more. Queen Rhaena Targaryen, who had resided within its walls for many years, had finally passed, and King Jaehaerys found himself tasked with appointing its new lord. The task proved to be challenging, as the rumors surrounding Harrenhal had only grown in number and validity over time…

“It’s an account from the Old King’s reign, and the events that led to your ancestor, Ser Bywin Strong, being named as the Lord of Harrenhal,” Lady Rhaena explained helpfully.

Selwin tore his eyes away from the page. “Thank you, My Lady. This was a very thoughtful recommendation.”

“I hope you enjoy it. When you are through, you shall have to let me know what you made of it. It was written by Grand Maester Elysar during King Jahaerys’s reign.”

“And it recounts the king’s actions,” Selwin repeated plainly as another thought struck him. “Should this not be kept in the library within the Red Keep?”

Lady Rhaena tilted her head as she glanced back down at the book with a pensive look. “Mayhaps. But the maesters keep so many texts, it would not be possible to keep them all on hand for the king- or queen.”

“A point I did not consider,” Selwin admitted sheepishly. “Besides, ‘tis hard to imagine this accounting holds any particular weight when compared to others of more import.”

Lady Rhaena paused. “I respect your opinion my lord, but I cannot agree with it. House Strong may be young when compared to some of the other houses in Westeros, but there is no foretelling of what may yet come to pass. Perhaps Ser Bywin’s inheritance of Harrenhal is only the first part of what will be the larger history of House Strong… Why, it is said that Lord Harwin is the strongest man in all the Seven Kingdoms. Surely that would at least be of a small note?”

Selwin did not bother to stop his chuckle. Maybe that still rang true. But his father, while still relatively young, had begun to pass what most men considered to be their prime. However, so as to not insult the lady beside him, Selwin acquiesced, “A small note, perhaps.”

“And what of you? Do you not think yourself likely to do anything of note? You are to be the next Lord Strong, or even the next Lord Tyrell, are you not?”

“I do not know.”

Lady Rhaena was particularly perceptive, Selwin would later deduce. “You would let your brother claim the lordships of both your parents’ houses?”

Selwin managed to hold in his chuckle this time. Hadn’t Prince Daemon inquired about exactly the same topic not but a day before? Now that he thought about it, Lady Rhaena, though said to physically resemble her late mother, emulated her father in more ways than one might initially suspect. Selwin believed as much, particularly at that moment; both Rhaena and Daemon had managed to pry thoughts from him he had not been comfortable enough to share with even his own family.

“I do not know,” he repeated once more, feeling a bit foolish and more like his age than he could recall in recent memory.

Most mercifully, Lady Rhaena was not one to take joy in his discomfort. It was not difficult at all for Selwin to believe Lucerys found himself a bit ‘smitten’- as his mother often put it- with his betrothed. Any young man would be, would they be so fortunate to be betrothed to the kind-hearted Rhaena Targaryen.

“What do you know?” she gently prodded.

Selwin refused to meet her eyes. Had he not been so conflicted within himself, he might have been concerned with burning a hole through the text before him with the sheer focus he placed upon it.

“I know that Aegon’s treachery means war is likely to ensue. I have read enough history to know that usurping a throne does not tend to end in peaceful terms, let alone terms in which no blood was spilled at all. I know war is coming, and I know my family is in danger because of it. But I have nothing to offer. My father, as you put it, may be the strongest man in all the Seven Kingdoms. My mother is the Lady of Highgarden. My brother is intelligent beyond his years, and when the time comes, there is no doubt in my mind that he will make a fine lord- of whatever inheritance that may be. But as for myself? I am…”

He felt Lady Rhaena’s intense gaze upon him as he searched for his next words.

“I am naught but a second son. I am nothing. I can do nothing. My family could be in peril, and I am powerless to help them.”

It was silent for a long while.

Lady Rhaena confessed, “I believe I might be able to sympathize with you. I know what it is like to feel like nothing I do truly matters. I know what it is like to be able to do nothing, to feel powerless.”

Disbelief had Selwin snapping his head up in her direction. “With the utmost respect, Lady Rhaena, that is a bit difficult to fathom.”

She gave him a challenging look. “Really? Tell me then, My Lord, what would I do if the Greens surrounded Dragonstone on the morrow? Would I rally our sparse number of men to battle? Would I lead my grandfather’s fleet, engaging the enemy upon the waters of Blackwater Bay? Would I mount a dragon, and meet Vhagar and Sunfyre head on in the skies?”

Selwin mulled over her words. “Forgive me, My Lady. I did not mean to give insult.”

“No forgiveness is needed, My Lord, for no insult was taken.”

The text before him still laid open, and despite the heavy topic of conversation, the words seemed to call to him.

“I will not sell myself short just yet,” Selwin vowed then. “But if there is still room in the histories for my story, then there shall be plenty of room in them for your own.”

Lady Rhaena frowned. “I am not certain I follow your meaning.”

Selwin’s attention shifted towards the book to his right, the one Lady Rhaena had been reading. Valyrian, he realized, now close enough to plainly see the words on the page. He did not know the language, but he could deduce the topic based on the page’s illustration. Scales of various colors bordered the yellowing parchment.

“You are no less a Targaryen because you have yet to claim a dragon of your own. And those who harbor that opinion of you are of no consequence. What good do the opinions of sheep serve a dragon? Because that is what you are- a dragon.”

Lady Rhaena merely looked at him for a long while, her expression plain. Just when Selwin began to fear he may overstepped, she suddenly grinned.

“Prince Lucerys is most fortunate to have a friend like you, Lord Selwin. And any friend of Prince Lucerys can consider themselves a friend of mine.”

Selwin’s face warmed, but he could not pinpoint precisely why. “I shall strive to remain worthy of your friendship then, My Lady.”

Lady Rhaena plucked the book up from the stone table and closed it gently. She then offered it to him. “I have no doubt that you will.”

To what end did Aemond pursue him?

Lucerys wracked his brain for all logical explanations as to why Aemond stalked him. This was not merely the exchanging blows in the training yard, or coming to an impasse during a family dinner. His damn uncle was using Vhagar to actively hunt him, and Arrax, sizeable though he was for his age, was no match in size.

Finally, up ahead- there was a break in the clouds. As Arrax emerged through the cover, they were both freed from the storms roaring below. The sun kissed Lucerys’s face, providing a bit of warmth that offset the coolness of his drenched clothes and cloak.

Lucerys looked around, and attempted to gather his bearings. Vhaegar was nowhere to be seen.

In that moment, he thanked every single one of the Seven; they had finally gotten Aemond off their trail.

Lucerys urged Arrax forward at a more relaxed pace. Once he was able to find a landmark, he could determine which way was home. And once he knew where Dragonstone lay, nothing but a short flight home remained.

The war may yet come, but Lucerys would be there to witness it. He would be a squire, he would learn anything and everything he would need to be a lord that Driftmark’s people could respect, a lord that they could trust. And he would continue doing everything in his power to make his mother, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, proud.

The thought of what was yet to come gave Lucerys hope.

So much hope, he had not realized the sun had abruptly disappeared.

…

……

…

Lord Otto Hightower had been roused by a frantic messenger. Thankfully, he’d already been dressed, having fallen asleep at his desk. Still, the trek from the Tower of the Hand to the small council chambers, where he’d been summoned to by the king, felt far too long.

He entered the room without delay and made sure the doors were closed tightly behind him before he turned to face those within. Quite an assortment of the king’s council and advisors were present already.

As was his second eldest grandson, who stood a few paces away, dripping water from his clothes and long hair.

Alicent sat at the table, her head in her hands. Even from a distance, Otto could tell her complexion was far paler than it should have been. Ser Criston stood closely behind her, his focus shifting between her, the king, and Aemond.

“Grandsire, you’re here at last,” Aegon said by way of greeting. “We have news.”

Otto knew he would regret asking, but he did so nonetheless. “And what news might that be, Your Grace?”

“Lucerys Verlayron has been slain!”

Though it was Aegon who had answered, and eerily cheerfully at that, Otto was quickly able to deduce the true source of the news. He whirled to Aemond, gripping the young man by his overcoat in his fists. The fabric was still damp. “What have you done, boy?”

Aemond’s eyes were void of emotion. He did not even make an attempt to remove himself from Otto’s firm grasp.

His daughter pleaded, from beneath her fingers, “Mother have mercy on us all.”

At her proclamation, some semblance of life finally returned to Aemond’s eyes. He turned his head, still in Otto’s hold, and looked over towards his mother. The look he gave her was one of shock, and- rather surprisingly, Otto noted- betrayal.

“You only lost one eye,” Otto beseeched him, shaking him mildly to garner his attention. “How could you be so blind?”

“Release him at once, Grandsire,” Aegon commanded with a firm tone, an authority to his voice that Otto did not know he possessed.

Otto had little choice but to heed a command given by the king. He released Aemond’s overcoat, but still, Aemond did not step away. Instead, his focus remained on his mother.

“Prince Aemond is the true blood of the dragon,” Aegon praised him with a grin, sounding more proud of his brother than Otto had ever recalled him to be. “He has made a good beginning of things. He returns from Storm’s End a betrothed man, and he has demonstrated to Rhaenyra what will happen if she continues this senseless pursuit of a throne that is not hers for the taking.”

“Your Grace, do you truly believe the death of her son will dissuade Rhaenyra from her pursuit of the Iron Throne?” Otto demanded of him. “Do you think Daemon will be dissuaded?!”

Aegon waved him off nonchalantly, and it took every ounce of control in Otto’s being to stop himself from grabbing his eldest grandson in the matter he had just handled his young brother.

“Those are matters to be dealt with on the morrow. As is the planning of a feast.”

“A feast?”

“Aye, a feast,” Aegon confirmed. “We shall have a feast in Aemond’s name. But, as I said, that can wait til the morrow. But there is another matter that cannot. Will someone fetch me a quill and parchment? I wish to write to my dear sister and inform her of the news myself.”

...

......

…

Prince Daemon Targaryen had been the one to intercept the messenger. The queen was lucky to have been spared reading the filth of a message herself. Aegon, whose provoking words were permanently embedded in Daemon’s mind, would not be so lucky in the end.

His oaf of a nephew and his kinslayer of a brother could enjoy their feast while it lasted. They would not be the only ones to enjoy splendors in the days to come, Daemon would make certain of that.

Still, Daemon did not doubt his nephew’s vile message to be anything less than the truth. After all, he had been the one called down to the shore. Lady Tyrell, after calling her children back inside the castle walls, had directed him towards what had washed up. It had been an immediate recognition, and was unmistakable for any other beast.

Daemon knew the reality of what the day's harsh developments meant. He knew the reality of what was yet to come had been set in stone the moment his brother Viserys had gasped his last breath. But he anguished to know that this would be the event that would cement the severity of the situation for Rhaenyra.

She looked at him curiously as he approached. That was no surprise; they had not spoken to one another since their latest disagreement.

He pulled her aside, away from her advisors, and he gave her the truth as plainly and honestly as she was owed. When she pulled away from him, processing the devastation his news had wrought upon her, he fought the urge to look away, if not leave outright.

And as Daemon stood there, something resonated within him.

To many within the realm, second born sons might have been considered to be little more than a spare. But to have described Prince Lucerys Velaryon as such in the eyes of his mother… that would have been more egregious a crime than the manner of the young lord’s demise itself.

A/N: 🖤

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mrsmaxwelllord · 7 months ago

Text

Summer Storm — Chapter II

Pairing: Harwin Strong x Martell Lady!Reader

Summary: The curse ignites a fire in Harrenhal.

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: Arranged Marriage. Mediumship. Fire. Burn Injury. Medical Inaccuracies. Annoyng man and (A LOT OF) gossip.

A/N: Enjoy!

AO3.

Harwin didn’t tell you half of the history, but the conversation you had after agreeing to a partnership of sorts — as if you were not married already — was full of meaning. You didn't expect him to blindly throw everything at you, yet it was strange to receive so little information about the events that doomed your marriage.

Nevertheless, you got a better understanding of him and his reasons.

You heard what he confided in you with grace and patience you did not know you had. When he finished, you gave him your honest opinion: if he truly wanted to leave the past behind and protect the princes, he could never go back to the Red Keep or contact them again. It was harsh and very painful, you knew, but it was the truth and he knew it too. He promised he’d not do anything to compromise you or the House, not willingly, but you didn’t trust him just enough to believe him in this.

When this matter was settled, he asked about you again and insisted he wanted an honest answer this time. You refused. It was late and you were tired, exhausted really. But promised him you'd have all the time in the world to talk in the future.

To keep the farce, he even made a small cut in his hand to stain the bed sheet. You watched the blood drain from him with a strange satisfaction, it was as if you were sealing the pact with blood.

He guided you to your own chamber after wrapping you in one of his coats. Once alone, you allow yourself to reflect on the events that lead you to this new life. You knew of the marriage a month before it happened, being the middle child of House Martell you were expected to have a good marriage, but not a great one - by marrying Harwin you had accomplished just enough success to be forgotten from your father's mind, he did his job to you and now was free to go on with his life. Your mother died years ago and was of no consequence. Your brothers and sisters were never really close, although they promised to write letters and keep contact — which you weren’t entirely sure would happen.

You had come to Harrenghall with a sworn knight to protect and look after you, but he was a stranger, and all friends you had made so far are in Dorne worried about their own future. Long ago, when you weren't of age yet, you had a truly loyal friend, one you could no longer talk to but who had teached all you could possibly need in life. All that was behind now. You were to learn how to live in this strange land far away from everything you once knew.

Harwin wasn’t what you expected of him, he proved to be honest and fair — as far as you could tell — and, although his words burned deeply, you knew this was twice better than most husbands in Westero. Before leaving Dorne, you were worried he'd be violent and unfair, mistreated or humiliate you. A man as strong as he was rumored to be would have no difficulty to do so and, with his prestige and high place in society, no one would bat an eye to your suffering.

You were ready to make herself unbothered by any of his rules, you would pray in the Sept for a tranquil life and not get into his way. Yet... hidden in your belongings, you had the most curious herb, one that could be turned into a tea. You wouldn’t hesitate to give it to him if he proved himself to be beyond endurance.

However, this new routine seemed… simple. Easy to follow.

He told you he wished to have a peaceful life too, that he would listen to you and all decisions would be made together, as future Lady and Lord of Harrenhal.

You didn’t fully trust him just yet, but you could try it. You shall do it. Your past costumes could be tamed and subdued.

You could be the perfect Lady Strong.

...

Not long after falling asleep, a voice calling your name woke you.

It was a feminine voice, but deep as a man’s who smoked his whole life, commanding and assertive like the Maester you had as a child, and it called for you. You could feel the vexation in its tone, but most of all its urgency, a terrible urgency that made you sit up quickly and worried. You blinked your eyes to get used to the eerie light that came from the woman calling you.

The corpulent woman was leaning over you, the candle mere centimeters away from your face, making it impossible to clearly see her own face under the thick white veil she wore, she was head to toe covered with clothes in various shades of white. You didn’t recognize her from the early party nor was she dressed as a maid, yet she commanded you to follow her. Her voice alone obliged you to do so.

You followed her to the wall beside the biggest window in the chamber and after pressing a very peculiar brick, the wall moved aside displaying a narrow hallway and a stone stair leading down. She led you through the hallway without difficulty, even though you had to follow sideways to accompany her rhythm. After a short while, the stone walls started to heat up and get warmer and warmer; you were wearing only your chemise and your forearms burned when touching the stones, yet you followed her silently, drowsy.

She made a stop at the very end of the hallway, where there was no window and no light except for the candle she held. She pushed what looked a lot like a mirror and it opened like a door to a room almost entirely consumed by flames. The lady walked through the flames to a door at the opposite wall and turned around, not muttering a single word, looking at you as if waiting for you to go to her. You woke from your dreamlike state then, realizing it was not one of your dreams, but the woman stayed there.

You knew what she wanted. You had no choice but to do it.

You made your way through the fire, going around the bed in the center of the room, avoiding the curtains and tapestry burning. When you finally got to her, you saw the body laid by her feet, broken pieces of a wooden pillar covering its back, all burning low — a terrible sense of dread came to you. It was Ser Harwin Strong, your husband. Unconscious. You couldn’t even tell if he was dead or alive.

“Save him” the voice told you. “He still lives. I will guide your hand.”

There was no time to question the White Lady, so you kneeled beside Harwin and pushed the log away from his body, the Lady’s hand covering yours every time you reached the burning pieces. In no time he was free and you found a weak pulse in his neck, but upon the momentary relief came more distress: the simple linen shirt he had on was burnt and so was most of his back.

You got a hold of both of his arms and pulled him, still belly down, back to the door on the wall and down the hallway. It was harder to go through the narrow walls with the additional weight, but the Lady followed you back to your chamber and when you were about to enter the room she told you to keep going to the other end of the hallway. You didn’t question her.

After a few meters you passed another mirror-looking-door but upon looking at the room inside you saw only more flames, it was in a worse state than Harwin’s chambers but you could see a body laid in the burning bed.

“He is already gone” the voice whispered for the first time, you had half a mind to question her then. You saved Harwin, why not try to save… “There is not much time left. Get to the end of this corridor and ask for help. You’ll not survive much more smoke.”

As if in a cue, just then you realize how dark the hallway was where the candlelight couldn’t reach. Only it was not simply the dark of night; from ceiling to floor the hallway was enveloped in black smoke. You finally felt suffocated and trapped, the wall still burned your arms and Ser Harwin was almost unbearably heavy.

The Lady’s hand touched yours again.

“Stay strong just a little bit longer, dove. Then you may rest.”

You kept on the uneven pace until you got to the end of the hallway, where there was another door. The Lady opened it to a room without the flames, but with no less smoke, the man in the bed arose from his sleep with the cracking of hinges and started coughing.

“Help us!” you cried and he looked your way.

“Who is there?” he couldn’t see you through the dark smoke that surrounded the room.

“It is me: Lady Strong” you answered him, all strength from you body leaving you, you fell to your knees. “And my Lord Husband, Ser Harwin.”

You heard the swaying and rustling of the bed covers, then fell on the floor beside the unconscious body of Harwin. You felt the touch of the man that came to help you, he reached you first but upon seeing the state of Harwin left you to your own devices, it did not matter because now you could only focus on the face hovering the ceiling. You could finally see her face properly: a dark, scarred thing. Her eye sockets empty and dark, her mouth open in a silent scream. Yet her voice remained the same as before.

“Sleep now, dove. The morrow shall come but for you only darkness the day will bring.”

You fell unconscious then, the smoke surrounding you.

...

Your senses only returned to you by the twilight of the next day, when all the fire was already gone and the dead piled in the courtyard. You were in a ward you haven't been before, a large room full of mattresses — all of them occupied with injured people.

You wake up to a killing headache, feeling dizzy and disoriented. It is confusing to wake to crying and, for a second, you believe it was one of your nightmares again. However, the crying turned to screaming and you realised there was actually something wrong.

Harwin, laid in the bed beside yours, woke not much earlier with the Maesters changing the bandage of his wounds. It was time to take off the remains of the shirt burned into his skin, otherwise it would infect and a fever would begin. It was a painful process, perhaps as hurtful as the burning itself — even the highest doses of Milk of Poppy had little effect on this case. However, if neglected, that would surely kill him shortly. Infection had a mysterious way of working.

It was torturous to watch the process, definitely not for the weak of mind: the screaming was always soul cutting. It didn't get easier with time, by the end of it the patient was already begging for a knife in the neck.

You had the misfortune to wake up in the beginning of Harwin’s treatment. He was gripping the mattress tightly, his face buried in the bed, there were five men holding him down, two Maesters working to finish it quicker. He was the one screaming, you realised, terrified.

You had no real concept of Riverland’s medical practice, it being so brutal and different from Dorne. Before you could soothe yourself and think through it, you were already standing, going to the man closest to you and pushing him away.

“What is the meaning of this?” you yelled. “Get away from him! He is hurting. Do you not see?”

Your advances worked and the man let go of Harwin's arm, but only momentarily. He had tripped over his own feet when you pushed him, your sudden strength took him by surprise and he fell before he could even turn around. Yet, the men that weren't holding Harwin went to you promptly and restrained you.

One of the Maesters, the one closer to you, complained about your behaviour:

“I should be the one asking ‘what is the meaning of this’, Lady Strong” he had a stern expression. “This is not the moment for savagery. Stop at once.”

“It is you who should stop. He screams in pain, do you not hear it?” you question, struggling to escape from the guard’s strong hold. “Is this how you treat your people here in the Riverlands? No better than a cruel butcher?”

For the first time ever, you heard the sound of your husband laugh. It was low, weak, and between sharp tears, but it was undoubtedly a laugh and it stopped you. His face turned to you.

“Aye, what a devoted dove I got myself. So fierce in her advances to protect her husband. We will get along just fine if you continue to prove yourself so courageous, Wife” he said with a rough tone, then looked at the man standing beside his bed. “If I didn't believe the stories you told about her before, I believe them now. Let go of her.”

“What is the meaning of this?” you asked out of breath, not so sure anymore. The distress had worn out and a sudden sickness made itself known then: the world seemed to turn around you, your head throbbed with pain, and you felt in the verse of fainting. You tried to hold your ground, but ended up falling to the bed.

“My Lady!” the maester called, going to you. “You stood too quickly! You are still recovering from all that smoke you breathed.”

“I’m fine,” you whispered. “Explain what has happened.”

They runned out of words to tell you then. The room turned somber as the Maester helped you to sit up. No one dared to answer or look at you, as if muttering any word would bring the fire back in the room.

It was Harwin who spoke first.

“There was a fire, as you may remember” was all he said.

You wanted to question him further, but the mourning expression on each one of their faces told you enough. Instead, you returned to a more pressing matter.

“Aye. That does not explain the butchery on your back.”

“I am no butcher!” the maester exclaimed. “This is the only treatment for burns, m’lady. We shall clean the wound before applying the ointment ”

“Must it be so….” you looked for words, but each one you thought of seemed to be insulting to your lord husband.

“Worry not, Lady Wife” Harwin told you, laying his head back on the mattress. “This shall end soon enough. Then we'll have a much needed conversation.”

…

You stayed by Harwin's side, with his head carefully laid on your lap, while the Maesters worked on his back. You tried to comfort him and take his mind off the pain, massaging his hair or just holding his hand at times, but it was all futile, the screaming didn't stop until the job was done. When the Maesters set the last utensil down, it was suggested that he drank Milk of the Poppy, to cease the pain.

It would certainly help with the pain but also make him groggy and just a tad delirious, considering the amount that was offered. So the conversation was postponed to another time, to when he comes to his senses.

You took it in your own hands to better understand what had happened the night before and asked about it to the Maesters. They were, however, of no help.

“Worry not, Lady” was said, no one truly bothering to listen to you. “Once Lord Strong awakens he will let you know of the damage. For now, you should try to rest.”

You looked for your swoon knight next, to see if he was still alive, and were pleased to find that he, along all the maids from Dorne, survived the fire without trouble. They readily told you all they knew.

The Knight, Ser Allyrion, had a good idea of the damage, he helped the men control the fire when the worst of it burned the Tower, he also helped bring Lyonel's body down from the main chambers. He told you it began suddenly and spread fast, that it would've been much worse had the Maester not alerted the guards about the fire.

He asked you how you managed to escape your chambers and also get to Harwin's, he tried to get to you once he learnt of the fire but to no avail. The lock was broken and the door was too dense to break in, he didn't believe you would make it and was about to go get help when the castle's knights appeared to break the doors. They explained you were safe downstairs and were there only to get to Lyonel's chambers, to which he helped with.

Ser Allyrion told you that his room was also locked, and Lyonel's body was laying on the bed when they finally got to him. So was Harwin's and the Maester’s. Allyrion told you it was most likely that you and Harwin wouldn't survive if you stayed in the room for even a bit longer; if not the fire, the smoke would have suffocated you. He questioned how could you know of the secret passage, you haven't been in the castle long enough to know of all its hallways and rooms.

You didn't know what to tell him. You wanted to trust him and be honest, perhaps he could understand and explain it all to you. However, the truth may get you in more trouble than a lie and you really didn't want to let anyone know of your endeavors with the White Lady. It wouldn't be the first time you encountered the dead and since you had always managed to deal with it by yourself, you decided to keep it a secret.

So you made up a story. Told him that one of the castle’s maids had assured you that, should you need her in the night, you could send for her and she would come by the servants stairway. You made sure to keep the history simple and not focus on the said maid, Ser Allyrion, bless his heart, seemed to believe you right away and didn't question you further. Instead, he congratulated you on how brave it was to get into a room on fire to save Lord Strong.

You left him to find your own maids then and found them either helping the Maesters with the wounded or in the kitchen preparing supper. You didn't want to keep them from aiding the staff, so you decided to approach only one of them. Hallie was the face you were most familiar with, she helped you dress when you arrived in Harrenghall and had an outgoing personality, talking to you cheerfully about the castle.

You asked her to accompany you into a walk around the castle to see the damage and she promptly followed you. Walking around the castle was a ruse to talk to her more freely than you could surrounded by the servants of the House, of course, but it didn't mean you couldn't assert the damage caused by the fire and the reason it began. Talk spread fast and there wasn't a better place to know rumor than the kitchen, people liked to talk while working and you knew Hallie would be of service.

However, first you would need to find a quiet place. She followed you around and commented idly on the whole situation: where she spent the night, what she was doing when the fire began and what she did to escape it. You listen to her carefully, leading her through the hallways and chambers. There wasn't sign of the fire anywhere in the lower part of the castle; the room where the party was held the night before was intact, as were most of the stairs leading to the Tower. The real damage began there, the furniture and tapestry were burnt in the ground, the walls dark with smoke, the doors broken or locked still.

The highest you rose, less people there was. The fire was gone by now, but its warm was still there.

Hallie stopped talking when she realised you weren't listening anymore and carefully linked her arm to yours.

“What are people talking about in the kitchen, Hallie?” you asked, deciding to go for a more direct approach.

“Well, my lady, they didn't talk so freely with me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm your maid.”

You were quick to understand her meaning. You were being blamed for the fire. But why?

“I see. They were afraid you would tell me what you heard.”

“Exactly, my lady. But that didn't stop them to gossip around when they thought I wasn't listening.”

In that moment you turned a corner and passed by two knights carrying a body, you couldn't even tell its gender, the fire burned most of their skin. It was chilling to think that could've been you. Hallie and you let them pass without muttering a word, each one of you doing a quiet prayer.

Only after they passed by you, Hallie resumed the conversation.

“They didn't talk directly to me, of course, however they did speak between themselves.”

“And what have you heard?”

“Well, at first they seemed sure it was Harrenhal's curse. It wouldn't be the first time the lord ruling died here by unnatural cause.”

“Yes, I’ve heard rumors in the past. I don’t see what could possibly happen to change their minds. Lyonel and Harwin’s death would bring me no benefit at all. My position here is safe. In no time I could've become Lady Strong of Harrenghall!”

“My Lady…” Hallie said hesitantly. “You are Lady Strong of Harrenghall.”

You stopped right then, her words finally making the reality of the situation sink into you.

“When Lyonel died, the title of lord ruling passed to his heir — Ser Harwin” she explained. You still haven't moved, too shocked to really process her words. “That's the reason you're being blamed for, my lady. They believe you did it to become the lady of the house… sooner.”

After a pause, you found your voice again.

“That still doesn't make sense. Harwin almost died, had he gone too I'd have nothing.”

“But he didn't die, did he? That's the point. You saved him, but couldn't save Lord Lyonel in the room beside him. Forgive me, my lady, but that is too much of a coincidence that not only did you find the servant stairway in a room you've never been before but also found Harwin's chamber just in time to save him. The talk is that you hired us to do your wrongdoings, conspired to kill both Lyonel and Harwin and now plan to marry Larys.”

“Excuse me?”

“The last part is more complicated, I reckon” she smiled at you. “They were not interested in finding the reason why you planned to marry Larys' and still saved his older brother.”

“Hallie, that makes no sense at all. I don't understand…” you interrupt the walking at the end of a hallway, there's only a ceiling to floor window here and no way out but following back from where you came.

“Frankly, my lady, it is gossip and there's no need for a complicated explanation. They talk because they don't have anything better to do and, of course, because someone needs to be responsible for the tragedy. They blamed you because it was easy, because...” she hesitated and you could tell she was considering if she should tell you something or not.

“Tell me.”

“Well. There may be a reason for you to conspire against Harwin, after all.”

You turned around and held her hands between yours, it was no time for hesitation. Not only yours but perhaps the lives of the girls and Ser Allyrion would be in danger if you don't properly deal with this situation. A lie is a dangerous thing, to have them believe you're the assassin of their lord is to put you in the gallows rope. You have to know every detail of the gossip.

“You need to tell me everything.”

“Forgive my frankness then, my lady” she looked back at the hallway to make sure no one was listening. “Is it just that everyone at the Court knows how close Ser Harwin and Princess Rhaenyra were. And there is resemblance between him and the…”

“Are all the uproar about this? Do they not know late Queen Aemma was an Arryn before marrying King Viserys? They are known for having…”

“As I said before, my lady. They don't look for a deep explanation. However, that's not all. Harwin has an explosive personality, it would be complicated to live with him. Larys is known for being more… malleable, it would be easier to rule Harrenhal.”

“Why are they so certain I want to rule Harrenhal?”

“Well, my lady, we are from Dorne. There is suspicion involved, they always distrust what they don't know.”

You took a deep breath then, holding on to the walls to not collapse. It was all too much to take in, you suddenly felt faint.

“My lady, are you not feeling well?” asked Hallie by your side, holding your arms carefully with the bandages.

“I'm fine, Ally. Thank you. Let's just go back.”

“Did the Maesters not treat you, my lady?”

“They were too busy, there were people in a much worse situation than I'm.”

“That doesn't mean you should be let aside. Let's go back to the kitchen, my lady, I'll help you there.”

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