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novaursa · 3 months ago

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Chasing the Inferno

- Summary: It was during Rhaenyra’s and Laenor’s wedding feast, that the king noticed something he was blind to for far too long.

- Paring: targ!reader/Harwin Strong

This whole work is inspired by this brilliant anonymous ask:

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, has striking resemblance to her late grandmother Alyssa and is younger sister of Rhaenyra. These events happen after The Flames We Hide. To read all the chapters in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 3 532

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The evening air carries the scents of roasted meats, spiced wine, and fresh flowers into the grand hall, mingling with the vibrant sounds of revelry. The hall is a living tapestry of silks, banners, and candlelight, casting everything in hues of crimson and gold. A sea of finely dressed lords and ladies flows beneath the arched ceiling, the thrumming heart of the grand wedding feast of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon.

You arrive with the grace and splendor expected of a Targaryen princess, a vision that commands the attention of every eye that lands on you. The dress you wear is a rich deep plum, the color of ripened plums at dusk, lined with golden thread that shimmers in the light. The sleeves are long and bell-shaped, flowing with each movement, while the bodice is tightly laced with intricate embroidery of dragons in flight. Around your neck, a delicate chain bears a pendant of a dragon curled around a glittering ruby—a gift from your father. Your silver hair is braided in intricate patterns, falling down your back with hints of shimmering ribbons intertwined through each strand.

You sit beside Rhaenyra at the high table, your twin sister glowing with happiness under her finely woven veil. She leans toward you with a playful smirk. “I see you’ve decided to steal the attention for yourself tonight, Y/N. Not even the newlywed princess is safe from your charms.”

You laugh softly, returning her smirk. “It’s not stealing, dearest sister, merely borrowing for the evening.” Your eyes flick toward the bustling crowd, scanning the faces, seeking a particular one even as you engage in idle conversation.

You find him across the hall—Ser Harwin Strong, the Breakbones, the man who has captured your heart in ways you would never openly admit. His broad shoulders and easy smile cut a striking figure amidst the revelers. He leans against a pillar, eyes fixed on you with a heat that makes your pulse quicken. Even from here, you can feel the intensity of his gaze, the unspoken challenge in those dark eyes. A smirk pulls at your lips. Tonight is not just about celebrating your sister’s marriage—it is a dance, a game of fire and shadow that you and Harwin have played many times before.

As the feast progresses, the lords and ladies rise from their seats, drawn to the center of the hall where the dancing begins. You stand, gracefully gliding down the steps, the train of your gown trailing like liquid night behind you. Many lords vie for your attention, each more eager than the last to have the honor of a dance with the daughter of the King.

You indulge them—one by one, offering your hand with a practiced smile that promises nothing but amusement. Lord Beesbury twirls you first, his steps light but unremarkable. Lord Tyrell is next, his flattery sweet yet forgettable. Each time the music swells, you shift, gliding seamlessly into the arms of another suitor, all while casting sly glances over your shoulder to see if Harwin is watching.

And he is. His eyes never leave you, following every step, every spin, the set of his jaw tightening each time you turn away just as he moves closer. You can feel his impatience building like a storm, the tension of the game heightening with every dance.

Finally, after what feels like endless teasing, you find yourself caught in a whirl of movement, spinning until you are only steps away from him. Harwin’s expression is a mix of hunger and frustration as he makes his move to claim you at last.

But just as his hand reaches for yours, you slip away, turning instead into the arms of a young knight from the Westerlands, offering him a dazzling smile that is only for show. “My, Ser Harwin, are you growing weary of this dance already?” you tease, your voice lilting as you catch his gaze. You can see the fire in his eyes, a silent vow that he will not let you slip away so easily next time.

When the dance ends, the Westerlander knight bows low, eyes filled with admiration as he releases you. And as you turn, Harwin is there—closer than before, a step ahead of any other. This time, you do not pull away when his hand grasps yours, his grip firm and warm, sending a shiver down your spine. His voice is low, rough with suppressed desire, as he murmurs into your ear. “Do you truly believe you can keep running from me, Y/N?”

You tilt your head, lips curving into a smirk as you meet his gaze fully, violet and brown heat clashing. “Run, Ser Harwin? I am only leading the chase.”

Without giving him the satisfaction of a response, you spin away from him, the hem of your dress sweeping across the floor as you are swallowed back into the crowd. You glance back over your shoulder just long enough to catch the frustration in his expression before disappearing into the throng of lords and ladies once more. Harwin will catch you like he always does—of that you have no doubt. The thrill is in making him work for it.

But for now, the game continues, and you savor every moment of it.

The night is young, and so are you—dragon-blooded and bold, playing with fire and reveling in the heat that comes with it.

The music swells, a lively tune that fills the hall with mirth and energy, but it does little to settle the unease that creeps into King Viserys’ chest. Seated at the high table, he holds a goblet of wine, though he has barely touched it. His gaze drifts from one side of the room to the other, watching the mingling guests, the lords and ladies spinning in intricate dances. Yet his eyes keep returning to the center of the hall, where Rhaenyra and Daemon move together with a fluid grace that borders on impropriety.

His brow furrows as he watches them—his daughter and his brother. The distance between them is too narrow, the smiles exchanged too familiar. Even now, after all these years, Viserys cannot fully discern what lies behind those shared glances. His hand tightens on the armrest of his seat, his knuckles whitening with the effort to maintain composure. The court is watching; he cannot afford to let his concerns show. Not here. Not tonight.

But then, from the corner of his eye, something else catches his attention—a flash of deep plum silk, a braid of silver hair glinting in the candlelight. His eyes shift, narrowing as he tracks the movement, and there you are, his younger daughter, Y/N, weaving through the crowd with that same effortless grace, the very image of your late mother Alyssa in her youth.

Viserys watches as you glide from one partner to the next, a playful smile ever present on your lips. Each lord who steps forward is charmed, entranced even, but there is one figure whose presence never strays far from your orbit—Ser Harwin Strong. The son of his current Hand, a man known for his strength and loyalty, but also for the intensity of his gaze, a gaze that now rests solely on you.

Viserys leans forward slightly, frowning as he observes the exchange unfolding before him. Harwin moves closer, clearly intent on catching you, and you—ever the playful one—tease him with fleeting glances, spinning just out of his reach each time he draws near. The way your eyes gleam with mischief, the way you turn your back only to glance over your shoulder at him, invites more than just a dance. It’s a game, and one that is all too familiar to Viserys, who remembers his own youth, and the thrill of such pursuits.

But then Harwin catches you. His large hand wraps around your waist, pulling you closer, closer than what is proper for a dance in front of the entire court. Your laughter rings out like silver bells, light and teasing as you push back against him, yet the way Harwin’s hand lingers—fingers splayed possessively against the silk of your gown—does not escape your father’s notice. The look on Harwin’s face is far too unguarded, a mixture of admiration and longing that sends a jolt of concern racing through Viserys.

Viserys’ chest tightens as he watches you lean in, saying something that makes Harwin’s smile sharpen, though the words are lost to the music and laughter that fills the hall. Then, just as quickly as he caught you, you slip away again, your skirts swirling as you twirl out of his grasp, leaving Harwin standing in the middle of the floor with a look of mingled frustration and desire. The scene plays out before Viserys like a vivid memory, like something he should have noticed sooner, something he should have acted upon long before tonight.

His eyes narrow as he follows the thread of events with growing unease. You laugh and dance your way out of the hall, light-footed and swift, and though Harwin remains behind for a few moments, his gaze tracks you with the keen eye of a falcon. Then, as discreetly as he can manage, Harwin moves toward the exit, following you.

Viserys’ grip on his goblet tightens until he fears it might shatter in his hand. He remains rooted to his seat, unwilling to cause a scene, yet the implications churn in his mind like a dark tide. The daughter who bears his blood, a Targaryen of pure lineage, slipping away with the son of his Hand? It is unthinkable—and yet, Viserys cannot ignore the undeniable connection between the two of you. The way you moved in tandem, how easily you played off one another as if you were two parts of a whole. It stirs something in Viserys, a deep-seated dread that this could lead to something more—something he has not prepared for.

His gaze shifts, and he meets the eyes of Lord Lyonel Strong. The Hand is seated farther down the table, looking distinctly uncomfortable, as though he too is aware of the precarious position his son is placing him in. When their eyes lock, Viserys does not miss the brief flash of unease in Lyonel’s expression, followed quickly by a nod of acknowledgment, as if to say he understands what Viserys is thinking. And, undoubtedly, he does.

The memory rushes back, clear as day—months ago, when Lyonel Strong came to him with a proposition a second time. “Your Grace,” Lyonel had said, his voice steady and filled with the gravity of a man who understood the weight of his words, “there are many fine matches to be made for your daughter, Y/N, from prominent houses across the realm. But I would humbly suggest that what my son Harwin offers may be worth more than mere lineage. His devotion to the princess is unwavering, and his love is without question. He would be a husband who honors her above all else, a union built on something deeper than mere alliances.”

At the time, Viserys had dismissed the notion—politely, but firmly. His daughter was a Targaryen, and surely she deserved a match that would strengthen their house politically, not merely satisfy matters of the heart. Yet now, watching the scene unfold before him, Viserys finds himself second-guessing his decision. Could there be merit in such a match after all? Could Lyonel’s words hold more truth than Viserys had been willing to see? But then again, to allow such a thing would be to acknowledge a love affair that has clearly grown far beyond simple courtly affection.

Viserys’ thoughts whirl, torn between the duty of a king and the love of a father. He knows that if he raises the matter now, it could cast a shadow over the entire evening, drawing unwelcome attention to something that should remain hidden, if only for the sake of peace. And yet, can he afford to remain silent, knowing the path that such unchecked desire could lead his daughter down? His gaze flicks back to the entrance where you vanished, and a part of him itches to rise from his seat, to go after you and demand answers.

But he stays rooted in place, forced into inaction by the eyes of the court and the weight of his crown. Instead, his gaze returns to Lyonel, and he sees the older man swallow nervously before looking away, clearly wishing to be anywhere else. The tension between them is palpable, unspoken yet undeniable.

Viserys takes a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. The decision he makes next could have lasting consequences, for both you and the realm. As the music swells and the laughter of the court continues around him, the king’s mind churns, trapped in a web of duty, love, and fear.

For now, he decides to wait—he will watch, and if Harwin oversteps again, then the matter will be brought to light. But the seed of doubt has already taken root in Viserys’ heart, and it will not be easily dismissed.

The night is long, but Viserys’ thoughts are longer still.

You slip through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, your heart thrumming in your chest as you make your way deeper into its shadowed recesses. The sound of music and laughter fades behind you as you reach a secluded passage, hidden away from the eyes of the court. This path is familiar, a secret shared only between the two of you. You’ve met here before, during stolen moments when the weight of duty and the eyes of others became too much to bear. The flickering torchlight casts long shadows along the stone walls, giving the space an almost dreamlike quality. Yet there is nothing dreamlike about the tension that crackles in the air as you wait, anticipation coiling like a serpent beneath your skin.

Footsteps echo faintly down the passage, the heavy tread unmistakable. A smirk tugs at your lips as you press your back against the cool stone, the thrill of the chase still buzzing in your veins. He always catches you in the end; it’s a part of the game, a part of the dance you both know so well. You hear him approach, his steps purposeful, a hunter closing in on his prey. You hold your breath, relishing the thrill of being caught, knowing what comes next.

And then he’s there—Ser Harwin Strong, towering and fierce, the firelight casting sharp angles across his rugged features. He looks at you with that smoldering gaze, dark and intense, his chest heaving as he closes the distance between you. “You run from me as if you ever wanted to get away,” he says, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

You don’t reply with words, only a wicked smile that dares him to come closer. And he does, with a predatory grace, until his body is pressed against yours, trapping you between the stone wall and his broad chest. “Caught you,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw while the other grips your waist possessively.

Before you can retort, his lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s anything but gentle. It’s all fire and hunger, the pent-up tension of the night spilling over as he devours you with a need that’s impossible to hide. You kiss him back with equal fervor, fingers tangling in his dark curls as you pull him closer, desperate to close the distance that’s been kept between you all night. Every touch, every bite and nip, is laced with the emotions you can’t express openly—a love too dangerous to voice in the light of day, but undeniable in moments like this.

Harwin’s hands roam over your body with a familiarity that sends heat pooling in your core. He tugs at the laces of your gown, his fingers rough but practiced, until the fabric loosens and falls away, exposing the soft skin of your neck and shoulders. You gasp against his lips as he nips at your throat, the scrape of his teeth drawing a moan from your lips. His own garments follow suit—his tunic and belt discarded hastily, the sound of cloth hitting stone echoing faintly in the small space.

The air between you crackles with a desperate need, the kind that’s built up over countless stolen moments, secret touches, and longing glances. There’s no pretense here, no titles or duties—only the raw, unfiltered connection between you. Harwin’s hands slide down your waist, gripping your hips firmly as he lifts you, pressing you harder against the wall. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, gasping as you feel him against you, hard and ready. The anticipation coils tightly in your belly, every nerve alive with want.

His eyes meet yours for a fleeting moment, and in them, you see everything he can’t say aloud—devotion, desire, and the promise that he would burn the world for you if you asked. But words are unnecessary now. You reach down, guiding him until he’s pressed right where you need him most. There’s a brief, charged pause—a moment where everything hangs on the edge—and then he pushes into you in one smooth, powerful motion.

The world tilts, pleasure and need blurring everything else as he sets a rhythm, hard and fast, the way he knows you both like it. It’s familiar and yet never loses its edge—each thrust, each gasp, sending sparks of electricity through you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, biting down on the rough skin to muffle your cries, while his own growls of pleasure vibrate against your ear. His hands grip you tightly, fingers digging into your flesh as he moves, driving into you with a force that leaves you breathless.

But it’s not just the physical pleasure that binds you in this moment. It’s the intimacy, the shared understanding that this is where you both belong—together, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world. Here, you are not a princess, and he is not merely the son of the Hand. Here, you are simply two people who have found something rare and precious, something that defies the rules of the world you live in.

He kisses you again, slower this time, a searing heat beneath the tenderness as he deepens the connection between you. Your bodies move in sync, finding that perfect rhythm that drives you both higher, closer to the edge. You can feel it building, a tightening coil of pleasure that threatens to snap at any moment. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, a desperate plea, and he responds with your name in kind, low and reverent.

The world narrows to just the two of you—the heat of his body, the rough press of stone at your back, the intoxicating scent of sweat and desire. And then, with one final thrust, the tension breaks, pleasure crashing over you like a wave, drowning you in bliss. Harwin follows a heartbeat later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself deep, his body trembling with the force of his release.

For a long moment, neither of you move, the air thick with the aftermath of your passion. You stay entwined, foreheads pressed together as you catch your breath, your heartbeats slowing in tandem. His hands are still on you, holding you as if he’s afraid you might slip away even now. And for a moment, the world is quiet, all worries and responsibilities forgotten in the haze of sated desire.

But reality is never far away. Slowly, you both come back to yourselves, and he reluctantly pulls back, letting you slide down until your feet touch the ground once more. There’s a flicker of regret in his eyes, a wish that this moment could last longer, but he says nothing as he helps you adjust your gown, his touch gentle now.

You smooth down your skirts, fixing your hair with a practiced ease, though the flush of your skin and the brightness in your eyes would give you away to anyone who looked closely enough. Harwin lingers, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a soft, almost reverent caress. “You always make me chase you,” he murmurs, his voice laced with fondness.“

And you always catch me,” you reply, the smile on your lips tinged with affection. “Perhaps I simply enjoy the chase.”

He chuckles, but there’s a seriousness in his gaze as he cups your face in his hands, holding you still for a moment longer. “One day, I won’t let you run again,” he says quietly, the promise heavy in the air.

You don’t answer, not with words. Instead, you lean up to kiss him one last time, slow and lingering, tasting the bittersweet mix of what you have and what you cannot yet fully claim. When you pull away, you give him a final smile before slipping out of the shadows and back into the world where duty and decorum await.

Harwin remains behind, watching you go with a look that holds both longing and resolve. He knows this is far from over.

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