serharwinstrong

[serharwinstrong]

[serharwinstrong]

⠀⠀⠀𝓓𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐀𝐖 𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐒𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐔𝐍𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐈𝐃𝐄. Refusal flows from her with a furious desperation; every word burning Harwin as though a flaming blade thrust through his mortal flesh. His breath staggers. His mind roars to protest the sheer audacity of how deeply dread's cruel talons dare pierce her. He had known. Had sensed the unease that stained her smiles when children were spoken of, had discerned it in the quiet falter of her gaze when nobles forced words of heirs and legacy into her palms. He had known of her fears, of past ghosts that stubbornly festered in places he could not reach. Still, he is stunned by the sheer, incomprehensible, enormity of her dread. She is already grieving a fate that has not, will not, come to pass. There is a deafening, grisly crack in his ear, resonating through his skull and rendering him breathless. Every lament that trickles from her sweet lips, so achingly genuine in their fear, shatters Harwin's heart into jagged shards of glass. She clings to him as though he is her tether to reason, and instinctively, his arms tighten.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Rhaenyra, ❜ Harwin whispers, soft, incredulous, and utterly in love — with the timbre of a man who would sooner raze entire kingdoms before granting the Stranger even a fleeting breath in her presence, ❛ You will do all of these things and more. Deeds to shake the very roots of the realm. ❜ He speaks assurances not to flatter her, but with vehement, sincere conviction; void of doubt and utterly doused in truth. Because he has been blessed to witness the fire in her, the fighting spirit, and never before has he known such indomitable strength. His palm finds her cheek, cradling her with the reverence of a pious creature blessed to hold something holy, his thumb brushes the proud arc of her cheek, warm and soft and entirely his.

⠀⠀⠀❛ It may still be too soon to know what your symptoms herald. But whatever comes, you must hear me — you are healthy and strong. You are capable of facing any battle and rising victorious. ❜ His mouth presses to her temple, sowing kiss after kiss into her fevered skin. Amid the devastation within his chest, there is but one wish; to siphon her grief, her terror, into his own bones. He would drink the rotting poison himself, allow it to feast upon his marrow, to mar his flesh. Not hers. Gods please, never hers. She bore too much already, had been scarred by life and carried burdens he could never understand.

⠀⠀⠀❛ My sweet wife, we are not chased by some thief of time — an eternity of breath lies ahead of us. Trust in your strength. It will not forsake you. ❜ A fleeting pause. His eyes, fierce with unwavering belief, searching hers as he delivers his next oath, his life's oath, ❛ . . . nor will I. ❜ The words are spoken firmly. Assertively, for he needs her to understand. It is a vow from his soul to hers, that there is no single reality where he would not choose Rhaenyra. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was of more value to him. Nothing was more precious, more important, than the woman in his arms. And Gods help him, Harwin would readily slay any man who dared imply otherwise. 

THERE WAS NO BATTLEFIELD BLOODIER than the one she now waged within her own flesh. Even before he spoke it, the fear had begun to bloom— quiet, slow, as though rot beneath golden fruit. Perhaps she had always known this moment would come, but she had prayed, foolishly, that it would not so soon. Her hand, traitorous in its own curiosity, had indeed drifted to her lower belly more than once these past days . . . absently, searchingly. She had dismissed it. Fever does strange things. Fatigue alters the body. The road had been long and their wedding tour ceaseless, filled with endless faces, countless goblets, and nights tangled in beds that were not their own. Her appetite had waned. Her sleep turned restless. Her courses had not come. But she had refused to give the thought purchase. Her throat burning with the urge to deny him. Even as she trembled with a truth too monstrous to face.⠀ ❛ No. ❜ She swallowed hard, as if by sheer will she might shove the thought back into the dark place it had crawled from. ❛ No. You are mistaken. I am merely . . . overwrought. This journey, the heat, the excitement—it is far too soon for such talk. ❜ Her voice laced itself in courtly polish, as though manners might serve as armor. As though if she sounded composed, she might become so. ❛ My humors are disordered. It is the road, the wine, the poor meats we’ve been served. A dozen petty reasons. ❜ Her fingers curled inward, clutching at naught but linen and flesh. Could she be? The question was a tide, rising despite every barrier she’d raised against it. It pooled behind her eyes, behind her breastbone, behind the lie she had told him only moments before. You are mistaken. But she knew. Of course she knew. Her body had whispered it before he had spoken it aloud. Her limbs ached with a quiet purpose. Her belly felt foreign—tightened, tender. Her moods had shifted like storm-winds, her appetite spoiled by every scent. And the blood that should have come had not. Still, she clung to the fiction.

For she has heard this tale before. In the wailing chambers of Maegor’s Holdfast, in the blood-slicked bed of a queen who once laughed like bells and smelled of lavender and milk. In the tremor of her father's voice when he dared speak of her mother only in hushes, as if the very memory might summon grief anew. She had seen the death-mask her mother donned, eyes glassy and still, skin like wet parchment, and had known, even then, even as a child, that this realm devoured women whole — notably those who dared the birthing bed. She grips his hand in hers—hard, bone to bone. Anchor to anchor. She is sick with fear, but worse, she is mourning already. Mourning the girl she will no longer be, the careless joy of days where her name was her own and her future unwritten. My mother died, she wants to say. She screamed and tore and bled and she, and the child, still did not live. Instead, she presses her face to his shoulder, hiding from the realm, from him, even as she seeks his warmth. ❛ I have not yet been a wife in full, nor traveled the realm beyond this cursed tour. I have not learned the small courtesies of ruling, nor where to keep my swords hidden beneath my silks. ❜ The chamber seems to grow smaller then; the walls inching inward, the fire offering too much heat, and not nearly enough light. His arms, though they encircle her with naught but love, suddenly feel like a noose knotted from tenderness and duty both. She tilts her head just slightly, so that her cheek brushes his collarbone. The scent of him—oak, leather, steel—grounding her, and even so, she cannot bear to look at him. ❛ . . . We have only just begun. ❜

[serharwinstrong]

⠀⠀⠀𝓗𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐍'𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐎𝐍, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐖𝐈𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐀 𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐇 drawn to her radiant, irresistible flame. Eagerly, he follows her into the shade of the archway, into ruin; where her touch is featherlight, yet bears the power of barbed tendrils of searing steel, coiling around his spine and setting his very soul ablaze. There is an inextricable tether, an invisible force that tightens around his heart with each painfully tantalising sweep of her delicate fingers. He stiffens, with alarm and helpless longing. With each syllable she breathes into being, he is further unmade. Her velvet lips, her breath, are whispered blessings against him, carving behind a trail of scorched flesh, flooding his senses with the heady perfume of her; each surge of her dangerous sweetness a vicious assault upon his defences. Gods, it is madness. Utter, shameless, condemning madness. She is untouchable, yet there she is, touching him, her hushed words against his skin weaving her wants into existence. And Harwin's blood sings in response — every stretch of him ignites with yearn to touch her in return, the dark curl of desire twisting deep within his abdomen. He had faced brute foes and unspeakable cruelties, and stood before them as an unshakable man of war. And yet she trembles him more fiercely than any battle.

⠀⠀⠀Harwin's eyes soften, his brows easing; a silent, final plea for mercy emerging through the dense fog of yearn. She does not heed it. Of course she does not; she never surrendered to what did not please her, and it almost inspires a smitten laugh to boom through his chest. Her final breath brushes against his lips, and the restraint he has clung to, knuckles white and bleeding, frays and unravels. Say nothing, unless it's yes. 

⠀⠀⠀❛ My princess, ❜ he whispers, coarse and low, disobeying her command with reverence; it is a low sound, a sound that teeters dangerously close to a wanting growl, a sound that carries more weight and meaning than any three-letter-assent ever could. It is not right, Gods, he will burn for this he is certain, but Harwin's hand lifts of its own accord, cupping her rosy cheek with the lightest, indulgent caress. He breathes her in; greedily, needfully. Memorising. Damning himself to it. She is impossibly soft. Softer than he might ever have imagined. And breath is caught in his throat. Momentarily, his eyes flicker shut, as he memorises the feeling of her, the warmth of her. It is purely selfish, as though he dreads never again being afforded this luxury. As though he expects the Stranger to claim him next and drag him to the eternal, fiery depths — and Harwin is only a man desperate to take the memory of her skin with him.

⠀⠀⠀❛ A perilous thing you are . . . Seven help me, you will be my undoing. ❜ he murmurs, his thumb drifting to her chin, anchoring her, leaning achingly near — though he refuses to steal the final breath himself. Their lips ghost, breath shared, brows brushing, his nose grazing hers. His other hand finds her waist, grasping as though a starved man grasps for sustenance.

⠀⠀⠀❛ I am entirely yours. ❜ A beat. A thunderous crack of lightning in his chest. And in the taut silence that follows, Harwin holds his breath — and he swears that the Gods do so too.

⠀⠀IT IS THE LOOK IN HIS EYES THAT RUINS HER FIRST — that rare, ruinous flicker of devotion laced with denial, as though her very existence rends him in two. Not right, he says, and it falls from his tongue like a benediction and a blade in a manner all the same. Rhaenyra tilts her head, studying him like a scholar might study the contours of a dragon’s skull — with awe, with curiosity, and with a yearn deftly honed by the thrill of danger. ❛ Not right, ❜ she repeats, her tone caught somewhere between amusement and mockery — a whisper swaddled in silk and thorn. ❛ Gods, Ser Harwin . . . If righteousness were a blade, you’d fall on it gladly to spare me from sin. ❜ She leans in. Not enough to touch, but enough that her perfume ( cypress and dragonbone resin, something wild blooming beneath something royal ) threads its fingers through the air between them. Then, without warning, she pivots, and the flash of her movement is all purpose and provocation. Her boots carry her across the stone with a dancer’s ease and a duelist’s certainty, skirts whispering secrets to the breeze, hair lit with the noon sun like silver aflame. Her path winds along the training yard's edge, weaving between shattered targets and stray practice swords, until she halts near the weatherworn archway that leads to the covered colonnade — a place shadowed and half-forgotten, where squires go to steal moments of rest or gossip, where heat and stone no longer rule quite so fiercely.

Her fingers trace the rough edge of the pillar beside her, idly, as though the ancient stone might share in her amusement. Then: ❛ Come, ❜ she calls, but softly — a command veiled in gossamer. ❛ There are things I would say beyond the clatter of steel and shouting boys. ❜ She turns slowly once he follows, letting her gaze trace the strong line of his shoulders, the sun-warmed disarray of his hair, the small hesitations stitched into his breath, and finds herself deeply amused, and just the faintest bit undone. The shadows here are gentler, the sunlight filtered through carved stone slats in golden ribbons. It is cooler, quieter, a place tucked just far enough from the yard that the realm feels paused. She draws near enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin, and then she reaches out — at last — just once; her fingers skimming the coarse fabric near his collarbone, the brush of a whisper made flesh. Her lips grazing his jaw now, soft, reverent, maddening; the barest touch that could be called innocent by a liar or a fool. Then lower, the tip of her nose sweeping the edge of his throat. ❛ I could have anyone, ❜ she whispers, ❛ and yet… it is only you I want. ❜ When she pulls back, it’s only by inches; the space between them is ruinous. A chasm made of restraint and what scarcely remains of it.

❛ Say nothing, ❜ she says again, ❛ Unless it’s yes. ❜

[serharwinstrong]

⠀⠀⠀𝓗𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐀 𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐓 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐄; 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐃. Harwin is no inexperienced fool, he sees what she is doing, what wily weapons she wields. Sees it in the subtle ember that light her eyes, in the devious twitch of those lips. And in the way she toys with the wedge of citrus, as though a predator tormenting its prey before devouring it. Every syllable she speaks echoes with the lightness of jest, but beneath the saccharine veil coils something perilous, a veritable siren's call that beckons him to fall into ruin. And he, Seven Hells, he is only a man; as helpless and malleable as the pulp she crushes between her fingers, despite his given titles of strength and bravery. She fixes him neath her smouldering gaze and Harwin is immovable, his heart thundering with both exhilaration and fear. If only he could believe what she does is nothing but fleeting mischief. If only his blood did not answer her voice like a war cry, eager to leap into battle, to burn. The corners of his own mouth tug into the semblance of a smile, but it is a brittle thing. His shields fracturing beneath the weight of her every onslaught. He exhales, a shallow and ragged sound; half-chuckle, half-plea for mercy. It falls unanswered, and still he does not flee. Still, he willingly remains; rooted, enthralled, and entirely powerless. She is dangerous, a daring creature of fire — and Gods, how he revels in her and her divinely spun torment.

⠀⠀⠀❛ You mistake me, Princess. I would never be so bold as to even try to tempt you. Her highness is clever enough to discern such entrapment from leagues away. ❜ He counters, meeting her mischief with a bold touch of his own. The bread in his hands cracks and crumbles as he tears into it, and he eats what he gathered with the desperation of a famished beast clinging to the illusion of control. Alas, each bite is but a futile attempt to distract from the image of her fingers, her lilac gaze, her mouth. Gods, her mouth — glistening from the juice of the fruit, the languid sweep of her tongue an intentional taunt sent by the Stranger himself. Her lips are stained with gold, and he has never harboured a fiercer wish to taste something forbidden.

⠀⠀⠀He swallows thickly, shame simmering just beneath want. Again, she is a princess. The princess. Rhaenyra. Heir to the iron throne. And he is her sworn knight, meant to guard, not to gaze. To protect, not to yearn. She deserves honour, not the visions that crawl through his mind; the sound of her sighs in his ear, the heat of her breath against his skin, the feel of her fingers, grazing his scalp or clutching his tunic, or his name — not a title, but a plea. Harwin's teeth grind another mouthful of bread, but it does nothing to smother the flames that ravage.

⠀⠀⠀❛ No, the duties that fall to me are far more dangerous than plain bread and cheese. Some require blade and shield, others silence . . . restraint. ❜ he breathes, his own eyes meeting hers; searching, though for what he does not yet know. Mercy, perhaps. Or maybe her understanding that he would hold to his knightly vows to honour her, that no matter how devastating the inferno in his depths, his hand would never stray.

⠀⠀⠀❛ And some . . . require that I stand in the presence of fire and do nothing. ❜

⠀⠀⠀THE FRUIT, HALF-EATEN, GLISTENED IN HER HAND—its nectar trailing in languid rivulets down the slope of her thumb. She let her tongue chase it slowly, purposefully, tasting the pulp and perhaps the power too. Poor man. She was no innocent flame for him to warm his hands by. Rhaenyra shifts her weight, feigning comfort against the edge of the worn oak table. The kitchen is modest, rustic in a way the rest of the Red Keep dares not be; it smells of flour and earth and flame. A far cry from the honeyed rot of court. Her gaze follows the round of his shoulders, the way his arms cradle the simple fare with a reverence most men would reserve for relics of the Faith. It is disarming, that boyishness, that sheepish grin softening the lines of a face built for war. Rhaenyra perched herself like a feline at rest — hips against the flour-dusted wood of the worktable, one bare foot trailing along the leg of it, as if drawing sigils in the air. There was a kind of honesty to his hunger, both the physical and the other, the one that lived behind his gaze like a tide swelling to breach. She could feel it lapping at the edge of her own composure. When he returns triumphant with armfuls of bread and cheese and meat, her brows arch in mock surprise. A lioness lounging in a bed of spice-scented air, all teeth just beneath the surface. ❛ I see no axe nor gallows in sight . . . ❜ she murmured, ❛ only your appetite, mounting with the hour. ❜

And mine, she did not say. But oh, it breathed beneath every word, every breath she drew with him in the room. It thrilled her.

( It frightened her. )

What unspooled in her was curiosity, deep and dangerous, devouring. She wished to know what it would feel like to let her weight fall against him, to test the breadth of those arms not as shield but as sanctuary. She wanted to know what dreams he buried beneath that dutiful silence, what battles he’d fought within himself. What made him laugh when no one else was listening. What made him soft. She bit into the crust of the bread he’d brought her and chewed slow; her gaze never straying. He remained just beyond reach, arms no longer full of bread and bounty but hanging at his sides; wide, capable hands that looked as though they had known war and work and the gentle shape of things they wished to protect. She wondered, distantly, what they might feel like at the base of her spine. At her throat. In her hair. The thought startled her in its bluntness. She exhaled through her nose, a sound too soft to call a laugh, and reached again for the fruit — now bruised where her fingers had pressed too tightly, its flesh dark, scent lush and overripe. ❛ Do all your knightly duties involve stealing from pantries and tempting princesses with bread and cheese? ❜

[serharwinstrong]

⠀⠀⠀𝓘𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐖𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐑𝐇𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐌 with the lion of the rock. Armour and inhibitions shed, their conversation had flowed unburdened by courtly pretence. Straying from the politics of arranged unions and the quiet thorns of being chosen without the merest whisper of warning. Though their paths were carved in much different stone, Harwin recognised the kinship between them — each bound to a lady much too glorious for this realm, too divine to merely be adored. @halflion, somewhere between jest and sincerity, had spoken of his own marriage, of how hearts may yet find one another, even in the shadow of duty. His words slip between Harwin's ribs, igniting the first and ever so faint flicker of hope. Aided, perhaps, by the potent liquid that had not once ceased flowing, beckoning them both deep into the mists of intoxication — to quips that teeter dangerously near indecent, each dragging a roar of laughter from deep within Harwin's chest. Time faded into oblivion. The chamber began to sway, began to echo boisterously. The drink loosening his limbs, softening the edges of his thoughts, and lifting the weight that pressed upon his shoulders, if only fleetingly. He could scarcely recall when last he felt so carefree.

⠀⠀⠀Which is why, when Tyrion abruptly slams the flask down and declares, with the overzealous might of a man who has forgotten he can barely walk, that he must see his wife this very instant, Harwin does not question it. As Tyrion attempts to take his first, enthusiastic stride towards the doors, he sways and stumbles. Harwin, blessed with brawn and marginally greater tolerance, shakes his head, chuckles, and rises too. He sways only thrice before, without warning, placing the other man upon his shoulder — as though a child wearied of walking. It is a wonder that strength and balance do not forsake him as they venture ( stagger ) through the corridors, Tyrion pausing some drunken song to direct Harwin's path with slurred confidence.

⠀⠀⠀They do not knock. The heavy doors to @ladyofwinterroses's solar fling open in an unruly announcement of their arrival. Tyrion bellows joyfully, and Harwin merely falters. Sobers. His feet halt. For she is there — @gevierina. Wreathed in golden candlelight. Poised as though a regal sculpture come to life; graceful, divine, devastatingly radiant. For a heartbeat too long, he stares. Gawks. Breath suspended in his throat. Gods, she is beautiful. And he, terribly intoxicated, propriety slipping through his fingers as though the finest silk.

⠀⠀⠀❛ My . . . my wife, ❜ Harwin slurs, fingers digging into Tyrion's leg where he sits upon his shoulder, ❛ you shame the very stars. ❜ His knees bend in a graceless bow, Tyrion slipping from his grasp and landing on his own feet. ❛ Forgive the intrusion, Princess . . . Lady Sansa, but your husband insisted to see you. I could not, in good conscience, allow him to venture alone given his condition. ❜ Harwin says with a sheepish grin, his gaze barely flickering from Rhaenyra. Though when it does, it sails to Sansa's rounded stomach — something new warms his chest, something profound and deeply buried. With mind and restraint nestled far within the haze of the drink, he speaks afore reason can silence him,

⠀⠀⠀❛ Ah, a babe on the way. Gods willing, may mine own not only bear her fire, but her eyes too. ❜

[serharwinstrong]

⠀⠀⠀𝓤𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐈𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐂𝐈𝐑𝐂𝐔𝐌𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒, 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐖𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐃 the witticisms. Might have laughed, heartily and with ease, and offered some tale or quip in return. There were nights where he might have requested the flask with a grin. But the sullen cloud that loomed over him and his young marriage hung too heavy, dimming the flicker of levity and light to naught but a dying ember. Still, though Harwin offers only a grunt of half-amusement, there is wordless appreciation in it. He sees the parallel Tyrion draws, the sentiment not lost on him; dragons and wolves, fire and frost, both of them wed to women who were never meant to be possessed. Still, he does not yet tear his gaze from the sea beyond the window. Rhaenyra. Even now, enveloped in the haze of wine, her name sets his mind alight.

⠀⠀⠀❛ She carries herself with such poise I would not be privy to any discontent. Though I’d wager she’s in splendid spirits without me looming about. Likely trading woes with your good lady-wife. ❜ He replies wryly, perhaps even with a tinge of guilt Harwin knows he has no right to feel wronged, not when she is a prisoner of expectation, not when she had clawed at the only fragment of choice left to her. In truth, he thinks what stings most, what he grieves, is not the loss of the life he led being bound to her, but the knowledge that she had acted in sheer desperation. Gods, Rhaenyra had chosen him, but only because all other paths had promised ruin. She chose the cage that felt least cruel, least damning. Chose him because she believed him most safe. So how could he lament? Even wed, even shackled to a noble title he never sought, Harwin could disappear into the night if he pleased and none would whisper of scandal. But she, his wife, every breath she drew was under scrutiny. Every word, every glance, every step — watched. She would never taste freedom, and the bitter injustice of it cleaves him.

⠀⠀⠀❛ You'd think men, who deem themselves so wise, might have learnt by now the perils of trying to chain what cannot be restrained. Fire will melt her fetters. Ice shatters hers to piercing shards. ❜ He turns from the window, the waves below crashing like the war in his chest, and welcomes the flask. The drink is rich, noticeably of finer quality than what had rippled in his ( now empty ) chalice. It flows down his throat, its flavour layered, divine, and it burns him in manners most pleasant — in manners that, maddeningly, remind him of Rhaenyra. He returns the flask.

⠀⠀⠀❛ At the very least, you were spared the spectacle of a wedding tour. We are to journey for an entire turn of the seasons. ❜ He says with a quiet groan. The accursed carriages would be his undoing. ❛ Tell me — do the depths of the Rock hide any tunnels fit to swallow a man, should he take the urge to disappear? ❜

IN TRUTH, TYRION HAD CONSIDERED lighting a candle in Lord Strong's honor — if only to cast more dramatic shadows over his already heroic sulk. It made for a beautiful tragedy. As Harwin loosed his quip, Tyrion allowed himself a smirk, a sharp gleam honed to filigree. He tipped his goblet in idle salute and, with a voice like honey dripped over glass, said: ❛ A lion is permitted to roam freely, my dear friend, so long as his roar is louder than his scent. ❜ He moved nearer, the soft soles of his boots making barely a whisper across the polished stone, his gaze flickering once—pointedly—toward the vast sprawl of sea. It sparkled like false coin under torchlight, and Tyrion found himself mildly annoyed by its extravagance. ❛ Or teeth, should the roar falter and the charm fail—which, in my case, rarely occurs simultaneously. ❜ The silence hung far too heavy, spiced with salt and wine and the faint scent of noble rot. Tyrion took another sip. He made a small, satisfied sound, as though the dornish red agreed with his assessment of the realm's foolishness.

❛ So. How fares the silver heir? ❜ A breeze ghosted through the stonework, tousling Tyrion’s curls and making a mockery of the drink’s feeble warmth. He turned now, fully, studying him with a scholar’s precision and a poet’s ruin. ❛ Irony, wouldn't you agree? Yours breathes fire. Mine, frost. But neither of them care for cages, no matter how prettily we gild the bars. ❜ He reached into the folds of his doublet, producing a silver flask far better than the wine served in the Rock’s more formal halls. With a casual air and the elegance of a practiced rogue, he uncorked it and offered it to Harwin with a half-bow. ❛ . . . There is no cruelty so quiet as the absence of affection in a marriage born of duty alone. ❜

⊹⠀ཐི ༏ ཋྀ⠀*⠀˖⠀⊹ ❨ @serharwinstrong — a continued story ❩

[serharwinstrong]

Harwin Strong in House of the Dragon (so far) [requested by anon]

[serharwinstrong]

SECRETS, LIES AND CONFESSIONS SENTENCE QUOTES. a collection of sentences and quotes found on goodreads with the key words of: secrets, lies and confessions. you can change pronouns, locations, name and anything else you see fit.

SECRETS 

“Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”

“If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.”

“Your visions will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.”

“I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone.”

“I'd learned that some things are best kept secret.”

“The more you leave out, the more you highlight what you leave in.”

“I thought about how there are two types of secrets: the kind you want to keep in, and the kind you don't dare to let out.”

“A good friend keeps your secrets for you. A best friend helps you keep your own secrets.”

“Lies and secrets, Tessa, they are like a cancer in the soul. They eat away what is good and leave only destruction behind.”

“Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.”

“A picture is a secret about a secret, the more it tells you the less you know.”

“Never hide things from hardcore thinkers. They get more aggravated, more provoked by confusion than the most painful truths.”

“Word spread because word will spread. Stories and secrets fight, stories win, shed new secrets, which new stories fight, and on.”

“With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not.”

“A secret's worth depends on the people from whom it must be kept.”

“Sometimes, the biggest secrets you can only tell a stranger.”

“The best way of keeping a secret is to pretend there isn't one.”

“I never lie," I said offhand. "At least not to those I don't love.”

“When I like people immensely I never tell their names to anyone. It is like surrendering a part of them. I have grown to love secrecy.”

“I've learned that we're all entitled to have our secrets.”

“I feel bare. I didn't realize I wore my secrets as armor until they were gone and now everyone sees me as I really am.”

“Don't trust people who tell you other people's secrets.”

“Everybody sees me as this sullen and insecure little thing. Those are just the sides of me that I feel necessary to show because no one else seems to be showing them.”

“People are secretive when they have secrets.”

“If I maintain my silence about my secret it is my prisoner...if I let it slip from my tongue, I am ITS prisoner.”

“You cannot let your parents anywhere near your real humiliations.”

“Everybody has scars, and every scar has a story. Especially the ones you don’t see. Those go deeper. And cause more damage.”

“Sometimes, loyalty gets in the way of what you want to do. Sometimes, it’s not your secret to tell.”

“It was almost comforting, this mutual acceptance of our secrets.”

“Don't you ever want to have just one thing that no one else knows about, so no one can ruin it for you?”

“I choose to love you in silence, for in silence I find no rejection.

I choose to love you in loneliness, for in loneliness no one owns you but me.

I choose to hold you in my dreams, for in my dreams you have no end.”

“All the secrets of the world worth knowing are hiding in plain sight.”

“This is what happens. You tell your friends your most personal secrets, and they use them against you.”

“Lies don't end relationships the truth does.”

“Books let us into their souls and lay open to us the secrets of our own."

“The Universe doesn't like secrets. It conspires to reveal the truth, to lead you to it.”

“What you didn't tell someone was just as debilitating as what you did.”

“I prefer death to dishonor for me and my child.”

“Elizabeth felt as if every cell in her body was aflame with desire.”

“Aye. I’m afraid for my immortal soul now.”

“But some secrets are too delicious not to share.”

“I know a secret,and secrets breed paranoia.”

“Some secrets are meant to be known- but once known you can never forget them.”

“The story of my family. . .changes with the teller.”

CONFESSIONS

“To fall in love with God is the greatest romance; to seek him the greatest adventure; to find him, the greatest human achievement.”

"That's why I haven't said it. It's not the right word for you and what I feel for you."

"Shut up. If you care about me at all, you'll just shut up and go away."

"I've been loved before--by Corinne, by other women...But what the hell do they know about me? What the hell are they in love with when they don't know how fucked up I am? If that's love, it's nothing compared to what I feel for you.”

“Everyone has two memories. The one you can tell and the one that is stuck to the underside of that, the dark, tarry smear of what happened.”

“You're the most annoying girl on the planet. You make me want to throw myself off a bridge. And, unfortunately, I am one hundred percent, head-over-heels, crazy in love with you.”

“They always say they didn't. I never heard of one who said, 'You know, I deserve this.' Never happens.”

“It’s inevitable. But we pretend it isn’t until that point where we can’t deny it anymore. Then we begin to repent.”

“No! We repent for the opportunities that we missed. The doors we should have walked through.”

“We make the choice . . . and then the choice makes us”

“I thought I understood what was best. I knew too little and believed too soon.”

“after the words were out, I felt... lighter.”

"Confession: if you gave me the chance, I'd love you until forever."

“Late have I loved you, O beauty ever ancient, ever new, late have I loved you!”

“If no one is perfect in this world, then it would be foolish of you to confess your sins to anyone. Unless you feel they must be perfect in the first place!”

“It's an easy thing to confess one's faults. But what dusk is deep enough to hide one's virtues?”

“When I pulled you on top of me and, you know, gazed dreamily into your eyes and said I liked you, I did not mean as friends. Obviously.”

“Loving you is like breathing. It’s impossible for me to stop.”

“For the same reason I can’t cast a spell to make your eyes green. You can’t create what already is. I was in love with you before that.”

“The one sincere confession is the one we make indirectly - when we talk about other people.”

“Memories remains about you always within my heart.”

“Your beauty. is impossible to define. Maybe divine?”

"I enjoy a good blurting out of secrets as much as the next person.”

“When you fight evil with evil, the outcome is certain: evil will win”

“I tried to unlove you, i failed”

“I must confess that... the most wasted of all days is the day that does not bring you.”

“Without confession, there is no cleansing.”

“i just want to be honest about my feelings without destroying everything.”

“Sometimes you feel alone because, like you, others aren't so ready to confess their shortcomings and struggles.”

“I’m a fixer, Allie. Taking care of others is what I do. I don’t know how to turn it off.”

“I want to hear you say those words again. If you do, I won't hold my feelings anymore. I might hug you or kiss you.”

“Yes, I’ve killed! I’ve killed as indiscriminately as God! And yes, I will kill again. I must.”

“Self-destruction is inevitable because existence is a full-time job.”

“Words are confessions of your actions. Choose them wisely.”

LIES

“If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything.”

“I'm not upset that you lied to me, I'm upset that from now on I can't believe you.”

“The reason I talk to myself is because I’m the only one whose answers I accept.”

“I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me.”

“It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness.”

“There are three types of lies -- lies, damn lies, and statistics.”

“A truth that's told with bad intent, Beats all the lies you can invent.”

“It is better to offer no excuse than a bad one.”

“If you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed.”

“If you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed.”

“Lies and secrets, Tessa, they are like a cancer in the soul. They eat away what is good and leave only destruction behind.”

“It is an occupational hazard that anyone who has spent her life learning how to lie eventually becomes bad at telling the truth.”

“Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.”

“Lies require commitment.”

“Things come apart so easily when they have been held together with lies.”

“History is a set of lies agreed upon.”

“The best lies about me are the ones I told.”

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave...when first we practice to deceive.”

“Oh, don't cry, I'm so sorry I cheated so much, but that's the way things are.”

“Nothing is ever certain.”

“Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no fibs.”

“Anyone who believes what a cat tells him deserves all he gets.”

“A thing may happen and be a total lie; another thing may not happen and be truer than the truth.”

“Better to get hurt by the truth than comforted with a lie.”

“I have a higher and grander standard of principle than George Washington. He could not lie; I can, but I won't.”

“The visionary lies to himself, the liar only to others.”

“We're all islands shouting lies to each other across seas of misunderstanding.”

“Lying is done with words, and also with silence.”

“There are few reasons for telling the truth, but for lying the number is infinite.”

“The only thing more frustrating than slanderers is those foolish enough to listen to them.”

“Always sleep with one eye open. Never take anything for granted. Your best friends might just be your enemies.”

“I guess sometimes you have to lie to find the truth.”

“The cruelest lies are often told in silence.”

“The truth is messy. It's raw and uncomfortable. You can't blame people for preferring lies.”

“When no one you know tells the truth, you learn to see under the surface.”

“A half-truth is the most cowardly of lies.”

[serharwinstrong]

⠀⠀⠀𝓗𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 — 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐍, 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄. Their clandestine meetings were deeply measured, carved in secrecy, laced with profound caution and guarded with such ferocity, as though sacred and ancient relics. The armoury was too open, too exposed, too great a risk. It is the reason Harwin's spine shudders with foreboding trepidation when he senses her. Before the floor creaks neath her steps, before her breath stirs the air — she is there, weaving herself through the space as though some divine power. Harwin turns to look at her and his heart clenches with aching affection, as it always does when he sights her. But then it plummets, and dread coils around his bones. Something is wrong. He reads it in the tension in her jaw and the grief in her gaze. He sees it vividly behind the subtle, yet unmistakable, crease between her brows, sees how stubbornly she clings to composure. Then she speaks, and the words ring through his skull with deafening volume, his heart setting off in merciless gallop.

⠀⠀⠀Laenor is gone. Dead.

⠀⠀⠀The whetstone halts against the blade, and for a moment that seems both fleeting and infinite, Harwin stills; stunned, allowing the implications of her announcement to sink in. Laenor. A man Harwin had come to deeply respect. For his kindness, for the quiet understanding and grace he had extended to Rhaenyra, as well as him. Theirs had never been a hollow, cruel marriage. It was a construct of compassion, of mutual freedom. Laenor had found joy where his tastes guided him, as had Rhaenyra — with Harwin. It had certainly been an unconventional arrangement, but it was theirs. It was home, and it had granted them a happiness so rare that others thought it only existed in reveries.

⠀⠀⠀Nary a breath had passed since her words filled the chamber, and as the mists of startle dissipate, Harwin moves with purpose. He does not pry, does not reach for answers he knows would come when she chooses to give them. Sorrow is there in her silence, in her rigid posture, in the ever so subtle tremble in her hands. Every fragment of him yearns to close the distance. To gather her into his arms, press his lips to her temple, to whisper the infinite vows he had no right to speak. But even in the hush of the armoury, with only dust and steel for witness, they were not truly unseen. The walls bore ears. The torches bore eyes. The air was thick with danger. So he only rises tall, sheathes the sword, and drags his palm over the line of his jaw. A breath, and then he straightens. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted. He stands before her, not he man who loved her in hidden shadows and kissed her wrists in stolen nights, but a steadfast knight awaiting the orders of his sovereign.

⠀⠀⠀❛ I am yours to command, Your Grace. Anything. Anything you wish — voice it and it shall be done. ❜

BENEATH A SKY TOO VAST to care, Rhaenyra drifted through the keep; her heart a captive to a raven’s cruel missive. No peace had graced her soul since the tidings came—bitter as winter’s bite, sharp as a blade’s cruel edge. Through the corridors she drifted; her night-robe trailing like a mourner’s veil over the frigid stone. Barefoot she went, heedless of the chill that gnawed her flesh, for the burden in her breast left no space for trifles. Her steps bore her onward, drawn by instinct to the armory’s embrace. The door groaned beneath her touch, yielding to reveal a sanctum of steel and shadow. There, a lone torch danced its fitful glow, writhing across racks of steel and a table strewn with the tools of war as @serharwinstrong loomed in his solitude; his tunic loose at the throat, sleeves rolled back to bare sinewed arms. The blade he honed sang its metallic lament, a rhythm thrumming through what stillness remained. He did not turn as she crossed the threshold, though she knew he felt her presence; he always did, as if her soul called to his through the ether. No tears had fallen—none before, none now—yet within her, a wild, keening fracture widened.

Her lips parted to give voice to it, but the words lingered shyly beyond her reach. She had learned to temper her reactions, to hold herself still when the world demanded movement, though standing before him, all that careful mastery threatened to unravel like thread slipping through her fingers. No matter how fiercely she reached for discipline, it eluded her, lost in the weight of his presence, in the enormity of what was to be spoken.

“ Laenor is gone . . . dead. ”

[serharwinstrong]

⠀⠀⠀𝓔𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐔𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐖𝐄. Harwin's heart swells and aches all the same at the sight of her, forgoing her gloriously fierce stubbornness and pride in the way she reaches for him. Gods, it cleaves him. He could fight any other foe, wield his sword against any man who dared threaten her, but against sickness he is utterly powerless. All he can do is hold her, respond to the silent plea in her grasp upon his sleeve. Harwin moves with reverent care, slipping behind her, stretching his legs on either side of her lithe form. As natural as sunrise, his arms encircle her and he draws her back to his chest. She is searing and shivering all at once. He feels the steady thrum of her heart beneath his arms, hears the fragile and jagged breath the trickles from her lips, and senses the delicate tremors that ripple through her body as another tide of chill sweeps her shores. Harwin presses a kiss to her crown, inhaling, revelling, vowing that he will not leave. He could never leave.

⠀⠀⠀And then, even in sickness, she burns him so sweetly. Her unapologetic spirit fiery even in her waning strength. You fret like an old maid, husband. It is deeply poetic how that mere jest stirs something profound within him; a warmth that begins at his heart and percolates, invigorates, every stretch of him. A laugh rumbles neath his ribcage — low and tinged with adoration.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Perhaps I do, wife, ❜ he hums against her hair, a grin, amused and besotted, curving his lips, ❛ though don't speak it too loudly, or else they'll dress me in a maid's gown. And that would be a terrible sight. ❜ He counters playfully, unspooling one arm from around her to reach for the glass of water, bringing it to her mouth as both an offering and gentle plea for her to drink again. He notices it then. How her fingers drift across her stomach. A subconscious, absentminded act, perhaps. Yet breath stills within his lungs nevertheless, heart thundering in sudden, awful hope.

⠀⠀⠀Though they had bridged the chasm, had surrendered to wants and passion, and had entwined in heat and heartbeat, their intimacy was still a new, precious thing. He'd known the dawn of life to require persistent effort. So could it truly be? That soon? Deeming even the small sip she takes a triumph, Harwin returns the water to the bedside table, swallows the heavy stone in his throat, and then speaks — cautiously, trepidatiously, fearful of grazing wounds he knows fester within her marrow.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Rhaenyra . . . ❜ he breathes against her temple, and fleetingly his arms tighten around her, as though she might slip away. ❛ . . . these things are difficult to be sure of, and it would require more time even now. But your symptoms, your fever . . . your delayed moon's blood, ❜ he inhales deeply, the realm's most formidable knight gathering frayed morsels of bravery, ❛ might—might they be signs of . . . more than illness? ❜

THE FEVER CAME IN WAVES, drowning her sense of time, and when Rhaenyra surfaced, it was always to find Harwin waiting, as if a shipwrecked sailor clinging to prayer. Winter had breached her fortress of flesh and bone, and all she could do was shiver as the cold laid siege to her veins. For a moment, she drifted between realms, neither wholly waking nor wholly dreaming, tethered only by the insistent ache that coils through her bones and the brush of calloused fingers that anchor her back to earth. She inhales slowly, and the breath tastes of smoke, snow, and the relentless devotion of the man who keeps vigil at her side. Through the haze that clings to her like a sodden cloak, she feels the careful pressure of the cup against her lips, the chill of the lemon water slicing through the cotton-thick fog of her senses. She swallows instinctively, though it feels much too heavy, as though she has forgotten how to command her own body. A broken, plaintive sound escapes her as the water slicks down her parched throat, and even so, Harwin only leans nearer. And when his arm slips behind her, lifting her with infinite care, she sags into him without thought, without pride. She is too spent to protest the indignity, and some part of her even craves the solace he offers so freely, without expectation or demand. Rhaenyra turns her face into the rough weave of his tunic, breathing him in; leather, pine, smoke, home . . . and allows herself, for a fleeting moment, to be soft. ( To be small. )

“ You fret like an old maid, husband, “ she rasps, the words slipping out on a thread of air, brittle and thin. She hates this helplessness. Hates the way her body, ever her most faithful weapon, has betrayed her into frailty. Her free hand drifts downward almost without thought, ghosting over the tender plane of her abdomen, where the fire in her blood seems to burn hottest. It is a blind, instinctual gesture, and still it lingers there. Gods, she is so tired. So cold and so hot all at once; her limbs a battlefield of trembling weakness. Tears stinging at the corners of her eyes, and she squeezes them shut, grinding her teeth against the wave of helplessness that rises within her. She will not cry. She will not. Her hand tightens feebly in his sleeve, a silent command: stay. Pride, stubborn even now, binding her tongue. So she clings to him in silence, trusting that he will hear the sentiment all the same, in the faltering beat of her heart against his, in the helpless quiver of her body beneath his hands. The chambers faded once more, but his arms did not; and so, she let herself fall.

[serharwinstrong]

[serharwinstrong]

[serharwinstrong]

𝕴n the waning days of 𝟏𝟏𝟓 𝐀𝐂, as snow fell like sifted ash across the North, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Ser Harwin Strong arrived, at long last, in Winterfell. Word of the royal progress had preceded them, but the Starks greeted them an austere yet heartfelt welcome, hosting a grand feast in the Grand Hall in their honor.

[serharwinstrong]

[serharwinstrong]

⠀⠀⠀THE SIGHT OF HER IN THE THROES OF ILLNESS is an agony that twists Harwin’s chest. The bitter winds of Winterfell had found their way into her bones, conspiring to drain the divine fire from her veins. His heart cracks anew with each shiver that wracks her slender form, each laboured breath she draws, and each frustrated whine when she attempts to rise but falters as strength slips through her frail grasp. The rising tide of worry threatens to drown him as he watches helplessly, his fierce and formidable wife, imprisoned beneath the cruel weight of both fever and chill — and all he holds power to do is offer her his unyielding affections. So he tends to her with meticulous care; stoking the hearth as though trying to summon a flame powerful enough to scorch away the chill. He holds her close to his chest in desperate attempts to exile the accursed shivers rippling through her body, pressing his lips to her fevered temple, whispering assurances of healing and strength. And when an abrupt onslaught of heat strikes her, when her skin grows slick with sweat and she begins to feel stifled, Harwin is swift to leap to his feet, to fetch a cool cloth for her brow, to ease her suffering in whatever way he can.

⠀⠀⠀The maesters speak in hushed tones, offering no more than teas and urging patience. But as time passes without a cease in her waning fortitude, desperation drives Harwin to seek out Lord Stark himself; to request ( demand ) they summon the counsel of maesters and herbalists from the villages. Lord Stark had agreed, but not before speaking of another possible culprit behind Rhaenyra’s sickness, one that thieves the very breath from Harwin’s lungs and threatens to bring him to his knees. He speaks of similar symptoms, suffered by his own ladywife in the early days of pregnancy. Harwin’s heart had stilled, and an intricate surge of emotion had crashed upon him; astonishment, trepidation, and something that was much too vast to name. He understands now why the maesters had insisted patience — to see if she displays other characteristic symptoms, to see if her moon’s blood arrives. 

⠀⠀⠀Overcome by instinct to be by her side, he flees snow and frigid breeze in favour of the embrace of their chambers, where his poor wife lays, her breath slow, her body curled beneath furs that did nothing to warm her. The sight fractures his chest, undoes him all again. He crosses the chamber, draping his heavy cloak over her lithe frame, the warmth of him lingering upon it, and presses a kiss to her forehead, his voice low and tender, 

⠀⠀⠀❛ Sleep, my stubborn wife. You will be well. ❜ he murmurs, the words a plea for her to find rest. And as she slumbers, Harwin’s mind is consumed by one thought; his gaze drifts to her stomach, and he dares indulge the barest hope, the barest reverie of a child — their child. A pristine embodiment of them both. Gods, could it be true? He watches her drift into rare peace with reverence upon his features, watches her as though some sign might reveal itself to him. He aches to speak of it with her, yet he knows too the complexity of her feelings regarding the matter. Still, Harwin cannot halt himself from wondering, from hoping. 

⠀⠀⠀When she rouses, he is on his knees at her bedside, a cool cloth pressed to her brow and his cloak drawn back from her body. She had stirred in her sleep, keened quietly, her skin florid and damp; having recognised it as another flash of heat, he had sprung to eager aid. His gaze softens as their eyes meet, noting the weight of exhaustion and illness behind amethysts, but also something else — an unmistakable, stubborn blaze within her, despite her condition. He smiles, endeared, tenderly brushing damp strands of silver hair from her brow,

⠀⠀⠀❛ Are you thirsty? I requested lemon water be brought for you. Here— ❜ He rises to pour the drink before returning with the cup, offering his arm to support in her rise, ❛ They say it is an effective remedy to settle the stomach. Drink, please, it may ease you enough to manage a bite of food. ❜

𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝟏𝟏𝟓 𝐀𝐂

THE COLD HAD SEEPED into her very marrow. No matter how many furs were draped over her, no matter how fiercely the fire burned in the great hearth, Winterfell’s chill clung to her, curling icy fingers around her limb burrowing beneath her skin. Fever burned through her, a slow, smoldering heat that did nothing to banish the deep ache lodged in her bones. Her throat was raw; every breath a rasp against flesh rubbed too thin, and her limbs ached as though she had spent a fortnight in the saddle without rest. She had meant to rise with the dawn, to prove to the northern lords that she was no fragile thing of silk and privilege, but the moment she had stirred from the warmth of her bed, the world had tilted, and she had fallen back against the pillows, her breath shallow, her vision swimming. The maester had muttered of fever, of rest, of tinctures and patience, but Rhaenyra had little interest in such trifles. She was meant to be seen, to be present, to remind these men that she was more than a girl to be paraded across the kingdoms in search of a husband. Instead, she lay cocooned in fur and failure, shivering despite the fever, her body betraying her when she could least afford weakness. The chamber door groaned open, the sound an intrusion against her fraying senses. She did not have to look to know who it was; @serharwinstrong’s presence could be felt before it was seen, solid as stone, warm as summer’s last breath. The scent of leather and snow trailed with him, something else beneath it, something earthbound and rich—horse, sweat, steel. The scent of the road, of long days in the saddle, of endless miles crossed together beneath foreign skies. The bed dipped beneath his weight. A rough, calloused hand found her forehead, pressing firm and warm against the fevered burn of her skin. She ought to have recoiled, to have brushed him away, to have wielded pride as her shield—but she had no strength for it. And 𝑔𝑜𝑑𝑠, how warm he was. He radiated heat like a forge, like dragonflame, and for a moment she wanted nothing more than to lean into it, to bask in it. Then something heavy settled over her ——— thick wool, fur-lined, still carrying the ghost of his body’s warmth. His cloak, she realized distantly, her fevered mind slow to piece it together. It smelled of him, of the road, of every mile they had shared since setting out on this wretched tour. And, perhaps most damning of all, it soothed her. The world blurred at the edges. She wanted to fight it, to rise from this bed and prove to Winterfell that a dragon did not bow to the cold. But the fever had hollowed her out, and warmth had finally found her.

Sleep, when it took her, was gentle.

[serharwinstrong]

⊹⠀ཐི ༏ ཋྀ⠀*⠀˖⠀⊹ ❨ @gevierina — a continued story ❩

⠀⠀⠀HARWIN KNOWS NOT WHETHER HER meandering touch is deliberate or idle. But the soft pressure of her wandering fingertips ignites something within him all the same, an eruption so sudden and consuming it nearly staggers him. A curious thing it is — how the passage of time has stitched her, her unyielding fire and moxie, into the very fabric of him. What was once a heart frigid and hardened with indignation, now swells with vehement tides of warmth, heat, affection so searing it startles him. It almost inspires an incredulous laugh. To think he had, mere moons ago, gazed upon her with the notion that she had thieved him of a life he thought fulfilling. To think that now, the barest thought of her slipping away from his embrace is threat enough to bring him to his knees. And he is certain she sees it in his gaze, feels it in the way his caress never strays from the delicate curve of her spine, and in the way his breath shudders whenever she shifts against him — each subtle movement sending waves of her delightful scent crashing upon him. He is certain. She had always been perceptive in ways few could ever understand, wise beyond measure, and utterly mesmerising. He is a man adrift, lost within the vast, exquisite labyrinth of her, with no wish, no desire, to ever find his way out.

⠀⠀⠀Her words, playful in their undertones, paint a roguish smile across his lips, the chuckle that comes in quick pursuit rumbling from deep within his chest. For a fleeting moment, his arms flex ever a touch, tightening around her — pulling her closer, emboldened by the fact she has not recoiled, by the way she has nestled herself comfortably against him. She is a creature of flame, a dragon captured within in a frozen realm, and it had ignited within Harwin a visceral instinct to aid in her thaw. With his arms as protective shield, he carefully guides her to step backwards, closer to the crackling fire, the heat from its roaring flames wrapping tighter around them.

⠀⠀⠀❛ That is a relief, Princess. I’m afraid had you tried to dissuade me, I’d have no choice but to disappoint you with a show of defiance . . . ❜ Harwin’s voice lowers then, softening from teasing into something more vulnerable, with a ribbon of reverence that feels foreign yet entirely right. His smile falters, yet his expression is no less besotted. He hesitates before slowly ( very slowly, as though fearing too swift a movement might shatter their fragile and new sanctuary ) brushing the back of his fingers against the curve of her cheekbone. His touch is featherlight and gentle, teetering the line of tender,

⠀⠀⠀❛ . . . and to disappoint you, my wife, would be a transgression I could not bear. ❜

[serharwinstrong]

the lover’s almanac : part one.