An Ode to Fire and Blood

𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐍 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐄. For one suspended instant, Harwin remained buried inside her, held motionless by the sheer violence of everything her words had awakened. His mouth was still open against hers; her breath entered him in hot, ragged bursts; her tongue sought his, her fingers clenching in his hair, and around him her body went on pleading; tightening, fluttering, drawing him deeper with every frantic pulse. The force of it tore their mouths apart. Rhaenyra’s head tipped back against his shoulder, and the sound that escaped her went through him with such terrible sweetness that his vision narrowed at the edges. He held himself there, buried as deeply as her body would take him, every muscle in his abdomen shuddering with the effort not to answer the demand she had made of him. His release gathered low and imminent, already beginning to pull tight through his spine. He could have given her what she asked for. ( One more thrust, perhaps two. ) But he wouldn’t give in that easily—not until he brought her over the edge first. His hand left her jaw to brace beside her head, and he kissed her with the full, starved force of all the words he could no longer arrange into sense. Her lower lip dragged between his teeth, and her answering moan went straight through him, tightening every muscle from his shoulders to his thighs, and when she tried to turn farther beneath him—seeking more of his mouth despite the awkward angle—he followed until their noses struck and their breath became indistinguishable.

❛ Only yours, ❜ he panted into the kiss. ❛ You know I am. ❜ He drew back only far enough to see her; the side of her face shone with sweat and tears; her lips were swollen, her lashes clumped darkly together. There was nothing composed remaining in her expression, and the sight of it tightened something behind his ribs until love and lust became inseparable, both of them fierce enough to frighten him. Harwin’s hand left her throat and spread over the side of her belly. The curve of her was warm and hard beneath his palm, though whether from the position, the child shifting, or another tightening of the uterus he could not yet tell. Rhaenyra made an affronted, breathless sound and tried to press backward into him.  ❛ There has never been a part of me that wasn’t. Not since you. ❜ His nose brushed her cheek. He felt the hitch of her next breath against his lips. ❛ My hands. My mouth. Every filthy thought you’ve put in my head. ❜ His hips rolled forward again, grinding at the deepest point until her fingers spasmed around his. ❛ All yours. ❜

Harwin felt her nails bite into his scalp; her knees shifting wider in helpless invitation, her hips bucking backward with enough force to drive him deeper. Pleasure flashed white behind his eyes. He nearly lost himself then. His hips answered hers once, hard and instinctive, and the tight heat surrounding him dragged a guttural sound from his chest. He buried it against the curve of her neck. Every part of him had begun to shake with the effort of holding back—the muscles in his thighs burning, his abdomen clenched hard enough to ache, his cock throbbing inside her with each frantic contraction of her walls. She was close enough now that he could feel the gathering inevitability of it. Her body had ceased merely responding to him. It was bearing down upon pleasure with the same formidable determination she brought to everything she desired, trying to wrench the ending from him before he had chosen to give it.

Even half-undone, she remained Rhaenyra.

A rough, breathless laugh broke against her skin.

❛ Gods . . . such a greedy, greedy thing you are. ❜ He gave her another slow circle of his thumb, firmer than the first, and felt her collapse forward by an inch before his arm caught her. Her hand tore free of his hair to brace against the mattress. The sheets gathered beneath her fist. A thin, broken sound poured from her, rising helplessly as he repeated the motion. ❛ You asked me to take you, ❜ His mouth moved along the shell of her ear, his voice softened almost to tenderness even as his touch became merciless. ❛ Now take it. ❜

He withdrew almost completely. The loss made her push back in immediate protest, but he held her hip and denied her for one breath—two—feeling her tremble around the shallow stretch of him, hearing the small, furious noises gathering in her throat. Then he drove into her again. ❛ Mine, ❜ he told her, quieter now, his lips moving against her temple. ❛ My wife. My heart. Every impossible, demanding inch of you. ❜

The rhythm he found was nothing like the measured pace with which he had tormented her before; each thrust came deep and forceful, his hips striking flush against her, the bed shifting beneath the weight of them. Rhaenyra clung to him through it all. One hand locked around his forearm beneath her; the other reached blindly back until she found some part of him—his shoulder, the nape of his neck, his hair—and held on. Her broken chants of his name dissolved into sounds, and each one drew him closer, each frantic clench of her body made his vision narrow until he could see nothing but the pale turn of her cheek and the silver-gold strands caught against her damp skin. ❛ Look at me. ❜ He scarcely recognized the command until it had left him. Harwin covered her hand where it gripped his forearm; their fingers locked above the rounded fullness of her belly, wedding bands knocking together with a faint, absurd little click nearly swallowed by the sounds of their bodies. He pressed his forehead to hers. His thumb moved faster between her thighs, keeping pace with every hard drive of his hips, and he watched the last of her resistance disappear. ❛ There you are, ❜ he breathed, and he watched as her lips parted around a sob. ❛ Come for me, love. I’ve got you. ❜ The first violent contraction of her release closed around him so tightly that his next thrust broke apart halfway through. Rhaenyra’s entire body drew taut beneath him, her head falling back against his shoulder, her mouth open on a cry that seemed to contain pleasure, pain, love, and fury in equal measure. He held her through it; his name fractured over and over upon her tongue. The sound undid him. His hips drove forward once more and stayed there. Harwin came with her name dragged raw from his throat, his body bowed over hers, every muscle locked as release struck through him in deep, blinding waves. He pressed himself as close as he could, giving her what she had begged of him while her body continued to pulse around him. There was no room left in him for thought. Only her heat. Her hand locked around his. Her hair caught against his lips. The wetness of her tears where his cheek pressed to hers. For several seconds neither of them moved. Harwin remained braced above her, struggling for breath without allowing the whole of his weight to settle upon her. His heartbeat struck hard against her back, and hers answered beneath his palm, racing through the place where his fingers rested below her breast. Gradually, the room returned around them; the low hum of the air conditioner, the soft complaint of the mattress whenever either of them trembled. He loosened his hold on her hair first, his fingers working carefully through the damp strands, unwinding what he had wrapped around his fist and smoothing it back from her face. He kissed the place near her temple where the tension might have pulled, then her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. 

❛ I love you, ❜ he whispered. ❛ I love you so much . . . ❜ 

It almost felt inadequate after what had just passed between them, but he said them anyway. ( He always would. ) He eased them down together with painstaking care, keeping one arm beneath her belly until the pillows took its weight again. Rhaenyra sagged into them with a low, exhausted sound, but Harwin stayed curved around her from behind, still joined to her, his palm spread possessively over the high, firm swell of their child while his breathing steadied against the nape of her neck. Rhaenyra made a tired sound when her cheek found the pillow. Harwin smiled despite himself.

❛ Yes, I know. Terrible ordeal. ❜ His lips brushed her shoulder. ❛ You were very brave. ❜

The sarcasm lacked all bite. Affection had made his voice too warm. He expected the answering nudge of her elbow or the offended tilt of her head. Instead she became very still. After a moment, Harwin withdrew gently and helped her turn onto her side, arranging the pillows beneath and around her before his hand returned immediately to her belly. His other palm passed over her damp forehead, brushing the tangled hair away. He studied her face now with an entirely different hunger, searching the set of her mouth and the line between her brows, trying to separate the aftershocks of pleasure from discomfort she might be attempting to conceal.

 ❛ Rest, sweetheart. Take some deep breathes for me . . . there you go. That's my good girl. How are you feeling? ❜ He traced the outer edge of her eyebrow with one finger. He followed the fine line down her temple and tucked the damp strands of hair behind her ear. ❛ Don’t move yet. Let me take care of you. You need some water . . . or perhaps a bath, hmmm? ❜

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐈𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐋 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐓; and for one suspended eternity, Rhaenyra was rendered still. Her body seized into a rigidity that bordered on tetanic, every muscle locked in an exquisite tension on the precipice of ruin. Her toes curled hard against the sheets. Her vision darkened at the periphery, her mouth parted around a sound so thin and high it was scarcely more than silence itself. Her blood sang with wild, anticipatory delight. Then the stars collided with violent velocity. A glittering detonation that tore through every fibre of her being; the dam of her climax shattered, and tidal waves of pleasure crashed over her in overwhelming succession. All at once, she was molten fire itself; writhing helplessly in the infernal depths of the most exquisite incarnation of rapture imaginable. Rhaenyra's sodden heat surged with rhythmic waves of arousal, streams that slicked down her thighs. She fluttered and clenched with forceful, greedy strength around the pulsing length of him. ❛ Yes, yes, oh—yours. H—Harwin, Har—win— ❜ His name became the sole sinful symphony she could compose, and even that sacred hymn tore from her in fragmented keens as her body spasmed through ineffable bliss. Her head fell against the solid wall of his chest, her eyes rolled far back beneath fluttering lids — the world was reduced to magnificent pleasure. Hands clung desperately to whatever she could find; fingers digging into the powerful arm he had locked around her to keep her from collapsing forwards under the sheer magnitude of sensation, trembling fingers curling in his hair with a force she did not reign over.

Most glorious of all was how the very moment her own crest claimed her, Rhaenyra felt him join her in incandescence. Felt the heavy length of him twitch and convulse in rough, involuntary spasms deep inside, felt the delectable pressure of being filled so completely by the hot flood of his pleasure. His guttural moans rained against her damp skin; ragged, divine, ruinous. Every added sensation, his tremors, his reverence, the intimate wetness of him emptying into her, only elevated and extended her own blinding bliss until it became almost unbearable in its intensity. Breath left her in jagged, broken gasps, breasts heaving hard against the steady forearm that held her upright, each exhalation a sound that betrayed how profoundly he had wrecked her. ❛ Mine, mine, mine, ❜ The wanton chant echoed into the dimly lit bedroom in unashamed, lecherous moans as she continued to flutter and squeeze rhythmically around him — both involuntarily and entirely deliberate. Savouring every pulse and throb of his cock as it answered her body’s greedy claims. Gods, the knowledge that she still held such dominion over his desire, even enormous, furious, and scarcely herself, was something so deliciously, fiercely empowering that another shudder tore from her core and bloomed to the very ends of her extremities.

After a delectable, suspended moment in which there was nothing but perhaps the most intense sensation her body had known to date, the violence of the crashing tide began to ease. The peak of the crest feathered her gently downwards to the golden sea awaiting beneath; where her skin gleamed with a thin layer of sweat, where little electric shocks still flickered unpredictably through the oversensitive nerves between her thighs and her pliant limbs. Where her breath no longer came in urgent gasps but was long, deep, and utterly content. She could only hum in soft, wordless response to the love he voiced as he carefully lowered her until the heavy, taut apex of her belly met the bedding once more. The shift made her aware of every point of contact; the solid warmth of his chest over her spine, the thick, slick length of him still nestled inside her, the heat of their combined release within her core. Rhaenyra made a soft, possessive sound deep in her throat and deliberately clenched around him. Overly sensitive muscles fluttering and gripping with greedy, lingering strength in a wordless demand that he remain exactly where he was, that he let her savour and revel a moment longer in the exquisite, obscene fullness of being stretched and filled by him.

❛ I—hmmm . . . you are so very good at this . . . how am I meant to not be greedy? ❜ Rhae exhaled every teasing syllable with very little power left in her voice. She felt as though she had no shape left but that of liquid fire; floating, weightless, even with the solid curve of her husband still draped over her spine and the precious weight of their child. The ferocity had vacated and her chest was full of nothing but warm, golden sunlight. It was why the protest that escaped her when he withdrew was feeble at best, though no less genuine; a frail whine stirred in her throat because even that half-stroke of friction as he pulled free sent another fine tremor cascading through her entire body. She felt their combined essence begin to trickle from her, and the slow, slick seepage coaxed yet another soft shudder. She was useless to help as he carefully guided her onto her side amid the disarrayed bedding. The motion, however small, stirred the ever-so-slight burn between her thighs, and she hissed softly at the delicious, lingering ache the sheer size of him always left behind. It was a brand, she thought hazily. Evidence of how thoroughly he pleased her. How completely he had taken her apart and would now put her back together again.

❛ Gods—you . . . you never disappoint. ❜ The words left her on a long, lazy sigh, accompanied by the faintest curve of a smirk as her hand came to rest above his across her stomach. She was referring, of course, to how she had demanded he wreck her until thoughts and words both failed her entirely. He had succeeded exceptionally. As always. The steady contractions tightening her stomach had granted her a blessed moment of reprieve. A fine sheen of sweat cooled slowly across her skin; the sheets beneath her clung damp and warm. Her hair was a tangled sunburst spilled across the pillow. Her limbs felt heavy and entirely numb with residual pleasure, as though the luminous heaven he had carried her into had filled her bones with warm honey. For a while she could do nothing more than mewl softly in response to him, eyes half-lidded and glassy, as the warm afterglow wrapped around her. She was utterly undone. Intoxicated. The space between her legs still trembled and ached with the most delicious, lingering pleasure, every small shift sending delicate aftershocks through the oversensitive flesh he had so thoroughly claimed.

❛ Hmmm . . . I love you. Fiercely. ❜ She hummed contentedly; a lazy smile painting itself across her lips — the first genuine smile since the gala had stolen so much from her. She leaned into the tender caress of his hand against her face, turning just enough that her mouth could brush a kiss against the inside of his wrist, where she could still feel the rapid flutter of his own pulse. She smiled again, wholly satisfied, and then the curve of her mouth softened even further as he devoted himself to what he always devoted himself to in the aftermath. The gentleness of his worship after such untamed fervour was always so beautifully contrasting that it never failed to undo her in an entirely different way. Where only moments before he had taken her with fierce, ravenous hunger, he now touched her with infinite softness. Rhaenyra had never known such a complete sense of safety, of being cared for, of being cherished so boundlessly. It was healing. Particularly on this night, when her own father had proven to care for her less than her adversaries ever had. The wound of that public theft still lingered somewhere beneath the golden haze of pleasure. The fury would come again, but it could come later. Right now she had melted entirely into sensation, into the sheets, into her husband. She raised one hand, fingers still seized by delicate residual tremors, and allowed those shaky fingertips to dance along his arm; tracing the warm skin, the strength of him.

❛ Oh yes, a bath sounds wonderful . . . ❜ Rhae replied with another drowsy hum, ❛ a warm bath and a glass of cold water. ❜ She brought his hand to her mouth and pressed a series of slow, reverent kisses to each fingertip before releasing him. ❛ Actually . . . water, a bath, and Jeyne’s smoothie. ❜ The heady smile that painted itself across her lips was threaded with a ribbon of pure cheekiness. She punctuated both the request and the entirety of everything he had done for her that night, supported her, protected her, held her, with a soft:

❛ Thank you. ❜

𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃, 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄, and found itself leashed by love. Every muscle had drawn taut; the strength of his wanting had become a pain, low and blinding, narrowing the whole of the room to the pale bow of her back beneath him and the silver-gold disorder of her hair across the pillows. Sweat had gathered in the shallow channel of her spine; her shoulders trembled beneath the effort of holding herself upright. The fullness of her belly rested carefully among the pillows they had arranged beneath her, supported and safe, and even now—especially now—some part of his mind remained there, watchful beyond the reach of appetite. His fingers moved at last, and Harwin slid them through the heavy fall of her hair,  gathering it carefully from the nape so he would not catch the finer strands at her temples, allowing her to feel every inch of the gathering tension, the gradual tightening of his grip until his knuckles pressed firm against her scalp and her head drew back, her throat exposed in a long, pale arc, a gasp tearing from her that was equal parts shock and salvation. His mouth found the hollow of her throat, and beneath his lips he felt the vibration of a sound she hadn't yet released, trapped behind her teeth, and he scraped his teeth against the tendon and felt it break free . . . a keen, high and shattered, that cut through the air. The position shifted him inside her; the head of his cock pressing against something that drew a sound from her that was less a moan and more a sob, broken and raw, her voice cracking on the upward inflection. She pushed back harder, turning her head enough that he caught the edge of her expression; the furious crease between her brows, the parted lips, the glare that might have unmanned a lesser person even while her whole body shook. A rough laugh escaped him. He heard the breathless uh, uh, uh punched from her lungs with each impact, the wet, obscene sound of their bodies meeting, the higher, thinner sounds that crept into the spaces between thrusts; keens and whimpers and the broken, recursive murmur of his name, Harwin, Harwin, Harwin.  One arm remained secure beneath her belly, lifting some of its burden. The other returned to her hair, gathering it away from her damp neck. His chest was slick against her back. Her thighs tightened all at once, and her abdomen drew taut beneath his arm, muscles clenching around him with a rhythm that pulled him closer to his own undoing. She turned her face away.

His mouth followed.

❛ No, ❜ he said softly, lips against the corner of her jaw. ❛ Stay here. ❜ Her eyes squeezed shut, and Harwin slowed, refusing to let sensation become another thing she could outrun through sheer force of will. Her lashes lifted, though only barely. He could see the dark shine of one eye from where he bent above her, the pupil wide enough to swallow nearly all its color. Beautiful, furious thing. ❛ Good girl. ❜ She thrust herself backward in retaliation. Pleasure struck through him so suddenly that his grip faltered. His forehead dropped to the curve of her shoulder, and for one dangerous second his thoughts scattered entirely. A sound left him against her skin—rough, dragged from someplace he ordinarily kept barred—and she did it again, smaller this time but no less deliberate. He caught her hips.

❛ Careful. ❜

The warning came through his teeth. Harwin eased his hold on her hair just enough to gather it more comfortably, winding the length around his hand so the strain rested nearer the base rather than pulling at her scalp. His free hand travelled from beneath her belly only after he had shifted closer and taken more of her weight against his chest. He pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades; the tenderness of it might have softened the moment had Rhaenyra not pushed back against him again, slower now, a wicked roll of her hips that could not be mistaken for accident. 

❛ You told me not to be careful. ❜ His thumb passed across her lower lip, feeling the heat of her breath. ❛ So I’m not being careful. I’m taking my time. ❜ He began again without releasing her face, holding her gaze as his hips settled into a slow, relentless rhythm; each stroke followed by a pause that made her feel the fullness of him before he withdrew. Her lips parted farther. Her eyes threatened to close. His fingers tightened lightly along her jaw. ❛ Stay with me. ❜ Harwin’s hand slipped down the front of her throat, feeling every swallow and fractured breath beneath his palm. He bent until his mouth nearly touched hers, though the angle would not quite allow the kiss; their breaths mingled instead, hers coming in soft, helpless bursts against his lips.  ❛ You feel that, ❜ His hips rolled in a single, deliberate stroke, deep and grinding, slow enough that she could feel every inch of the retreat before he returned, pressing flush, holding, the pressure constant and unyielding against the place that had torn the sob from her minutes before. Her fingers twisted in the sheets hard enough that he heard the seams strain. ❛ That's mine. Stay there. Don't push me out. ❜

His next thrust struck deeper, and his restraint frayed visibly; his brow lowered against hers; his breathing turned rough, the muscles of his abdomen drawing tight against her back. He could feel his own release waiting with an almost vicious patience, made sharper by every tremor he refused to answer in her. His hand found hers upon the mattress and covered it; their fingers threaded, her smaller hand nearly vanishing beneath his. Then he slowed once more. The muscles of her back rippled beneath his chest. A shudder traveled through her, beginning somewhere behind her ribs and moving outward through her limbs, and Harwin felt the precise moment her willpower caught and snagged against the current like a hand dragging through fast water. He bracketed her completely; his chest across her back, his hips flush against hers, his hand folded over her hand, and moved inside her. Another stroke. Her grip on his fingers tightened until her knuckles went white. The sound she made was new; guttural, fractured, dragged up, and he watched the side of her face as her jaw worked as if she were trying to bite down on the sensation itself. Her lashes were still wet; the raw sheen of overwhelm. Rhaenyra’s body strained back toward him, chasing what he withheld, and Harwin pressed his mouth to the corner of hers, close enough that the next words moved across her lips. ❛ Tell me, ❜ His hips settled flush against her and remained there, his free hand poised between her thighs, his thumb resting just short of where one firmer touch might send her beyond speech. ❛ Tell me exactly what you need. ❜  

𝐁𝐘 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏, 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐄; surging through even the finest capillaries with the crackling force of lightning. It left no nerve untouched, no cell unclaimed, no stretch of skin unseared. Rhaenyra was lust itself. She was desirous madness. She was intoxicated on him; on the fullness of him sheathed so deeply, on the heat of his body cloaking hers. On the way he had taken the violent tempest inside her and reshaped it into glorious annihilation. Rhaenyra was alight with exquisite fire; infernal flames fanned higher by each of his ministrations. Every assertive thrust of his firmness into her most sensitive depths, every stroke of his broad hands against her trembling, feverish flesh, the delectable sting as he wound the damp strands of her hair around his fist and tugged with devastating force. The controlled tug brought her head back, baring the florid column of her throat for him to ravage with mouth and teeth. The combined sensations of everything he was doing to her body coalesced into blinding light. Rhaenyra had been rendered nothing but a desperately wanting creature beneath his mercy. She could do nothing but answer him with a symphony of lewd moans and fractured sighs, her pulse fluttering rapidly where his lips pressed at her throat — an untamed beast leaping in lively rhythm as it chased the promise of incandescent rapture. Rhae could taste the potency of her looming crest, and its flavour was so divine on her tongue that she set off in frenzied, impatient pursuit. Her hips ground backwards against the solid power of his thighs, meeting every powerful thrust with greater force, greater hunger. Though her clever husband was in complete control; as she had wished for him to be. He set the pace. He led her. And gods, the delight of relinquishing control in this way was magnificent. There was inexplicable eroticism in such profound trust; she was dizzy and breathless from it, her mind heady and useless for any thought except the feeling of him buried deep, his cock parting her sodden walls and slipping deep with filthy, effortless ease. Blood roared in her ears, muffling every sound except the filthy harmony of their combined moans and the percussion of skin meeting slick skin.

❛ Oh gods, that feels so nice . . . ❜ She mewled in a sigh that was reverent relief rather than pure carnal desire the moment she felt the warm press of his chest against her spine and his hand come to bear the enormous weight of their child. The sudden absence of that relentless pressure on her aching muscles freed sacred space within her palace of sensation; pleasure rushed into the vacancy at once, swelling larger, hotter, more ravishing than before. The flood coaxed even closer to ruinous frenzy by Harwin's own guttural moans. The delectable, rough notes of every sound he made while buried deep inside her, and the knowledge that it was her body that tore the notes from him, drove her relentlessly towards the precipice of bliss. Gods, my love makes such sweet, filthy music, she thought with pride and reverence in equal measure. He groaned again, and it earned him a broken, lecherous cry from Rhaenyra’s chest.

❛ I love you—ohh, I love you so much. ❜ She sang affection as fervidly as flame sang through her blood. The pleasure ravaging her body was so vast, so all-consuming, that the contraction that seized her next drew only a fleeting, shuddering breath of pain; a sound distinct from every moan she had produced. She braced through it, clinging with stubborn desperation to the sensations that mattered — the pull of his fist in her hair, his pulsing cock nestled inside her slickness, the whispered good girl still echoing against her damp skin. Seven have mercy — the things those two words did to her. Eventually, the contraction receded and took its pain with it. Any lingering ache was entirely drowned beneath the intense onslaught of sensation he had been determined to drown her in. Once it passed and she could draw a deep, shaky breath, she arched her spine and pushed her hips back towards him again, grinding with carnal intent, seeking more, more, more. Harwin’s grasp tightened in answer, and Rhaenyra’s lips curved into a heady, wicked smirk even as another moan spilled from her.

❛ Mhmm . . . that place. You feel so—oh . . .❜ He had resorted to a maddening pace, devastating in the enormity of pleasure it washed over her, almost infuriating in its languor. Decisive, deep thrusts that halted for a breathless moment when he pushed to the hilt and the broad crown of his cock pressed with unyielding force against that very specific heavenly spot inside her. It ignited a long, continuous pulse of infernal pleasure that made her sob in sinful song as fresh arousal trickled from her cunt to soak the length of him. He lingered at that depth, letting her feel every inch of the pressure, before withdrawing, only to return to the same glorious place with equal firmness. The pace was slower, less urgent, yet the force behind each rut was fierce; each thrust pressed the swollen head of him against the hypersensitive spot of flesh with merciless precision, drawing her closer and closer to the precipice of unravel.

❛ You—ohh . . . you’re so good, so big. Mine. Oh, all mine. . . . tell me you’re only mine. ❜ Rhaenyra demanded in a breathless chorus of mewls and whines. She felt every single point of contact between them; the solid, heated press of his chest flush over the slick plane of her back, the way his hips ground firm against her bottom as he buried himself to her limit once more. She felt his shuddering breath, felt him twitch and tremble inside her, felt every ridge and pulsing vein of his cock pressing against her pliant, fluttering walls. She was made for him; moulded to fit him perfectly, and he was sculpted for her. The thought had found her an infinite amount of times before, and whenever it did it brought with it an enormous tide of emotion. Tears of overwhelming bliss streaked her face as she felt his breath feather across her cheek. She turned her head, desperate to capture his mouth, but he denied her. Rhae whined petulantly, the sound thin and indignant. Then she felt his free hand drift between her thighs, gliding easily through the soaked folds to caress dangerously close to the swollen apex where she ached the most . . . while still denying her. She whined again; louder, rawer, and with infinitely more indignation.

❛ Don't tease, ❜ she scolded, the sharpness of the words swallowed by a drawn out keen as he shifted only the smallest fraction and the firm tip of him pressed with focused precision against that delicious place within her. The force of the sensation, the delectable friction, made the black canvas behind her eyelids burst with stars. ❛ I want—ohh, mhmm . . . ❜ She began and fell immediately into failure as another electric current of pleasure surged through her, ❛ I want you to take me so hard I—uhh, gods Harwin, yes—so hard I cannot think. ❜ Granted, he had already succeeded. Rhaenyra felt her climax gather swiftly; an electric storm that was impossible to outrun. She felt it in the molten, delicious pressure steadily crescendoing low in her pelvis, a tension that spread outwards in a flurry of ripples. Her thighs had begun to tremble. Her elbows weakening as she tried to hold herself in position. The muscles of her lower belly clenched in involuntary waves. Around the thick intrusion of him, her walls began to flutter with increasing urgency; rhythmic pulses that grew hungrier, milking him with every desperate little spasm as if her body itself was begging. Sweat glistened against the valley between her breasts and the small of her back. Her nipples, taut and hypersensitive, ached with every rocking motion of their bodies. The sheets beneath her were utterly soiled, soaked through with the mingled arousal of them both.

❛ Baby, baby, baby— ❜ She whimpered in carnal chant, each syllable thinner and more ravenous than the last. If the sheer desperation in her voice had not already betrayed how close she was, the frantic fluttering of her walls around him would. She clenched in rhythmic, escalating pulses; soft at first, then stronger, hungrier. The pressure curled and coiled impossibly tight behind her navel, skittering sparks setting off in an unholy waltz across every stretch of her skin. Her fingers twisted into the bedding until the seams strained and she swore she heard some tear. One hand left the mattress and reached back, snaking around the nape of his neck, curling into the dampness of his hair. She tugged, nails scraping lightly across his scalp, and twisted her head as far as the angle would allow to capture his mouth in a searing kiss; greedy, all tongue and gasping breath and pure, devouring need.

❛ I’m going to—I’m so close, ❜ she hissed against his lips, the words trembling with the force of what was rising in her. ❛ I want to feel you finish inside me. I need to feel you fill me. Please, Harwin, please—come with me. ❜

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐃 𝐔𝐏 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐓—Rhaenyra Targaryen, sixteen weeks, first pregnancy, low-risk—and took in the scene as she sat on the exam table in the standard-issue gown, posture upright; her hands rested on her thighs, fingers loose but not relaxed. Second trimester. Routine scan—or as routine as anything gets when one of St. Harrenhal's most formidable chief attendings is hovering at the patient's bedside. Mae had known Harwin Strong long enough to recognize when he was trying very hard to look casual. He swayed anxiously near the window, arms crossed, shoulders angled just slightly toward Rhaenyra in a way that would've been unremarkable if Mae hadn't spent three years training under Lyonel Strong, who had the same tell when he was worried about a patient he cared about too much to say so. But Mae kept their face neutral and clicked their pen.  ❛ Let's see how everything's progressing. This should give us a good look at the baby's development—heart, brain, spine, limbs. We won't be able to determine sex yet, unfortunately. That typically comes around eighteen to twenty weeks, assuming the baby cooperates and isn't modest. ❜ Rhaenyra shifted without hesitation, reclining against the crinkle of paper, and Mae moved, warming the gel between their palms before applying it. They press the transducer against her skin, angling it slightly as the image resolves on the screen. The familiar whoosh of the fetal heartbeat fills the room, steady and strong at 150 beats per minute. ( Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump. )  Mae watched Rhaenyra's face; the brief flicker of an unguarded emotion passed through her eyes before she locked it down again. Then they glanced at Harwin, who'd gone completely motionless; his arms dropped to his sides, lips parted slightly. ( Yeah, there it was. ) They'd seen that look before.  ❛ There's the head, ❜ Mae murmurs, tracing the curve on the screen with one gloved finger. ❛ Profile looks good. And there—see that flicker? That's the heart. Four chambers, all developing as they should. ❜ Harwin exhaled—audibly—and Mae saw his hand move, just barely, toward Rhaenyra's shoulder before he stopped himself and shoved it into his pocket instead. ( Oh. )  ❛ Spine looks excellent, ❜ they continue, moving the transducer lower. ❛ Nice and straight, all the vertebrae accounted for. And—oh, hello there! ❜ On screen, the baby shifts, one tiny arm moving across its chest in what could almost be described as a wave. ❛ Active little peanut huh,❜ Mae observes, the corner of their mouth quirking upward. ❛ That's a good sign. Movement at this stage indicates healthy neuromuscular development. ❜ They pause, zooming in slightly to examine the baby's hands; fingers splayed, terribly small but perfect. ❛ Everything looks great, ❜ Mae says, pulling back slightly to capture a full-body image. ❛ Measurements are right on track for sixteen weeks. The placenta is positioned well. ❜ They save several images, then shift the transducer again, this time focusing on the lower abdomen. ❛ Just checking the amniotic fluid levels, ❜ They explain. ❛ Which are perfect. ❜ Mae saves one final image—a perfect profile shot, the baby's nose and chin clearly visible—then powers down the machine and reaches for a towel to wipe the gel from Rhaenyra's abdomen. ❛ Heartbeat's strong, growth is on track, no concerns from my end, ❜ they say, stripping off their gloves and disposing of them. ❛ You're doing everything right. Keep up with the prenatal vitamins, stay hydrated, and—❜ They pause, considering. ❛—don't let anyone tell you that you need to slow down at work unless you feel you need to slow down. You know your body better than anyone else. ❜

Mae crosses to the small desk in the corner, pulling up Rhaenyra's chart on the computer to make notes. ❛ I'll want to see you again at twenty weeks for the full anatomy scan, ❜ They say, clicking rapidly. ❛ That's when we'll take a much more detailed look at everything—brain, heart, kidneys, limbs, placenta, and umbilical cord. It usually takes about forty-five minutes to an hour, depending on how cooperative the baby is. ❜ They glance over their shoulder, catching Harwin's eye for just a moment. ❛ Any questions? ❜ Mae asks, swiveling in their chair to face Rhaenyra directly. ❛ This is the appointment where we usually start discussing birth plans. Detailed as you want . . . or not at all. Some really want to plan everything down to the minute, and others find that a more flexible approach is optimal. The basics are really deciding whether or not you want pain relief . . . or, if something goes wrong, or we need to speed things up, how we approach that when the time comes, so we're all on the same page. ❜

𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐘 𝐎𝐁𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒. It stood right there; big, bold, loud — beckoned to her appointment by the simple fact of her walking through the door with @heirtoharrenhal at her side. Rhaenyra did not need to search Mae’s face for any flicker of understanding or speculation to know how it appeared. She had come to her sixteen-week check-up accompanied not by a partner, not by her father, a friend or even her uncle, but by her supervising attending. She knew exactly what this looked like. It was exactly what it looked like. Even the small discretion Harwin had attempted by standing a few paces away from the bedside would be futile; Mae Martyn was not exactly known for their lack of discernment. However, whatever thoughts might've kindled in them, they did not let them show — and Rhaenyra was infinitely grateful for it. After all, Harwin had insisted that Mae could be trusted, and she had come to trust him. The disposable paper sheet crinkled beneath her as she laid back against the exam table, the material rough against the small of her back as she rolled the hem of her blouse upwards to bare her stomach.

Although slight, the novel roundness was impossible to ignore now. The swell indisputable. The baby indisputable. She had felt its presence in a hundred ways already; the sudden, ferocious cravings that descended on her without warning, the nausea that still ambushed her, the balance that had grown treacherous in the last fortnight — and continued to forsake her, as the workouts with Harwin continued to reveal. They exercised together now. Together. They did not do much together, not truly, but the few things they did had begun to sear themselves into her. Something that felt too profound to ignore or deny had shifted between them after that dinner two weeks ago. After he had found her pallid and overwhelmed and trembling with a fear she could not voice even to Laena and Daemon. He had swept her away from the birthing centre where Baela and Rhaena had entered the world and drawn her into the soft sanctum of his apartment instead. The domesticity of it all had stolen her breath. She had bonded with his cat while he cooked for her. They had spoken for hours; bared themselves, laughed, dissected. They had kissed. Against every last morsel of reason they had surrendered to an intimacy that might appear small but was far from it. And two weeks later Rhaenyra still thought about his lips on hers, about the cloak of warmth and kindness he had placed around her shoulders, how easily he had smoothed the sharpest edge of her fears that night. She could not stop thinking about any of it.

Except here it seemed, in this moment, the thought could not have been further from her mind. All she could feel was the sudden cold shock of gel against her skin, the way it made her flinch on contact. All she could focus on was the slow, systematic glide of the probe as Mae moved it over her abdomen, assessing the life that drew nourishment from beneath her heart. Rhaenyra almost did not want to look at the monitor. For to see the silhouette captured there would be another assault upon the fragile ( ridiculous ) remnants of her denial; it would make the truth even harder to ignore. But she looked anyway. She tore her gaze from the distant wall and guided it to the grainy screen. There it was. The curve of a spine, the rounded head, the tiny limbs still taking shape . . . the frantic pulse that did not belong to her. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Alive. Healthy. Real.

Rhaenyra made the mistake then of allowing her gaze to fleetingly drift towards Harwin. Their gazes met across the small space. There was something of profound depth behind his dark eyes; tenderness, wonder, and affection so deep it made a tremor ripple down her spine. Gods, he loved this child already. The thought bloomed as fierce emotion behind her ribs — so vast it threatened to crack her open. Rhaenyra could have wept. Her chest shuddered with a fractured breath and she forced her gaze back to the monitor, to Mae. Every word that followed from Mae’s lips was another item ticked off a checklist of all the things that could still go wrong, and yet none of them were. Her throat tightened around a strange amalgamation of dread and relief. She was somehow doing everything right without even knowing what she was doing. She was healthy. The baby was healthy. A healthy baby meant fewer complications. The promise of tears stung hot at the corners of her eyes. As Mae turned toward the computer to enter notes into her chart, Rhaenyra forced every trace of emotion back behind the walls she had spent a lifetime fortifying. She refused to cry.

❛ Oh, good. It's . . . relieving to know that everything looks well. And yeah—I have absolutely no intention of slowing down. Not for a long time, still. Sitting at home and twiddling my thumbs sounds like hell. ❜ She asserted, forcing the words through the stifling tension that choked her throat. Rhaenyra straightened upon the examination bed, reaching for paper towels to clean the remaining gel from her belly. It was then Mae mentioned the birth plan, and Rhae's fingers tightened around the paper. Her mind descended into a spiral of urgent thoughts. In truth, she had given it almost no thought beyond the certainty that she did not wish to die. She did not know which suite she wanted, which nurses she preferred, whether she would want a bath available or candles or music. She had barely even considered who she would want in the room with her. Well, except . . . her gaze drifted upon instinct to her bedside. Harwin, of course. Rhae could not imagine him not being there. Despite the fact that it would lay them bare to everyone. Aside from him — she had been there for Laena and Daemon, had loved them fiercely through it, but she was not certain she wanted to be so surrounded when the moment came. She did not want them to witness it if something went wrong. Her treacherous thoughts went of their own volition to her mother. To Aemma’s uterine rupture during the birth of the boy who had lived only a handful of days. She thought of the haemorrhage that had spiralled into septic shock, into death. Because the labour and delivery floor had been underfunded and understaffed, and her mother’s condition had been caught too late.

Rhaenyra did not wish to die. Her eyes sought Harwin's. Her brows twitched ever so subtly. She really did not wish to die.

❛ I want you there, Dr. Martyn. And I want pain relief. ❜ The words left her with a swiftness that might have been comical if not for the vivid flash of fear that crossed her eyes and vanished just as quickly. Each syllable was both plea and command. ❛ I don't want to do this without sedation—as much as you'll give me. And I want proper monitoring. I don’t care if you have to send for doctors, nurses, and midwives from elsewhere to counter how understaffed this ward is. I’ll pay for every single one of them myself. ❜

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐑 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐓 of white noise that seemed to mark the seconds as they stretched and warped; the guilt that had been his constant companion these past weeks rising up all at once to choke him. He had done this. He had taken something precious—her privacy, her autonomy, her right to control her own narrative—and he had handed it to someone else without her knowledge or consent. It didn't matter that the someone else was his father, a man Harwin trusted implicitly, a man who had never once betrayed a confidence in all the years of Harwin's life. It didn't matter that he had been desperate, drowning, incapable of shouldering this secret alone. What mattered was that the choice had not been his to make. ❛ I was... ❜ He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face; the stubble there was coarse against his palm—he hadn't shaved in days, too consumed with work and worry. ❛ I was drowning, Rhaenyra. I needed someone. Someone who wasn't—who wouldn't— ❜ The fussing from the monitor grew more insistent, a thin wail beginning to build. One of the twins was working herself up toward something that would require intervention soon. But he couldn't move. ❛ He's my father. I've never kept anything from him, not once in my life. And this... ❜ A humourless laugh escaped him, scraping raw against his throat. ❛ This was rather too large to carry alone. ❜ His mind drifted, unbidden, to the night he had told his father. It had been late, well past midnight, and Harwin had shown up on his doorstep looking, he imagined, rather like a man who had just received a terminal diagnosis. In a way, perhaps he had.

Lyonel had taken one glimpse of him and ushered him inside without a word. And Harwin trusted in his father's honor the way he had trusted in nothing else in his life, with the absolute certainty of a child who had never been given reason to doubt. Lyonel Strong was not a man who broke his word; he was not a man who gossiped or speculated or traded in other people's secrets for social currency. If he had gone to Viserys with this information, there had to be a reason. A terrible, catastrophic miscommunication that had unraveled everything they had fought so hard to contain. His jaw tightened. He could picture it too easily: his father and Viserys Targaryen, two men of a certain generation who had known each other for decades, whose children had grown up in overlapping orbits. A conversation that had begun about something else entirely—hospital politics, perhaps, or some administrative matter that required the chief of surgery's input—and had somehow curved toward the topic of Rhaenyra. Toward the topic of the baby. And Lyonel, operating under the assumption that Viserys already knew . . . 

❛ He didn't tell Viserys, ❜ he continued, after a moment, ❛ Not intentionally. He must have said something that made my father assume he already knew. That you'd told him yourself. He would never have betrayed my trust. He thought he was confirming something Viserys already understood. . . I’m certain of it. ❜ The twin's crying had reached a fever pitch now, accompanied by a secondary wail as her sister joined the chorus. Harwin rose from the couch. ❛ I should— ❜ He gestured helplessly toward the nursery. ❛ Just—give me a minute. Please. I'll get her. ❜

He made his way down the hallway; the nursery was bathed in the soft blue glow of a nightlight, and both cribs were occupied by tiny, furious bundles of indignation. Baela's face was screwed up and red, her small fists waving in the air, while Rhaena had worked herself into hiccupping sobs that seemed far too large for her miniature body. He scooped Baela up first—she was the louder of the two, and he'd learned long ago that addressing the most urgent crisis first was usually the right call. She was impossibly light in his arms, s terribly small, her entire body fitting easily against his chest as he tucked her into the curve of his shoulder.  ❛ Hey now, ❜ he whispered, swaying gently.  ❛ Hey, little one. What's all this about, hm? ❜ Baela's crying stuttered as he settled her against his shoulder; her wet cheek pressing into the cotton of his t-shirt. Harwin rubbed slow circles against her back; her sister was stirring in the adjacent crib, not quite awake but getting there, small fists waving in the darkness, rosebud mouth beginning to purse in preparation for her own demands. He shifted Baela carefully, freeing one arm, reaching down to rest his palm against Rhaena's tiny chest. The warmth of his hand seemed to calm her somewhat; her crying subsided into whimpers, then into sniffles, and at last, into silence as her dark eyes fixed on his face with that unfocused newborn gaze.

❛ Your sister's hogging all the attention, ❜ he told her softly. ❛ But I see you. I've got you. Just give me a moment to figure out the logistics here, aye? ❜

After a few moments, the logistics, as it turned out, were less complicated than he'd feared. Baela had settled into true sleep, her breathing evening out against his neck, and Rhaena seemed content enough with his hand against her chest, a grounding weight that mimicked, he supposed, the closeness she'd known in the womb. This was the easy part. Babies were simple, really, despite their reputation. They wanted to be warm. They wanted to be fed. They wanted to be held. Their needs were immediate and uncomplicated; their distress resolved with rocking and murmuring and the patient application of time.

It was everything else that was impossible.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐖𝐈𝐍’𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐘. It was a crucible in which every spoken and unspoken grievance melted into a festering thing. Rhaenyra remained seated on the couch where he had left her, elbows pressing hard into her thighs, her shoulders folded forwards as though a merciless weight pressed down upon her spine. Her face was buried in the cradle of her palms, the darkness behind her eyelids a flimsy shield against the tempest that raining destruction within her chest. Her heart slammed against her ribcage with unyielding force, blood surging so swiftly in her ears that the world beyond felt muffled, as it did when blood sugar plummeted and the ground tilted beneath one’s feet. She tried to breathe. Tried to summon some fragile semblance of order from the savage chaos within, because if she could not soothe herself then no one could — or so she had always told herself. From the table came a low, crackling sound; like some cruel joke from the universe, the baby monitor picked up Harwin's coos and delivered them to her. The gentleness to him, the patience, the warmth, threatened to unravel her entirely. He was infuriatingly good at this. So gentle. So kind. So understanding. No, it was not true that if she could not self-soothe then no one else could, because he could. He had. It was maddening. She was furious with him. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted space. She wanted no space. She wanted him. Even though every rational thread of her mind roared she should not.

Perhaps, adding further kindling to her anger, was some ugly and writhing tendril of covetous envy. For the vast support Harwin could turn to without hesitation. He had a father who received his burdens with paternal warmth and without judgment, sisters who would hold him afloat while he drowned. Rhae had none of that. That very thought burned her as fiercely as the theft of her own narrative. Viserys had not met her with anything resembling the haven she could imagine Lyonel offering his son. Weeks ago, when Daemon’s tongue had . . . slipped, her father had all but spat in her face. He had raged then as though she were an unruly child rather than a woman grown. Now, when the complete truth of it had been placed in his hands without her consent, he had turned to wrathful berating about how this would look — as though she didn't already know herself. The scandal that would follow when the truth inevitably spilled: whispers of conspiracy, of her having slept her way into favour. Or perhaps they'd call her a lecherous temptress who could not control her own urges even within the professional walls of the hospital. Every venomous word had confirmed the suspicions she had long carried in the shadowed alcoves of her heart; that he had never truly had faith in her, had been waiting for her to falter. That he had expected a misstep that would prove to everyone what he and others had always believed — that she was unfit to inherit the empire their family had built.

Rhaenyra wanted to scream. Every facet of this pregnancy seemed to constantly slip through her fingers and far beyond the reach of her control and agency. And it was her fucking body that was carrying the child.

Tides of overwhelm swelled, crested, and broke against her shores. Their vehement undertow threatening to drag her under with merciless force. She felt the muscles in her throat constrict, breath falling in swift, shallow rhythm. Her eyes rose from the paltry sanctuary of her hands and she allowed her gaze to drift across the living room. Suddenly ( Gods, how had she not seen it before? ), she was acutely aware of the sheer amount of items. The space was awash in the detritus of new parenthood; blankets, bottles, burp cloths, a bassinet in the corner, a baby rocker. All the things she would need terrifyingly soon. Though she remained furious and swept by volatile emotion, a sliver of reason clung to her; it reminded that she actually wouldn't have to face this chaos alone. Harwin would sooner perish than permit it. And simpler, still, she did not wish to be alone in it. Rhaenyra would have him, yes, but mostly only him. Daemon and Laena's hands were already full with their own beautiful daughters. Harwin’s family was his. Baelor and Jena were hers by blood and years of affection, yet even the thought of turning to them chafed in this very moment.

Restlessness gnawed beneath her skin; slithering, curling, coiling tight until she could scarcely sit still. It was an itch she could not relieve, and every attempt only stoked it fiercer — flames fed by every baby-related item her eyes fell upon ( seriously, how had she not noticed how much it was? ). Her fingers flew to the rings upon her hands, spinning them in anxious, ceaseless motion, her eyes stinging. By the time Harwin returned from the nursery, Rhaenyra was on her feet. She paced across the rug with her hands placed firmly upon her hips. Her posture was rigid, her eyes red-rimmed and agleam with unshed tears. She did not grant him even a heartbeat’s reprieve, did not allow the words forming on his tongue to find voice.

The dam within her broke first, and the deluge surged forth.

❛ How lovely it must be to have a father that supports you. What a relief to know there are people you can hand the weight to. Particularly something so large to carry. People who will hold you afloat while you drown. ❜ Rhaenyra parroted his own words with gravely sardonic lilt; her voice woven with fury and grief in startlingly equal measure. She paused her restless circuit beside a sofa chair, her hands smoothing over the baby blanket draped pristine across its back. ❛ I don't have that luxury. No one to help carry this— ❜ Her hand gestured towards the gentle swell of her stomach, the motion almost defiant. ❛ —no one to really talk to about it or ask for advice from, ❜ she pressed on, though even as the words left her tongue she tasted the unfairness of them. Harwin had been there. He was there. He had already shouldered so much of the emotional burden, had anchored her, had reeled her back from the precipice. But he was the other half of this child, of this complicated tangle, not some neutral harbour. Sometimes she simply wanted to turn to someone who was not the father of her baby. Her own father might have been wonderful in that role, once. Her mother would have been better still.

❛ Or fuck—no one to guide me through something so basic as what the hell I'm supposed to buy. Look around—I barely knew half of this was necessary. ❜

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 : 𝓽𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝑱𝒆𝒏𝒂 𝑫𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒏 ⚡︎

* ˖ ݁ ✦⠀an independent, canon-divergent portrayal of 𝑱𝒆𝒏𝒂 𝑫𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒏 from George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire universe. This interpretation draws from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, but is primarily rooted in personal headcanons and AUs. Mature themes ahead. Strictly 21+, minors do not interact. Written by Lyra (30, she/her). This is a sideblog to @starlitsonnets.

𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐒, Jacaerys vanished after Baela, and boyhood vanished with him. One moment he saw the man: tall now, dutiful, grave-eyed, heir to his mother’s throne and yet still so earnest in his affections that courtly concealment sat upon him like borrowed armor. Then suddenly, Harwin saw the babe he had first held in hands that seemed suddenly monstrous for their size; Jacaerys red with fury, small as a loaf and twice as loud, his dark head damp against Rhaenyra’s breast while the world beyond her chamber waited with knives behind its teeth. He remembered that day with such violence that the feast before him blurred. The copper smell of blood beneath lavender oil; the torn breath in Rhaenyra’s chest. The brutal, holy strength of her as she brought their son into the world with sweat on her brow, teeth bared, hair plastered to her temples, one hand crushing Harwin’s until he had thought with a wild, idiot gratitude that she might break every bone in him. His fingers tightened over hers now, beneath the feast table, hidden from prying eyes by damask and shadow. Her hand was warm beneath his palm, queen’s rings cool against his scars. There, in that small joining, lay half the story of his life: her dragonbone pride and his riverland stubbornness; her fire and his flesh; her crown and his bruised knuckles; her destiny and the man who had been foolish enough, or faithful enough, to put himself between it and every blade he could reach. Harwin’s throat tightened. Rhaenyra had spoken of how swiftly Jace had grown, and the truth of it struck him. It seemed indeed but yesterday that she had brought those first tidings to him. 

Even now, years later, the memory had power enough to set warmth behind his eyes.

Harwin drew Rhaenyra’s hand more firmly beneath his own. ❛ Aye, ❜ he murmured at last, his voice pitched low for her ear alone. ❛ It seems but yesterday, though I remember the telling somewhat differently. ❜ His thumb brushed once, slow, across her knuckles. A smile, small and helpless, touched his mouth. ❛ I believe you told me you were with child, then near in the same breath forbade me to hover. I had not yet moved, as I recall. ❜ The jest was soft, but beneath it lay the great dark river of memory. He had hovered to be sure. From that hour forward he had become shadow, wall, pillow, nuisance, servant, sworn sword, and supplicant. He had learned the little ceremonies of her suffering. Which draughts turned her stomach and which soothed it. Which scent made her pale. Which foods she craved only to despise once they were placed before her. How to offer a hand without implying frailty. How to endure being cursed for breathing too loudly during the worst of her sickness, and how to return in the morning with mint tea and no triumph in his face when she drank it. His gaze moved, despite himself, to the doors again. Somewhere beyond them, Jace would be discovering the first lesson of such love: that devotion did not make a man powerful. Oft it revealed how powerless he was. Baela would be pale and furious, most like, and Jace would be trying not to fuss. Perhaps he would ask whether she wanted water after offering it thrice already. Perhaps he would send for the maester too soon, and Baela would threaten to feed him to Moondancer if he made a court proceeding of her stomach. The fondness that rose in Harwin nearly split him.

❛ Seven save us, ❜ he whispered, leaning nearer as though confiding some treason of the highest order, ❛ shall I begin calling you by your new title of grandmother before the court? It suits you, I think. ❜  

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐀𝐗𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐔𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐇𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐑𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐍𝐘𝐑𝐀'𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓. It was not the title itself that offended; for she had lived, and yet lived, a life of such fierce and incandescent beauty that she claimed every name day, every bodily change, every line that time had etched upon her visage. They were all evidence of her joy, of prosperity; all blessings she claimed with pride. What seized Rhaenyra in its breath-thieving clutches was not the thought of her own age, but the staggering truth of her children’s years. Her child. Her firstborn. Her heir. The sweet boy who had been forged from the most incomprehensible of loves and reshaped the very foundational weave of her soul. The babe who had once fit so perfectly against the warmth of her breast and clung shyly to her skirts. Jacaerys was a man grown now, chasing after his wife who carried their own child within her. The pride that flooded every hollow of Rhaenyra's chest was divine; a thing so vast that she was certain it shamed the gods in its transcendence. Alas, as it oft did, the sweet ache of nostalgia followed in swift pursuit — a yearn for the days when Jacaerys had cooed and babbled in her arms, when he was still learning the strength of his little fists, how to rise to his feet, to master his own balance and speech. The emotions warred within her; intricate and fierce, yet at their molten core burned the unassailable certainty that she would not change a single thread of the life she now held. A vehement tide of feeling crashed over her. Her breath caught softly, and instinctively her fingers sought greater purchase upon Harwin’s hand — clinging to the unyielding anchor of his presence, seeking solace and refuge in the boundless well of safety he had always provided.

❛ Oh gods, absolutely not. Not yet, at least. I have not yet reconciled myself to the truth that our son is wed. I shall need a moment to comprehend that our child is to have a child of his own. ❜ A breathy laugh escaped her, and her mouth curved into something roguish, wickedly mischievous. She leaned nearer to Harwin, her voice falling to a suggestive murmur meant for him alone. ❛ But I must admit, to think of you as a grandsire is perilously appealing — it will require of me an exercise of great restraint. ❜ Her smile deepened into a smirk as she sought his eyes, the playfulness blooming so naturally in his presence, a freedom she granted to no other. He was her breath of sweet air; he was freedom itself. Her fingers tightened around his, the pad of her thumb tracing reverent paths across his knuckles — those hands that had cradled her through every woe, through losses and the agonies of labour, through fear and love and joys so vast no language might name them. Hands that had shielded her from violent storms, weathered infinite burdens, and still, always, held her with a tenderness that defied comprehension. With no thought for the eyes that might bear witness, Rhaenyra raised Harwin's hand to her lips where she brushed a reverent kiss; let them all see, she thought, let them see that there has never ruled a happier Queen.

Her gaze swept the glittering hall; alight with revelry, with platters of food and generous decanters of wine, with laughter and song and the din of a hundred conversations. She found Lucerys beside Rhaena, their heads bent close in gentle chatter. She glimpsed Joffrey holding easy court among a cluster of young Dornish lordlings. Genna and Arianne seated together with terribly conspiratorial smiles curving their mouths. And sweet Aemma, the very picture of charm and grace, deep in conversation with the Lord and Lady of House Massey. In that single, sweeping glance Rhaenyra saw her family, her tribe, every soul that made her whole. So no, she would not change a thing, she would not seek to reverse time; though her heart beat with the bittersweet thrum of watching her dragonlings grow so swiftly into their own lives and loves, she was happy — happier than ever she had dared imagine the gods might permit. They had favoured her, after all.

❛ We must summon the maesters forthwith to examine her. Once Jacaerys and Baela have spoken to us, of course. And thereafter we shall begin arrangements for a tourney in honour of the babe. Ravens must be sent to all prominent noble houses. ❜ Rhaenyra paused to draw a sip of her wine, the hippocras sweet and spiced as her father had favoured in his cups, before she set the chalice down. ❛ We can spare no expense. The master of coin will chafe, as may some of the smallfolk, given the summer drought we have endured. So please, command your knights to keep particular vigilant watch and observe with discretion — we must ensure no trouble arise in the city. ❜ Her free hand reached for the platter of lemon cakes arrayed before them then; she bypassed the spongy cake itself to pluck the candied lemon perched atop it, devouring the sweet and tart morsel with unapologetic relish. All the while her other hand remained entwined with Harwin’s; the rhythmic brush of her thumb against his skin a wordless yet perpetual testament of her affections. She seldom let him go; the possessive nature of a dragon, perhaps, or simply the desire of a soul to never part from its other half.

❛ Oh—and bid your men, too, to spread word that the tourney shall include a market, where the smallfolk may bring their wares and handcrafts to sell. Many visitors shall come, their coffers deep, and I see no reason our merchants should not profit thereby. ❜

𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐖 𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐃, the fine tremor of frustration running through her hands where they pressed flat against the mat, the proud and furious set of her jaw, and the indignation was so thoroughly, so magnificently her. He set his water bottle down and lowered himself to one knee in front of her, keeping enough space between them that she would not feel crowded, swallowing every foolish impulse to smooth the damp wisp of hair from her temple and press his thumb to the defiant set of her mouth until it softened. The gym was quiet save for the low hum of the air conditioning and the faint, faraway clank of some pipe in the ceiling, and his hoodie lay forgotten now, folded over the bench. Without it, she looked both more herself and less protected; lavender clinging to her skin, throat flushed, hair coming loose at the nape in pale strands. There was sweat at her collarbone. ( Admittedly, he stared for a beat too long. ) ❛ My form's impeccable, thanks, ❜ he said, mild as milk, and lowered himself to sit cross-legged on his own mat so they were level. ❛ Bird-dogs are deceptive, ❜ he continued. ❛ They look simple because the movement is small, but they ask your body to do several things at once. Stabilize the pelvis, keep the spine neutral, resist rotation through the trunk, coordinate opposite limbs, breathe through all of it. Usually, you’d be able to brute-force that with the core control you already have. ❜ His eyes flicked back to her, unwillingly fond. ❛ Which is, obnoxiously, very good. ❜  He reached for one of the folded towels stacked beside the mat and placed it lengthwise beneath where her wrists would be.

Harwin’s gaze dropped to the faint curve was still almost private, something a careless eye might miss; the sort of change one could deny in certain clothes, under certain light, with enough stubbornness and a forgiving mirror. But he had touched her last night with his hand splayed, and he'd felt the truth of it. ( There was life there. )  ❛ As I said, your centre of gravity is shifting. But your body already knows. Your pelvis is tilting forward to accommodate the new weight distribution, and that changes where your balance lives. Bird-dogs ask you to find neutral on two contact points instead of four, which means if neutral has moved even half an inch—and it has—your proprioception is going to lag behind what your muscles are trying to do. ❜ He tapped his own temple, lightly. ❛ Your brain still thinks your centre is where it was eight weeks ago. Your body's already somewhere else entirely. They'll catch up to each other—that's what we're training for here, lov—Rhaenyra.  ❜ He shifted onto hands and knees himself, slow enough that she could watch the setup rather than feel directed into it. ❛ We’ll make it smaller. Less range. You don’t need to prove anything by lifting high. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t. ❜ He extended one arm forward, but only a little, palm hovering a few inches from the mat. Then the opposite leg slid back behind him, toes staying lightly in contact with the floor.  ❛ See? Toe down. Hand low. Think long, not high. Keep your hips square. Imagine you’re balancing a glass of water on your lower back. ❜ The corner of his mouth betrayed him, only faintly this time. ❛ Breathe for me. In through your nose. Let your ribs expand. Atta girl, good. Now brace like someone’s about to poke you in the side, but don’t lock everything down. You’re not building a wall, you’re building a bridge. ❜ She obeyed with visible reluctance; her right hand slid forward, hovering just above the mat, fingers spread, her left leg stretched back, toes brushing the floor, and this time the movement held. There was still a small tremor through her hips, a faint adjustment in her ribs, but she did not topple. She held it for one breath, then two. Harwin felt his own breath slow with hers.   ❛ There, ❜ he said, too softly. ❛ That’s it. ❜ Her face remained turned slightly away, but he could see the concentration in her profile, the tight line of her mouth beginning to ease despite herself. She lowered with control. ❛ Good. Again, other side. Smaller than your pride wants it to be. ❜

He expected the glare before it came and accepted it as his due. The next rep was less steady. Her hip opened by instinct, seeking an old balance that no longer answered in quite the same way. Harwin let it happen once, then lifted his hand and paused it in the air. ❛ May I? ❜

Her answer came in the faintest nod, and his hand settled at her outer hip, light at first, broad enough to span warmth and muscle and the minute tremble of effort beneath her skin. The contact went through him with such immediacy that he had to gather himself before speaking. The bare strip of her stomach above the waistband of her tights drew his eye for half a second, and beneath that, the knowledge of what she carried made his touch gentler than it otherwise might have been.

❛ Don’t let this roll open, ❜ he said, voice low, thumb still, palm steady. ❛ Keep your hip pointed toward the mat. There. Feel the difference? ❜

His touch remained where it was one second longer than necessary, then he withdrew and set his palm flat on the mat beside his knee, fingers flexing once against the rubber surface as if he could press the heat of her out of his skin. ( He could not. ) Rhaenyra lowered slowly, controlled this time, and sat back on her heels. Her hair had loosened around her face, pale strands clinging to the damp at her neck. She looked at him as though she had not yet decided whether to be pleased or offended. He shifted closer then.

❛ And for what it’s worth, you adjusted fast, faster than most people would. Which I realize is devastating news, because now you can’t pretend you’re bad at it and blame me. ❜

A softer pause followed as the teasing faded, leaving the rest of him exposed in a way he had not planned. ( Gods, he was hopeless. ) 

❛ . . . Right. We’ll give your wrists and pride a break. Side-lying clamshells next. Good for pelvic stability. Glute medius, deep hip rotators, all the little muscles that are going to help keep your pelvis and spine amicable over the next few months. ❜ His gaze flicked to her face, the old warmth returning. Harwin reached for a folded towel and placed it near the top of her mat, smoothing it once with the side of his hand. ❛ For your head. Your neck will thank me. ❜  

𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐘 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒. Go figure. At guidance, at taking the most scorching edge of her frustration and refusing to let it catch and burn into something that would devour her. Instead he redirected it with steady patience towards strength and improvement. Harwin met her faltering balance with jest, soft corrections, and encouragement, and Rhaenyra found herself infuriatingly hungry for every word of approval that left his mouth. She found herself delighting in every morsel of praise whenever she aligned her body correctly, whenever she managed to hold the position without her balance betraying her. Heat rose beneath her skin with each word he spoke; the same type of all-consuming flame that had seared since last night’s kiss. It ignited brighter, more devastating, when she caught it — his near slip. The way his tongue had shaped the very beginning breath of love before he corrected himself to her full name — as though his hand had drifted too near fire and he had sharply recoiled. For one fleeting moment, she had thought the correction itself more intimate than if he had simply let the word fall and exist casually between them as though it didn't bear the weight of everything. For another fleeting, far more treacherous moment, Rhae allowed herself to imagine what it might have sounded like spoken in that warm voice of his. The thought had been so vivid she’d felt it like a phantom touch against the back of her neck ( or perhaps that was simply the memory of his hand from last night . . . ). Another breed of frustration flared sharply in her chest then; annoyance at herself, her lack of control, at these ridiculous, persistent thoughts that seemed intent on ruining her restraint. With a deep inhale, she snapped her back into focus, into the fierce, stubborn sense of competition against her own body — she would not be bested by her faltering balance. Not today.

❛ This is ridiculous . . . I won't be able to balance upright by the end of this pregnancy. ❜ she muttered, half to herself, half to the body that was already beginning to feel less like her own. The changes were still barely perceptible, but Rhaenyra felt them now with glaring clarity; felt the way her stamina strained where it usually didn't, her muscles and lungs burning a touch more than normally after the same amount of exertion. And then, of course, she felt it in the fact that she required the modified movement. Humiliating. She allowed Harwin to guide her through it, albeit begrudgingly at first. She would have pushed through under normal circumstances, but these circumstances were anything but normal, and so she complied, settling into position beside him with a quiet huff. Her eyes raked over his form as he demonstrated ( impeccable, yes ); the shift of muscle beneath his t-shirt, the controlled power in the movement, the faint sheen of sweat beginning to gather at his temples. Gods, he was making this impossible. She took in every detail of the motion with forced discipline, battling to maintain reign over the heat that lived in her, the heat that threatened to colour the way she watched him. It was a losing battle. The tempest inside her was a constant war between the confusing, intense emotions that had irrevocably taken root within her, and the stubborn, prideful will that refused to let her body or her heart dictate matters.

She huffed yet again, refocusing on the exercise. She was determined to nail it, to prove to herself that she could at least still command her own form. Her arm extended, her leg following suit. The first repetition proved fine. The second bested her. And it took every ounce of strength she possessed to ignore the way her body burned when his hand found her hip. The warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of her leggings, the gentle pressure that steadied and ignited in equal measure, the way his fingers curved so naturally against the curve of her. She enjoyed it far more than she should have. Far more than was wise.

❛ Oof— ❜ she exhaled from the exertion as she dropped her heels back onto the yoga mat, heart racing, skin flushed and damp at the nape of her neck, the burn in her muscles already louder than she wanted to admit. Her stamina was giving up on her far too quickly. There was a maddening, puzzling pressure gathering in her chest; Rhaenyra might have wept if he hadn’t been there to witness it. She swallowed the tightness that choked, inhaled sharply and shook her head to scatter the looming spiral before it could claim her. ❛ Oh, don’t worry, ❜ She countered, playfulness weaving through her tone as she prepared for the next exercise, ❛ The day is still young, and we still have a shift to get to, I'm certain I'll find something else to blame you for. ❜ Her gaze fell to the towel he had laid at the top of her mat, and the smile that pulled at her lips was entirely unguarded. The gesture was small, considerate; the tenderness of it seeping through the cracks in her walls and warming the space behind them — the space he had no right to warm but that was entire aflame for him. 

Unfortunately, her emotions had grown more mercurial than weather. He introduced the next exercise, described its purpose, and Rhaenyra could not say why those words in particular struck her so deep — but they did. To help keep your pelvis and spine amicable over the next few month. Amicable. Because that was the most she could hope for now. Because there was a baby growing inside her who would take and take and take from her body until her body, inevitably, began to take its fury out on her in return. She would pay in useless balance, in pain, in shortness of breath. And gods knew what else. The spiral arrived without ceremony, bristling indignation simmering fierce; since when did she need modified exercises? The storm gathered heavy and furious above her before she had time to order it away. Rhaenyra stilled, swallowing thickly. Fuck—fuck—fuck. Fucking hormones. They already reigned over her more than her pride could bear. Her gaze sought reprieve so it lifted to meet his. She found it soft, kind, so unbearably gentle that it undid her where she lay.

What was happening to her?

Well. Pregnancy. Inexplicable, terrifying feelings for her attending. Pregnancy with her attending’s child. That was what was happening to her.

❛ Seven hells—one moment. ❜ she said sharply, frustration and overwhelm flashing across her face as she forced her protesting muscles to push her upright, the motion less fluid and riddled with clumsier grace than she liked. Her ponytail whipped in the air as she stepped over to the bench where she had left his hoodie and her water bottle. Rhaenyra reached for the bottle, the metal was cool beneath her damp palm. She undid the cap and drank deeply, the water sliding down her throat in a cold flood she had hoped would ease the tightness in her chest but proved infuriatingly ineffective. It was overwhelming — training for pregnancy, training for labour, standing face to face with the realisation that her body was changing for reasons she had never chosen and had never wanted. It was overwhelming, too, to realise how deeply she enjoyed his company. How much quiet comfort he brought her when that comfort should have been forbidden. She drank again; this time, her fingertips brushed the edge of his hoodie where it lay folded. The fabric was soft from wear, carrying the faint, familiar scent of him. Grounding. There was a break in the storm. Rhaenyra's brows knit together and she pressed her eyes shut, breathed deeply until she found composure again.

She knew even before turning back to meet his gaze that she would find worry there.

❛ No, stop. Please don’t fuss. I’m alright—I'm just . . . hormones. Let’s continue. I need to—I want to continue. ❜

𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐓. Harwin knew this well. He looked down at where her crimson nails rested against the dark fabric of his tie, and he leaned close enough that the warmth between them gathered into something nearly visible; the fine shadow cast by her lashes, the faint shine of her mouth, the wicked little curl of her finger as though she had found a leash and anticipated that he might appreciate the poetry of it. ( God help him, perhaps he did. ) His own chest rising beneath the loosened collar of his shirt, too slow to hide the way his breath had hitched all at once; the sight of her hand there seemed almost absurdly intimate. His whiskey waited in the booth behind him, watered down and forgotten. For the first time since he had stepped out of the courthouse, he did not feel chained to what he had left behind. ( That frightened him, perhaps, more than the wanting did. ) ❛ All to yourself, hmm? ❜ he echoed, lowly, and there was humor there, laced within his tone. ❛ Ambitious. We’ve only just met. ❜

Bold little thing. The thought returned with more warmth this time. He reached up then, slowly enough that she could stop him if she wished, and wrapped his fingers around the narrow end of his tie just above where her own. For one suspended second, their hands occupied the same strip of silk. His knuckles grazing hers; the contact brief and nothing like enough.  ❛ Careful, ❜ he warned. ❛ You keep ordering strangers about like that, one of them might enjoy it. ❜

Harwin let his fingers slide once against the silk before he gently unwound his tie from her hold only to change the manner of the invitation. He did not want to be led away like a man without will, though the thought was not wholly without its appeal. He glanced back toward the booth. His jacket lay where he had abandoned it, dark and creased, a mute reminder of the man who had sat there before she looked at him. The whiskey glass remained on the table, amber gone pale and useless around melted ice. It seemed strange that he had been sitting there only minutes before . . . and stranger still that the booth looked almost private now, a small pocket of shadow set apart from the crowded room. A place where her brightness would have no choice but to come closer.  ❛ Since you’ve taken such issue with these stools, ❜ he said, gently detaching his tie from the loop of her finger only so he could offer her his hand instead, palm open between them. ❛ I reckon I’d ought save you from them. Knight in shining armor as I am. ❜ Harwin stepped back from the bar, guiding rather than pulling. He made room for her to rise from the stool, his body angling between her and the worst of the crowd without making a spectacle of it. The drunk man she had dismissed had disappeared somewhere near the far wall, but Harwin still registered the surrounding bodies as they moved . . . a shoulder too close, an elbow swinging wide, a woman laughing with her glass lifted carelessly in one hand. He shifted to shield Rhaenyra from a passing spill without thinking, his hand firm around hers, his other hovering briefly near the small of her back. A few steps later, the booth recieved them, and he'd nodded toward the outer edge with a faint lift of his brow, giving her the choice of where to sit, letting the silent offer speak plainly enough: take the corner if you want it, take the outside if you prefer freedom. A server passed too close behind them, and Harwin instinctively shifted nearer to the table to give the woman room, bringing himself briefly into Rhaenyra’s space again. His sleeve brushed hers, and he exhaled through his nose and looked down, almost amused at himself. Harwin waited until she had settled, then lowered himself into the booth beside the curve of shadow. His knee came close to hers beneath the table, and instinctively, he reached for his whiskey, but after remembering its watery state, set it back down again. When the server came by again, he'd ordered another.   ❛ I should warn you though, ❜ he said, voice dry, ❛ I’m not at my most entertaining tonight. If that was the service you were hoping for, you may wish to complain to management. ❜ He drank then, finally. The whiskey was better fresh. Too good for the state of him. It burned cleanly rather than dully, and he welcomed it. When he lowered the glass, her eyes were still on him. ❛ I'm Harwin, by the way. I'd ask your name in return, but something tells me you're going to make me work for it. ❜ His smile tilted, faint and knowing. ❛ Which is fine. I’m very patient when properly motivated. ❜ His gaze softened by half a shade, though his tone stayed teasing. ❛ So tell me something else, then. Since you’ve stolen my booth, insulted my discipline, and made me abandon a perfectly miserable drink. ❜ He leaned forward slightly, forearms coming to rest on the table, large hands loosely folded around his glass. ❛ What are you celebrating, avoiding, or trying very hard not to think about? ❜

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐈𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐔𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐎 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐒. Something ancient and primal sparked alight beneath her skin; a current of electricity so charged it startled her. For in truth, Rhaenyra's pride should have chafed in affront at how he had so gently, so decisively, unwound her fingers from his tie — how he had loosened her grip on that silken leash and refused to be led. It would have, on any other night, with any other man. The denial would have sparked a sharp and vicious need to reassert control and remind the world that she did not chase what did not immediately yield. But here, now, with him, the expected indignation never came. Instead there bloomed a lively, untamed thrum of exhilaration in her blood; bright, feral, hungry. It inspired her to set off in even fiercer hunt for her bounty, to sink her teeth into whatever it was about this man that refused to bend. There was something about him that made her feel like a predator granted rare permission to play with its prey without the creature ever turning frightened. How unexpectedly, thrillingly different he was from every man she had ever bothered to want. This one put up a fight. He challenged her, did not simply fold and yield around her finger the way others had, soft and eager and forgettable. He would force her to employ every device in her arsenal if she wished to claim him for taste. Where once such resistance might have infuriated her, might have felt like more effort than any conquest was worth, tonight she was terribly intrigued. Tonight she carried no title, no legacy, no expectations; tonight she was whoever she wanted to be — wild, wanting, and unburdened. Rhaenyra was in no rush. She had time to peel him back, layer by glorious layer, to tempt and coax until he wrapped around her finger by his own volition. She was thrilled by the pursuit, possessed by a patience she rarely granted anyone, and she knew with some divine, inexplicable certainty that the reward would be exquisitely sweet.

Rhaenyra allowed herself to be guided by him; savouring the firmness with which his fingers curled around hers and and the broad, steady heat of his other palm at the small of her back. His touch seared with possession, with protection, as they threaded through the stifling mass of bodies, music and heat and perfume thick in the air. Unabashed, she leaned closer than she needed to; the wine-coloured silk of her dress feathering against his side with every step. She let her bare arm brush the rougher fabric of his shirt again and again, chasing that delicate rasp of friction, the way the heat of him bled through cotton and into her skin. When an intoxicated patron drifted too near, Rhaenyra seized the excuse to press flush against him for one stolen heartbeat, her chest to the steady shield of his — the contact brief and electric and nowhere near enough.

The stranger's booth awaited bathed in amber candle light and shadow, his jacket laying in a heap of fabric across the leather seats. Rhaenyra's lips had been claimed by a dangerous smile, curling wicked and smug at the edges. Her gaze, lit by debauched anticipation, sailed from him to the intimate curve of the seat. With an amused hum, she slid past him and into the booth; choosing not the safe edge, but the depths of his lair — because Rhaenyra Targaryen was not afraid of the deep end. They settled with their knees brushing beneath the table, drawn together like the sun could not resist but seek the sky.

❛ Isn't this amusing, Harwin . . . ❜ she drawled at last, tasting his name; it was rich and heady and simply exquisite on her tongue, threatening to kindle a savage blaze low behind her navel ( too late ). She already wanted to say it again. She wanted to sigh it against his throat. She wanted to sigh it against his throat with him beneath her or above her or wherever this pull between them was leading. ❛ . . . how my ambition to have you all to myself has already succeeded. ❜ She teased while raising her negroni to her lips for a slow, savouring sip — the bitterness sharp upon her tongue yet doing little to exile the sweetness his name had left there. ❛ I came here tonight hoping to celebrate the freedom of a breakup, ❜ she continued, honestly, in response, ❛ but now I find that desire for celebration entirely eclipsed by you. You’ve completely derailed my plans. ❜ Rhaenyra leaned closer then, close enough for his cologne to besiege her senses; it was irresistibly masculine, tantalising, tempting her towards a precipice she was already aching to leap from. Her eyes searched his; violets drowned in warmth, and she found she had no desire to be saved. His gaze dragged over her, and the attention only made her bolder. One hand curled loosely around her glass, the condensation cool against her palm, while the other propped beneath her chin, her head settling at an angle that looked deceptively sweet.

❛ How are you going to make it up to me, hmm? ❜ Her smile curved slow and devilish, utterly unapologetic in its intent. ❛ I’ll offer you my name as incentive for your creativity — seeing as I’m quite generous, despite your accusation. ❜ There was a burst of laughter from some distant corner of the bar then, and what sparked behind her eyes was mischief incarnate. She leaned nearer still, her hand slipping from beneath her chin to settle upon his shoulder, fingers sinking into the firm muscle there, savouring the heat, the sparks, the reckless delight of where she had ended up. With gentle but insistent pressure she drew him down — not because he needed to be closer to hear, but because she wanted the intimacy of it. The narrow chasm between them sparked with anticipation, bet far beneath it all, beneath the bright, immediate attraction and hunger there lived something stranger, something layered and safe and inevitable, as though the whole chaotic night had been steering them towards this. It was the oddest sense of rightness, as though two pieces finally falling into place. Ridiculous, romantic nonsense, to be sure. Rhaenyra's focus narrowed again to the pursuit at hand. She lingered with lips a breath from the shell of his ear, resisting the urge to let them brush the skin just behind it ( not just yet . . . ) . There was a pause; not hesitation, but contemplation. She remembered that tonight she did not have to be Rhaenyra, not soon-to-be-resident, not heiress to a medical empire. Tonight she was simply someone who revelled in wanting and being wanted. A heartbeat. Then she spoke, voice a soft and flirtatious coo, into his ear,

❛ Nyra. I’m Nyra. ❜ She let the name hang between them for a breath before she drew her hand back, settling into the booth once more. Her legs crossed beneath the table, yet she kept the line of her thigh pressed against his. When her eyes found his again it was with a roguish gleam, devilish delight curving her mouth — the expression of a woman who knew exactly how blatant she had just been and felt no shame in it whatsoever. Her head tilted, curiosity and challenge woven together.

❛ I must say, you sell yourself short. You claim you’re not at your most entertaining tonight, yet you’ve still managed to intrigue me. I shall have you know, Harwin— ❜ A delighted little tremor skittered beneath her skin at the taste of his name again ❛ — that is no simple feat. ❜

𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐖𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐍𝐄, though no one looking at him would know it. He sat wholly at leisure; one arm draped along the back of the booth, drink in hand, attention fixed on the stage where Laena wove sorcery with her voice. He was the very picture of composure. And yet beneath that veneer, beneath the table's merciful cover, he was nothing but a man consumed. Her thigh was silk and fire under his palm; the small, deliberate sweep of her thumb over his knuckles sent electricity crackling up his arm, pooling somewhere dangerous behind his ribs. He didn't dare look her way because he knew, with the certainty of a man walking a knife's edge, that one glance would betray him completely. Daemon sat mere feet away, camera raised, blissfully unaware that his best friend was coming apart at the seams over the woman beside him. The irony wasn't lost on Harwin. ( And gods help him, he didn't want to stop.) His thumb continued its slow, maddening path along the inside of her thigh; he felt the way her muscles tensed and released, her breath shifting—imperceptible to anyone else, deafening to him. She was trying so hard to remain composed, and there was something deeply wicked in him wanted to test that composure, to see how far he could push before she shattered again. But there was tenderness too, threaded through the wanting. When she'd covered his hand with her own, that silent stay, and his chest had cracked open and spilled warmth through his veins with the whiskey. He tightened his grip on her ever so slightly: I'm not going anywhere. ❛ She's incredible tonight, ❜ he murmured, pitching his voice just loud enough to reach Daemon's ears, tilting his chin toward the stage. It was a shameless cover, for the performance of normalcy, as his hand slipped just a fraction higher, fingertips brushing the hem of her dress where it had ridden up. 

Daemon hummed his agreement without looking away from Laena, utterly entranced. Harwin took a slow sip of his whiskey and allowed his gaze to drift back to the stage. But his mind remained wholly on her. On the memory of how she'd looked an hour ago, undone and glorious in his arms. On the terrifying, exhilarating realization that he was in far deeper than he'd ever intended to be. This was reckless. This was career-ending, reputation-shattering madness. She was his resident, for fuck's sake. There were rules—ethical lines etched in stone—and he was dancing over them as if they were chalk on pavement. ❛ Careful, ❜ he breathed, so quiet it was barely sound at all. ❛ You keep looking at me like that and I'm going to do something terribly foolish. ❜ The applause began to swell as Laena held her final note. Daemon was already on his feet, camera forgotten, drawn toward the stage like a man possessed. For one brief, delicious moment, they were unobserved. Harwin turned his hand beneath hers, threading their fingers together properly, and squeezed once.  ❛ Tell me to stop, ❜ he whispered, leaning just close enough that his breath stirred the fine hairs at her temple. ❛ Tell me this is a terrible idea and I'll behave. ❜

❛ 𝐈 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇. ❜ Rhaenyra murmured in the meagre space between them, her tone laced with playful defiance against his pitiful plea for restraint. His breath had brushed against her temple, tickled the fine hairs there, and in that featherlight tactile shift the fire he had kindled hours earlier flared anew, an inexorable burn licking along her spine until liquid flame pooled between her thighs. She would ( could ) not speak the words that would douse it. She would ( could ) not grant him the safety of retreat. Not when she thrilled so profoundly in watching his defences crack and crumble. Not when her body still remembered the devastating curl of his fingers, the way he had drawn sounds from her as though she was an instrument tuned only to his touch, the way she had shattered against him in that stolen, forbidden moment. Rhae's lips curved into a smile spun from nothing but sweet artifice, a mask of innocence for the world beyond their shadowed booth. Her head tilted fleetingly, capturing his gaze with eyes set aflame with molten sin. To any passing glance they were simply two colleagues sharing a night out, her expression composed, attentive even. But she knew him to be a clever man — he knew better, he knew exactly what infernal conflagration ravaged beneath her skin. She was telling him loudly in the the way her fingers tightened with possession around the hand that rested against the bare, fevered skin of her thigh. A delicate tremor rippled through her body, pebbling her skin with intricate constellations only his touch was meant to trace. Her honeyed smile remained, entirely false in its composure, as her gaze drifted to the stage where Laena used her voice to weave a sultry spell around the crowd, around Daemon. Though Rhaenyra's expression might have been read as innocent, beneath the table she was nothing but debauchery incarnate — hunger made flesh. Madness had certainly claimed her. She should not be doing this, she should not be here next to him. She should not be drowning in the rich, heady scent of his cologne, in the low thrum of his voice, in the memory of what he had done to her mere hours ago. He was her attending, her superior, the man whose approval could make or break the career she had fought so hard to claim as her own. Yet beneath the din of Driftmark's, reason had fled, restraint had shattered, and all that remained to her was the crackling tether between them. It was deliciously exhilarating — she wanted more.

❛ You must learn this about me, Dr. Strong—I do not make a habit of engaging in things I do not want. That would include dissuading you. ❜ She said through an innocent smile and equally innocent chuckle, barely looking at him — her expression remaining one of rapt delight for Laena’s performance. Though, yet again, he would sense the bold recklessness that sang loudly in her veins. It was a fierce deluge that set every nerve alight. With graceful stealth, Rhaenyra's fingers tightened around Harwin's wrist and unashamedly, unapologetically, she guided his hand higher along the sensitive inner curve of her thigh. The caress, though self-evoked, inspired another shiver to cascade along her spine — a delectable rush of sensation that pebbled her neck and sent heat pooling where she ached most. She did not stop. She urged him higher still . . . up, up, up, until his touch hovered at the very precipice of where she burned hottest. He did not directly graze against the soaking ache; but she placed him close enough that he could feel the radiant warmth, the damp evidence of the fire he had kindled and abandoned and now reawakened with nothing more than his presence.

❛ Do you feel that? ❜ Her voice dropped to a sultry whisper meant only for him, ❛ Do you feel what you do to me? How could I possibly want you to behave? ❜ The muscles in her thighs flexed, a sharp, involuntary tremor beneath the feeling of his hand right there — so close to the place she yearned to have him buried in again. Her heart was a thunderous thing. Her chest rose higher beneath the fabric of her dress, breath coming just a fraction quicker as she fought the urge to press into his touch, to demand more in this dangerous, public dark. She shivered again. Her breath hitched quietly — for his ear alone. The tension pulled impossibly taut between them, an elastic drawn to its limit and infuriatingly shattered with a deafening snap when the final note of Laena’s set faded and applause erupted. Rhaenyra flinched. Her hand slipped from his to join the ovation, and his touch retreated from her skin, leaving her bereft. She sulked inwardly at the loss, though her face displayed only joy for her friend. Daemon rose, crossing to the stage to make his announcement, and the crowd’s roar swelled anew as he revealed that Driftmark’s would not close after all — that he had bought the establishment, and it would remain Laena’s forever.

❛ Gods, I didn't know. ❜ Rhaenyra said, the words laced with genuine awe, her chest swelling with untainted delight for her dearest friend who now stood radiant upon the stage, beaming in her husband’s arms. For a brief moment, the fire within her tempered to warmth for Laena, pure affection and pride eclipsing the hunger for the man beside her. But the respite was only fleeting — because Harwin shifted, and in that shift his knee brushed hers, dragging her back into the depths of her personal inferno. The cheers subsided and Daemon and Laena moved into the crowd to mingle, Harwin and Rhaenyra were left alone in their booth, the unsupervised air between them charged with lightning. She almost laughed at the irony, at the memory of the last time they were alone in a booth. Rhaenyra’s shoulder brushed his, a touch innocent to the world yet electric to her. Guided by instinct, or some other unseen force, her hand sought his once more beneath the table, pinky grazing before fingers entwined, her thumb brushing over his knuckles in a caress that bordered on tender. She glanced at him through lowered lashes, offering a deceptively warm smile. Her other hand curled around her drink, the ice mostly melted, yet she sipped from it anyway. It did absolutely nothing to cool the the blaze he had lit within her.

She could not say when the night began to wane; she had been lost in the invasion of his scent, the timbre of his voice when they managed fragments of normal conversation, the heat of his palm against hers. But last call came, the crowd thinned. Daemon and Laena had withdrawn into their own world, his hand protective over her swollen belly, her eyes full of worship. Far too intoxicated on him and her drinks, the chains around Rhae's impulses and thought for consequence had grown perilously loose. Somewhere between the last ruinous brush of his thumb over her skin and her own hitched breath, Rhaenyra decided she could bear the exquisite torment no longer. She lifted her gaze to Harwin; bright with sin she wanted him to see.

❛ It’s late, ❜ she drawled, the words a siren’s lure, ❛ I think it’s time we leave them to celebrate in private. Won’t you be my knight in shining armour and walk me home? ❜ Her fingertips danced along the inside of his wrist beneath the table; a wordless plea and promise — an invitation to ruin, one she had no right to offer and absolutely no desire to take back.