While Rhaenyra and Maester Ramos discussed governance, a figure stood awkwardly nearby, drawing curious glances from the handmaidens.
It seemed they had all forgotten the knight who had been summoned along with the maester.
The man was uncomfortable.
He knew the princess had questions for him.
She simply had not gotten to him yet.
His sisters, who served as the princess’s handmaidens, had told him that officials of all ranks had passed through the Household.
From small council members to humble water carriers, everyone had assisted with the work.
Some nobles, thinking the princess young and inexperienced, had tried to cut corners.
They had all been caught and severely punished.
The Crownlands lords were direct vassals of the king.
He had the legal authority to strip them of their lands, and they could only rebel against the throne if they dared.
But dragons arrived at one’s doorstep faster than any army.
Those who could not withstand a dragon’s fury knew better than to make trouble.
So no one dared to slight the newly empowered princess.
And she personally oversaw everything, investigating every suspicious detail.
Waiting in line for an audience with the princess had become routine.
Ser Harwin Strong, son of the Master of Laws, waited until Rhaenyra and Ramos had finished their discussion.
Only when the maester departed in a cloud of dust did Harwin step forward and bow.
Rhaenyra sat in the main seat.
Weary from recent labors, she closed her eyes for a moment before turning her gaze to the man before her.
“Ser Strong?” She spoke slowly.
“I have worked alongside your father, Lord Lyonel, recently.
Our cooperation has been smooth.
He is new to King’s Landing and favored by my father.
I treat him with the respect he deserves.
You are his eldest son and heir.
He must be proud of you.
I can see why.
You will surely become a pillar of Harrenhal.” Perhaps because she had been soothing the poor of late, she unconsciously adopted an encouraging tone.
Harwin’s composure cracked.
His face reddened visibly.
You are the princess, but you are younger than me.
Yet you speak as if you were my father’s peer.
Praising me like a child?
He studied her carefully.
She was different from the lively girl others described.
Different from the cold, aloof figure the officials spoke of.
She looked tired, but the gold ornaments her handmaidens had placed only enhanced her striking beauty.
Her courtly grace spoke of royal breeding.
Her recent governance had given her an air of authority that discouraged any irreverent thought.
A true daughter of the royal house.
He had heard Rhaenyra was once a wild girl who loved flying her dragon everywhere.
Now he understood that only by seeing her in person could one truly know the princess.
Of course, to some, her beauty mattered less than the sweet scent of power she carried.
Harwin studied her with curiosity.
She was thinking about him as well.
According to certain maesters’ accounts in Fire & Blood, it was Harwin, a minor officer in the Gold Cloaks, who had reported Daemon Targaryen’s drunken mockery of her stillborn brother.
But Rhaenyra found that unlikely.
The records were unclear, only saying the officer wanted advancement.
It was probably another smear from the Citadel.
Harwin had no quarrel with Daemon.
His father was a trusted minister, and would later become Hand of the King.
He had no reason to act against Daemon.
The real informant was almost certainly Otto Hightower.