The food had grown cold.
The roasted capon sat untouched on its silver platter, its rich aroma now stale and cloying.
The bread had hardened into stone.
Rhaenyra pushed a grape across her plate with her fork, watching it roll lazily before coming to a stop at the edge.
“Has he been found yet?”
The maid regarded her uneasily, the blue of her eyes as clear as spring waters.
Her hands trembled slightly as she clutched the empty water pitcher to her chest.
“No, Princess,” she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper.
“They’ve scoured the markets and the usual ale houses by the docks.
None have seen Ser Laenor.”
Rhaenyra Targaryen squeezed her fork so hard the silver bit into her palm.
Her gaze drifted to the seat across from her—once again, her husband had left it empty.
The cushions remained undisturbed, the wine glass untouched.
As if he had never been there at all.
*Gods.
Can I not have one day where things go as they should?*
It seemed as if each sunrise brought with it something worse to bear.
Another slight.
Another whispered insult.
Another empty chair at her table.
“Thank you, Lyra.
You may go.”
The maid curtsied deeply and moved to clear the untouched food from her table.
Plates clattered softly as she stacked them, her movements quick and efficient.
She scurried for the door, desperate to escape the princess’s presence.
“Wait,” Rhaenyra said, her voice sharp enough to make the girl freeze mid-step, one hand already on the door handle.
“Find Ser Harwin.
I have need of him.”
The girl held her gaze for barely half a moment before nodding, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson.
It was only when the sound of her hurried footsteps faded down the hall that Rhaenyra allowed herself to breathe again.
The air rushed from her lungs in a shuddering exhale.
*Even the servants know.*
They had grown bolder of late.
Openly gaping at her whenever she dared mention Ser Harwin’s name.
Their eyes would dart between her and the door, sly smiles curling at the corners of their mouths.
She was fairly certain none of them were secretly spying on her on the Queen’s behalf—but that did not stop them from passing judgment on her.
From whispering behind their hands when they thought she couldn’t see.
*Let them.
Their thoughts are of no consequence.*
She was the blood of the dragon.
Heir to the Iron Throne.
She could do what she pleased.
At least, that is what her uncle had said.
Rhaenyra smiled to herself, absently fingering her necklace—the same Valyrian steel pendant Daemon had given her all those years ago.
The metal was cool against her fingertips, a reminder of a time when the world had seemed simpler.
When she had believed herself invincible.
*Of course, he would say that.
He was a man.*
Even if he bedded a hundred women and sired dozens of bastards, no one would bat an eye.
He could just leave them with their mothers and pretend they never existed.
He could swagger through the court with his head held high, his reputation untarnished, his honor intact.
She could not.
Every move she made, every word she spoke, every glance she cast—it all threatened her and her children.
The weight of it pressed down on her shoulders like a physical thing, heavy and unyielding.
*I must be vigilant.
I must close ranks.*
She may have gotten her father to send Alena Florent away, but the others were still there.
Every day, the Queen’s companions spread their poison throughout the Red Keep, casting doubts on her children’s legitimacy.
Their whispers were like serpents, slithering through the corridors, finding their way into every ear.
Once, she would have dismissed them.
Words were wind, and her father was firmly on her side.
But as her twins grew, their brown hair longer, their brown eyes bigger, the talk became impossible to shut out.
It seeped through the cracks in the walls, invaded her dreams, and haunted her waking hours.
Especially when they themselves had started parroting it back to her.
“They all say it.” Lucera had complained to her one night, as she was tucking her into bed.
The little girl’s eyes had been wide and wet with unshed tears.
“How I’m not a real princess.”
Her chest had tightened, and Rhaenyra had just about mounted Syrax, ready to fly her to Brightwater Keep making another Harrenhal of it.
The urge to burn them all had been almost overwhelming.
“You are mine,” she’d told her sweet girl, her voice thick with rage and something far more fragile.
“That’s all that matters.”
It didn’t, of course.
Not while her husband insisted on eschewing court life to spend his days drinking and whoring with Ser Qarl by the docks.
Not while he abandoned her to face the vipers alone.
Not while he left their children to be whispered about and scorned.
Not while Alicent Hightower drew breath.
*Daemon was wrong.*
Dragon or not, she was still a woman.
She couldn’t do what she liked.
Not without a man to stand by her side and protect her from the vultures.
The world was not built for women like her—women who dared to claim power, who dared to love freely, who dared to exist on their own terms.
*And Daemon has left me to them.*
Rhaenyra was grateful when a soft knock sounded on the other side of the door—she could not bear to think of her uncle again.
If she did, she might finally pitch that cursed necklace from the window and be done with him once and for all.
Let it shatter on the stones below.
Let the pieces scatter like the ashes of her broken heart.
“Come,” she called out, and the old oak swung open.
The soft clang of armor rang in the chamber.
She sank her teeth into her bottom lip, tasting copper.
*From one headache to another.*
It seemed she was forever doomed to be troubled by men.
They were like a plague she could not escape, each one bringing their own brand of chaos into her carefully ordered life.
“You sent for me, Princess,” Ser Harwin announced, giving her a curt nod.
The moment his head snapped back up, eyes warmer than good-tilled earth pinned hers.
She smiled despite herself.
*Always so bold.*
Against her better judgment, her knees trembled.
The sight of him still had the power to undo her, even after all this time.
Even after all the whispered warnings and the careful distance she had tried to maintain.
“Yes,” she said, rising from her seat.
But instead of going right at him, she circled the recliner, careful to keep her distance.
The space between them felt like an ocean.
“Ser Laenor has not been seen at court for some weeks now.”
Ser Harwin’s face fell, and his thick brows knitted together in concern.
The warmth in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something harder.
Something protective.
“Have the Velaryon guards scoured the docks?”
“Yes,” Rhaenyra absently fingered the backrest of a chair.
The knight would still not look away from her.
His gaze was a physical weight, pressing against her skin.
“Ser Vaemar did not find him at any of the usual taverns and drinking hovels.
I fear some grave ill may have befallen him.”
“I’ll gather the watch.
We’ll search the streets.
I’m certain his lordship had merely wandered into the wrong place.”
She nodded, grateful for his steady presence.
“Start with the Street of Silk.
There is a particular establishment Ser Qarl is fond of.”
“The Menagerie.
I’ve heard the men speak of it,” he offered.
Though there was no judgment in his voice, Rhaenyra could infer the name had left him uneasy.
Everyone knew that particular brothel was renowned for its collection of exotic boys.
If he discovered her husband in there, it would not bode well for her.
Especially if word got out.
There were already far too many whispers about her husband and Ser Qarl.
Too many knowing glances.
Too many snide remarks disguised as courtly conversation.
“Yes.
I trust you’ll be discreet.”
“Of course, Princess.
It will be done.”
She nodded, turning away from him.
The gesture felt final, like closing a door.
“Good.
See to it then.”
She tried to force as much finality into her voice as she could muster.
Still, she did not hear him move.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words.
“Is that all you would have of me, Princess?” His voice dropped, low and husky.
The sound of it sent a shiver down her spine.
Her breath caught in her throat.
“Is there anything else I should need?”
He moved, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor.
Each step brought him closer, closing the distance she had so carefully maintained.
“You tell me.
You have been distant of late.
Troubled.”
The sound stopped, and the scent of worn leather and wet stone drifted up her nostrils.
A shudder slid down her spine.
She could feel the heat radiating from his body, could sense the tension coiled in his muscles.
“The concerns of the realm weigh on me.”
More footsteps.
Hot air tickled her nape.
“Perhaps I could help lift them.”
Her skin pricked up as a hand hovered inches from her.
The velvet and silk gown she wore seemed thinner than paper now, offering no protection against his nearness.
She sucked in air.
*No.
Not anymore.*
“I fear you will only make them heavier.” Though every inch of her flesh screamed in protest, she moved away.
The space she created felt like a betrayal of everything she wanted.
The silence that descended on the chamber cut her something fierce.
It was a living thing, sharp and cold, pressing against her from all sides.
“You did not seem to believe so a few weeks past.”
The sternness of his voice made her sink her nails into her palm.
The pain was grounding, a reminder of why she had to resist.
“That was a mistake.”
“And all the times before?”
“I’ve made many mistakes these last few years.” She paused just beside the window, bitterness flooding her mouth.
“And now I’m paying for them.”
He refused to allow her to escape.
In two quick strides, he crossed the distance she’d so feebly attempted to put between them.
Rhaenyra pulled away, but with her back pressed to the windowsill, she was cornered—forced to meet those magnificent eyes.
They burned with a fierce intensity that made her forget how to breathe.
“It is gossip.
Rumor, nothing more.” His hand shot for hers, and flattening her palms to her side was all she could do to avoid his grip.
“Gossip can quickly become truth if repeated often enough.”
“The King has already sent Lady Alena away.”
“But the others remain.
Falla Ambrose, Catelyn Merryweather, Denyse Ashford—all the minor lords and knights Otto Hightower sent from the Reach to strengthen his family’s position at court.
Their tongues are still wagging, and there is nothing I can do to stop them.”
“Then I will.” His lips pressed into a firm white line.
Taking one last step, he shattered whatever pitiful distance was left between them.
“Just say the word, and I’ll rip their tongues right from their mouths.”
“Gods, don’t you understand?” Rhaenyra blew a breath, seizing his face in her hands.
The feel of his skin against hers was maddening.
She could feel the slight roughness of his jaw and the warmth of his cheeks.
“If they discover us, your life is forfeit.
They will brand you a traitor and send you to the Wall.
Worse, they may kill you.”
“So be it.” His mouth quirked into a smile, reckless and unafraid.
“Harwin…”
“If being with you means death, then I will gladly give my life a thousand times over.”
She gritted her teeth, half torn between slapping him and throwing herself into his arms.
The war within her was exhausting, a constant battle between duty and desire.
“But it will not just be your life, will it?
It will be mine too.
And the children’s.”
“It will not.”
A chortle broke through her lips before she could bite it back.
The sound was hollow and bitter.
“No?
Will you fight my father over it?
The Queen?
One man against the whole realm…”
Before she could even blink, his hands were on her, crushing her to him.
Brown eyes, flecked with spots of gold and russet, consumed her soul.
At that moment, all the resolve she had mustered and all the conviction disappeared, and her flesh ached for his touch.
She melted against him, her body betraying every carefully constructed wall she had built.
“Yes, if that’s what it takes.
Because that’s what I vowed the day you made me your sworn protector.
Or did you forget?”
She smiled, melting into him.
Desperate.
Full of longing.
“No.”
How could she?
It had been the day light had finally returned to her life.
The day she had stopped feeling quite so alone.
He’d knelt at her feet, beneath the canopy of the heart tree, and sworn his sword, his life, and his soul to her service.
The weirwood’s red leaves had fallen like tears around them, silent witnesses to his oath.
After Ser Criston’s betrayal, Rhaenyra thought herself too broken to ever trust another.
The wound he had left had festered for years, poisoning her ability to believe in anyone.
Still, when she bid Ser Harwin rise as her sworn shield, she knew that if anyone was worthy of her trust, it would be him.
There was something in his eyes, something steady and true, that made her believe again.
It didn’t take long for her to give him more than her trust.
She’d been alone—her husband shunned her, still grieving his lover, while Alicent had scorned her for her transgression.
Every day, courtiers swarmed her with well wishes and prayers for her father’s recovery—but they were crows drawn to carrion, eager to peck out power for themselves.
None of them were her friends.
Except for Harwin.
In the wake of her disastrous wedding feast, his father, the Hand, had appointed him to shadow her while the Kingsguard deliberated Ser Criston’s fate.
He’d never left her side since.
It was he who kept her company while she read in the godswood.
It was he who lifted her mood whenever the maesters brought her grim tidings about her father’s health.
When the nobles whispered and pointed, gossiping about her sham marriage and Ser Joffrey’s death, he came to her defense.
And when she confided in him how Laenor had never so much as touched her, it was he who crushed his lips to hers.
Bold and unafraid.
At that moment, she didn’t even have the wits about her to feign offense and dismiss him.
News of Daemon’s sudden marriage to Laena had come—the last blow to her already miserable existence.
The grief and betrayal she had felt had just about undone her.
She had been shattered, broken into a thousand pieces.
It certainly made it easy to give in to Harwin’s embrace.
“Then let me aid you.
Protect you as I have thus far.
I know I may not be able to be…” Harwin paused, pressing his lips together.
The words seemed to cost him.
“What I am to the children, but I can be there for them.
For you.”
The breath she released was small, strangled.
Full of desire only he could inspire—only he could see.
The world outside the window faded away, leaving only the two of them, suspended in this fragile moment.
“Always?” she pressed her forehead to his.
The question was a whisper, a prayer.
*Just one last time.*
“Always,” he declared, and devoured her lips.