Chapter Text
It’s Rhaenyra’s wedding night, and Laenor is inconsolable.
They’re sitting together on a large bed filled with soft feathers, one covered with plush furs and lavish fleeces. A fire roars in the hearth beside them, and a sweet flagon of Abor gold, directly from the private stock of the Redwynes, rests on a table beside that. But instead of setting the mood, the flames and the untouched flagon of wine only add to the ambiance of tragedy surrounding this evening.
“Would it be better if I left?” Rhaenyra asks. She’s rubbing circles on Laenor’s back, attempting to soothe his wretched sobs, but the effort has been fruitless thus far.
And she can’t even find it in herself to be upset, but she is angry.
In attacking Joffrey, Ser Criston Cole broke his vows as well as her trust. Sliced his sword clean through the middle of them. She has no doubt that somebody let slip who Joffrey is—was—to Laenor, no doubt that his attack was a quest for vengeance.
A petty man, committing murder because he actually thought that Rhaenyra would give up her dragon, would surrendor the mighty Syrax, and her birthright, the Iron Throne, to live the rest of her life as the anonymous wife of a sellsword in the east.
As if.
But not only did Criston attack Joffrey, whom Rhaenyra considered to be under the protection of the royal family by way of Laenor, he did it in the middle of what was to be the first night of a week-long celebration. The unification of two Great Houses, both empowered by dragonfire, a move that would bring the only real threats to the throne together under one banner.
Stability, in a time where the only way for the dragon to fall is by the flame of another—a threat that had been a very real possibility until now. A better man than Criston would have understood the importance of this union, but Criston Cole is a vain prick, and Rhaenyra swears to never again align herself with a man who would dare put himself above her birthrights, to never bed a man who would consider himself more important than either the Iron Throne or her dragon.
And because Criston did not understand that, Rhaenyra and Laenor were wed next to a pool of Joffrey’s still-warm blood, and are now expected to fuck at a time when Laenor can do hardly more than breathe.
Fucking hells. Rhaenyra has never been one to imagine her wedding night, but if she had, this is not what she would have expected.
“Laenor?” She tries, again. “Laenor, would it be better if I left?”
“No,” he finally manages to choke out. It takes some coughing, some wheezing, some half-sobs, cracking through his words, but Laenor eventually manages to stop crying enough to speak more than just a single word. “No, I think I’ll go.”
“Where will you go?”
“Seasmoke.”
And, well, Rhaenyra can’t argue with that. “Shall I join you?” Syrax and Seasmoke are both all the way over in the Dragonpit, but there are many ways out of the Red Keep, and they will be cloaked by darkness if they go.
“No, you stay.” Laenor pats her knee, kindly. “I shall return by morning, Rhaenyra.”
“At least let me show you the way.” Rhaenyra jumps up, and reaches for a hat and a cloak, tugging both over her body before he can argue. Then, she pulls aside a tapestry, revealing a hidden doorway.
Laenor smiles, sadly, but joins her. Together, they travel through the old stone passageways of the Red Keep, ones forgotten to history when the men who built the enormous stronghold were killed for knowing her secrets. She pulls him through the maze of hidden hallways, and when they get to the final turn, the one that will lead to the Dragonpit, she hugs her new husband good-bye and watches him go.
But she takes a different route home.
The Dragonpit is atop the Hill of Rhaenys, the Queen that Rhaenyra was named after. And as she meanders down the streets, avoiding the Street of Silk and its brothels and memories, she allows her thoughts to wander. Being up here is just another reminder that Criston’s ask for her to run away, to leave her birthrights behind, was a foolish request, one only a man blinded by his own cock—
“Princess.”
Rhaenyra freezes, and then runs.
She hears him give chase behind her, and grins, racing along the streets, ducking between alleyways and bypassing merchants, sliding through narrow passageways until she’s sure they’ve moved far enough into the hillside that they’re alone, hidden from potential onlookers in a dark alley, the end of which has a hidden door that leads back to the Red Keep. The sounds of the city have quieted, and only the light of the moon is reflected down upon her.
Panting, Rhaenyra leans back against the stone wall, and attempts to catch her breath.
“I warned you,” a voice murmurs into the darkness, conjuring a memory of another time, another life, almost. One where she was still a maiden, still innocent in more ways than one. And then, he’s upon her. In a single heartbeat, Ser Harwin Strong, in all his magnificent glory, is standing before her, just inches from her body. He’s so enormous that he towers above Rhaenyra, and when he leans forward, resting his forearm against the stone wall above her head, his body forms a cage around her.
“Did you?” Rhaenyra attempts to slow her breathing, but the way that Harwin’s eyes flicker down to her heaving chest are proof that her heart is still racing.
Maybe even faster, now that he’s so close.
“I did.” His free hand comes up between them, but it moves slowly—ever so slowly, and stops just before he touches her jaw. “May I?”
Rhaenyra hesitates. Hadn’t she just made a vow to herself about men with their pride?
But he rescued her, didn’t he?
Earlier this evening, when all hell broke loose, he was the one who braved the mob to rescue her from the chaos. At the time, she screamed at him to let her down, but now, she understands why he couldn’t. Had he not retrieved her, she likely would have been Criston’s next target. Yet, still… she can’t help but feel raw from everything that has happened in the past few weeks. The breakup with the soon-to-be traitor, the cold aftermath and his refusals to join her in bed again, the wedding and all of its horror… she can’t give in this easily.
No matter how delicious it feels to be covered by Harwin’s body right now.
“You’re asking for permission, this time?”
Harwin grins, and somehow drifts even closer, pressing her back against the cool stone, crowding her body—but not touching it. “Of course, Princess.” His lips are so close, now, that she can feel the whisper of his breath. “Now, there is no question of your safety. Now, you are in control.”
Rhaenyra ignores the way her core tightens at his words, and places a hand on his chest to keep the giant man at bay, and he immediately covers it with his own—though he does stop inching closer to her. “I do not owe you a thanks.” (She does, she really does.)
“I do not require one.” He strokes the back of her hand with his thumb. Patient, accepting what she has given and not asking for more. Waiting for her to make a decision.
“Nor do I owe you an explanation.”
“For what?”
“Anything.” For running away the first moment he released her. For the reason Criston attacked Joffrey. For why she’s out here tonight, on her wedding night. He can take her pick, but she’s done explaining herself to men.
“I do not desire one.” He squeezes her hand, once, and when she allows him to tangle their fingers together, to hold them tightly to his chest, she feels safe, somehow.
Protected.
But still… “I’m a married woman, now.”
His mouth quirks up in a grin. “Congratulations.”
He already knows. Of course he does. Everyone who was in that room when Laenor fell to his knees knows that their marriage is one in name, only. The screams from her husband were not screams of a platonic friend, but the wretched sobs of a lover, whose heart had been broken.
She takes a deep breath. “I have rules.”
Harwin’s smile is blinding. “As you should.”
“I will not run away with you.”
He looks offended. “I would never ask you to.”
“I will not give up my dragons, nor my birthright—”
“My Princess,” he cuts in. “I want you, as you are. I would never ask you to be someone else.” Tentatively, he releases her hand, and brings his own up to cup her jaw, stroking along the soft skin there when she dips her head in permission. His delicate touch is a sharp contrast to his rough skin, coarse and calloused from the years he’s spent wielding weapons as a member of the City Watch, of which he is now a captain. She can’t help but wonder how it might feel to tame a creature such as him.
And she does love taming strong creatures.
“You will never call upon me, only I, upon you.”
“Of course.” His fingers trail down her jaw, down her neck—and his knee comes between her legs. He pushes it against the wall, and she feels him beneath the layers of her clothes. He’s so tall that she hardly need move, and she’s able to rest her core upon him.
It feels… fuck, it feels really good.
“You will never be my Prince,” she breathes, rocking her hips. Just once, to lessen the ache between her thighs.
Twice, because she’s a Princess, who may take her own pleasure as she wishes.
Harwin’s fingertips tighten where they’re pressed into her neck, but he remains still. Watching, waiting, hardening.
Allowing her to set the pace, now that she is in arms, not refusing her a single thing.
Harwin shakes his head. “I do not care for titles.”
“You’re a Ser, and a Captain, surely you do.” Rhaenyra brings her free hand up to the arm he has pressed above her, and gently wraps her fingers around his bicep, partly for balance, partly to see what she’s working with. When he had her thrown over his shoulder, she wasn’t exactly running an inspection… but now she is, and she’s impressed. Ser Harwin isn’t wearing any armor tonight, and his leathers are thick, but not so thick that she can’t feel his corded muscles, his rounded bicep, as strong as his last name.
And if, in the process, she tugs a string holding her cloak together, allowing him a glimpse inside of the thick wool, allowing him to see the thin nightgown below… well, it’s her prerogative, as Princess, to do so.
“I am also a future Lord.” He winks, glancing down at her breasts, where her nipples poke through the black silk, appreciating her body, but not touching. Not yet. “Ser Harwin Breakbones. The Strongest Man in the Seven Kingdoms.” His bicep flexes, his fingertips tighten and release against her delicate skin, as if reminding her that in this moment, she is physically at his mercy. “But I kneel to you, Princess.”
Desire sparks, moisture pools between her legs. A man with self-control. One who knows his station, who knows he ranks high—but never higher than her—is a seductive thing in and of itself. “Now you’re just bragging.” Rhaenyra curls her fingers around the fabric at his chest, but doesn’t pull him closer… yet. “All men in this city kneel to me. All men in Westeros, too, or have you forgotten who I am?”
“I will never forget who you are, Rhaenyra.” His words are serious, and her name on his tongue sends a shiver down her spine. “But I do believe that a Princess deserves a man of title, a man of power. A man Strong enough to defend her from a mob.”
“By tossing her over his shoulder?” she asks, wryly.
“Is there somewhere you would prefer to be tossed?” His voice is low, his deep baritone rippling through her body, causing her nipples to tighten, her pulse to flutter between her legs.
“Are you offering?”
“No,” Harwin says, sharply. “It is you, who makes the offer.”
Rhaenyra grins at his reminder of the rule she set mere moments ago, and begins rocking again, allowing herself to take more pleasure from his large body, from the thick muscles corded around his thigh, the one still pressed between her legs. “You will remain silent about this.” Heat curls up through her body like smoke, and she closes her eyes, arching her back as she rides his thigh. “No one is to know.”
“I will do as my Princess commands.” His breath is upon her skin, now, and when he brushes his lips along her jaw and nips gently at her ear, Rhaenyra gasps. “If you ask me to drop to my knees, right here on your namesake, to drink from your sex until your cries fill the air, I will.”
Rhaenyra moans, softly. “And what else would you do for me, Ser Harwin?”
His chuckle is a vibration beneath her fingertips, his words heady in her ear. “If you ask me to fuck you all night long, I will.”
Men. Always thinking with their cocks. It’s not that it doesn’t sound enjoyable, but she wants more out of sex than just being penetrated repeatedly. Which gives her an idea. Rhaenyra opens her eyes, and pushes him away just enough that she can gaze upon him, can judge his reaction. “And if I ask you to lay with me, to touch me and pleasure me and take none of your own—”
Harwin groans, his fingertips flexing as if on instinct, still at her neck, still teasing the soft skin there, as if he’s afraid—or unwilling—to move them. “It would be my honor to spend my nights on my knees for you, my Princess, however you wish.”
At that, Rhaenyra releases the hand she was using to hold him at bay, and slides it up around his neck, tugging him down for a kiss. Harwin springs into action, descending upon her mouth like a man starved. He presses his lips to hers, licking into her mouth for a kiss deeper and hotter than any she has shared with another before now.
When she moans, her body filling with a fire that a kiss is not enough to quench, she drops her hands, reaching for his trousers—but Harwin catches both of her wrists, and pins them against the stone wall above her head with one of his own.
She allows it.
He litters kisses down her neck, sucking at the dip just above her collarbone while dropping his free hand down to her breast. His thumb glides over her nipple, and she feels his cock twitch against her stomach, knows he’s confirmed for himself that she’s not wearing anything beneath the nightgown.
“Just the silk,” she murmurs.
“Fuck.” And then, his mouth is on hers, again, and he’s slicking his tongue against hers, sucking and tasting and taking what she’s allowing him to take while he flicks his thumb back and forth across her pebbled tip.
Teasing her, ravishing her, bringing her pleasure with every rapidly-increasing heartbeat.
Rhaenyra arches into him, and whines when she feels his cock press into her stomach, when she feels that he’s throbbing against her, thick and big and fuck, she wants him inside of her. Wants his fat cock to fill her up, to stretch her out and hit every, single spot within her cunt—the sensitive ones and the ones that tinge on pain. She wants it all, and she’s a Princess. The heir to the Iron Throne, future ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. A dragonrider, born of the blood of Aegon the Conquerer himself, a man so greedy, he took two wives to bed.
So why shouldn’t she have what she wants as well?
She should. She will.
She makes a decision.
Tonight, Rhaenyra is going to ride a man, instead of a dragon—because tomorrow, this man will say nothing when she goes back to her husband, back to her dragons, only to call upon him as desired. And after that, she’s going to ride him again. And again, and again. And maybe, if he’s lucky, she’ll allow him to ride her.
To toss her onto a featherbed and fuck her from behind as hard and fast as he wants.
But he’s going to earn it, first.
She breaks their kiss. “Take me.”
“Here?”
“Yes. With your mouth. Your cock,” she rolls her hips, loving how the can feel him throb against her, “comes later. If you earn it.”
Harwin grins.
He drops to his knees before her, releasing her hands—which she slides into his dark hair. He throws an arm across her stomach, pushing her against the wall, and with the other, shoves her legs apart.
But when he ducks down, she tugs on his hair, stopping him from moving his head beneath her nightgown.
“I want to watch.”
Harwin’s eyes are sparkling with mischief, now, as if her words are turning him on, even more. “Yes, my Princess.”
The arm thrown across her belly moves, and he slides both of his hands up her thighs, up her skin, taking her silk gown with them. He shuffles forward, so that her legs are spread, and presses kisses to her skin with every inch revealed. Soft kisses, wet kisses, sharp kisses made by tugging on her skin with his teeth.
He nips and sucks and lathes his tongue over her inner thighs until the black silk is pooled at her waist and his nose is inches from her cunt. Then, as if realizing his shoulders are far too wide to fit comfortably between her thighs, he lifts one of her legs, and brings it up over his shoulder.
The new angle exposes her cunt to his face, and when a gust of wind blows through the alleyway, bringing with it the laughter of people spilling out of brothels and music spilling out of taverns around the corner on the Street of Silk, Rhaenyra moans.
This is the hottest moment of her life, thus far.
And they’re only getting started.
Rhaenyra relaxes back against the stone wall, her fingers, tangled in his hair, and tugs Harwin forward, but when he leans in, when he moves to suck on her, she stops him. “Earn it,” she murmurs. “Earn your way into my bed. Prove that you may satisfy me without your cock, and I will consider allowing you to satisfy me with it.”
Harwin isn’t laughing anymore. He licks his lips, fingers tightening around her hips, and nods.
This time, when he dives between her legs, she lets him. Harwin flattens his tongue against her cunt, and in one swift stroke, licks up through her folds, drinking in her juices, flicking his tongue over her clit at the very top.
“Fuck,” she cries.
He pulls back, and she can see her slick on his lips, on his chin. “Yes, Princess?”
“Don’t stop,” she growls, tugging his head back towards her core.
He grins, and presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh—the one slung over his shoulder. Then, he shuffles closer, bringing his nose to her cunt, and inhaling. His eyes flicker up to meet Rhaenyra’s gaze from where he kneels below her, and the sight of this man, the strongest in all of Westeros, between her thighs… well, it’s hot.
Rhaenyra feels powerful, and as Harwin begins licking through her folds again, sucking and slurping and pausing only to tease at her clit, she also feels pleasure.
Real pleasure.
She rocks against his mouth, as Harwin sets a rhythm. Down through her folds, up through her folds, flicking his tongue over her clit, sucking at the swollen pearl, pulling it gently—oh, ever so gently, between his teeth in a way that sends flames licking through her entire system.
She almost comes right there.
Rhaenyra thanks the gods that she’s leaning against a wall, that he’s strong enough for her to hold onto him the way she is, with her fingers tangled in his soft curls, tugging and pulling and scratching at his head, because the more bliss he licks into her body, the less she’s able to hold herself upright.
His hands, holding her hips, shift. His tongue is still working through her cunt, licking and tasting and sucking on her pussy, but his hands move. He winds one around her ass, squeezing the round globe, kneading it between his fingers a few times—matching the strokes of his tongue with the pattern of his kneading—before he slips it back down her thigh, and up between her legs. His fingertips tease over her entrance, but don’t penetrate her.
Not yet.
The other, he wraps around the thigh she has slung over his shoulder, pulling her leg flush against his cheek, his neck, using her body as leverage as he pulls her pussy closer to his face, erasing any space left between them. Then, he slings his arm across her stomach, again, and though it somewhat blocks her view of his mouth against her core, Rhaenyra is grateful for the extra support—because her legs feel like those of a wobbly fawn as the pleasure begins building.
And it’s honestly kind of hot that they’re so tangled up this way, that his face is against her cunt, that his mouth is on her wet, naked skin, and that her legs are tangled up in his arms, his neck, his face.
Anyone could come through this back alleyway and see them, and that knowledge makes Rhaenyra hot to the core. She allows her eyes to flutter shut, to picture someone coming around to watch—when the sucking at her core stops.
“Why—”
As soon as she opens her eyes, looks back down upon Harwin, he resumes pleasuring her. This time, he presses a finger inside of her tight cunt, and Rhaenyra arches into him, into his mouth, as he begins to methodically fuck her with his thick index finger while he slurps at her juices.
“Gods, Harwin, don’t stop.”
She arches her back even more, closes her eyes—
—and again, he stops. This time, he pulls his finger from her, too.
Frustrated, Rhaenyra looks back down. He’s breathing heavily, but he’s grinning—as if the very act of pleasuring his Princess is fun for him, an experience he’s enjoying, reveling in.
And though he’s smiling, Harwin’s words are stern. “You may have control, Rhaenyra, but you will watch me when you come.” His words are barely more than a murmur, and she can feel the vibration of his baritone whisper through her body, feel his breath tickle her wet folds as he demands his fee. It sends baby sparks of pleasure buzzing along her veins, teasing even when he’s commanding his due. “When you scream with pleasure, you will know whose tongue it is that brings it forth.” He presses a gentle, open-mouthed kiss to her cunt. “And when it is my cock…” Another kiss, this time, on her clit, his tongue flicking out to lathe over it before he pulls back. “You will know the man attached.”
Well, she did tell him she wanted to watch. She can hardly argue with his request, now.
Rhaenyra nods, and when Harwin descends upon her cunt once more, he adds a second finger to the first, pushing them both up inside of her tight cunt, making her wonder how on earth he’s going to fit his cock inside. But his mouth on her clit brings forth more slick, helping his fingers squeeze inside of her, and when he begins stroking upwards, curling his fingers so that they rub against the inside wall of her sex in in time with the strokes of his tongue through her folds, she begins to ascend into pleasure.
It’s an all-encompassing sort of gratification, like a fire, consuming her from the inside-out.
But a Targaryen is no stranger to fire.
Rhaenyra embraces his head, his mouth—his tongue, and when he stops playing with her folds, when he begins to focus solely on her clit, teasing the tip of his tongue from side-to-side over and over and over again, while at the same time, methodically fucking his fingers inside of her tight cunt, his eyes locked on hers in a way she never realized would be so hot, her body peaks.
Rhaenyra opens her mouth and cries out his name, arching her back, shoving her hips forward into his face—despite the iron bar of his forearm across them, locking them down—and clenching tightly around his thick fingers, which don’t stop moving.
He allows her movements, loosening his arm enough to let her buck and roll and twist as the orgasm licks through her body, long and drawn-out, like flames burning up her veins. It’s incredible, really, the way he’s pushed her over the edge into such a delicious orgasm, one that isn’t ending. The aftershocks keep coming, and Harwin keeps lapping at her pussy, drinking them in. Rhaenyra is blissed out, moaning and bucking and crying his name over and over and over again as she rides his face, his tongue, his fingers—and when she’s so sensitive that she has to push his head away from her clit, he merely drops it lower and replaces his fingers with his tongue, begins to lap at her core, cleaning up the orgasm that he tore from her body.
It isn’t until she slumps back against the wall, completely satiated, that he finally moves out from beneath her thighs.
Carefully, he tugs her cloak back around her, lacing it up tight. Then, he leans back down and captures her mouth in a kiss.
Slow, romantic, lazy—as if they have all the time in the world for this, for her to taste herself on his mouth, for them to kiss the way that lovers do, out here in the alleyways of King's Landing, hidden by darkness, shrouded by the night.
She can feel his hardness against her belly, and reaches between them to squeeze him.
Harwin groans into her mouth and breaks their kiss, resting his forehead onto hers, his eyes shut.
Rhaenyra giggles. Joy, breaking through her. Her wedding night is not turning out how she had imagined it, but she's no longer upset by the fact. She's quite enjoying herself, actually.
He opens one eye, peering down at her. “What’s so funny, Princess?”
She throws her arms around his neck, and he scoops her up automatically, pulling her into his arms and walking her back into the wall, allowing the bottom of the cloak to fall open so that now, her sensitive cunt is resting against his trousers, her head just above his.
Where it should be.
She presses a kiss to his forehead, her hands playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. “Take me to home, Ser Harwin. You’ve earned it.”
“Yeah?” He kisses her chest.
“Yes,” she confirms, and then leans down, shoving her breasts into his face—but mostly so she can whisper into his ear. “It’s time for you to toss me somewhere other than over your shoulder.”
He groans, and she giggles once again, pushing on his hands until he lets her down.
But before she can dart away again, he reaches out and pulls her tight, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”