IMMORTAL | SER HARWIN STRONG | ON HOLD

five.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

111 A.C

BEING SHIPPED TO AND FROM EVERY CORNER OF THE REALM TO HEAR THE VERBOSE DRIVEL THAT FELL FROM ANY NUMBER OF LORD'S LIPS WAS A FAR CRY FROM HOW BAELA TARGARYEN TRULY WISHED TO SPEND HER TIME. Otto Hightower's whispers had once again tainted her brother's mind, the ceaseless betrothal attempts returning soon after. Men she had denied time and time again were once more trying to secure her hand to no avail.

Perched upon the very throne within Harrenhal that her grandsire, Jaehaerys Targaryen himself had sat upon some seven years ago, Baela Targaryen looked anything but comfortable. A seemingly permanent grimace marred her soft features, her body shifting awkwardly beneath the sea of fabric that made up the extravagant gown she'd been forced into. The princess's fingers tapped impatiently, nails scratching against the warn wooden armrest as yet another man far older than she began his rambles.

At the farthermost side of the gathering, observing the farce stood Ser Josian Elesham, Tayla Parne and two of the Strong brothers, Rylan and Harwin, each with differing looks of distaste upon their faces.

Both Josian and Tayla were bitter, their displeased look all but mirroring one another. They had been pushed from their roles as the Princess's guard and her handmaiden, the king declaring them too easily swayed to Baela's will to be trusted wholly for the occasion. The pair were forced to watch, matching pouts pulling at their lips, as Lord Westerling and a handmaiden neither knew the name of stood in their places.

Ser Rylan stood, shoulders tense and jaw set as he watched the many lords before the Princess eye her as though she was little more than a prize hog yet to be roasted. It disgusted him how men far beneath the Princess, men who were not worthy of the air she breathed, were allowed to parade themselves about as though they were the finest peacock in the land when in truth they were nothing more than common pigeons. No matter the oaths he took, no matter the fealty he swore, Ser Rylan Strong was loyal first to Baela Targaryen and should she have wished him to he would cut down every man the king set before her, Viserys be damned.

Then there was Ser Harwin Strong, who'd accompanied the Princesses excursion to his homeland in his father's stead, whose focus never wavered from the Princess. With every remark of the Princess's beauty, every mutter of her giving any of the lord's heirs, Harwin's fists would tighten, his muscles pulling taught and knuckles paling beneath his gloves. If he had intended to keep his unspoken affections for the Princess hidden, anyone who cared to look would deem him to be failing miserably.

"Alright, I'll bite," Ser Rylan muttered lowly, side-eying his brother for a moment before returning his gaze toward the Princess. His words drew both Lady Tayla and Ser Josian's attention too, or at least enough for their pouts to cease. "Why aren't you up there, squabbling over the Princesses hand as if it were the last goblet of ale in the realm?"

"I beg your pardon?" Harwin flashed a look of warning toward his brother, jaw tightening as he spoke lowly so as to not draw attention toward them.

"Oh come off it 'Breakbones'," Josian chuckled, the very same mischievous twinkle that so often got him into bother with Lord Westerling resurfacing. "We all know it's Princess Baela's bones you wish to break."

His words were met with varying looks. Tayla's nose scrunched up in slight disgust, Rylan cocked a questioning brow and Harwin, well Harwin looked as though he wanted to be anywhere but having that very conversation. Regardless of the look each of them wore, all three were concerned by the likely hood that Josian Elesham had been dropped on his head as a babe one too many times.

"Don't look at me like that," Once again Ser Josian was pouting like a child. "You all know what I meant and, Harwin, you didn't deny it."

The Strong in question heaved a sigh. I'm walking away before I get charged with attacking a King's Guard."

The remaining trio only snickered at his retreating figure.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

THE SUN'S WARMTH HAD LONG SINCE WANED, MAKING WAY FOR THE EVENING'S CHILL TO SEEP IN THROUGH THE CRACKS OF HARRENHAL'S AGING WALLS. With the fading of the sun, so too had Baela Targaryens patience faded- pushed out it seemed, by the distaste that prickled just beneath her skin. The princess couldn't fathom sitting upon that damned throne for another moment, not when yet another man thrice her age hobbled his way before her.

Standing from the accursed seat she had occupied at length, Baela commanded the attention of all those in attendance with the simple action of smoothing out the wrinkles of the gods-forsaken dress she had been wrestled into. All eyes turned to the princess, Lord Westerling moved to her side- be that in support or to end any escape attempts he believed shed make, Baela was not sure.

"The hour is late. I have long since grown tired, as I'm sure many others here today have too, and I fear my ability to endure these... festivities are at an end," As she spoke, Baela took great care to choose her words wisely as to not offend the great many lords gathered before her. It wasn't that she particularly cared all that much for the fragility of their egos should she accidentally let slip that she believed them to be dull, but she cared to not cause her brother more grief than deemed necessary, especially when Viserys had both Daemon and Rhaenyra to contend with. "I believe I have a solution, however, that will put the matter to rest far sooner than this most lovely of tours would allow. That is if Lord Westerling were to permit it?"

All eyes shifted to the Kingsguard beside the princess in anticipation. It seemed her assumption that many of the Lords had grown tired had been all too correct. Lord Westerling shifted slightly, clearing his throat he gave a nod of acknowledgement. "What do you have in mind, Princess?"

A gleeful smile pulled at Baela's lips. Taking a minuscule step closer to Lord Westerling, the princess reached forward and took hold of the Kingsguard's sword, pulling it from its home at his hip before he could make a move to stop her. Holding the weapon aloft, she quirked a brow at the lords before her.

"Whomever should manage to knock this sword from my grasp shall have my hand."

Horrified gasps flooded the air.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Beth's notes:

Sooo... me not writing for anything until I rewrite PWF has gone out the window. Note to self: don't rewatch hotd when you're trying to write one specific fic lmao.

Not Rylan openly (mentally) cursing the King with zero fucks given.

Baela: I don't want to cause Viserys unnecessary grief
Also Baela: *tries to duel the entire male populous*