DANCING WITH DRAGONS ;; a collection of imagines.

harwin strong ; the art of swords

⁀➷ summary ; requested by anon.

"I would love love love if you could write something along the lines of Harwin Strong x Targaryen!reader who is the younger sister of Rhaenyra, but in contrast to Rhaenyra she is much more reserved and dutiful, and her dragon egg never hatched so she learnt how to sword fight and eventually grows up to be low-key badass so she enters anonymously in a tourney and Harwin finds out and leads to romance and he's literally in loveeeee."

⁀➷ pairing ; harwin strong x targaryen!reader

⁀➷ notes / warnings ; i've been dying to write something like this! this fic involves violence as depictions of a tourney fight is below. also unrevised! love that.

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anything would have possibly been better than being the second born daughter of king viserys targaryen and his late wife, queen aemma arryn. though in retrospect, you were less of a political headache than your sister, rhaenyra, thus earning your fathers appreciation.

though to your dismay, rhaenyra was a dragon-rider and you were not. your egg, although hard and a vibrant cream color, had not hatched, leaving you dragonless. you had thought this was a bad omen, but your father and sister did the best they could to convince you otherwise.

without a dragon, a simple princess with little redeeming qualities other than being dutiful, and not the crowned heir of the iron throne, you felt like your place at the targaryen table and the royal court was slowly being pushed out.

then entered the young, ser harwin strong, and his lord father, lyonel strong. the young lad was as handsome as ever, with a tangled mess of brown curls, warm eyes, and broad shoulders, he was the dreamboat of every noblewoman at court. though, he seemed to find no interest there.

with little to your name, you had set off to find something, anything, that would redeem yourself to your family. reading was one of the hobby's you were interested of the most, until you found a book about the art of war, so it was called. it was a massive book, aged parchment after parchment, bound by rope that was dissolving with every page flip. the book was captivating, keeping you up during the late hours of the owl.

then, you started sneaking out to practice. evading your sworn kingsguard and using the secret passageways your sister had taught you, you visited the garrison often and practiced on the straw-stuffed dummy's within the training courtyard. the wooden practice sword was heavy and unfamiliar in your hand, the coarseness of the wood exacting a toll on your soft skin of your palm.

nights had turned to weeks, then weeks to months, then months to years. by this time, your sister, rhaenyra, had wed ser laenor velaryon.

it wasn't a secret that you were aspiring to be something like a knight. tales of your ancestor, visenya targaryen, inspired you to continue learning and honing your skills. silk dresses were often traded for trousers and long sleeves, and heels for boots. despite his desire for you to be a lady of the realm, your father had gifted you with a short-sword and scabbard on your ten-and-eighth name-day, the former item forged from valyrian steel.

one night, curiosity had gotten the better of harwin. he set out on an adventure, his goldcloak armor on and his sword sheathed in its scabbard. he ventured within the castle walls and found the training yard, where not to his surprise, he found you.

watching you stab the dummy repeatedly, he had called out, "i think it's dead already." you had turn around and gave him a knowing smile, one that made his heart beat a little faster.

"has anyone ever told you what a delight your presence is, ser harwin?" you ask, moving away from the dummy to near him. you readjust the gloves on your hands, eyeing him precariously.