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When the letter had come by raven, informing Rhaenyra of the fire at Harrenhal, she’d all but collapsed. She had been so, so angry with Harwin for his actions, how he’d left her and the boys, how he’d put her claim in jeopardy. He’d made things so much more difficult with his outburst in the training yard, her grief had come with a great flash of guilt. The last thing she’d said to him had been cold, they’d not parted on good terms. Coupled with Jace putting words to the thoughts she was sure had been brewing in his head for some time… losing Harwin had been so very hard. And yet, to find he had truly gone, that he could never come back to her, she would never see those kind blue eyes or dark curls again, had torn her in two.
Her and Laenor had gone to Dragonstone, to get away from the prying eyes and gossiping tongues at court, and she was glad of the privacy to mourn her losses in a way that she would’ve never been permitted in King’s Landing. She withdrew, spending a lot of time by herself, isolated and cold. She often stood out on the bridge, staring off into the blackwater and wishing so desperately she had Harwin by her side. For ten years, he’d been ever-present, even without words she knew he was there, warm smile and dark curls to brighten even the darkest of days. When they were alone, he’d pull her into his arms and cushioned against his solid chest, it felt like none of the world’s problems mattered. Her bed had felt so empty without him, so cold.
It was a few days later when she received a letter in his own, scrawled hand. For a moment she let herself believe he had lived, that the news from Harrenhal’s castellan had been too hasty, but when she read the date on the letter, read the contents, she realised it had been sent before the fire. It had been like losing him all over again. She had allowed herself to break, to cry and cry alone on her bed. She wouldn’t even allow Laenor to see her, left baby Joffrey with the nursemaids.
She had little time to mourn, though read that letter over and over again in the days and weeks following his passing. She wished she could’ve told him just how much she loved him before he left. All that was left unsaid between them haunted her, she could still recall the depth of emotion in his blue eyes.
A few weeks later, she received a letter from Lord Simon Strong. Harwin had never told her much about his great-uncle, who had held Harrenhal for them in their absence, but he seemed a kind soul. In his letter, he reaffirmed his support for Rhaenyra as Viserys’ heir, and that he had sent some things he felt she might find of interest. Frowning, she had unwrapped the heavy package, unsure of what it could possible contain.
To her surprise, it was a heavy, black cloak, one she recognised instantly as Harwin’s; the cloak he’d worn the day he’d left King’s Landing. How it had survived the fire, she did not know, but she was grateful for it all the same. That was not all, though. Wrapped in the cloak, adding to the weight of the bundle, was a sword. She dropped it, surprise taking over her, and it clattered to the stone floor.
Hands shaking, she bent to pick it up, trying to stop the tears blurring her vision. It was plain, nothing particularly ornate; not like Dark Sister or Blackfyre. No, this was a sword made to serve a purpose. A workhorse, a tool. This wasn’t a show of wealth or power. Black leather bound the handle, and the blade was covered in a black scabbard. The crossguard was somewhat intricate, with some detailing engraved onto the metal, but it was nothing more than a simple pattern. The pommel, a silver metal ‘cat’s eye’ embedded into dark wood and outlined with more metal, a small detail yet so achingly familiar. She brought the cloak to her face, pulling in a deep breath. It smelled of smoke and ash, but buried deep beneath that was the undeniable scent of Harwin, amber and cedarwood.
She kept both the cloak and the letter neatly tucked away in a box, where she also kept Joffrey’s blanket, for many, many years. She didn’t even share the letter with the boys, knowing it would hurt them so much.
As the time dragged on, she found herself within the midst of war, having lost a son, a piece of her beloved Harwin. His sword, her most treasured possession, stayed in her apartments at Dragonstone, along with a collection of old weapons she had found in the ancient seat of House Targaryen. One day, she hoped to give it to Jace, so he could carry it as his father had done. For now, it stayed with the collection of weapons spread out on the table, as she contemplated her next move in this awful war. Daemon was gone away to madness at Harrenhal, and her heart ached to think she might lose another lover to that cursed castle.
Her fingers trailed over each weapon, ancestral targaryen swords made of Valyrian steel from before the Doom, weapons older than Aegon the Conquerer. Her hand stilled on the most familiar of them all, the simple blade that had been by her side, the blade that had protected her day and night. She traced her fingers over the cool metal cat’s eye, something she had oft seen Harwin do when he needed something to do with his hands, be it from anxiety or anger, and she found the action strangely soothing. It evoked memories of him, her devoted protector and her kind lover.
Gods, how she missed him.
She closed her eyes, curling her hand around the grip, and imagined him stood behind her. His chest pressed to her back, the scent of amber and cedarwood wreathing around her, soothing any worries in her soul. When they’d been young, before Jace had been born, they had slipped away to an outcropping overlooking the Blackwater, a stone platform that had become theirs, and alongside Laenor, they had trained her to swing a sword. She had not done so for years, and had no doubt she would be awful, but it was a fond memory all the same. Harwin basking in the sun, in just breeches and a loose shirt, hair tied back out of his face in a messy bun. How they’d laughed, kissed, been so carefree. It felt like lifetimes ago, now.
Her eyes opened as her hand fell away from his sword and she picked up the oldest of the collection, short and light, clearly made for a woman of her stature. She lifted it up, extending her arm as she brought the point up, as if facing down an invisible foe.
‘That’s it ñuha zaldrīzes!’ She could almost hear his deep voice praising her, the timbre that would make her weak at the knees. ‘You’ll be a fine swordswoman one day.’
How she wished he had been right. This war would be so much easier to fight if she could actually fight it, not just sit and endlessly struggle with her council. If only she still had Harwin by her side. She’d always felt invincible with him beside her.