Work Text:
"Mom!"
"Come sweet boy. Your mother needs to sleep"
Mom?
The voices are distant, muffled, and hushed as she emerges from sleep. For a moment after waking up, Rhaenyra lies in what appears to be her bed, her chambers. She is disoriented. Her surroundings are foreign and different, yet she feels a sense of familiarity she is unable to explain. The voices. She thinks she recognized Harwin's, a deep rumble. The boy? Could that be Luke? Sweet boy, he called him. But Luke was only a babe, barely ten moons passed since his birth. Nothing makes sense.
She does not have much time to inspect her surroundings because Harwin is back in the room with a cup in his hand. Why was he entering her rooms in the morning, without announcing himself? He was not wearing his armor. His whole attire looked like nothing Rhaenyra had seen before. She wants to chastise him for his behavior, for endangering their secret and exposing them so recklessly, but the words don't leave her lips. She finds it impossible to do anything else than stare at him and smile.
"Morning princess," he says. Voice sweet and soft.
"Hi love," she responds instinctively. She finds herself accepting the cup of coffee. Coffee? She has never heard of the beverage before and is surprised to find its warmth and bitterness comforting.
"How are you? You tossed and turned all night," Harwin says, moving around the room collecting what appears to be children's toys.
"I am...well," she replies uncertainly. A million questions are racing through her mind but she is once again unable to give voice to any of them. How did she land in this place? Was this man truly Harwin? If he was, why was he acting like her chambermaid?
'Home. You are home,' a voice in her head answers. Home, yes. The place feels familiar, safe yet foreign at the same time. Distant. A warped reality where she feels an unexpected sense of belonging. It is all too much and she starts massaging her temples frantically to help her mind settle.
Harwin is still going around the room, gathering various pieces of clothing into a basket. He is quietly humming to himself, and the more she watches him, the less awkward it all feels. This all seems...normal. Minutes pass and with them, her confusion dissipates. She was home, Harwin was her husband, and this was a normal morning in their house.
"Sorry if I worried you," she tells him when he stops to look at her, "I just had the weirdest dreams."
"I figured," he says with a knowing smile, "you called me Ser Harwin at some point."
"I always thought you would make a fine knight."
Harwin chuckles, the low rumble she loves so much. "No princess, I'm afraid I wouldn't make it very long in the times of knights and dragons."
It is only a joke, but Rhaenyra's heart aches at the words. The missing piece of information feels somewhat at the end of her fingertips but it slips away every time she comes close to completing the picture. And so she hurts for a reason she ignores.
"Are you sure you're okay," Harwin asks, a hint of worry in his voice. "You seem...absent."
"I'm fine," she says with what she hopes is a comforting smile. "I'm just a little sleepy still."
"I can take the boys out and you can go back to sleep," he says, moving closer to sit on the bed.
"Or," she answers, absentmindedly stroking his hand, "how about we all go out."
"As my princess commands, so shall I obey," he answers with an exaggerated bow. "I'll get the baby ready."
"You know you can't get away with it every time," Rhaenyra says standing up. "It's going to take me twice as long to get the other two ready. Luke says no to every outfit I show him."
Harwin does not say anything, only smiles at her.
"What?" She asks, biting back a laugh.
"You know he only does that because he wants to spend more time with you, right? You're his favorite parent."
"No I'm not," she says leaning against him and wrapping her arms around his waist.
She takes a deep breath as she allows herself to melt entirely into his embrace. She is home.
Outside, a raven croaks.
"Princess."
Rhaenyra wakes with a start. Sitting up in her bed, breath heavy. Her hair is sticking to the nape of her neck, her shift clinging to her. She is sweating, cold, and shivering.
"Rhaenyra! What's wrong?"
Harwin is sitting beside her, slowly running his hand along her spine and as much as he tries to contain it, Rhaenyra can sense the alarm in his voice. His touch helps ground her, bring her back to reality and she slowly wills herself to calm down. Nothing makes sense.
"It all...it all seemed so real Harwin," she says, still slightly breathless.
He does not respond, allowing her time to gather herself. Harwin never pushed her beyond what she was willing to share, and she was grateful for it, particularly tonight.
She sinks back into his embrace after a moment. "It's nothing. Just a dream I had. We were married, I was not a princess and you weren't a knight and it just felt," she trails off. She does not mean to tell him all the painful details of a life that could never be theirs.
"I am sorry," she murmurs into his chest, "I wish things were different."
"So do I, princess," he responds while still stroking her back, "so do I."
They are reoccurring, these dreams that have her trembling and confused. Each one leaves her with a different piece of a puzzle, and she is slowly able to form an image, an understanding of the meaning behind them. But it is incomplete, and it is only a feeling in her gut, a voice in her mind.
It takes her months, and as much as she hates keeping secrets from Harwin, all she tells him is that they are dreams akin to reality. She does not want to share her suspicions, does not want to give him a false sense of hope, not until she has confirmation of her theories. And so she spends most of her time in the library or talking to maesters. She wonders how long it would take her to fly Syrax to the Citadel and submit her ideas to the archmaesters.
Laenor is intrigued by her new scholarly pursuits, but she cannot tell him, not more than she can tell Harwin. Nobody can know until she has proof, and one day it finally comes in the form of a note from Maester Orwyle. The missing piece of her puzzle clicks into place at last, and the full picture forms.
"I think it's real," she tells Harwin one night as she lies against his chest. His arms are wrapped around her and she feels the same sense of comfort she does in her dreams. She is home.
He does not say anything. Of course not. He only hums against her ear as a way to signal that she has his attention and she tells him everything. Every dream she ever had, the way they always start with her waking up, panicked and confused, how it feels more real as the dream goes on until she is part of it. Not once did he prod or confront her all these weeks about her visits to the library and not once does he interrupt her tonight either. He listens, as she gets to the end of her tale and she is fully prepared for him to call her a madwoman.
"Are you sure?" He asks in a low voice, almost uncertain.
The fool man sounds as if he believes her. His voice is holding back his excitement and her shoulders tense. She had already asked everything of Harwin Strong, more than she had any right to if she was being honest with herself. Yes, her heart belonged to him but his very life was on the line every moment he spent with her. She is overcome by a sudden wave of guilt. She had expected him to be more skeptical of her findings, to push back and question her but he trust her implicitly, and so she stands up to fetch the note from Orwyle.
"Maester Orwyle left this note for me in the library," she explains as she sits back on the bed, "it says there was an archmaester Rigney at the Citadel, who wrote about the cyclical nature of time. He thought that time was a wheel."
She sits still for a moment, letting go of a breath she was holding since her very first dream. Harwin is going over the note and his eyes glimmer with a childlike impatience.
"I am sure of it, Harwin," she tells him as she moves close to run her fingers through his hair, a soothing motion for she knows too well the whirlwind of emotion he must be feeling. "Those dreams, they are not dreams, not really. I think they are visions, of us, in another life."
"But you told me your dreams, visions, were different each time," he asks with a confused look on his face. Confusion is soon replaced by understanding.
Rhaenyra smiles and moves closer to him, settling on his lap so she can cup his cheeks and guide his eyes to look at her. "Do you see it now? Harwin, in each life we love each other. In every life I have seen, our sons are with us. I always find my way to you."
As soon as the words are out, tears come streaming down her face, and she finds herself brushing away Harwin's tears as well. That night, he finally asks the million questions he had stopped himself from asking. That night, peace settles on them. No matter what the future holds, they would always find each other. It all made sense
Outside, a raven croaks.
When Harwin leaves for Harrenhal, a sinking feeling takes root in the pit of her stomach. A painful acceptance. Their story had run its course. She can read it in his eyes as well as she imagines he reads it in hers as she holds Joffrey and they say their goodbyes. This life was not meant for them. In this life, she was the heir to the throne and her duty weighed heavy. In this life, there was no room for Rhaenyra and Harwin. There was only the crown, the realm, and a prophecy. In this life, he was her sworn shield, the heir to Harrenhal, bound by honor and oath.
Their love had burned bright and hot as dragon fire. Blazing and incandescent. Dangerous and threatening and not even she was immune to fire. The pain of knowing Harwin would not be part of her life any longer was crushing. Only one thing kept her from collapsing and she clung to it with all her might.
She will be home again.