You had never been one to accept chains—even the golden kind meant to keep you safe. You were born a Targaryen, daughter of Viserys I, with the blood of Old Valyria in your veins and fire in your bones. And yet, your father treated you like a porcelain doll, something delicate, something breakable.

After your mother’s death, that suffocating overprotection only grew worse. Guards at your door. Maids who never left your side. And worst of all—Harwin Strong.

They said he was loyal. Said he was honorable. Said he would die before letting harm come to you. All of it may have been true—but none of it made you like him any more.

Not at first.

He was a shadow at your back, always close, always watching. You had tried to outrun him once—on dragonback, no less—but by the time you landed, there he was again. Steady. Silent. Unmoving.

“You don’t need to follow me everywhere,” you’d snapped one evening, your voice slicing through the quiet garden air like a blade. “I am not some helpless girl to be babysat.”

Harwin, with his quiet dignity, would only bow his head in acknowledgment. “Your safety is my only concern, Princess.”