Chapter Text
Rhaenyra found a firepit nobody else was sitting at and set to trying to scrub off the last of the dried blood from the boar. It was still sticking to the hair on the back of her neck. She knew she couldn’t get all of it until she could finally return to the Red Keep and have a proper bath, but she hated the feel of it too much to wait.
At least the fanfare of her arrival had scared off Jason Lannister and any other would-be dragon tamers. If only she could actually set them all aflame.
She heard footsteps behind her, prepared to loose what flames she could, and turned to see Ser Harwin Strong, holding a mug of mulled wine out for her.
“May I join you?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” she answered, somewhat relieved. Ser Harwin had been at court since his father had first been appointed Master of Coin, then made Master of Law when Daemon was given that ill-conceived assignment. They were near enough in age, and he’d always been courteous. She had caught the smile on his face when she’d walked through the camp with her unexpected and unwanted prize. He should make decent enough company, she acceded.
“Excellent job, Princess,” he told her as he took a seat. “Not many can spear a boar that size on a horse as light as yours. A rabbit is all I can boast of today, I’m afraid.”
“It wasn’t a spear. And I wasn't on the horse.”
He raised his eyebrows. “No? Cole said you slew it.”
“It charged me when we made camp. I only had my dagger at hand.” She went back to scrubbing her neck.
“Won’t catch me picking any fights with you, then. Here, you missed a bit,” he said, taking the cloth from her.
“Did you have a particular fight in mind you wanted to pick with me? I would so hate to deprive you.”
He laughed as he handed her kerchief back. “Nary a one, my Princess.”
They had an easy time of watching the fire, not speaking, nor having need to.
“I saw the white hart,” she said as the last flames were licking around the logs. "On that bluff overlooking the western Kingswood. It just walked up to me.”
She couldn't read the look on his face, taking it for skepticism. “If you don’t believe me, you can ask Ser Criston.”
“No, I do.” He went back to watching the fire but his face was still pensive.
“What of it then?”
“The white hart is a sign of the old gods, not the Seven. My mother was from the North, House Ryswell. House Strong converted some hundred years ago, but she kept the gods of her house. And I kept hers.”
“What does it mean?”
“The old gods aren’t like the Seven. They don’t have names, they aren’t personages in that way. She taught me that in the North, you can’t fight the land, you can’t bend it to your will the way they can in the South. You can farm and hunt, enough to feed a holdfast or a town to supply a keep like Winterfell, but nothing like the Southron cities or the fields of the Reach. The old gods are everywhere, they're every thing. The trees, the rivers, every bird, fish, wolf…and hart.”
He smiled and brushed his shoulder to hers. “A show of favor, indeed.”
The last log in the fire cracked, leaving only embers. She stayed seated, still staring into them, until he held his hand out to help her up.