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Three word sentence starters: please don’t cry. For Harwin x reader please

(I did this as pre-HOTD, before Lyonel has brought the boys to King's Landing, kind of like a first love type of ship.)

Harwin couldn't help the sharp wince that slipped out as one of the young squires helped remove the breastplate he'd been wearing. It wouldn't take a maester to tell him he'd be hurting, most likely for the rest of the tourney if the blow that had knocked him off his horse was any indication. The dark bruise starting to form under his shirt where the lance had hit only further confirmed the thought. His father had warned him of this, warned him that even if he were big for his age, taking on knights ten or more years his senior in the lists would be a dangerous feat. He'd insisted on competing when he'd been brought along to the festivities celebrating the wedding of Lord Tully's heir to a lady from the Westerlands. He'd turned five and ten on his last name day and grown to stand taller than his father in the months since. He was a man grown and ready to compete with the best there was. He just hadn't expected Lord Tully's second son to hit as hard as he had.

"Seven hells, Harwin!"

That was the other reason he'd been eager to compete. He'd met the lady Lara Tully the year prior when his father had met with other lords throughout the Riverlands to discuss trade and whatnot. He'd paid little attention to the business Lord Lyonel had meant for him to see but at the feast he'd been pushed in the direction of redheaded girl from Riverrun. They'd danced well enough for a pair of youths still growing into themselves, the first spin around the hall a bit clumsy but finding a rhythm and an enjoyable companionship by the second and third. As the wine continued to flow and polite conversation shifted to loud laughter and stories, the two had snuck away to a quiet corner. She wasn't the first girl he'd kissed but she had been the first he'd wished to see again.

Although perhaps not looking at him with such distress in those blue eyes of hers. He was quick to tell the squire to make himself scarce as she pushed into his tent, knowing the boy was unlikely to gossip about them being alone to anyone of note. She barely noticed as he scampered off, her eyes wide and focused intently on his chest.

"It's not as bad as it looks, I prom-sshit." His reassurance fell flat as her hand rested against the bruise, a hiss of pain and curse escaping before he could stop himself.

"Not as bad?! Harwin, it looks like a horse stamped on your chest. What were you thinking, facing Oscar like that?!"

His own hand reached up, taking her smaller one and moving it away from the bruise but not letting her pull free just yet. "I was thinking your brother wouldn't hit as hard as he did. And I was thinking of how lovely you'd look if I crowned you queen of love and beauty when the tourney was won. I suppose I could find another flower crown to give you but it won't be quite as impressive."

"Dammit, Harwin," she cursed softly, fingers curling around his as she stared up at him. The shock was fading a bit but the look of fear and sadness in her eyes didn't make him feel any better. "You could've been seriously hurt. You could have been killed. Do you have any idea-"

Her voice broken as a small sob broke free and the guilt he felt in his stomach overpowered the bruise on his chest. His arms moved around her and pulled her against him, offering soft whispers of comfort against the red curls that hung loose. "Please don't cry," he murmured, a calloused hand rubbing soft circles over her back. "You know I'm completely useless at helping crying ladies. This tourney was supposed to be all smiles for the both of us."

"That was before you went and tried to get yourself killed by a knight ten years your senior," she argued, though he could feel some of the tension slipping away the longer she stood there in his arms. He would take what he could get for now, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head and holding her tighter.

"I'm sorry, darling. I promise not to scare you like that again. Alright?"

"You'd better. Otherwise I'll have to take Larys as my favorite son from Harrenhal if for no other reason than to spare myself the grief."

He growled at the notion, no matter that it was simply a playful tease. His arms tugged her closer, his teeth nipping at the spot behind her ear, and finally he was treated to a shriek of laughter to replace the concern she'd first walked in with. "Well, we certainly can't have that," he grumbled, pulling her over to the small bench that had been left for him and settling her on his lap as his lips found hers in search of the sweetness they'd exchanged before. It didn't take long for any thoughts of returning to the tourney to leave him completely.