Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It goes like this: Criston has lived for twenty-two years until he remembers a life before this one. He is kneeling before King Viserys Targaryen, the First of His Name, and his wife and daughter, the blood roaring in his ears as his limbs shake with pain and exhaustion. A distance away, Prince Daemon, the king’s brother, glares at him, nursing his wounds. His morningstar lies off to the side, discarded in favor of the crown of laurels he cradles in his hands. 

Princess Rhaenyra stares at him, amethyst eyes wide with awe, and he feels something in him stir as their gazes meet. It feels like a memory, like some thought at the back of his mind that he cannot quite seem to put his finger on. 

“My princess,” he says softly, extending his arms, “I present you with my victor’s laurel.” 

The princess giggles and takes it from him. Queen Aemma helps her place it on her head. Against Criston’s will, his fingers flex. The itch at the back of his mind turns into a scratch. 

“Well done, ser,” King Viserys says. Smiling, he glances at his daughter. “Rhaenyra has been most charmed by you, I see. She has requested that you be made her sworn shield. Do you accept?” 

The scratch turns into clawing, into a blaze of pain that rips into his mind. Criston rises with a grimace and tries to ignore the agony. He focuses on the rush of victory in his veins, on the joy and pride threatening to burst through his chest. From a lowly steward’s son to a Targaryen Princess’ sworn shield. Who would have thought? “You honor me, Your Grace,” he says, “I am glad to accept.” 

Then he feels the taste of blood in his mouth as he bites down on his tongue, sees the black spots in his vision and goes to clutch at his head. He falls to his knees, distantly hearing the concerned cries of those around him. And then the pain… stops, and everything clicks into place. Two different lives play out before his very eyes.

Criston remembers. 

And then he collapses. 

When he wakes, he is not at the tourney grounds any longer. Instead, he is alone in a large room. He blinks hard, eyes taking a few moments to adjust to the light streaming through the windows, and takes in his surroundings. The room is furnished well, with the soft, large bed he is lying on centered to the far wall. There is made of dark oakwood to his right, as well as a chair made of the same material along with it. Several drawers are lined to his left, as well as a large table and more cushioned chairs. There’s a bowl of fruit on the nightstand beside his bed, as well as a pitcher of wine, and Criston licks his lips, overcome by hunger and thirst. 

For a brief minute, he does not recall his conundrum at all. 

And then the door is opening, and a man dressed in clothing that looks both familiar and startlingly alien at once enters the room, and Criston remembers his plight. His hands tighten to fists at his sides and his head spins. Bile creeps up his throat and he gags. 

“If you are to empty the contents of your stomach, ser,” his guest says, “then I would ask you to do so in the pot beside your bed.” 

Criston searches for it and finds it just in time. His shoulders heave as he vomits, his entire body wracking. The man watches on impassively, waiting for him to be done. When he finishes, he rises shakily and wipes at his lips. 

“Grand Maester,” he rasps, his tongue feeling too swollen in his mouth, “I regret you witnessing me under these conditions.” 

The words pass his lips before he can even process them. He blinks with surprise. They feel strange but natural. He meant to say them, but he did not. Discovering that you are a reincarnation and just recently uncovering all of your memories, he supposes, will do that to you.

“Ser Criston,” Grand Maester Runciter says, “I am glad to see you awake.” He sits beside him and the weight shifts on the bed. “That was quite a display you gave at the king’s melee. Tell me, how are you feeling?”

For the next hour, Criston is inspected by the man. If he were feeling uncharitable, he’d say interrogated, but he’s too exhausted and thrown out of sorts to be sarcastic. Once Runciter is sure he is recovering well, he says, “Prince Daemon inflicted much damage upon you, ser; I am glad to see none of it will be permanent. A fortnight of bed rest and then a few more weeks of recovery, and I dare say you will be back to normal.” 

Well. That’s good at least. “Thank you, Grand Maester,” Criston says, dipping his head. 

Runciter nods. And Criston gets sick again. 

For about a week after that, he’s confined to bed rest. Though Runciter had assured him he’d recover just fine, he’s consumed by fever. Only servants and the Grand Maester himself are permitted in his chambers throughout the duration, and it is, quite possibly, the worst week of his entire life. 

The mental turmoil of his two different lives make him weak beyond measure and agonized. At the same time, the injuries he sustained from the melee grow inflamed and infected. When he isn’t sleeping, he’s constantly getting sick, unable to hold down much water and barely any food. 

Eventually, Criston is glad to say, the torment ends. The week draws to a close and he begins to recover. There is a sort of shift in him that is difficult to describe, a kind of peace between the two sides of him as he becomes one, singular person. He is happy to think that the man who was Sylas Parker seems to have won out over the man who was Criston Cole, even if he still identifies with his name and houses his memories. 

With his confined bedrest finished, it is time for him to begin attending to his affairs. The most crucial of them is inarguably meeting Rhaenyra Targaryen. He is her sworn shield, after all, and he is sworn to her now. Tethered. 

A meeting is arranged. He wears a crisp green doublet that brings out his eyes – ironic, he supposes, considering who Rhaenyra’s greatest enemy was – and a white tunic. He dresses in green breeches as well, along with soft brown boots. He takes care to make sure his hair is no longer matted, washing it out so that the black waves shine. Then he takes a deep breath and sets off to meet the girl who will become known as ‘Maegor with Teats.’

The little princess resides in the queen’s chambers when he encounters both of them. The daughter sits beside her mother in a lower chair, eyes fixed in her lap as she works to embroider something or another with small fingers. Queen Aemma watches on with a soft smile, pausing to help Princess Rhaenyra every now and again. Currently she holds the girl’s wrist, guiding her as the needle rises and falls through the cloth. 

Criston, feeling very much as if he is intruding upon a private moment, clears his throat awkwardly. They both look up. The queen graces him with a polite smile while the princess’ face lights up. 

“Ser Criston,” the former says, “welcome. I am glad to see you have begun to make your recovery. Please, sit.” 

He does so, lowering himself into a cushioned chair positioned across from the two of them. Queen Aemma is a beautiful woman. She has has lovely lilac eyes and pale skin, and her platinum hair looks almost silver (though it doesn’t quite reach that hue). Her cheekbones are high and striking. But there is something that seems so terribly sad about her. A kind of frailty, even. It might be caused by the lack of smile lines around her eyes, or the thinness of her frame, or the way that while she does not slouch, her shoulders seem to almost curl inwards, as if she wants to hunch over. Either way, it fills Criston with a sadness, a heaviness that settles in his stomach. 

Criston is offered a goblet of wine and he accepts. He takes a sip and the sweet taste of Arbour Gold hits his tongue. “Thank you for accepting my request to meet your daughter, Your Grace,” he replies. Princess Rhaenyra beams at that, and Queen Aemma’s own lips twitch. That’s good. If he’s going to be stuck here, he’d rather have the people in power on his side. 

“Ser Criston,” Princess Rhaenyra says, “you fought so well at the melee! How did you do it?”

Criston fixes his lips into a grin and begins to regale her. Baby steps and all of that, right?

Chapter Text

Criston might not be confined to bed rest any longer, but that doesn’t mean he’s finished with his road to recovery. He begins training again slowly, starting with stretches (some of which earn him odd looks) and jogging around the Red Keep. That jogging evolves into running. Eventually, he starts to train again. 

He is standing in the training yards, facing off against Ser Harrold Westerling. The man is on the older side, but he’s a skilled fighter and a member of the kingsguard, and has much more experience. Criston is relieved to find he still has his muscle memory and inherent instinct and knowledge, but he no longer has the battle mentality necessary to be a knight in Westeros; he will have to hone it again. Luckily, Ser Harrold proves to be a good teacher. 

They stand across from each other now in the training yards, late at night. Most of the Red Keep is asleep, and anyone who isn’t is most likely getting up to activities they’ve chosen the darkness for for a reason; they will not be bothered here. Criston readies the sword in his hands – he finds it is easier for him to adapt with it first, rather than the morningstar – and then the knight is lunging at him. 

As usual in these bouts, instinct takes over. Criston parries his blow, aimed at his ribs. They are using live steel, and the sound of metal ringing whistles through the air. If he were the old Criston, he might have gone on the offensive. But he is not the old Criston, instead a mix of him and who he used to be, and Sylas Parker was much warier.  He stays on the defense instead, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and watches carefully for Ser Harrold’s next move. His feet shift as he prepares to launch another attack. Then he springs forward, sword aimed at Criston’s head. He raises his sword to block the blow when the trajectory of his arm chances. The flat of his blade slams against his ribs and Criston stumbles back, the breath ripped from his lungs. After that, Ser Harrold makes quick work of him. 

He lies on the ground of the training yards, wheezing for air and skin slick with sweat. The stars are bright, twinkling dots of silver against a dark canvas. He supposes that this is one good thing about Westeros, at least. A  sort of apology from a world with no electricity, where he constantly gets the hell beaten out of him. Ser Harrold’s head appears in his line of vision, hand extended. He takes it with a blink. 

“Do not be too hard on yourself, boy,” the knight of the kingsguard says with a smile, “you’re still recovering from your injuries; you’ll get the fight in you once again.” 

Criston forces a smile through bloodied teeth. 

When he is not getting the hell beaten out of him in the training yards, Criston is performing his duties as Princess Rhaenyra’s sworn shield. He stands guard over her as she sleeps, shadows her when she travels anywhere in the Red Keep, and entertains her with stories. The last part is not exactly in his job description, but it does score him some points with the girl, and her mother by extension when she hears of it. Queen Aemma’s smiles have become a little more sincere since he began to tell Princess Rhaenyra the stories of Ser Luke of House Skywalker and Princess Leia of House Organa. Criston is not exactly the prime beacon of creativity, but when he has Star Wars to work with, it isn’t difficult to get the little princess to hang on to his every word. 

Today he stands a distance away from mother and daughter as they rest on a blanket laid out beneath the godswood of the Red Keep. It is a beautiful thing, a great oak tree covered with smokeberry vines, red dragon’s breath flowers growing beneath the oak and weaving at its base. Ser Harrold accompanies him – Criston might be Princess Rhaenyra’s sworn shield, but he is no kingsguard, after all – along with Ser Willas Fell, another white cloak. 

The queen and princess lounge in the shade, a picnic spread out before them. It consists of buttered bread, fresh fruit, slices of smoked ham, and quail eggs. No great meal, for royalty, but the intent was to eat lightly besides. Still, Criston’s mouth waters. It smells delicious. 

Princess Rhaenyra looks at him out of the corner of her eye and beams. “Ser Criston,” she says, “tell me another story!” 

Her mother makes an admonishing noise. “Rhaenyra,” she says, “Ser Criston’s duty is, first and foremost. It would not do for him to be distracted from those responsibilities.” The princess looks put out, so she adds, “You do not wish for Ser Criston to be punished, do you?” 

That seems to calm the girl somewhat. Queen Aemma smiles and takes a bite of her bread. Criston’s belly rumbles. From this distance, the queen and princess cannot hear it. But Ser Harrold and Ser Willas do. Ser Harrold’s lips twitch and Ser Willas snickers and claps him on the shoulder. Blood rises to Criston’s face and he looks anywhere that isn’t the kingsguard knights.

A while later comes commotion. King Viserys, finished with a meeting of the small council, has come to visit his wife and daughter. Princess Rhaenyra rises to her feet to throw her arms around her father and he laughs and twirls her around, grunting from the effort. “Hello, my darling,” he says. Then his eyes shift to Queen Aemma and his smile widens. “My love.” 

Criston does not miss how her own smile wanes in response. 

“Ser Criston, was it?” King Viserys says, and he realizes he’s talking to him with a jolt. 

“Aye, Your Grace,” he says with a bow. The king appraises him for a few moments. “I am glad to see you have recovered from the injuries my brother gave you.” 

Criston still hasn’t completely recovered, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he says. 

The king nods dismissively, turning his attention back to his family. Criston’s ribs ache as he watches on. 

Criston sees Daemon Targaryen for the first time since the tourney when the prince takes his niece out flying on Caraxes. The Blood Wyrm roars shrilly and Ser Harrold scoffs. Criston tenses on his horse, watching on as Princess Rhaenyra clambers upon her uncle’s dragon. His fingers tighten around his reigns and he bites the inside of his cheek.  This is the first time he has ever seen a dragon, save for when they fly above King’s Landing. Certainly this is the first time he’s been so close to one. 

Prince Daemon smirks as his niece balances in the saddle, plainly amused by the tension of the two knights before him. “There is no need for concern, sers,” he says, “the princess is the blood of the dragon. She will be perfectly safe.” There is something in his tone, snide and arrogant and condescending, that makes Criston wants to smack him. He forces a smile and nods instead. “Sōvēs,” the prince commands, and Caraxes bats his wings with a shriek. His graceful red form rockets into the air, drowning out Princess Rhaenyra’s giggles and Prince Daemon’s answering laughter. Criston feels the hair at the back of his neck stand up. He does not like these oversized, fire-breathing lizards. Not one bit. 

When Princess Rhaenyra returns, her cheeks are pink from having been lashed by the wind. Her mirth is obvious as she embraces her uncle. Prince Daemon twirls her around and ruffles her hair. The little princess turns her attention to Criston.

“Oh, aren’t dragons lovely, Ser Criston?” she says. 

No , he thinks dryly. “They are certainly a sight, my princess,” he replies. 

She pats his hand with all of the assuredness only a child can possess. “When I have my own dragon,” she promises, “I will take you flying!” 

“Thank you, my princess,” he says. 

She beams. 

The day is wretchedly hot when Criston meets Alicent Hightower for the first time. He is still not as good as he used to be, but he is back to a proficiency level high enough that allows him to spar with his fellow knights. He finds himself remembering his battle intellect, slowly but surely. Muscle memory has begun to meld with strategy, and it makes his chest puff with pride. Today Criston faces off against Ser Gwayne Hightower, the youngest son of the Hand of the King. Gwayne is a good-natured man, with a constant smile on his face and warm eyes that always seem to be laughing. He likes the man, despite himself. 

Criston can feel himself sweating through his tunic and armor as he raises his blade. His hands are clammy and his hair has grown damp. It sweeps against his forehead and sticks there. He grimaces in discomfort and Ser Gwayne laughs. 

“Come now, Ser Criston,” he says, “are you truly so intimidated by me that you wince before the fighting has even started?” 

Criston snorts before he can stop himself. “In your dreams, Hightower.” 

Ser Gwayne’s smile widens. “I’ll make you eat those words, Cole!” 

They start fighting then. They have forgone shields, so it is simply a viscous flashing of steel as they slash and stab at each other and parry blows. Criston spins on his heels as Ser Gwayne’s blade flashes close to his face, breathing heavily. He sidesteps another attack and aims a blow at the man’s shoulder. He blocks it deftly and Criston grits his teeth. Then – 

There, Ser Gwayne slips for a second, the sole of his foot getting caught on the dirt of the training yard. Criston seizes his chance. His arm is a blur as he pounces on him, sword hovering just an inch or so away from the soft, vulnerable skin of his throat. Their eyes meet as their shoulders heave with exertion. 

“Yield,” Criston says, gasping for breath. 

There’s a long second of silence. Then Ser Gwayne dips his head, a wry smile fixed upon his lips. “You have bested me, Ser Criston,” he says. 

The sound of clapping fills the air. Criston rises and turns to see a woman watching them at the edge of the training yards. She looks similar to Ser Gwayne, with the same brown hair and eyes. They share the same mouth shape as well. Criston thinks he knows who this is.

“A well fought match,” the woman says.

 Ser Gwayne smiles to see her. “I would prefer if you did not have to see me bested, sweet sister.” 

Lady Alicent Hightower’s smile melds into a grin, tinged with an edge of impishness. “That is not a rare sight, dear brother.” Ser Gwayne gasps in outrage and she laughs. Her attention shifts to Criston. “Ser Criston, was it?” 

He nods. “Yes, my lady.” 

“I saw you at the melee where you went against Prince Daemon; it was quite the spectacle.”

Criston is unsure if he’s being complemented or insulted. “Thank you, my lady.” 

There’s a sort of awkward silence that hangs for a few seconds, where neither of them knows what to say. Then Ser Gwayne pipes up. “Alicent, didn’t Father wish to speak with you today? Something about stealing too many books from the library again.” 

Lady Alicent’s back goes ramrod straight. Her eyes widen. “Oh, dear. You’re right, Gwayne! I must go.” She flashes Criston a smile that, while somewhat stilted, is still warm all the same. “It was a pleasure meeting you, ser.” 

He inclines his head and offers her a polite look in turn. “The feeling is returned, my lady.” 

And that is how he first meets Alicent Hightower. 

Criston thinks the sight before him to be quite adorable, in all honesty. He sits, legs folded beneath him, as Princess Rhaenyra digs her face into sweetmeats. Queen Aemma is not feeling herself today and has slept in longer than usual. That has left Criston with the charge that is her daughter. King Viserys is busy as a session of the small council. Since he is her sworn shield besides and spending time with her is inevitable, he has decided to entertain her. 

“Ser Anakin of House Skywalker,” he says, “was not always a great knight of Westeros. Before that, he was born as a slave in Mereen. He lived there until he was nine years old, before he was freed by Ser Qui-Gon of House Jinn and his squire, Obi-Wan of House Kenobi. They had not planned on going to Mereen, but they had traveled there to hide Queen Padme, the last scion of House Amidala, from her attackers. Ser Qui-Gon wished to knight Obi-Wan soon and take Anakin as his new squire, but he would never get the chance.” 

“Why not, Ser Criston?” Princess Rhaenyra asks through her treats. It ends up sounding more like, “Wnhnmp, Srpfton?” 

“Noble, good Ser Qui-Gon was slain by the evil sorcerer Maul before they could leave Mereen!” Here, the little princess gasps and covers her mouth. “In his grief and rage, his squire, Obi-Wan, slashed Maul in half and threw him off of one of Mereen’s great temples. He then freed Anakin and took responsibility for young Queen Padme and they stole away from Mereen in the dead of night, their enemies at their heels. Obi-Wan was knighted for his bravery and took on young Anakin as his squire, just as Ser Qui-Gon would have wished.” 

The sound of a door cracking open reaches Criston’s ears. His eyes flick to the entrance of the room to see Queen Aemma striding in, dressed in a simple gown. A shawl has been wrapped around her shoulders and she clutches it loosely. He is on his feet in an instant, bowing at the waist. “Your Grace,” he says, “I am glad to see you well.” 

“I am glad to be doing better,” the queen says. Her daughter runs to her and buries her face in her skirts. She smiles and strokes her hair. “What stories has Ser Criston been telling you now, little one?” 

Princess Rhaenyra draws away from her mother to speak. “He’s just started the one about Ser Qui-Gon and his squire, Obi-Wan!” 

Queen Aemma raises an eyebrow. “Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan… those are unique names indeed.” She meets his gaze. “You have quite the imagination, Ser Criston.” 

He scratches his cheek, feeling somewhat embarrassed. In the time since he has become her daughter’s sworn shield, he has grown to admire the woman. She is gentle and elegant with a quiet intelligence, and she gained his respect long ago. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he says. Queen Aemma’s smile widens and he finds himself grinning back. Warmth fills his belly. The sudden urge to make her laugh seizes him. “I am glad someone thinks so; whenever I told my stories to my father, he would tell me that perhaps I was better suited to live in the Eyrie rather than Blackhaven, where my head would be closer to the clouds.” 

It occurs to him, after he the words have left his lips, that he has just poked fun at her birthplace. Dread sinks to his boots like a stone in the beat of silence that follows. Then Queen Aemma’s lips are twitching and she’s giggling, a hand coming to cover her mouth. “The next time you see your father, Ser Criston,” she says, “tell him that those of us from the Eyrie love your stories very well.” 

He breathes out slowly, relieved by her amusement, and drinks in the sound of her laughter. It is a light, airy thing that does not remind him of maybells. It is almost shrill, in fact. But Criston smiles to hear it all the same. As he laughs with her and tells her that he will inform his father of what she has said, he think it’s actually quite beautiful in its uniqueness. 

Later, he will realize this is the first time he has ever heard her laugh. The thought, for whatever reason, loops through his mind over and over again. 

They are walking through the gardens when it hits him like Robert Baratheon’s warhammer. The king and queen stroll arm in arm as Princess Rhaenyra races ahead of them, plucking flowers from the ground around her. Criston and several members of the kingsguard watch over them. It is warm and humid out, a combination he would usually dislike, but the gardens are beautiful at this time of day and he cannot bring himself to resent doing his duties now. The sky has been painted in hues of pink, red and orange as the setting sun casts a fading light across it. It takes everything he has to not simply stop walking and stare. 

Ahead of him, King Viserys and Queen Aemma speak amongst themselves. Criston keeps his gaze away from them politely and focuses on his charge. Princess Rhaenyra has stopped running and now stands by a nearby bush. She gestures to him impatiently and he raises an eyebrow and approaches. 

“Ser Criston,” she whispers, “do you know how to make a flower crown?” 

Ah. So this is what all her flower plucking must have been about. He crouches beside her and smiles. “I do, my princess.” 

She throws a glance over her shoulder. Ser Harrold watches them, eyebrow raised. He shrugs in response. “Will you help me make one for Mama?” she asks. 

Criston grins. “I would love to, princess.”

So he does.

And when Princess Rhaenyra presents a flower crown, woven from the plants of the Red Keep’s gardens, to her mother, Criston finds himself standing tensely, wondering if she will find it to her liking. And when Queen Aemma beams and lifts her daughter up and peppers kisses across the face, he grins like a fool. And when Princess Rhaenyra tells her mother that he helped her, and she turns the full weight of her smile on him, and he thinks that not even a Westerosi sunset can rival her beauty in that moment, realization dawns upon him. 

All he can think is: fuck . 

Chapter Text

What does a man do, Criston wonders, when he realizes he has developed feelings for the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms? Staring despondently into his mug of ale, he supposes it all makes sense now. He should have put the pieces together sooner. His eagerness to make her laugh, the way her smile always seems so bright, and how he always takes note of how beautiful she is. Blithely, he thinks that this time around, his love life may be even worse than the original Cole’s. No, not love life, he corrects quickly. What he holds for Queen Aemma is not love. Not yet. It is a fool’s infatuation, combined with respect and admiration for a genuinely good woman in a world full of the blackest hearts imaginable. His heart does not belong to her. But it could, he could see it being so, and that does not please him. Not in the least. 

“Cole,” a voice says in his ear. Ser Gwayne throws an arm over his shoulder, grinning. They’ve just finished another round of training, and he still has dirt and grass smudged all over his clothing. Criston is sure he looks no better, and they both reek of sweat and leather and steel. “You’re thinking too hard, Cole,” Ser Gwayne continues, “why is that?”

Criston smiles wryly. “I hear that the king wants to host a tourney for his name day,” he says, “I’m dreaming of all the ways I can beat you.”

Ser Gwayne laughs. “In your dreams,” he grins, “I’m a better horseman than you, Cole.” 

Criston cocks his head. “We’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?” He takes another gulp of his ale, mood lightened a little from their interaction. Ser Gwayne cuffs him over the shoulder, still chuckling. Despite himself, he feels his lips twitch.

He wonders when he began to think of Ser Gwayne as his friend. 

King Viserys, Criston has quickly realizd, is greatly fond of celebrations. This is not necessarily the marking of a bad king – he, at least, is not bankrupting the Iron Throne as Robert Baratheon did – but he would wager the man spends more time at a tourney field or at a banquet than actually ruling, even if he does actually go to his Small Council sessions. 

Word of a celebration is not uncommon here in the Red Keep these days, but a tourney of the king’s name day still encites excitement. Knights and squires alike have taken to training harder than usual in the training yards, sharpening and honing their skills, and Criston himself counts among them. He is a skilled warrior and horseman already, but he will not take his chances fighting against the likes of Westerosi knights. 

When he is not training in the yards, he is drinking and playing cards with Ser Gwayne and other knights around their age, including Ser Willas Fell, in the rare moments he has reprieve from his duties as a member of the Kingsguard. But despite these other ways in which Criston fills his day, Princess Rhaenyra is always at the forefront of his life. He has taken to telling her the stories of the Magi Wars now, some altered version of the Clone Wars, and she has taken greatly to Ahsoka Tano. For some reason, it does not surprise him that she has. Perhaps because of her admiration for Visenya Targaryen, he supposes. 

He finds himself fond of the little princess. She is a sweet and precocious child, bright for her age and perfectly aware that she has nearly everyone in the Red Keep, especially her royal father, wrapped around her finger. And gods does she use it to her advantage. 

“Ser Criston,” she pouts, staring up at him with pleading eyes, “I don’t want to go to my lessons with Septa Alys today.” 

Criston offers her the same smile he always does, amused but firm, and a little exasperated. “I’m afraid I do not have the power to keep you from your lessons, princess,” he says. 

Princess Rhaenyra huffs, her cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk. He feels laughter snag at his throat and struggles to keep it down. “You could hide me,” she says, conspiratol. “We could just say we got lost!”

“Got… lost,” he repeats, bemused, “in the Red Keep that is your home? In the same halls I have guided you through for months now?” 

There’s a beat of silence. Then, “Rhaenyra,” another voices comes, chiding, “are you trying to corrupt our Ser Criston?” 

Queen Aemma stands before them, hands clasped and eyes twinkling. She wears a red and white gown, one color Targaryen, the other Arryn. She wears several rings today, all sapphire and emerald and ruby, and they glint against her fingers as the light hits them. Her hair has been braided elegantly, though not in the style of Visenya that her daughter will take to some day, and the platinum locks which brush against her neck bring attention to the necklace she wears, a jade locket hung from a silver chain. 

Criston swallows hard at the sight of her. With every day, she grows more beautiful, it seems. With every smile, she is more radiant. With every laugh – and he takes delicious pleasure in wringing those out of her – she becomes more brilliant. His heart stutters as the words “our Ser Criston” race through his mind. Something purrs in him, pleased at the thought of being claimed by her. That is a dangerous road to go down. Her eyes meet his, shining with curiosity, and he realizes that he has been staring for too long. 

“Your Grace,” Criston says, bowing, “good morning.” 

“Ser Criston,” the queen smiles, “it is always a pleasure to see you.”

 His stomach flips. “Likewise, Your Grace,” he says, and hopes he doesn’t sound too breathless. 

“Mama,” Princess Rhaenyra complains, “I don’t want to go to my lessons.” 

Queen Aemma pats her daughter’s head in a motion that Criston has seen a thousand times over by now. “I’m afraid you must go, sweetling.” It seems to soothe some of the little princess’ indignance, despite her mother’s denial. Above her head, her mother shoots him a look that is almost sheepish. “My apologies, Ser Criston,” she says, “I am aware that Rhaenyra can be a bit of a… handful at times.” 

“Nonsense, Your Grace,” Criston grins, “it has been a pleasure watching over her.” He notes with some surprise that he means it. 

Princess Rhaenyra rips herself from her mother’s hold and says, “Let’s get this over with,” like a child who doesn’t want to go to school. Maybe she is that, for all she is a fantastical child in a fantastical world. Criston feels laughter bubble up his throat, and this time he can’t stop it. He disguises it with coughing, but Queen Aemma hears the threads of amusement. She giggles herself, hand coming up to cover her mouth, and smiles. Her eyes meet his, lilac on green, and something in his chest tightens. He suddenly finds it difficult to breathe. 

He begins to follow Princess Rhaenyra to her lessons, and to his surprise, the queen accompanies them. They walk together, footsteps in tandem, and on one occasion, her hand brushes his. His intake of breath is sharp and her eyes flit to him quickly. He keeps his gaze carefully ahead and they speak no more of it. 

Criston is in the library when he begins the chain of events that leads his fool heart to falling in love. He misses his books from home, misses Tolkien and Sanderson and hell, even Martin, whose work got him in this mess to begin with. He misses a lot about home, but the sting of never reading the stories he loves so much, for all his lack of originality when it comes to being creative, somehow hurts the worst. 

Maybe that’s why, when Queen Aemma mentions wanting to read a book of fairy tales from her childhood, he goes digging for it. She mentions how she’ll get a servant to look for it in the Red Keep’s library, but it’s an offhand remark with a bittersweet wistfulness that makes him think she’ll never actually do so. And — and foolish as it is, he wants to make her happy, even as it blurs the lines of his feelings for her further. So he asks her for the title, sifts through the Red Keep’s library until he finds it, and presents it to her like it’s some grand prize. 

She’s silent for a long second and he shifts uncomfortably, feeling far too hot beneath his collar. His cheeks are warm and he can feel his ears burning, and he avoids her gaze and much as he possibly can. This was a mistake. He should not have presumed to find this book for her, much less gift it to her. He has overstepped himself. He—

A hand, warm on his, stops his spiraling thoughts. Queen Aemma’s gaze is soft on his, but intense. Her eyes bore into his own and he stiffens, hardly daring to breathe. “Thank you, Ser Criston,” the queen says, and he all he can focus on is the feeling of her hand on his, of her fingers touching the center of his palm. 

“I am glad you are pleased, Your Grace,” he rasps.

When Queen Aemma smiles at him, the skin around her eyes crinkling in a way it never has before, Criston, willingly or not, falls just a little bit in love. 

She presents him with a book a fortnight later. Princess Rhaenyra plays with her dolls a distance away, and she slides the book into his hands quietly. He glances at it, taken by surprise and confused. 

“Your Grace?” he asks, seeking explanation. 

Queen tilts her head at the book. “I wished to find a way to thank you,” she says, “this seemed appropriate.” There’s a pause. Then, “I did not know what books you would like,” she admits, “so I chose one about adventure. Men seem to like those.” 

Criston feels a lump rise in his throat. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he says, overcome by emotion. “I shall treasure it whilst I have it, and return it to you in good condition.” 

A touch on his wrist, perfectly chaste and innocent, yet it makes him yearn for something he should no. Queen Aemma’s eyes are on his. “There is no need to return it,” she says softly, “simply tell me what you think of it.” 

He nods and she loosens her grip on him, thumb sliding across his pulse point. He shudders. 

They make a habit, after that, of exchanging books. They discuss them as well, and Criston treasures those moments more than any other. He loves to see her eyes shine and her cheeks flush as she speaks, hands moving animatedly as she lets her passion overtake her. She is beautiful in all things, but she is at her best like this talking about what matters to her. He could listen to her talk for hours. They form an odd friendship of sorts, even as he falls deeper and deeper in love with her. Or perhaps not even, but because. Even as his love grows, so does his respect and admiration for her. Slowly, her terrible sadness seems to wane – not by much, but at least a little –  and he takes great pleasure in that fact. She is always a sight, melancholia and all, but to see her happy is a precious thing indeed. 

At some point, deep in the confines of his own mind, he begins to think of her not as the queen, or as her grace, or even as his charge’s mother, but simply as ‘Aemma.’

It is at the king’s name day tourney when everything comes to a head. Criston stands before Aemma, feeling guilt and anxiety consume him as he shakes like a little boy, a lost little lamb. “Ser Criston,” Aemma says, smiling to see him, “I did not expect to see you this morning. You are to join the lists today, are you not?” 

“Yes, Your Grace,” he says.

 She frowns, confused. “Then what is it you do here? You are Rhaenyra’s sworn shield, it is true, but there are still knights of the Kingsguard to watch over her. You will need your strength to ride in the lists.” 

He opens his mouth to speak, but the words snag in his throat. He closes his eyes, breath coming far too shallowly, and he blurts out, “I had hoped to ask for your favor, Your Grace,” in a garbled, rushed mess. 

Her eyebrows leap to her hairline. There’s a moment of silence so tense that you could cut it with a knife. Criston’s heart sinks to his feet. He takes a step back, regret bitter on his tongue. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” he says, “I have overstepped.” And he has. Who is he, to presume to ask the queen for his favor? Who is he, to make her so clearly uncomfortable? 

A hand reaches out, stopping him before he can leave. He blinks, sees Aemma’s delicate fingers gripping at his wrist. Something presses into his hands: her favor. “Wear it well, Ser Criston,” she says as his heart swells, “and do it proud.” 

As she releases him, her hands seem to linger for a half second too long. It could just be his wishful thinking, but it sends him into a euphoria. 

Criston wins in the lists.  He dons Aemma’s favor proudly upon his lance, feeling undefeatable without it. And in this tourney, at least, he is proven right. Emboldened and hearted by their interaction, he knocks opponent after opponent off of his horse.

 Ser Gwayne is one of his adversaries. The man grins at him in that way that makes half the ladies at court swoon and says, “May the best man win, Ser Criston.” 

Criston nods to his friend, half solemn to be facing off against him and half addled with a lust for glory. “May the best man win,” he repeats. 

And then they are off, lances at the ready, horses braying, their hooves stomping. There is the clattering of hooves, the jostlilng of reigns, and the splintering of wood. Pain burns through Criston, but he forces himself to stay on his force. He turns his mount around again, Aemma’s favor in the corner of his eye. He looks at Ser Gwayne, grits his teeth, and charges again. 

And he wins. 

Against his friend, and against the man after that, and the man after that as well. 

He wins and crowns her his Queen of Love and Beauty, placing the crown in her lap and the audience claps politely. She places it on her head with a smile, eyes never leaving his. An honorable pick, all agree, and a smart one at that. Choosing the highest ranking woman in the realm, and his charge’s mother, will certainly do him well. He wonders how they would react if they knew the true reason for him crowning her. 

He confesses to her a week after that, when all of the celebrations are finished. He holds his secret to his chest for as long as he can, but it becomes impossible to ignore, especially the more time he spends around Aemma. Every look they exchange, every word, every courtly move, seems imbued with something more. At least to him. He thinks he will die if he says nothing about it. 

“I am in love with you,” he tells her, the words rushing past his lips. “Forgive me, for I know I should not be. I know it is wrong, and unfair, and treason, but I cannot – I cannot help it.” 

Aemma cups his face in her hand, thumb stroking along his cheekbone, and he closes his eyes and leans into her touch instinctively. “Oh, Criston,” she sighs, “to hear you say those words is something that I have both long dreaded and long prayed for at the same time.” His eyes snap open, demanding explanation, even as he melts into her. “I love Viserys. He is a good man and a generous husband. A doting father and a gentle king. But I love him not as woman loves a man.” She hesitates. “Not as I love you.” 

Criston finds himself unable to breathe, hardly believing what he’s hearing. “Aemma?” he says weakly. It is the first time he has not called her by her title.

 She smiles sadly. He hates that her look of what should be joy is tarnished by such an emotion. “I cannot and will not betray my husband, Criston,” she says, “and I will not put my daughter in danger. Yet I am selfish, and I would ask something unfair of you. I would ask you to stay by my side, to be my friend and confidant and share my company. To allow me to have someone I love by my side for a little longer at least. Would you do that?” 

It’s not like he has anywhere else to go, as her daughter’s sworn shield. As the so of a steward who has gained the highest honor that anyone in his family will ever have. But besides that, Criston finds, he wishes to say. He could always simply leave, he supposes, but then he would be without the little charge he has grown so fond of, and without the sun that has become her mother. His decision was made long ago, he realizes, before he even realized he had a choice. 

He falls to one knee, kneeling before her, and takes her hand in his. His fingers run along the back of her knuckles and he presses a chaste kiss to the back of her hand. “It would be my honor,” he tells her, and means it. 

Her eyes fill with gratitude and tears both. Something bittersweet tugs in his chest, but he finds that presently, in this moment, at least, he has never been happier. 

Less than a moon later, the king announces, with pride, joy, and no small amount of relief, that his wife is with child. 

Criston’s world shatters around him. 

Chapter Text

Criston knows next to nothing about childbirth. But the sad thing is that even he, with the meager knowledge he has, might know more than the maesters who will tend to Aemma. Helpless as he is, he has to try to remember something. For Aemma, because if he does not, she will die. 

He sits in his chambers, forehead resting against interlocked fingers, and closes his eyes. Inhales deeply. Exhales. Opens his eyes again. He takes the quill and ink he has and the parchment beside him. Then he begins to write things down. He knows what it means when a babe is in breech, knows the broad strokes about how infection festers, and adds those to the parchment. He tries to remember more. He paces around the room, fingers digging into his hair, and groans as he struggles for more information. He curses his past self for zoning out in his high school health class and every science class after that. 

He writes until the sun comes up. Then, when he thinks he has a long enough list, he collapses onto his bed with a groan. 

Criston is preparing to leave for the training yards when Rhaenyra – at some point, the little princess lost her title in his mind, just as her mother did – begs to come with him. He laughs and glances at Aemma. “I do not think your mother would appreciate such a thing, princess,” he says, “it is one thing to see men ride in the lists and fight at melees. Training can often be an uglier affair.” 

Rhaenyra turns the full weight of her pleading gaze on Aemma and her mother tuts and strokes her hair. “Have you finished your lessons with Septa Alys, little one?” she asks. Rhaenyra nods fiercely and she hums. “Then, if Ser Criston is willing to swear to me that no harm will come to you, I fail to see why you can’t go.” 

Criston blinks, surprised by the indulgence – she is not nearly so weak in the face of Rhaenyra’s sweetness as the king is –, but says nothing. Rhaenyra whoops, most unbecoming for a princess, but quiets at Aemma’s gentle chastisement. 

“I will guard her with my life,” Criston promises. 

Aemma nods, the corners of her mouth curling upwards into a small smile. Criston’s heart lightens at her expression. She strokes her belly absentmindedly – it has begun to swell with her being in her fourth moon –  and his mood sours again. “I know you will,” she says, “I would not entrust my most precious treasure to you if I did not believe you would protect her, Ser Criston.” Her eyes bore into his. 

Criston bows, casting all of the affection he dares to give in the smile he sends her way, and takes Rhaenyra to the training yards.

The little princess is a chatterbox all the way there. “Everyone says the babe in Mama’s belly will be a boy,” she says. She has a hard time keeping up with him, with her legs being so much shorter than his long ones, so he slows his pace. She’s huffing a little, but her eyes are wide with excitement at the thought of going to the training yards. “What do you think it will be, Ser Criston?” 

“A boy,” Criston agrees. Not with hope, like the rest of the realm, but with dread. Baelon . 

Rhaenyra frowns and shakes her head. “I think I will have a sister,” she says, disagreeing, “I already have a name for her!” 

“Oh?” Criston raises an eyebrow, amused. “And what would that be, princess?” 

She tilts her head up proudly. “Visenya,” she replies. 

Criston’s footsteps falter for a second. It sends Rhaenyra, who walks so closely to him, tumbling against him. He grunts, more out of surprise than any real effort – she’s a light little thing, tiny – and supports her weight, a hand going to her shoulder. He sets her upright, feigning a smile. 

There is something very wrong, he thinks, about Rhaenyra wishing to give her brother, who will die in the cradle, the same name as her future daughter, who will be born silent. Two dead babes, named for two famous Targaryens. He shakes his head. Baelon will not die, he thinks to himself fiercely, and neither will Aemma. He will not allow it. 

They make their way to the training yards. To his pleased surprise, Ser Gwayne is there. He speaks to his sister, arms folded over his chest as he leans against the wall. She’s frowning at him, her brow furrowed, and he looks irate as well. That irate look fades as he catches sight of Criston and his charge. 

“Ser Criston,” he calls, “and Princess Rhaenyra! It is a pleasure to see you here!” 

He bows to Rhaenyra and goes to shove Criston lightly. Criston laughs and sidesteps him. They are interrupted by Lady Alicent, who curtsies shallowly to Rhaenyra. “Hello princess,” she beams, “it is an honor to see you. I know we have met before, but only briefly. I am glad to meet you again.” 

Criston thinks that a lot of what she just said probably went over Rhaenyra’s head, but the girl smiles all the same. “I’m happy to meet you as well, Lady Alicent,” she chirps, and Lady Alicent’s smile grows even wider. He feels strange at the sight before him, at the sight of these two getting along. It is unexpected, but not altogether unpleasant, he supposes. So long as Alicent does not betray Rhaenyra in the future, he has no issue with it.

He and Ser Gwayne spar. Lady Alicent keeps Rhaenyra company for a while and they chatter warmly. After that, Criston shows Rhaenyra the rest of the training yards.

Criston tries to influence Aemma into having more sanitary conditions at her birthing. When he said the broad strokes about infection, he truly meant it. He sits with her, completely clueless on how to explain his request for having the maesters wash their hands constantly without sounding like a madman, as Aemma frowns in thought. 

“It is not a bad proposal,” she says, “what made you think of it?” 

He shrugs. “Blackhaven’s old maester would always wash his hands before he dressed my wounds as a boy, preferring the cleanliness of it. I got less and less infections than the boys from other keeps, who were tended to by other maesters, and so I decided to keep the practice alive.” She nods, humming, and he adds, “It would soothe my worried mind very much if you were to abide by this.” 

She softens at that and reaches out for his hand. Their fingers brush gently. She sighs. “Very well,” she says, “I will take your concerns into account.”

He breathes out slowly, relieved. “Thank you,” he says. She smiles, but the look is strained. “What’s wrong?” 

She shakes her head. “Nothing,” she says, but he does not believe her. He levels her with a look and her hand squeezes his. “I – perhaps it is simple paranoia, superstition after all these years, but I have been plagued by an… ill feeling recently.” He stiffens. “Promise me that if something is to happen to me, in the birthing bed or some other way, you will care for Rhaenyra. You are one of the people I trust most with her.” 

Criston feels his throat tighten. “Nothing will happen to you,” he says, a little more savagely than he intended. 

“If something does,” Aemma insists, “promise me you will protect my daughter. Promise me, Criston. You are her sworn shield and a great warrior, and you have gained Viserys’ respect after your constant victories in tourneys and how highly Rhaenyra speaks of you. There are few situated to protect her as much as you can. At least not immediately.” 

He closes his eyes, unable to look at her. He wants to rage and scream and kick over the chair he sits in, but he can’t do that, and he has more pride than that. He is a grown man, and he will act like it. “I promise,” he says. 

She intertwines her fingers with his for a brief few seconds. Then she lets his hand go. “Thank you,” she whispers. 

He meets her eyes and nods. 

The news comes five moons after that. Criston can’t be anywhere close to Aemma during her birthing, of course, so he spends the day with Rhaenyra, trying to distract her from her mother’s ordeal. They’re in her chambers and they sit across from each other. Criston’s sword wedges uncomfortably into his hip, but he doesn’t take it off. The weight, he finds, is comforting today. Septa Alys sits as well, her chair slid up to theirs. She huffs as Criston tells more of the Magi Wars. 

“If the princess spent as much time much time focusing on her lessons rather than listening to your stories, Ser Criston,” she sniffs, “then perhaps she would be further along in her studies.” 

Criston dislikes Septa Alys. She’s arrogant and haughty, shrewish in that way that tells you she thinks she’s better than you and doesn’t bother trying to hide it. And more than that, it’s almost as if she wants Rhaenyra to be miserable. He is of the strong opinion that children ought to have as much fun as they can, especially in this world. Let them cling to their fun and their innocence for as long as they can. Why jade them before it is necessary?

“The princess is a bright child,” Criston replies blandly,  “I am sure she excels in her lessons.” He tries not to let any sharpness bleed into his words, but he must fail because she scowls at him bitterly. 

What a miserable old harpy. 

The door to Rhaenyra’s chambers opens abruptly and their conversation grinds to a halt. Criston is on his feet in an instant, hand going out to reach for his sword. To his relief, it is only a pageboy who enters. He relaxes. The page passes Criston and hurries to Septa Alys. Criston is almost a little offended, but then the septa goes pale. Her eyes widen and she gasps, hands going to cover her mouth as she staggers. Criston, for all he dislikes the woman, is not about to let her fall to the floor. He catches her around the waist, heart leaping to his throat even as his blood stills in his veins.

“What is it?” he demands. She shakes her head with a sob and his grip on her tightens until she winces. “What. Is. It?” he demands again. 

She glances at Rhaenyra, who looks between them in panicked confusion, wringing at her fingers. “The queen is dead,” Septa Alys whispers into his ear. 

His grip on her slackens. 

All he can think is no, no, no. 

Something in him breaks. 

It takes less than a day for Prince Baelon to follow his mother into the arms of the Stranger. 

Prince Daemon makes his “Heir for a Day” comment and is promptly stripped of his standing as heir. 

There is a funeral for Aemma, where Criston stands beside Rhaenyra solemnly, offering her every comfort he can even as his own heart weeps. 

Ser Ryam Rewyne, legendary as he is, succumbs to old age and leaves a space open in the Kingsguard. The position is offered to Criston. Remembering his oath to Aemma, he kneels and accepts it. A white cloak is wrapped around his shoulders without much ceremony. 

Wearing that same white cloak, he comforts Rhaenyra in her grief. Handles her outbursts with a care and gentleness he never knew himself capable of before, and saves his own grief for when he is alone, when no one else can bear witness to it. 

He helps Rhaenyra prepare for her ceremony, where the lords of the realm swear to her and her alone as heir. He catches King Viserys looking at Lady Alicent through the ceremony and feels a sense of foreboding twist in his chest. 

In the hundredth and sixth year after Aegon’s Conquest, Alicent Hightower is made Queen of the Seven Kingdoms in a grand, sweeping ceremony. She kisses Rhaenyra’s forehead and names her “daughter” lovingly, and it takes everything Criston has not to scoff. 

He will do better this time, he swears to himself, watching the scene with dark eyes. He failed the mother, but he will not fail the daughter. He will not fail Rhaenyra. 

(He hopes he can live up to his promise to Aemma. )

Chapter Text

Prince Aegon is to be presented to the court today. Criston fiddles with his white cloak as he waits to escort Rhaenyra to the throne room, his mood dark. Beside him, his charge huffs impatiently, eager to be done with all of this bother. Her younger brother is two moons old now, and in that time, Queen Alicent’s attention has gone completely from Rhaenyra to her new son. She has no time for her step-daughter any longer, which has left the girl hurt and betrayed. Criston is almost tempted to strike the queen across the face, Gwayne’s sister or not and queen be damned. She has robbed his charge of two mother figures now.

“Come, princess,” he says, “it is time to go to the throne room. Your father awaits.” 

Rhaenyra nods solemnly and twists at her rings. She wears the ones she inherited from Aemma today. Shortly after her mother’s death, she began the habit of fiddling with them to ease her nerves. The fact that this was what made her develop the tick, the grief and loss of her mother, makes his heart break.

They walk to the throne room in silence. Only the sound of their feet clicking against the stones echoes through the halls. It is early in the morning, and so not many roam to Red Keep yet. They arrive at the throne room quickly. 

King Viserys sits upon the Iron Throne, Lord Otto and Queen Alicent standing at the base of the great seat. The king smiles to see his daughter and makes his way down the steps of the throne. He embraces her, pulls her close to his chest and presses a kiss to her forehead warmly. “Rhaenyra,” he says, cupping her face in his hands, “you look so beautiful, my girl.” Rhaenyra sinks into her father’s hold. 

Criston does not like the king. He will admit that some of that might stem from envy – he was Aemma’s husband, after all, the owner of a position that Criston would never have been able to have – but he also simply never thought highly of him in his previous life. While reading Fire and Blood, Criston always thought him to be weak. Stupid. Useless. A hedonistic sot who did not care enough about his responsibilities as king to put a stop to the civil war brewing right beneath his nose. 

This opinion still holds true, though he masks it with careful courtesy. Still, if there is one thing that Criston will give the king credit for, it is his love for Rhaenyra. He is not a particularly good father – the way canon Rhaenyra turned out will attest to that – but he is a doting one, and that makes Criston soften towards him. 

“Your Grace,” Criston says, coming to stand beside Ser Harrold Westerling. He bows deeply and at the waist and King Viserys smiles. 

“Ser Criston,” he returns in greeting, “thank you for bringing my daughter to me in good timing.” He turns to his wife. “The septas will be bringing Aegon here soon, will they not?” 

Queen Alicent smiles and places a hand against his forearm. “They shall, my love,” she says. 

Something twists in Criston’s chest as he watches the king lean into her hold. He averts his eyes and stares steadfastly at the wall. 

Soon enough, courtiers gather in the throne room as servants flit amongst the crowd, attending to the needs of the highborn. Criston’s white cloak feels heavy on his shoulders. 

“My friends,” King Viserys shouts, his words ringing through the room, “it is with great joy that I present to you my son, Prince Aegon Targaryen! His two moons of life have brought myself and the queen endless elation!” 

There is clapping, and whistling, cheering rising up from throats. Rhaenyra frowns, her little brow furrowing, and Criston twitches in discomfort. Surely the seeds of dislike cannot have already been sewn between brother and sister? It will be better for everyone involved if they get along. He needs to ensure that they do. 

“Hurrah!” someone shouts.

 “Hurrah!” the room goes. 

“He will make a fine king, Your Grace,” Lord Otto says, and King Viserys waves a hand and makes a vaguely dismissive noise. 

Rhaenyra’s frown deepens, as does Criston’s anxiety.

“No one cares about me anymore,” his charge complains as they make their way to the Dragonpit. She has been desperate to see Syrax all day, and Criston does not have the heart to refuse her. His eyes snap to her at her words. 

“That isn’t true, princess,” he says. 

She scowls and crosses her arms over her chest. “Ever since Aegon was born, everyone only cares about him. The queen never even pays me attention anymore!” 

Criston pauses and tries to get a measure on his words. “Prince Aegon is a babe,” he comforts, “and two moons old at that. It is easy for one so young to garner much attention.” Particularly, he adds privately, a boy child. “I am sure that the queen, and everyone else, still cares; they are simply swept up in something new.” 

Rhaenyra’s expression lightens a little at that. “You aren’t,” she says. He blinks. “You don’t care about Aegon,” she explains upon seeing his look of confusion. 

I care about him more than you might think, he wants to tell her bites down on his tongue. 

“So it seems,” he says dryly instead. 

She smiles at that.

“You should visit the boy,” he tells her later, when she reeks of dragon and is in dire need of a bath. He resists the urge to wrinkle his nose at the stench as she turns to face him. 

“Why?” she asks. “All he does is sleep and cry. He’s boring.” 

“He is your brother,” Criston says patiently.

“Half-brother,” she corrects quickly. 

It is his turn to frown now. “There is no such thing as a ‘half-brother,’” he says, recalling what his father – the first one, that is – told him long ago. She opens her mouth to protest and he presses a finger to his lips gently, chiding. Her brows knit together, but she quiets. “Not in heart, anyways. He is your father’s son, and so he is your brother. Nothing else should matter.” 

She is quiet as she thinks. Rather than say anything profound or touching, she haggles. “If I visit him,” she says slowly, “will you smuggle me more sweetmeats from the kitchen?” 

He stares at her and her lips twitch. Then the dam breaks and he laughs and goes to ruffle her hair, sending the silver-gold locks all over the place. “Yes, you sly little brat,” he tells her, forgetting himself and his courtesies for a split second, “I’ll get your more sweetmeats.” 

Rhaenyra grins and crows in victory. 

Well, he may have had to bribe her to see her brother, he thinks, but at least it’s a start. 

Prince Aegon’s nursery doesn’t look so different than the ones Criston used to see in his first life. There are differences, of course, namely guards and wetnurses and the different emblems of House Targaryen filling the room. But there are also toys and stuffed animals, for all he cannot use them yet, and the little cradle situated in the room has been crafted with great care. 

Rhaenyra is short, and so to lean over and look upon her brother, she needs a step stool. Criston watches closely in case she falls, ready to catch her, but she proves to be fine. She gazes upon her brother with skepticism, the look on her face completely and utterly unimpressed. 

“He’s ugly,” she comments, and Criston has to stop himself from laughing. 

“Babes often are,” he replies, voice strained. 

Rhaenyra cocks her head to look at him from a different angle. “He has my nose,” she says, a little softer. “Maybe he’ll get handsome when he’s older, then.” Her frankness has Criston’s shoulders shaking. He watches as the lines of her face, previously furrowed into a frown, smooth somewhat. 

Then, the best thing that possibly could have happened does . Prince Aegon giggles at his sister, his tiny face creasing into a smile. His little fists flail as he reaches out toward her. And Rhaenyra, well, Rhaenyra’s face positively lights up. 

“He likes me,” she says, looking at Criston with wide eyes. 

Criston smiles. “So he does,” he says. He pauses. “Would you like to hold him?” 

Her look turns alarmed. “I don’t know how,” she worries, “what if I drop him?” 

“I’ll be right here next to you,” he replies, “and a nursemaid will show you how to hold him.” 

She bites her lip and fiddles with her rings before nodding jerkily. “I’ll hold him,” she says. 

Criston’s smile turns proud. 

He summons a nursemaid quickly, and the woman shows Rhaenyra how to support Prince Aegon’s head, and how to hold him safely. Soon she has him in her arms, rocking him gently, with a look that can only be fascination painted across her face. 

This is more than a start, Criston thinks, this is progress. 

Nary a day goes by, after that, when she does not visit Prince Aegon, or Princess Helaena after him, or Prince Aemond after her. 

In the coming years, the rift between Queen Alicent and Rhaenyra grows worse. The queen, infuriated by her husband’s refusal to name Prince Aegon as his heir, begins to take things out on Rhaenyra. And Rhaenyra, feeling an overwhelming sense of resentment at her betrayal, begins to unsheathe her own claws. 

Yet she remains kind to her siblings, doting, even, much to King Viserys’ great delight and Criston’s relief. She brings them gifts constantly, reads to them, and takes them for flights upon Syrax, but to Queen Alicent’s displeasure. She adores them, and in turn they adore her, their elder, eternally wise sister. In turn, their adoration strokes her ego and makes her chest puff out in pride, which does not hurt her view of them in the least. 

It is on one of these flights as she loops over King’s Landing with Prince Aegon secured safely upon Syrax, that the news comes. Criston grimaces as soon as it reaches his ears. 

The Rogue Prince has returned from his War for the Stepstones, and with his arrival comes nothing good.

Chapter Text

Here is the thing about Criston: he is not a particularly honorable man. Oh, he has his courtesy. He takes some of his vows and means them, makes certain promises with the intent of keeping them, and has his morals and lines he will not cross, but he is not some shining white knight. He does not see the point in risking his life and his cock for the sake of bedding a woman – the only woman he might have even considered taking such a risk for is Aemma, and she would never have put herself in that situation – and he defends Rhaenyra because it is the final request of the woman he loved, and because she has made a special place for in his heart. But he is not some hero from the songs, and if the situation arises where he must bloody his hands, he is willing to do so. 

That is why, when word comes slithering through the Red Keep about Prince Daemon’s return to the Seven Kingdoms, he strongly considers murdering the man. He resides at Driftmark for now, with Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, but Criston knows what the year is well enough. Soon King Viserys will throw a joust to celebrate his fifth wedding anniversary with Queen Alicent, and his younger brother will come swooping through the clouds on dragonback to make his grand entrance on the tourney fields. He will be in reach then, Criston thinks darkly. Just as quickly as the thought occurs, however, he dismisses it. Murdering Daemon would be a trial in of itself, and there is no guarantee that it would succeed or that his involvement would be kept secret. Criston has no interest in becoming a victim of dragon fire or worse, and his death would leave Rhaenyra without any protection of foreknowledge at all. The risk is greater than the reward, he decides, at least for now. 

As if his thoughts of the Rogue Prince are too loud, Rhaenyra bursts out of her lessons with her maesters. She spins an apple in one hand, tossing it up and down. “Ser Criston,” she grins, “did you hear the news? They say my uncle has returned at last!” 

Criston withholds a grimace. “So people say, princess,” he responds. 

Rhaenyra takes a bite of her apple, the fruit crunching loudly beneath her teeth. “When do you think he will come home?” 

They are walking now, away from her lessons to somewhere more soothing. Criston glances at her sidelong. She is four-and-ten now. Beautiful with her silver-gold hair and violet eyes and high cheekbones, and tenacious, too. Young lords trip over themselves to catch her attention, and even stableboys turn red at the weight of her smile. When Daemon meets her once more, how will he view her? As an object of lust, whom he desires? As his naive little niece, who he can manipulate? Or perhaps a mix of both? It matters not to Criston. What does matter to Criston is that a man of thirty, fully grown and her uncle no less, will be sniffing after his fourteen-year-old charge like the despicable cretin he is. The mere thought of it makes Criston’s blood boil. He feels a flash at regret that he cannot kill Daemon. 

“Ser Criston?” Rhaenyra implores, and he realizes that, stuck in his thoughts, he never answered her question. He hums in acknowledgement. 

“Considering the circumstances of Prince Daemon’s departure from King’s Landing,” he says, “it is unlikely that King Viserys will simply invite him back to the capital immediately. But it is likely that he will return, yes. At least in my opinion.” 

Rhaenyra hums and bites further into her apple. “I hope that Father bids him to return soon,” she says, eyes sparkling, “things are so dreadfully dull here without him.” 

Privately, Criston thinks that he quite prefers dull to Daemon. 

Grimly, he promises himself that if Rhaenyra’s uncle sinks his claws into her, it will be over his dead body. 

Less than a moon later, King Viserys announces that he will be hosting a tourney to celebrate his fifth wedding anniversary with his queen. Rhaenyra fumes and subtlety has never exactly been her greatest attribute. By sundown, half of the Red Keep knows of her irritation. That does not stop her from going to visit her siblings, however, and Criston’s heart swells as she swings Princess Helaena around, presses a kiss to Prince Aemond’s forehead, and sits Prince Aegon on her knee. 

“Story, Nyra,” Prince Aegon demands. Rhaenyra laughs and ruffles his hair.

 “I just told you one earlier this week,” she says, “I think you’re getting greedy.” Princess Helaena tugs at her skirts and Prince Aemond, too young to understand much going on around him, merely blinks. Criston watches as Rhaenyra softens under their combined attention. She has never been able to deny them anything, he finds, not when they turn the full weight of their adoration against her. And their adoration, he notes with approval, is quite prevalent in their interactions. Rhaenyra sighs deeply. “Fine,” she says, “I suppose one more story won’t hurt.” 

Criston lets out a laugh at her exasperation. She pouts. “What’s so funny?” she asks. He shakes his head. 

“Nothing, princess,” he says, “your sibling just remind me of a certain someone who also used to beg for stories. Who still does sometimes, in fact.” 

Color rises to her cheeks. “I don’t ask for stories anymore,” she denies fervently, “I am four-and-ten, a woman grown!”

A smirk flashes across Criston’s mouth. “I never mentioned you by name, princess,” he points out. 

She throws one of Princess Helaena’s toys at him. 

Criston does not train with Gwayne any more. Things have been strained between them ever since the birth of Prince Aegon. Or rather, ever since King Viserys made his stance on Rhaenyra still succeeding him clear, and since it became obvious to everyone that Criston is her most steadfast champion. Gwayne spends half of his time in Oldtown and half of his time with his father, sister, nephews and niece at King’s Landing. 

Before King Viserys made the announcement about his tourney, he resided in Oldtown. Now he has traveled back to the capital, if only briefly. Criston twitches in discomfort as the sun beats down harshly beneath the tourney fields, feeling entirely too hot in the height of summer. Ahead of him, Gwayne sits upon a beautiful white mare, lance lowered toward his sister as he asks for her favor. The queen beams and sets her favor against her lance and the crown cheers and claps, touched by the expression of sibling affection. Criston bites the inside of his cheek, too busy eying the skies to care overly much about the comings and goings of the ground. 

Today is the day. Queen Alicent wears her signature green gown just as Rhaenyra dons her signature back gown, the colors which will define their factions. The royal family sits in a special box, with King Viserys and Queen Alicent framed at the center, of course. Rhaenyra sits directly to her father’s right – a purposeful move of the king’s, no doubt – while Princess Helaena is seated beside her. Prince Aemond and Prince Aegon sit closer to their mother. Or rather, Prince Aemond does. Prince Aegon sits in Rhaenyra’s lap as his elder sister indulges him with good-natured patience. Criston resists the urge to sigh as, even out of the corner of his eye, he catches her send a goading look to her step-mother. 

His body aches as he sits in the shade. He just unhorsed his most recent opponent, a Ser Gerrin Tarly, moments ago, Rhaenyra’s favor resting proudly on his lance. “Take my favor,” she had insisted, “the look on Alicent’s face will be priceless when you unhorse Ser Gwayne right in front of her.” 

Criston shades his eyes as he rips his attention briefly away from the azure sky to his… he isn’t quite sure what they are, now. Friend? Once friend? The thought of the latter saddens him. 

Gwayne readies his lance and nods to his opponent. 

They prepare to charge, but before they can, their horses grow skittish. Their ears pin to their heads and they snort and stop their hooves, tails twitching. Criston tenses. He knows what makes horses react like this. Surely enough, a shadow falls over the tourney field. A high, piercing shriek rips through the area as great gusts of wind match the sound of flapping wings. Ever so slowly, Criston raises his eyes. The sight that greets him is Caraxes the Blood Wyrm in all his glory, his rider dressed in dramatic black armor, a crown rested on his brow.

Criston’s eyes narrow.

Daemon.

Chapter Text

Criston will give the Rogue Prince one thing: he knows how to make an entrance. He slides off of Caraxes in his gleaming black armor, which is engraved with the images of roaring, snarling dragons intertwined, all of them breathing fire. Daemon wears a sleek, magnificent crown, a red cape clipped over his shoulder. A wide grin stretches across his face from ear to ear.

From his royal box, King Viserys’ expression is unreadable. “Daemon,” he says, “I was not aware that you would be returning to the capital.” 

Prince Daemon stops once he’s reaches the ground beneath the royal box. He drops to one knee and kneels before his brother and king. “Brother,” he calls, “I have returned to offer you my crown and the title of King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea.” 

Criston can see it, then. The shift in King Viserys’ demeanor. It is in how his eyes soften, how his lips tug into a slight smile and how the clenched fists of his hands. “Welcome home, brother,” he says, and Criston – and no one, for that matter – does not miss how he makes sure to call him ‘brother’ and not simply ‘Daemon.’

The Rogue Prince’s grin widens if that is even possible. He rises to his feet but does not move away from the royal box. “Niece,” he says, and Criston gets the impression that he is not talking to the two-year-old Helaena, “will you not greet your favorite uncle more warmly?” 

Criston stiffens as Rhaenyra laughs. She moves Aegon and darts up from her seat, elated to see Daemon again. She descends from the royal box and he spreads his arms, an invitation for an embrace. She takes him up on that offer, wrapping her arms around his body. He returns the motion. The movement might seem innocent to everyone else, but anyone who is looking for something suspect could see how his hand is rested a little too lowly, how he lingers a little too long as he pulls back. 

Criston grits his teeth. Anger claws at his throat, burns through his chest and makes his entire body so tight with the feeling that he barely knows what to do with himself. His hand twitches toward his morningstar. He wants to bash Daemon’s head in, wants to see his blood pain the tourney grounds already. A man of thirty years should not look at his niece of fourteen years as Daemon looks at Rhaenyra now. 

Daemon joins the rest of his family in the royal box at the invitation of King Viserys. The tourney resumes, but Criston has not been called back to the lists yet. The royal family speaks amongst themselves, too quietly for him to hear from his position. Still, when King Viserys gestures to Queen Alicent, and then Prince Aegon, Princess Helaena and Prince Aemond, it is not difficult to see the dislike on Daemon’s face and in his body language. He says something, and it must be unappreciated because King Viserys frowns and says something else. His brother makes a scoffing gesture and sits. 

Criston feels an ember of hope swell in his chest at the frown Rhaenyra sends her uncle. 

“Well,” Criston says when the tourney is done, “it has been an eventful day, no?” 

He has changed out of his heavy mail in exchange for something lighter, his usual attire as Rhaenyra’s sworn shield. Rhaenyra, while still wearing her signature black gown, has redone her hair and freshened herself a little. Not for Daemon, he hopes. Now they prepare to attend her father’s feast. 

Rhaenyra looks up from where she sits. “Yes,” she says, smiling, “I knew Uncle Daemon had returned to the Seven Kingdoms, but I never expected to see him at my father’s tourney!” Her smile wavers for a moment.

 Criston frowns. “What is it?” he asks, concern and protectiveness both flaring in his chest. If Daemon has done something to her, made her feel uncomfortable in any way, he swears to the Seven–

“He was unkind,” Rhaenyra replies, the words coming out stilted. At the look on his face, she hurries to clarify. “Not to me, to Aegon.” Her eyebrows knit together. “He called him ‘Alicent’s whelp.’ He was… cold to him. To Aemond and Helaena, as well.” 

Inwardly, Criston cheers at the irritated tone of her voice. He pats himself on the back. Originally, he wanted Rhaenyra to be close with her brothers and sister so that they would not rebel against her, or at least be less likely to. But now it serves another purpose; of course she will be less likely to see Daemon in a less favorable light if he hates her beloved siblings! 

He says nothing to dissuade her irritation. Instead he extends an arm to her, helping her from her seat. She takes it and he hauls her to her feet. She slips, her long gown a hindrance, for all its beauty, and he grunts and steadies her, as he used to do when she was a little girl. She is not so little anymore, he thinks bittersweetly. Four-and-ten, with prospective suitors lining up to woo her and the weight of a future crown on her shoulders. 

She reminds him of Aemma, in certain lights. It is in the highness of her cheekbones, in the shape of her eyes and her nose. This is one of those moments, with her dressed in all of her jewels and finery. 

Would Aemma be proud, to see her daughter now? Would she be happy to know that Criston is and has been doing all he can to protect her? He desperately hopes she is. Not a day goes by when he does not miss her; even on days when she does not enter his thoughts, there is always the sense of something missing. Something that should be there, but is not. A sense of loss that still has not recovered, even years later. 

At this point, Criston wonders if it ever will. 

“We will not speak of this,” Rhaenyra says, mortified as she trips again. 

Criston laughs. “How did you manage to get to the tourney box?” he asks. 

She glares at him and he laughs harder. 

For the next fortnight, Criston watches on, his rage steadily mounting, as Daemon does everything he can to wriggle his way into Rhaenyra’s affections, and subsequently her bed. He gifts her with books and pearls and silks, and even the famed jade tiara of Fire and Blood , which was once owned by the Empress of Leng. Rhaenyra, who has always admired her uncle and had a weakness for gifts, accepts these presents eagerly. They fly together upon Syrax and Caraxes respectively, which is Criston’s least favorite of Daemon’s attempts to seduce her. Usually, he can make up some excuse to not leave them alone together. But upon dragon back? Well, there he is blind and stuck on the ground.

Still, for all she seems to enjoy spending time with him, there are moments when Rhaenyra seems irate with her uncle. Angered, even. After some deliberation, Criston deems it safe to bring up the fact that, mayhaps, Daemon should not be trusted. 

She storms back to the Red Keep one day, truly wroth, and Criston raises an eyebrow. He tries to hide his excitement. “Princess?” he asks as she brushes past him, “what is it?” 

“Uncle Daemon,” she snaps shortly, “he insulted Helaena. I couldn’t go flying with him today because I promised Helaena I would take her. Do you want to know what he said in response?” She pauses, clearly waiting for him to ask. 

Practically bouncing off of the walls with excitement, Criston asks, “What did he say?” 

“He asked me if I would not rather ‘leave the child behind’ so that I could ‘fly in the company of a true dragon.’” 

Criston turns away from her under the guise of pouring wine. He allows himself one brief, wide smile before masking it again. “I have been meaning to speak to you about Prince Daemon,” he says, offering her one of the cups he has poured. She takes it with a murmured thanks. “About his… behavior.” 

“What about his behavior?” Rhaenyra’s eyes flick to him and with them the full weight of her gaze. But he will not back down from this. He will not fail her as every other adult around her did in Fire and Blood . 

“He–” Criston takes a deep breath to collect himself. “He makes advances toward you, princess. He wishes to seduce you.” Her expression goes blank and he forges onward. “He is a married man with a checkered reputation. I ask that, for your own sake, you do not entertain his advances. And if not for your own sake, then for the sake of your sworn shield, who gets gray hairs worrying for you.” 

There is a long moment of silence. Then, voice thick with amusement and fondness both, Rhaenyra says, “Ser Criston, I am not going to fuck my Uncle Daemon.” 

He winces at her crudeness. He has thought worse himself, has said worse in both his lives, but there is something about his charge saying it that makes him recoil. He feels like a father realizing his child isn’t as innocent as he thought for the first time. She’s not his daughter, of course, but–

Well, sometimes he wishes she were. 

“I would not entertain a man who insults my family, even if he is mine own blood as well,” Rhaenyra is saying, the sound of her voice pulling Criston from his thoughts. Her mouth is set into a grim, angry line and her eyes are narrowed, and there is a protectiveness in her tone that reminds Criston of how he views her. She is talking about Daemon’s rudeness to Prince Aegon, Princess Helaena and Prince Aemond, he realizes. Something proud surges in him. Something gentle. 

“To think there was a time when you refused to call Prince Aegon anything besides ‘Alicent Hightower’s son,’” he says softly, “I am proud of you, Rhaenyra.” 

His hand reaches out and he pats her head, ruffling her hair. Her cheeks go pink and she leans into his touch a little. She always has soaked up affection like a sponge. No matter, he is happy to indulge her. 

Gods, he wishes he could have been her father. Wishes that he is, in some alternative reality. 

“You should be, after you dragged me to the nursery to visit him all those times,” she grumbles, but it is a complaint without heat. 

Soon, Rhaenyra makes it obvious that she will not accept Daemon’s advances. 

The Rogue Prince, growing irate, returns back to Driftmark with wounded pride, seeing that he will make no headway. The glare he sends Criston’s way is venomous before he departs, as if he knows he had some part to play in this. 

Criston doesn’t particularly care, too revealed to have successfully protected Rhaenyra. For a while, he is happy. 

That is, until news of Rhea Royce’s death from an illness arrives at King’s Landing. 

Until Daemon weds the Lady Laena Velaryon. Until Daemon, who is once again restless, resumes his War at the Stepstones with the help of Lord Corlys. Before he leaves, the rumors come, whispering that he has gotten a child onto his lady wife. 

He wages war at the Stepstones for less than four moons before he is stricken by a stray arrow dismounting from Caraxes, dying in a hauntingly similar way to Prince Aemon before him. 

Rhaenyra is inconsolable when she hears the news, for all she was irritated with her uncle when they parted. Criston does his best to comfort her, despite his dislike for the man. 

He should be overjoyed that Daemon is dead. But while he might be pleased, he also chews his lip and worries. With no Daemon and no Caraxes, there is no hope for his possible support or his enmity. There is a space, then, for a power vacuum. And then there is the child in Lady Laena’s womb. If it is a girl, there is no need to worry. If it is a boy, future events have the possibility to be more concerning. Then there is also no Caraxes to counteract the Greens. Even worse, they could gain the Bloody Wyrm. 

Criston runs a hand across his face and sighs. 

This has changed everything.

Chapter Text

“Laenor Velaryon!” Rhaenyra’s voice is raw with fury as she slams the doors to her chambers closed. Criston stands off to the side, watching her carefully as her face goes red with indignation. “Of all the men my father could have betrothed me to, he chose Laenor Velaryon!” 

Criston resists the urge to sigh. He knew how she would take this news long before the king ever truly considered it. “Lord Laenor will make a fine consort,” he tells her, fingers tapping patiently against the wood of a nearby table, “what better match for a dragon rider than another dragon rider?” 

Rhaenyra scoffs and flips her braid. “A match who might, mayhaps, be interested in the other party,” she says. Then she grows sullen. “I do not wish to marry him,” she grumbles, “he would be far more interested in the squires around him than myself. I will not play second to squires .”

Criston bites the inside of his cheek, thinking. “You will be his lady wife,” he says, “the mother of his children, and his queen. In no reality would you be beneath a squire in anyone’s eyes.” 

Rhaenyra’s glare could cut through stone. “That,” she says, gritting her teeth, “is not the point , Ser Criston! I want a husband, not a stranger who will never care!” 

Criston stares at her, not surprised by her words, but still taken aback by their vehemence. She wants a love match from the songs, he knows. He has always known that. But still–

“We do not always get what we want, princess,” he says softly. Her features twist, and for a second, he sees a louder, more stubborn version of Aemma.

“I am the heir to the Iron Throne,” she shoots back, her voice trembling with the force of her feelings. “I can do what I wish. I will do what I wish.”  Criston, for once in his life, is at a loss for words. Rhaenyra turns away from him, still cross, and says, “I wish to be alone, ser.” 

Those words hurt him more than they probably should. He bows stiffly at the waist, feeling some of his hair sweep over his forehead. “As you wish,” he says. He goes to stand outside of her door. 

He can hear her rage on through the walls. 

Rhaenyra is cross for the next day and night, refusing to back down from her stance on marrying Laenor Velaryon. Criston knows how this will end, how her father will hold her inheritance over her head until she bows and submits to his will, but that does not mean he enjoys her tantrum. Rhaenyra, bright, clever, precocious Rhaenyra, is better than this. She is a child still, in his eyes, only six-and-ten, but in the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms, she is very much a woman. And still, she is above acting in such a way. 

He feels disappointment hit him like a physical blow. Not in her — as  he said before, she is but a girl, but rather in himself. He is not her father, but he wants to think he’s raised her better than this, in his attempts to instill more responsibility in her. And that does it. He won’t tolerate this tantrum any longer. 

Rhaenyra has stayed in her rooms since the announcement of her betrothal, has only left once in over twenty-four hours to go ride Syrax. Criston thinks long and hard about how to go about giving her the cold, hard reality. In the end, he comes to a conclusion. 

He pulls some strings behind the scenes, bribing here and there where he needs to, and walks into Rhaenyra’s chambers with two satchels tucked beneath his arm. One, the larger one, is for him. The other, smaller one is for her. She raises her head as she walks through the doors, a scowl dark across her face. It lessens when she sees the intruder is him. Her anger toward him, it seems, has faded. He pushes the thought away, gesturing to the satchels. He tosses hers onto the table she sits beside. 

She raises an eyebrow. “What is this, Ser Criston?” she asks. 

He tilts his head. “Open it and you’ll see.” 

She does, and clothing tumbles out; a tunic and cap, a pair of breeches and a cloak and a dagger she can slip beneath that. Her eyebrows leap to her hairline and she looks back at him, demanding an explanation. 

“We’re going on an adventure,” he explains. 

Her scowl finally melts away completely, something like curiosity taking its place. If there is one thing he has learned about her in his time as her sworn shield, it is that she very much loves adventure. 

They slip out of the Red Keep under the cover of night, through abandoned servants’ passages. Rhaenyra sticks close to Criston, as he instructed. His sword rests at his hip beneath his cloak, ready to use should he be forced to. He is not overly worried about danger. He is arguably the greatest warrior alive, as of now, and he has no plans on taking her to the seediest parts of King’s Landing. He is smarter than that. 

They step into the city, winding down Aegon’s Hill and onto the Hook. As they walk down the road, Rhaenyra looks around, her eyes wide with wonder. “You’ve never seen the city up close, have you?” Criston asks. 

She shakes her head. “I’ve seen it when I fly with Syrax, or through carriage, sometimes, but never on foot.” 

His head dips into a nod. “Well,” he says, “there’s a first time for everything.” 

Street vendors catch Rhaenyra’s eye, and she turns and walks to a nearby stall. The stall owner is a stout, short man with a balding head and ruddy cheeks. “Chickens,” he calls, “roasted chickens, freshly cooked!” 

Rhaenyra’s eyes snap to his food, and her stomach rumbles audibly. Criston looks at her in askance. Did she not eat whilst she locked herself in her chambers? Her cheeks flush a little and he knows the answer to that question. He bites back a sigh. 

“Beautiful lady,” the vendor beams, “would you be interested in my wares?” 

Rhaenyra brightens. “Yes,” she says, “I’m quite hungry.” 

The vendor sweeps a hand at his stall. “Take your pick,” he says, grinning. The gap between his teeth flashes. Rhaenyra chooses the largest piece, part of a thigh, and bites into it. The vendor looks at her expectantly and Criston hides a smile. 

“That’ll be five copper stars,” he says, and Rhaenyra freezes mid-bite. And of course she does, because why on earth would she ever think that she needed to pay for anything? Criston, of course, was prepared for this. He clasps Rhaenyra’s shoulder and casts a warm smile at the vendor. “Apologies, sir,” he says, “we did not mean to cheat you out of your coin.” With his free hand, he reaches for his coin purse and drops the sum into the vendor’s waiting palm. 

The vendor grins. “Good man,” he says in approval. He eyes them curiously, Rhaenyra with her violet eyes and Criston with his pale green ones, looks at his hand, reassuring on her shoulder, and his brow creases. “Is this one your daughter?” he asks. 

“Aye,” is on the tip of Criston’s tongue. It hangs there as he freezes, claws at his throat as some primal, paternal urge wells up in his chest. He bites down on it hard, feeling blood seep against his tongue.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra says for him, tense beneath his grip. His eyes shoot to her, shock lancing down his spine like lightning, and he sees the set of her jaw, the way her hands twitch at her sides. She looks at him out of the corner of her eyes, the slant of her mouth forming a small, almost shy smile, most unusual for her. 

The vendor’s attention turns to her. “You’re lucky then, girl,” he says, “to have a father willing to fish you out of trouble. Do not take that for granted.” 

A muscle in Rhaenyra’s cheek jumps a little, in the way it always does when her pride is wounded. But then she says “I am grateful for him every day,” and suddenly, Criston feels like weeping. His throat tightens and he stares at her with wide eyes, hot tears collecting in them. Then he smiles a shaky smile goes to ruffle her hair. He can’t, of course, not with the cap she wears, so he settles for patting her on the head instead. She relaxes at the motion and the thrumming of his heart goes daughter, daughter, daughter. 

“We’ll be off, then,” he tells the vendor after a few seconds, “thank you for selling us your wares.” 

He nods and they walk away from him, leaving his stall behind. Criston feels, for a good five minutes, as if he is floating on air. Then the reality of the situation sets in again, and he remembers why he is here. They walk throughout the city for a while longer, weaving through the Street of the Sisters until they get close to the end, where the seedier parts of the city emerge. Criston bids her to turn around when the House of Kisses enters their view. There will be no rumors of Rhaenyra entering a brothel today. They head back to the Red Keep, and Rhaenyra is quiet, but no longer solemn. She looks upon the stalls and her people with bright-eyed curiosity, and Criston feels his own expression soften. 

“These are your people,” he tells her, “as the heir to the Iron Throne, they are your responsibility. And when you are queen, they will look to you for comfort and guidance.” 

Rhaenyra’s eyes meet his. “Why are you telling me this, Ser Criston?” 

Criston looks at her steadily. “I know that you greatly grieved the death of your late uncle, Prince Daemon,” he says, “but what you forget is that he left his lady wife with child before he joined the arms of the gods. Prince Jacaerys Targaryen is almost two years old now, with the blood of both Prince Baelon and Princess Rhaenys flowing through his veins.” 

Rhaenyra’s eyes flash. She goes to twist at the rings she usually wears. The ones he had her take off before venturing into the city. “You think the Velaryons would push his claim?” 

Criston holds her gaze. “I think that Lord Corlys is an ambitious man who has been slighted twice already  by the Iron Throne. I think that he dreams of a grandson for a king, and will go to great lengths to achieve that. And I think that marrying Lord Laenor would be the best thing for the realm.” 

Rhaenyra’s expression turns accusing at that. “So that is the reason for this little trip,” she says, bristling a little. 

Criston pays her irritation no mind. “These people,” he insists, jerking his head at a nearby woman carrying her babe, “are yours. The power that comes with the crown is coupled by responsibility. The responsibility to keep food in their bellies, and roofs over their heads, and their bodies unmarred from dragonfire. And right now, you, a young lord, and a little boy prince might just hold that responsibility in your six hands.” 

Rhaenyra frowns, but ceases her complaints. He watches on as her jaw works, as her brow furrows in thought. They make the rest of the walk back in silence. 

And a few days later, before King Viserys can confront her about the matter again, she goes to her father herself and, rather grudgingly, agrees to marry Laenor Velaryon. 

Chapter Text

If Rhaenyra were asked how to describe how she was feeling in one phrase, it would be: bees in her belly. Her entire body is tense, fraught with nerves, as she stands in her ceremonial attire. Her satin cloak, dyed in red and black, is draped across her shoulders, her gown of the purest black. Rings dot her fingers and a medallion featuring all the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms rests against her sternum. 

Today she is to be formally installed as the Princess of Dragonstone. Part of her croons, proud and haughty. I am the blood of the dragon, that part of her thinks, my father’s chosen heir. I was born for this. The other part of her, the one that is a girl of six-and-ten, trembles. Not out of fear, not exactly – she has been waiting for this moment for nearly a decade, after all – but the full weight of this moment is beginning to dawn on her. 

Her only saving grace is Ser Criston, who stands a distance away in his white cloak and armor. His eyes meet hers and his head tilts into a slight nod. She takes a deep breath, reassured by the gesture. The other members of the kingsguard follow his lead as the ceremony begins. He is their Lord Commander now, after the death of Ser Harrold Westerling last year. He doesn’t speak much of it, but Rhaenyra knows that the man’s death cut him more than he shows. He was his mentor in the Red Keep, after all, a bit like how Ser Criston is hers. 

Father sits upon the Iron Throne, the crown of his grandfather, the Old King. There was a time in which Father was called the Young King, but looking at him now, stout and red-faced, gray seeping into his silver-gold mustache, the title does not quite fit as much as it used to. She stands before him as he holds Blackfyre and declares her Princess of Dragonstone. He reaffirms, then, that she is the heir to the Iron Throne. She turns around to face the court, and the lords who have made the trip to see the ceremony. They are less than the crowd which assembled to swear oaths to her, but she supposes that that only makes sense. Still, she chafes at it. 

Aegon catches her eye, standing beside his mother a ways away. She meets his eyes, feeling her lips twitch as he beams at her. She winks at Helaena, who stands beside him, and her eyes soften at the sight of Aemond.

Their bitch mother’s face contorts at that, something which Rhaenyra takes vicious pleasure in. 

After the ceremony, plans are made for Rhaenyra to take her seat on Dragonstone. She is practically bubbling with excitement at the prospect, eager to be off. The prospect of something that is hers, completely and unequivocally, is tantalizing. Still, she worries. Ser Criston is the Lord Commander now. He has other duties to attend to, her sworn shield or no. If she leaves for Dragonstone, will he follow? It is not a matter of whether or not he will choose to do so – in her heart of hearts, she knows he will follow if the choice is in his hands, there is no doubt of that – but will her father let him? Will he uphold his end of the bargain? She did as he asked, she agreed to marry Laenor Velaryon, but in turn, he promised to allow his Lord Commander to follow her. Now, will he go back on his word? Her hand tightens to a fist at the thought, as the men around her discuss the plans for her entourage to arrive at King’s Landing. 

“There will already be servants at Dragonstone,” her father is telling her, “but you will need your ladies-in-waiting and your guards as well. I would not leave my heir without at least two of the kingsguard.” Rhaenyra straightens at the mention of the kingsguard. “You will bring with you Ser Criston Cole and Ser Willis Fell.” 

Rhaenyra does not even try to hide the grin that spreads over her face. “My thanks, Father,” she says, her smile so wide that she thinks her face might crack in half.

It is decided that she will fly to Dragonstone on Dragonback as the rest of her entourage travels by sea. The rest of her entourage except for Ser Criston, that is, who will accompany her on dragonback. Syrax has been large enough to saddle two for nigh on two years, and she has offered to take him numerous times. He has always politely refused her. Now, looking at his slightly green face as her beloved dragon’s yellow scales glint in the sun, she feels slightly guilty. She has wanted to fly with him for years, but not at the expense of his comfort. 

Aegon hugs Rhaenyra tightly as she moves to mount Syrax, and the crowd which has gathered to see her off murmurs to themselves.  She ruffles his hair. “When I return,” she says, “I will bring many gifts for you, and Helaena and Aemond as well.” 

“Do you promise,” he mumbles into her chest. Beside them, their brother and sister shuffle closer. 

Her heart swells. “Of course, little dragon.” 

If someone had told her nine years ago that she would ever come to love Alicent Hightower’s children, she would have laughed them out of the room, even at the tender age of six. Now, looking at them, Aegon, who is pressed against her, Haelaena, who clutches at her skirts, and Aemond, who goes to hold her hand, she wonders how she could have ever resented them to begin with. 

She has Ser Criston to thank for that. Looking out of the corner of her eye, she sees that he looks slightly less ill, something close to a smile flickering across his face. It was he who convinced her to spend time with Aegon, who taught her how to have patience with children, and that, Alicent Hightower’s brood or no, they are still her father’s children. Without him, she might very well still resent them, or worse, given how fraught her relationship is with their mother. The thought of hating her daring little brothers and sweet little sister makes something heavy settle in her stomach. 

Rhaenyra drops to her knees and collects them in her arms, presses little butterfly kisses into their hair, their temples, their cheeks, until they are giggling and the sadness which marred their faces is gone, or almost gone at least. Then she rises and nods to her father. 

“I will not shame you,” she vows, “I will do right by my house.” Then, thinking of her trip into the city, of her people, she adds, “And my subjects as well.” 

She can feel Ser Criston’s eyes on her. Catching a brief glimpse of approval on his face, her chest puffs out and her shoulders straighten. She will not shame her house, and she will make her sworn shield proud. She is determined to do that much, at least, if not more. 

She mounts Syrax and Criston clambers after her, his hands shaking. “Hold onto me,” she says softly, so as the others cannot hear, “when we are in the skies, that will make it easier.” 

He offers her a weak smile. “I was never planning on not holding on to you for dear life, princess,” he replies. She huffs out a laugh. 

“Soves, Syrax,” she commands, and then her dragon’s great wings are beating and they have taken to the skies. 

Ser Criston keeps his word and hangs on to her as if he is a drowning man, and she is the rope that has just been thrown to him. It shakes her to see him so weak. For as long as she can remember, he has always been her strong, wise, capable protector. To see him otherwise throws her. 

“Ser Criston,” she says, just to distract him, “tell me the story of the legendary knight Revan, the master of both good and evil.” 

He raises his head to look at her. “You have heard that story many times, princess,” he says.

She looks straight ahead, her whip tapping gently against Syrax. “Tell it again,” she says, “it has been a long while since I heard it, and my memory grows fuzzy.” 

They both know the real reason she has asked for the story, but neither of them says anything. Rhaenyra hears him sigh, one part affectionate and one part irritation, a balm on his bruised ego. 

“A long time ago,” Ser Criston begins, “in a kingdom far, far away…” 

Dragonstone is tall and sprawling and horridly beautiful. Rhaenyra has been here before, when her father was made Prince of Dragonstone by his grandfather King Jaehaerys, but she has not been here since she was a little girl. Taking it in now, with its archways and staircases crafted in the shapes of dragons, in its black stone and looming watchtowers and multitude of gargoyles, she is utterly fascinated. The acrid smell of salt and brimstone reaches her nose, and she has never loved the scent of anything more in her entire life. 

This place is her seat, her source of power. Hers . Something raw and jagged and territorial lances through her chest at the thought, striking a fire in her heart. The people of Dragonstone cheer for her as she lands upon the stony beach. They have come out in droves to witness her arrival. They are fair-haired and dark-haired and red-haired, with blue eyes and green eyes and brown eyes alike. Every once in a while, she catches sight of a silver-gold head and her eyes hold violet ones, as well. The dragonseeds are here. 

Rhaenyra waves a hand to her people as she travels up to her keep, laughing and smiling and soaking in their affection and admiration. After spending so much time in the Red Keep, in court with the queen’s creatures, this is a most welcomed respite. She pays attention to their appearances, to the way some of them are well-dressed and some of them most certainly are not, and files everything she can away. They are her responsibility now, after all, and to be a good ruling Princess of Dragonstone she must ensure that they are well cared for. 

It is a few days after Rhaenyra’s arrival upon Dragonstone that Ser Criston approaches her, his brow creased in that way it always is when he is deep in thought.  “What is it that troubles you, ser?” she asks him, watching on as he fiddles with the hem of his cape. It is midday and they sit in her solar, finally prepared to get to work after the festivities brought on by her arrival. 

Ser Criston looks up at her, drawn from his thoughts by the sound of her voice. “Nothing troubles me, princess,” he says, smiling. She looks at him, at the slant of his mouth and the sincerity in his pale green eyes, and believes him.

“I would have a moment of your time, then,” she says, gesturing for him to sit. He raises an eyebrow in the way he always does when something or someone has piqued his interest, and slides into the chair across from her. 

“Now it’s my turn,” he says, “what is on your mind?” 

Rhaenyra fiddles with the rings on her fingers. “I am aware that society will always have the highborn and the lowborn, the wealthy and the poor,” she says, “but upon my arrival at Dragonstone a few days ago, I noticed that some of the smallfolk, particularly in certain parts of the island, looked worse for ware than the rest. I would seek to remedy this.” 

Ser Criston’s eyebrows knit together again as he thinks, but a smile cuts into the side of his mouth. “That is a virtuous course of action, princess,” he says, and again, she glows beneath his praise. 

“The problem is,” she says, “I am unsure of how to help them. The very least I can do is try to help put food in their mouths, but the idea eludes me.” 

Ser Criston’s eyes light up, then, like he’s just gotten an idea. 

A few days later, he introduces her to something he calls “crop rotation.” 

“You should write to Lord Laenor,” Rhaenyra’s sworn shield says one day. She looks up from her desk, mouth pinched tightly. 

“I have already agreed to marry the man,” she says sullenly, “why must I speak with him?” 

Ser Criston snorts at that. “Perhaps because he is to be your husband, the father of your children, and your greatest ally?” 

“We are to be wed,” she reminds him, “he is obligated to do those things already.” 

He shifts, crossing his arms over his chest, and drums his fingers against the hollow of his elbow. “I am suggesting this for your own sake, Rhaenyra,” he says softly, “I would not wish upon you a miserable marriage. And if you wish to get him onside, truly onside, you must cater to him. This is how you gain allies in life, Rhaenyra.” 

“I have already been condemned to a loveless marriage,” she replies sharply. He flinches and she regrets the words as soon as they come out of her mouth. 

Oh, dammit. 

“Still,” she grumbles, “I suppose that a union in which I at least get along with the man is the lesser of two evils. Perhaps I will invite Lord Laenor to go flying sometime.” 

Ser Criston hums, but does not push the subject. 

He says nothing when she writes to her future husband, but she feels his silent approval all the same.

Chapter Text

The marriage of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Lord Laenor Velaryon – Ser Laenor, now, since he was knighted a fortnight before – is supposed to be a grand affair, the wedding of the century. Rhaenyra has traveled back to King’s Landing for the ceremony, and her future husband and his family are soon to follow. 

Right now, King’s Landing is brimming with activity, a swarm of bodies, from servants to highborn, streaming through its gates. The rise in activity sets Criston on edge. It overloads his senses, heightens his already fraying nerves. Everything must go well in the coming days. There is no room for error. 

Rhaenyra is not helping matters. She has accepted her duty with a kind of grim responsibility, but she makes no attempt to act like a blushing bride, and it has become obvious to anyone who bothers to look that this is not the husband she would have chosen otherwise. Something like guilt twists in Criston’s stomach at her discontent, but he stamps down on the feeling. It is better for her to be in a loveless marriage than an early grave. 

He has taken to training more often as a means to relieve his restlessness. King Viserys, taking note of this, has commanded that he train Prince Aegon, who is at this point old enough to begin working with wooden practice swords. 

That is how Criston finds himself here, in the yards, trying to teach an altogether disinterested prince how to fight.  Prince Aegon is huffing miserably as he grips the blade. His brow is furrowed in frustration, and it could not be any more obvious to everyone with eyes that he very much does not want to be here. 

Criston, for his part, feels a twinge of sympathy for the boy.

“Sword up, my prince,” he calls, setting his feet. Prince Aegon tries to emulate him and fails miserably, and Criston withholds the urge to sigh. That will not do anyone any good. 

“Like this?” he asks, and Criston shakes his head. 

“No, my prince,” he replies. Then he walks up to him and taps at his shoulders. “Your feet should be shoulder-length apart, and do not lock your knees. The first step to being bested in battle is to have a bad stance.” To prove his point, he shoves him. Not harshly, no, but firmly all the same. The boy goes stumbling forward. 

Sturdy arms catch him before he falls. Criston’s eyes flick to their owner. He is met with the brown eyes of Gwayne Hightower. Prince Aegon immediately brightens at the man’s presence. 

“Uncle Gwayne,” he chirps, “you’re back from Oldtown!” 

Gwayne ruffles his hair affectionately. “So I am,” he says. His gaze darts to Criston. “I see that Ser Criston has been training you.” 

Prince Aegon nods, his mouth becoming pinched. “Father wants him to teach me how to fight.” 

“Well,” Gwayne says, “Ser Criston is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard for a reason, my prince; he is a great fighter. To be taught by him is a great honor.” 

There is a beat of silence at his words. Criston stares at him, unable to hide his surprise; they have not exactly been friends in the years since Prince Aegon’s birth, with Gwayne loyal to his sister and him loyal to Rhaenyra. But he seems sincere, judging by the tone of his words and the look on his face, and Criston feels oddly touched. 

“I thank you for your compliments, ser,” he says. 

Gwayne flashes him a tight, small smile. “I only speak the truth, Ser Criston.” 

“Uncle,” Prince Aegon says, something close to a whine creeping into his voice, “can you teach me how to fight as well?” 

Gwayne strokes his chin. “The king has entrusted your training to his Lord Commander,” he says, “it is up to Ser Criston whether or not he thinks another teacher would do you good.” 

Prince Aegon turns the full weight of his puppy-dog gaze to Criston, and he almost flinches. Good gods, the boy looks so much like Rhaenyra when he does that. Gwayne covers up a cough that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, and Criston has to hold the little prince’s eyes. After a few seconds, he realizes that he cannot deny the boy this. 

Exhaling out of his nose a little, he closes his eyes for a moment. “Very well,” he acquiesces, and Prince Aegon whoops. 

“Thank you, Ser Criston,” he says with a grin so wide his face might just crack in half. 

“Yes, Ser Criston,” Gwayne says, “thank you.” 

And Criston thinks that have lost his friend, but that particular bridge has not been burned quite yet. 

Word reaches court that the Velaryons have departed for King’s Landing, and Criston’s tension flares even further. Rhaenyra has her gown made already, but in these last few days before her wedding, she is torn over the jewels to don. By some strange means – he does not know how, exactly – Criston has gotten involved in this. 

“I could wear this set of jewelry,” Rhaenyra says, gesturing to an intricate collection of beaten gold, “which was a gift from the Lannisters. But I could also wear this other jewelry, from Tyrosh.” 

She twists the rings on her fingers in consternation. They are Aemma’s rings, Criston notes, and he realizes with a jolt that she has not yet brought up the thought of wearing her mother’s wedding jewelry. Part of him thinks to mention it, but he hesitates. That is Rhaenyra’s choice alone to make, and he does not know if he could bear the sight of it anyhow. 

“--ston.” Rhaenyra’s voice interrupts his thoughts. He blinks blearily and is greeted by her frown, halfway pensive and halfway frustrated. “Ser Criston, were you paying attention?” 

“I am afraid not, princess,” he says, feeling a little sheepish. “I am afraid that I am not an expert in matters of dresses and jewelry.” 

Rhaenyra’s frown eases and her expression turns a little more fond. “So you are not,” she acknowledges, her lips twitching. “I apologize, Ser Criston. I shall have to speak with my ladies in this matter. I sometimes forget that you know little and less about these things.” 

Criston would be slightly offended, if her tone were not so teasing. She moves to sit, fiddling with her rings again. Her thumb brushes repeatedly across the metal, once, twice, over and over again, and Criston can tell that something is wrong. 

“My princess,” he says, “may I ask what troubles you?” 

Rhaenyra sends him a wry look. “What do you think, Ser Criston?” she asks. “What could possibly have me upset?” 

He hides his wince. “I understand that Ser Laenor is not the husband you would have chosen for yourself,” he says, “but he is a good man all the same. There are far worse men your father could have matched you with; think of Jason Lannister.” 

Rhaenyra’s face twists at the mention of Lord Lannister. “I know my duty, ser,” she says, “and I will perform it. Must I truly be happy about it as well?” 

“I would prefer you to be,” he admits. 

Rhaenyra sighs deeply and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I have nothing against Ser Laenor,” she says after a long second, “I think that we are almost friends, after our letters and flights together. I only wish that he might have been the man I chose out of happiness rather than obligation. Marriage so often feels like a cage.” 

Aemma flashes across Criston’s mind, then. Aemma and her sad eyes and sweet laugh and horrible death. He looks away from Rhaenyra, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. 

“If Ser Laenor displeases you,” he says, “you need only get one or two sons from him. And then you will never have to see him again.” 

Rhaenyra’s laugh is flat and brittle. “So it seems,” she says. Then she turns to look outside of the window. “I would not condemn him to such an exile, however. Even if I do not love him, he deserves better than that, I think.” 

Criston looks at her and wonders just when exactly she grew up so much. 

It is not long after that three sets of wings descend upon King’s Landing, soaring above ships bearing the sigil of House Velaryon. 

Chapter Text

There are few things that Laenor despises more than King’s Landing, with its backstabbing and maneuvers and overflowing population. He narrows his eyes at the reflection in his mirror, taking in the shine of his silver hair and the pallor of his cheeks. He is dressed in finery, all slashing silver and blue of his house. Countless Velaryon seahorses have been embroidered into his clothing. He smooths down his doublet, feeling too hot in his skin. Suddenly his collar is too constricting. He wriggles a few fingers beneath the hem and tugs sharply. 

“You look dashing,” comes a voice behind him. Arms wrap around his waist, and a chin settles at his shoulder. Warm brown eyes meet Laenor’s dark violet ones. 

“I look like a trophy, like a bribe,” Laenor replies, his lips twisting in displeasure. 

Joffrey hums. “You are much more than that,” he says, and presses a kiss to his neck. “Rhaenyra would be a fool to think of you as such.” 

Laenor snorts and Joffrey frowns. “I do not know how this marriage will work,” he says. “I have no wish to bed her. My father tells me to do my duty. Am I not, simply by marrying her? By dragging myself to the altar? I might as well be putting chains on myself.” 

Joffrey hesitates. “Laenor–” 

There is a knock at the door, then, and both of them stiffen. “Lord Laenor,” a servant calls, “the rest of your family gathers to join the king’s feast.” 

Laenor feels a twinge of pain between his eyelids. He rubs at his forehead and wishes very much that he were anywhere else. “Tell my father I will join him shortly,” he shouts back. There is a sound of affirmation and he sighs. Joffrey pulls away from him, adjusting his own clothing. 

“Go on,” he says softly, “your family calls.” Laenor hesitates and his expression softens. He cups his hands to cradle his face, thumb stroking along his cheek. “This is not what either of us would wish, lover,” he says, “but I understand, and I am here for you.” 

Then, with a squeeze of his hand, he is gone, and Laenor is left to the silence. 

The feast is in full swing when they arrive. Of course it is, because when would House Velaryon never arrive fashionably late? Laenor’s mother and father are dressed to match, with the former wearing slashes of black. Dragon shaped pins have been placed in her dark hair, a quiet reminder of her status as a princess of House Targaryen. Laena, for her part, has chosen a beautiful silver dress. It is devoid, for the most part, of Velaryon symbols, and Laenor could not think of anything that is so utterly her. His sister has never had a head for politics, and he loves her for it. Jacaerys stands at her side, dressed carefully in red and silver. His silver-gold hair has been combed back, his clothing carefully tailored. He looks around the room in awe, sticking close to his mother’s skirts. Laenor feels a pang of fondness at the sight of his nephew. The boy looks so much like Laena that it hurts. His sister has been insufferably smug about it since her son’s birth.
Music rings through the room, bold and celebratory and energetic. They approach a high table on a raised dais, where King Viserys sits with his family. Queen Alicent sits to his left, followed by their children, and Rhaenyra sits to his right. She looks dazzling, and Laenor catches more than a few eyes straying to the woman who is to be his wife. With some relief, he notices that she does not exactly look pleased to be here either. Her expression is flat as she swirls her wine in her cup, not quite miserable, but not quite happy either. He would have hated to ruin wedding celebrations she was excited for. 

A few paces away from the table stands another man. He is tall and handsome, with a face that could have been carved out of dragon glass itself, midnight black hair, and sharp green eyes. A white cloak is wrapped around his shoulders, and his fingers run methodically across the hilt of his sword. This can be no man save for Ser Criston Cole, the Lord Commander of the kingsguard and Rhaenyra’s sworn shield. 

Everyone knows about Ser Criston, the princess’ loyal protector and arguably the best fighter in the realm. Even from Driftmark, Laenor knows that he vexes Queen Alicent, that he is close with his charge, her greatest champion, and that the ladies of court swoon over him, their ever-forbidden fruit. 

“Lord Corlys,” King Viserys calls, delighted, “Cousin Rhaenys! Welcome!” He flashes a small smile toward Laenor and his sister. “Laenor, Laena, you are looking well.” Then he catches sight of his nephew. “Jacaerys.” The words come out softly, nothing more than a whisper, a breath. “My, you have grown.” 

The king has only seen Jacaerys once, shortly after he was born. He offered for the lad to be raised at King’s Landing, but Laenor’s father firmly refused, and Laenor has half a mind that both Laena and his mother would have torn the Lord of Driftmark apart had he actually agreed. 

Jacaerys bows smoothly – well, smoothly or a child, at least – and Laenor smiles. Laena’s hand comes to settle at his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. 

“My family thanks you, Your Grace, for this most generous invitation,” Father says. 

King Viserys scoffs. “Do we not already share blood? Are our children not to be married? There is no need to thank my lord; we are family already.” He waves a hand. “Please, take your seats. There is food and drink enough for all of us, and my speech is to begin soon.” 

They do just that. 

As they go to sit, Laenor catches Rhaenrya’s eye. He offers her a polite nod and she nods in turn. He takes his seat, feeling a tiny bit lighter. 

The feast is, for the greater part, a blur. Laenor remembers dancing with Rhaenyra, meeting her eyes as they both went through the motions. He remembers eating little but drinking and drinking and drinking, until his father’s eyes drilled a hole into his head and his mother covered his cup and hissed for him to stop. He remembers stepping off of the dance floor to relinquish Rhaenyra’s time to Ser Harwin Strong, and watching the man twirl her around the floor. 

Besides that, everything else is black. Laenor wakes sometime later with a horrible pain in his head. His tongue feels clumsy and swollen and his skin is warm. His eyes blink open lazily, and he recognizes the walls of his chambers. With a curse, he lifts up a nearby pillow and covers his face with it. He stumbles up from the bed and slips. Arms flailing, he barely manages to catch himself on the wall. Pain lances up his arms, smarted from bearing his weight. 

It is then that he sees the letter slipped beneath his door. Opening it, he scans it quickly. Then he curses, wishing he could be anywhere else in the entire world. 

Rhaenyra is waiting for him in the gardens. If Laenor was not suffering in such a condition, he would appreciate their beauty, and the beauty of the day. The ferns and hedges are all a beautiful shade of green, with a wide array of different types of flowers springing up across. The path is paved in stone, and the soil is dark and rich. The sun is warm, the sky an azure shade of blue. 

Before all of this, however, the first thing that Laenor notices is the fact that they are not alone. Ser Criston Cole, ever Rhaenyra’s shadow, stands a distance away. “Ser Laenor,” he says, smiling, “good morning.” 

“Good morning, Ser Criston,” he replies, taken aback by the warmth in his tone. Ser Criston’s smile only seems to grow. 

Rhaenyra nods to him curtly. “Thank you for meeting with me, ser,” she says, her voice terse. Something in Laenor tenses at her demeanor. “Would you care to walk with me? I have matters I wish to discuss with you.” 

“Matters you wish to discuss?” Laenor raises an eyebrow and looks at Ser Criston pointedly. Rhaenyra meets his eyes, the set of her chin ever proud. 

“I trust Ser Criston with my life,” she says, “and with all of my secrets as well. He will stay far enough behind that he cannot hear us besides. We have privacy here.” 

“Well I do not know Ser Criston,” Laenor replies, politely but firmly, “and if these matters are so important, perhaps we ought to discuss them alone.” 

For half of a second, it looks as if Rhaenyra will protest. Then, twisting at the rings on her fingers, she pauses. “Very well,” she says stiffly. 

Laenor offers her is arm, and tucks hers against it. They begin to walk. 

“We have spoken, some, to the point where I think we might be friends, ser,” she says. “I have enjoyed our flights together, and I could think of many worse people to write to than yourself.” 

Laenor snorts. “I am flattered by your words, my princess. They are truly so kind.” 

She flashes him with a look. “I was not finished.” Collecting herself, she continues on. “I am aware of the… differences in our marriage that do not exist for others.” 

Laenor freezes, feels a bead of sweat trickle down his neck. He does not quite know why he is so shocked by her implication; it has been a long while since he tried to hide his preferences, since he tried to hide his Joffrey. But still, to mention it in polite society–

“I cannot say that I am overjoyed,” she admits, “but… I could have worse for a husband. I could be wedded to Jason Lannister, as Ser Criston has reminded me before.” 

Laenor does not know how to feel about being compared to Lord Lannister. He files away her mention of Ser Criston, and her consideration of his words, for a later time. His father will certainly hound him for any potential influences on her. 

“What are you saying?” Laenor asks, his jaw tight. The words come out more roughly and more sharply than he intended. Swallowing hard, he repeats the question, mindful to be softer about it. 

“Keep your lovers,” Rhaenyra says, “I do not care. All I ask of you are two things. The first is that you perform your duty. That you bed me and give me heirs.” Laenor blanches, feeling nauseous at the very thought. Rhaenrya’s eyes flash. “The concept does not exactly please me either, ser,” she snaps, and he realizes too late that he has offended her. 

“My apologies, my princess,” he murmurs, genuinely regretful. “I did not wish to offend.” The clench of Rhaenyra’s jaw does not listen, but she lets out a low breath. “What is the second thing that you would ask of me?” he asks, eager to make things right. 

Rhaenyra spins her rings again. “I would ask that you extend the same courtesy to me,” she says. “I will look the other way when you bring your Knight of Kisses to your bed, but I expect the same.”

Laenor looks to Ser Criston, standing off in the distance, and considers. “Have you a paramour of your own, Rhaenrya?” he asks. 

She follows his gaze, and her features twist. Teeth bared, she snaps out, “No, and if I did, it would not be him,” with enough vehemence that he does not doubt her. 

So Ser Criston has influence over her, then, but he is not her lover. That is a good thing to know. 

“Let us say that I do agree to your terms,” Laenor says, “I still am not sure that I could… fulfill them. At least, not the first.” 

“There are ways,” Rhaenyra replies. “We will find a solution.” 

Laenor eyes her curiously, cautiously. “Perhaps,” he says, “this marriage will not be so miserable after all.” 

She smiles thinly. “Perhaps not.” 

And Laenor allows himself to hope.

Chapter Text

Criston considers himself to be a patient man. He has never had a temper that is quick to flare, never had a short fuse or thin skin. But as he regards Ser Joffrey, he cannot help but feel irritation burn beneath his skin. 

The man is not at all trying to be subtle. His brow is creased with a frown, and his mouth is flinched downwards. His eyes are dull and his shoulders riddled with tension. It is obvious to anyone with eyes that he very much does not want to be here today, at this wedding. Criston does not blame him for that, but gods, could he be any more obvious? Ser Laenor and Rhaenyra have struck a deal – Criston knows that much. Why can Ser Joffrey not take the hint and act in a manner less embarrassing for  both of them? For himself, as well? 

Criston does not give half a damn what his preferences are. He can love who he wants, and fuck who he wants. What he does care about is Rhaenyra’s image, and how, on her wedding day, her groom’s lover cannot bother to put on a facade. Criston wants to snarl. Wants to take him by the shoulders and shake sense into him, because this is not the way to handle things. He understands the pain of watching the person you love with another. But he did not whine like a spoiled child when he saw Aemma with King Viserys. He swallowed down his hurt and took it like a man. 

Perhaps, he reflects, that is part of the reason why he resents Joffrey’s demeanor as much as he does. He ensured that his actions would never harm Aemma’s reputation in her lifetime, but now the same courtesy is not being extended to Rhaenyra in a similar situation. 

Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor are to be married in the royal sept. The couple is dressed smartly, dressed in the colors of their respective houses. The royal sept is a beautiful place, with dazzling crystals simmering in its high windows, turning the light into rainbows. Rows upon rows of benches line the walls, and the Seven watch over the area from their great altars, carved of pale marble. Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor stand at the marriage altar, located between the Mother and the Father. 

Hundreds of people stand in the sept to witness this historic moment, the reconciliation of House Targaryen and House Velaryon. The smell of incense from the fragrant candles burning inside the sept sting Criston’s nose, but he maintains a suitable stoic expression as Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor exchange their wedding vows. Neither look particularly pleased – Criston is not surprised, he was not expecting a miracle – but there is a warmth there that was not present before their walk in the gardens. He is glad to see it. 

He is not glad to see Ser Joffrey’s mouth flinch downward as Ser Laenor swears to always love Rhaenyra, to defend and cherish her and their children, and to be an ever faithful husband. 

Ser Laenor wraps the cloak of House Velaryon around Rhaenyra’s shoulders, and everyone in the sept claps. King Viserys beams joyfully, and the Sea Snake’s look is positively smug. 

Criston’s hands twitch at his sides. The newly married couple might have solved many of their differences, but it seems that the third party here must be reminded of reality. 

As per King Viserys’ order, there are to be seven days and seven nights of celebration in honor of his daughter and his newly minted goodson. This will include jousts, melees, feasts, and balls. Criston finds the entire thing to be a gross expression of wealth, and his stomach turns at the sheer opulence of it. He thinks of the thousands of hungry men, women and children in King’s Landing and thinks of how many of them could fill their bellies on this frivolous foolishness. 

It is during the ball directly after the wedding ceremony that Criston pulls Ser Joffrey off to the side. Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor have just finished a round of dancing, and as they move to take their seats, Ser Joffrey moves toward his lover. Criston cuts him off before he is halfway there, his face fixed into a smile that is a good deal more polite than he feels. 

“Ah, Ser Joffrey,” he says, “I was hoping I might be able to speak with you.” 

The man pauses, his eyes flicking to Ser Laenor. Then he nods slowly, his honey colored hair shifting with the motion. “Who would not be flattered to speak with the famed Ser Criston himself?” he says. 

The smile that Criston returns is wane. “Come on, then,” he says, “let us go somewhere quieter. I find the pomp of parties such as these to be taxing.” 

Ser Joffrey’s expression takes on a more suspicious expression, but he acquiesces. They walk out of the great hall and slip into a quieter hallway. A hallway with less eyes and less bodies. Still, Criston decides he will travel a bit farther. With delicate matters such as these, there is no such thing as too much caution. 

He guides him further until he deems it safe enough. “It must be difficult,” he says, making sure to keep his tone light, “to witness your best friend being married when you are not. At least not yet.” 

Ser Joffrey tenses. “I am happy for Laenor,” he says rather unconvincingly, “Princess Rhaenyra is a beautiful woman. Any man would consider himself blessed by the Seven to marry her.” 

Criston hums. Turns to face him. Lets his smile drop. “That is correct,” he says, his tone cooler than it was a few moments ago. “So I was simply wondering, Ser Joffrey, why you looked so miserable for your companion.” 

“My companion?” Ser Joffrey’s eyes have narrowed to slits. 

Well. It is practically an open secret anyway, is it not? “Your lover,” Criston amends.  

Ser Joffrey’s hands clench at his sides. “If you know the truth, ser, then you already have your answer.” 

“You must have known that you could never marry him,” Criston says with a fire that takes him by surprise. The man’s demeanor, his gall, has stricken a cord somewhere deep within him. Something wounded and aching and raw. He feels, for a brief, flashings second, as if he is speaking to himself. 

Somewhere deep down, he relates to Ser Joffrey out of his love for Aemma and resents his actions simultaneously, out of his love for Rhaenyra, and this makes him cruel. What is the saying? Hurt people hurt people. 

Ser Joffrey’s entire body goes taught. He rises to his full height, a vein straining against the skin of his neck. “Be careful, ser,” he snarls, “I would not have you question my intelligence, nor my honor.” 

Criston wants to bark out a laugh. “I would like to see you try to fight me,” he says in his mind’s eye, the set of his chin proud. “I assure you that you would lose.” 

He does not say that, however. Instead he remembers why he is here – for Rhaenyra, always for Rhaenyra, since she was six years old – and takes a deep breath. “It was not a question of any part of your character, ser,” he says, “it was a statement. Nothing more and nothing less than that.” 

“Why have you brought me here?” Ser Joffrey demands. 

“I want you to speak with Ser Laenor. I want you to smile, and pretend that everything is fine, even if it kills you on the inside. I want you to not damage Rhaenyra’s reputation, and to understand the pact that she has made with your lover.” 

Ser Joffrey is silent for a second. Then he takes a step toward Criston. Voice soft, he says, “I owe you nothing, and your princess even less,” and turns his back to him. Criston watches him leave, his jaw working furiously. 

Fool , he snarls at himself. You absolute fucking fool, this was not how this was supposed to go.

There is a storm in his heart, an unholy blend of rage at himself, resentment toward Ser Joffrey, and an age old grief for Aemma that he is beginning to think will never leave him. He is so tired. Tired of mourning her; tired of being tired of mourning her – because in his heart of hearts, he knows that he would rather feel that than ever forget; tired of knowing that if he fails in his mission, Rhaenyra will almost certainly meet her death. 

Criston closes his eyes for a long moment, running a hand through his hair. Then he rubs his eyes and rightens himself. He has time to rest when all of this mess is over. When Rhaenyra is secure on her throne, the first ruling queen in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, and her hair is lined with gray. When she is surrounded by her children, and gets to meet their children, and not a moment before that. 

Shame still burns hot in his chest. Ser Joffrey might have frustrated him, but speaking in such a manner was beneath him. Has he not always tried to lead by example, with Rhaenyra? Has he himself not curbed some of her brasher tendencies? 

As he rejoins the celebrations, he takes a deep breath to calm himself. 

And then he immediately contemplates murder as he comes across the face of one Larys Strong.

Chapter Text

Here is the thing about Criston: he does not like Larys Strong. Not at all. Not from the first time he read about him in Fire and Blood, and not from the first time he saw him in his second life. The man is simply off putting, as slippery as an eel, with the cold eyes of a snake and all of the twitchiness of a rat. There is simply something about him, past even Criston’s foreknowledge, that makes him mislike him. It is a kind of rot, woven into the fabric of his soul. 

“Ser Criston,” Lord Larys greets, smiling a small, slimy smile. Criston’s hands twitch at his sides, eager to wipe the expression off his face. The hair at the back of his neck rises. 

“Lord Larys,” he says, lips twitching into what he hopes looks like a smile, “I do hope you are enjoying the festivities.” 

Lord Larys hums, his fingers drumming against his cane. “I find feasts to be disagreeable with me,” he says, “though I do enjoy the company they bring, from time to time.” His eyes slide to Ser Joffrey, who has stormed back to his seat. “I find that men do tend to say much, in these circumstances.” 

Criston’s entire body goes tense. He can feel his shoulders lock into place, his back go rigid, and his jaw clench. He tries to relax his jaw, to not grit his teeth. “A man will say anything at these functions,” he replies, proud of how his voice does not waver. “Especially when he is drunk.” 

Lord Larys’ smile turns into something sharper, something more resembling a smirk. He leans in slightly, so that his mouth is close to Criston’s ear. “Mayhaps,” he agrees, “but I do believe that most men are not arguing with the sworn shield of their lover’s wife.” 

Criston has never felt the weight of his sword more than he does at this moment. He inclines his head and motions for a cup of wine to be brought his way. He takes a sip, because he will not be able to get through this conversation if he does not, but does not chug it down. He must have his wits about him, after all. 

“I would be impressed by your spy network, my lord,” he murmurs, “if you were not using it to spy on me.” 

Lord Larys feigns innocence. “Ser,” he says softly, “I would never presume to spy on the Lord Commander of the kingsguard. It is simply that, well, the walls have ears, and I like to listen.” 

Criston has half a mind to strangle him. In this crowd full of people, however, this would not be wise. He manages to contain himself. 

“What is it that you want, my lord?” he asks. This time, he is not able to keep his voice so level. A hint of sharpness reaches the surface and something smug flashes across Lord Larys’ face. 

“I can only think that it would be a great shame if news of your altercation with Ser Joffrey were to come out. And an even greater shame if the cause of it were discovered. How terrible, for Princess Rhaenyra to be shamed on her own wedding day by her husband’s lover. How could a healthy marriage ever spring from that? How could she bear to carry his children?” 

Criston’s arm seizes out to grip at Lord Larys’ forearm before he can stop himself. He squeezes tightly, fingers digging into flesh, until he knows he will have bruises. Already in a foul mood, it blackens evermore at this threat to Rhaenyra. “Are you blackmailing me, Lord Larys?” he asks lowly. “Are you blackmailing the princess?”

Lord Larys winces a little, but he covers it up with another deceptively polite smile. Criston wants to ram his fist into his face until there is nothing left but blood and broken bones. He pictures it, for a moment, images staining the Red Keep’s great hall with the crimson belonging to this worm.

A few glances stray their way, raised eyebrows at the sight of Criston grabbing at Lord Larys, and he releases him. No matter how furious he is, he cannot do anything that could potentially sully his reputation. Not here, at least. 

“It was not a threat, ser,” Lord Larys says, his voice silky soft. “Simply a thought. One that, I hope, you will keep in mind.” With an incline of his head and the pursing of his lips, he sinks back into the crowd. 

Criston watches his retreating form, bloodlust still clouding his vision. He can feel the wild beating of his head against his ribcage, can feel the throbbing of fury in his veins, and releases another breath. 

He is angry with himself. How could he have been so careless to approach Ser Joffrey here? He should have been more cautious, should have waited, should have–

“I do not suppose that this spot next to you is taken, ser?”

The question disrupts his spiral of self-loathing. He blinks, his vision swimming for a brief moment as he recollects himself. Then he blinks again, to make sure that his vision is not failing him. 

Lady Laena stands before him, silver hair glowing beneath the torchlight. She is dressed in a gown that is dyed in navy and gold. Golden earrings hang from her ears, and beautiful sapphire jewels have been cinched around the smooth skin her throat. Her violet eyes glimmer with mischief as she stands before him. 

Criston bows at the waist, baffled. “No, my lady,” he says, “it is not.” 

Her bowstrung lips curve upwards into a grin. “That is perfect,” she says, “I needed some respite.” She moves to sit, summoning a servant for an extra cup of wine and food. Criston simply stands for a second, unsure of what to do. 

Then he decides to simply ask. “If it is not presumptuous to ask, my lady,” he says, “what is it that you need respite from?” 

Laena waves a hand, gesturing to the feat before them. “All of this.  It is dreadfully boring, is it not?” 

Nothing about this night has been boring , Criston thinks, but he keeps that to himself. 

“I would much rather be in the yards,” he says instead. 

Lady Laena’s eyes light up. “You are like me, then,” she says, “I would much rather be riding Vhagar than entertaining this nonsense and all of these suitors.” 

And there it is, the real reason she is here.

“My lady,” Criston says, feeling amusement beginning to replace his fury, “are you using me as a buffer between yourself and the men who would seek your hand?” 

Lady Laena’s grin is positively impish. “If I were, ser, would you be offended?” 

Criston shakes his head, a huff of laughter escaping him. “Not at all, my lady. I should be glad to serve as your shield for this night, so long as I might know why I was chosen rather than any other man.” 

“Well,” she says, her chin resting against her palm, “I could not go to my father, for he is the one encouraging these matches, and I could not go to my brother, for this is his wedding day, and he is the center of attention. So I was left to find another man, one who would not call my integrity into question, and who better than the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and Princess Rhaenyra’s most leal supporter?” 

Criston feels a surge of respect at her honesty. Another woman might have tried to lie, or to flatter him, or both. She did not. Then again, he supposes, you can afford to be blunt when you ride the greatest living dragon in the world.

“So I see,” he says, flashing her a faint smile. 

At two-and-twenty, Lady Laena is ten years his junior and widowed already. In her eyes, she performed her duty to her family, and played a role in her father’s ambitions. He can imagine that she has no intent to any longer, and does not blame her for it. If she wishes to hide behind his white cloak, then so be it. It will harm no one. 

And besides, he finds that he rather likes her sharp and playful wit. 

Even after the feast, even after Criston’s temper is soothed by Lady Laena’s company, the problem of Lord Larys still remains. He has all but threatened Rhaenyra, and that cannot stand, especially not when he was an adamant Green in Fire and Blood. Not when it is strongly possible that he murdered his own brother and father. Who knows what else the man is capable of? 

There is only one solution. He has to die. Criston was willing to consider the murder of Prince Daemon many years ago, upon his return to King’s Landing, but he did not do it. Mainly out of doubt that he could get away with it, but still. Now, as Criston stares at himself in the mirror, he thinks that he has gone soft. All these years of trying to make Rhaenrya a better person, of trying to shape her into a wise and just ruler, has made him flinch. Not to the thought of killing Larys Strong, no – the man is a worm, less than a worm. But taking a life in cold blood? Murdering him? The damage to his reputation would be irreversible, and Rhaenyra would never look at him the same, should anyone discover the truth. The thought of losing her esteem breaks his heart. 

No, Criston decides, he cannot murder Lord Larys with his own hands. But there might be someone else, someone with enough connections to get the job done and keep his involvement undiscovered. 

The next day, Criston visits Lord Corlys Velaryon with a warm smile and polite courtesy, and informs him of an unfortunate incident occurring at the king’s feast. Of the threat to his son, and his gooddaughter, and his future grandchildren. 

And if he leaves with the Sea Snake’s thanks and good graces, and if Lord Larys is found dead at the bottom of the stairs within the week – such an unfortunate accident – well then, that is simply the most interesting of coincidences, is it not?

Chapter Text

Princess Rhaenyra leaves King’s Landing shortly after her wedding to her new husband and consort. Aegon is beside himself at the thought of her leaving, and Aemond is no better. Helaena is a sweet, quiet girl, but she has grown forlorn in a way that is not simply her nature. Gwayne’s heart hurts for his nephews and niece. 

“I want ‘Nyra!” Aegon screams for his sister, his face glowing red from the effort. His foot rises and then falls against the floor in a temperamental stomp, and Gwayne resists the urge to rub at his forehead. 

He says, “Pick the training sword up, Aegon.” His nephew refuses, his lip jutted out, jaw clenched and hands trembling. 

Gwayne sighs and sheathes his own blade. 

“Sit down,” he says, and the boy listens to him for the first time today. Criston is not with them, occupied with escorting Princess Rhaenyra to the Dragonpit today, and it is just them in the training yards as of this moment. “I know that you miss your sister, but you are a prince, Aegon, and the eldest son of the king. You must act according to your station.” 

It is the wrong thing to say. Aegon’s face twists up into a scowl and his hands ball to fists at his sides. “‘Nyra will be queen,” he says, “why do I have to be good? She’s the heir.” After a moment: “It’s not fair. Why does she have to leave me and go to Dragonstone?”  

Gwayne thinks of Alicent, and wonders what the look on his sister’s face would be if she heard the words that her son just spoke. His hand hovers at Aegon’s shoulder. He pats it after a moment’s hesitation. 

“You are young,” he says, “too young to understand what is going on around you. Princess Rhaenyra goes to Dragonstone because that is what has been commanded of her, and because that is what she believes her duty to be.” 

Aegon huffs, still unappeased. “Why can’t I go with her?” The question comes out as a whine, with all of a child’s petulance. There is hurt there as well, however, a woundedness that makes Gwayne’s chest tighten. 

“You are too young,” he repeats. Then, to soothe the boy, he adds, “I am sure that your lady sister will miss you  just as much. If you write to her, she will write back.” 

Aegon’s sullen disposition brightens. “You really think so, Uncle?” 

“I know so,” Gwayne says, and hopes that he is proven right. 

Before Princess Rhaenyra leaves for her seat, Gwayne pulls Criston Cole aside, a strange sort of sadness echoing through him. It has been sitting in his chest since they first trained Aegon together, and has only grown worse since his conversation with his little nephew. He looks at this man, who was once his most respected friend, and feels the loss of their friendship like a sharp, hot knife. 

“From the little girl you met all those years ago to a woman grown and married in her own right,” Gwayne says, “how times have changed.” 

From my best friend to a near stranger, he thinks but does not add, how times have changed. 

Criston shifts, fingers touching at his white cloak. It is a tick he has developed over time; Gwayne knows it well. “The years have flown by,” he says, his voice suspiciously flat. 

Gwayne resists the urge to flinch. “It might do well,” he says, “to keep the princess and her little brothers and sisters connected after her move to Dragonstone. They are most distressed to see her leave.” 

Criston’s mouth twitches. “Princess Rhaenyra already plans on writing to them,” he says, “it hurts her to leave them as well.” 

Gwayne nods. Once. Twice. Shuffles on his feet. An awkward silence hangs over them like a shroud. “It has been too long,” he says, “since we had a proper joust, Cole. Maybe we ought to spar again sometime.” 

It is an olive branch, a peace banner. More obvious than training Aegon together, yet somehow more tentative. Criston pauses, his eyes widening by a fraction. Then he nods, something warm flashing across his face. 

“I would like that,” he replies. 

Gwayne grins. The tension in his chest eases. “Don’t complain when I knock your ass into the dirt, Cole,” he warns. 

Criston scoffs. “I would like to see you try, Hightower.” 

For the briefest of seconds, it is as if they are young men again, unburdened by the weight of the world. By duty to a queenly sister, and the grief of–

Well. Gwayne knows better than to mention such things aloud. He was not a fool, back then. He had eyes, and he had ears, and Criston was his best friend. Mentioning it now would do no good to anyone. Not to him, and certainly not to Criston, and not to a dead woman either. Oh, Gwayne’s father would be most pleased to have a weapon to use against Criston, and so would his sister. But there are some things better left unsaid, and Criston was a friend once, and he is kind to Aegon and Aemond and Helaena, and so Gwayne will keep his mouth shut. 

He claps Criston on the shoulder, lips curving upwards into a smile. 

“Until then, Cole,” he says, “may the gods guide you well.” 

“Likewise, Ser Gwayne,” Criston replies. 

It feels like a farewell because it is, but perhaps, Gwayne thinks, it is not a bitter one.

The letters begin to come in shortly after Princess Rhaenyra’s departure. They come often, much to Alicent’s displeasure. Gwayne sits as she paces across her rooms, fingers twisting in her hair. 

“That greedy little child,” she seethes, “first she seeks to steal my son’s birthright, and now she poisons him and his brother and sister against me. Mine own children!” 

Gwayne feels a tiredness seeping into his bones, even as their father tries to calm her. He misses Alicent before the crown, before her marriage. He misses his precocious sister, clever with a streak of mischief, not this bitter woman obsessed with succession. 

“It is Cole,” his father says, “he is the mind behind her. Her greatest protector, yes, but also her greatest influence. He would have told her to write to the children.” 

Gwayne thinks of the sincerity in Criston’s eyes when he assured him that Princess Rhaenyra would have written to her siblings anyway, and doubts his father’s words. He is wise enough not to question him out loud. 

“Cole,” Alicent snaps, “damn that man to the seven hells. He swore an oath to serve the king and the realm, and yet he seeks to put an aspiring usurper on the throne.” 

Gwayne is growing tired of this conversation. He will support Alicent because she is his sister, and while he does not particularly like her, he loves her all the same. If a war comes, gods forbid, she will have his sword and his word. But still. 

“The princess can hardly be called a usurper,” he says half-heartedly, his own chest twisting in disagreement at the decision, “if her royal father is the one to have named her his heir in the first place.” 

Alicent’s head snaps toward him. “Gwayne,” she bites out, “how could you say such a thing? Aegon is your own nephew, have you forgotten this?” 

Of course I have not forgotten, Gwayne thinks bitterly, it has cost me a good friend. 

“Enough, Alicent,” their father says, as calm as ever. “Cool your temper. Cole is an annoyance and a hindrance, but he is of low stock, and out of the capital having followed his princess. With the two of them gone, Rhaenyra’s influence in the capital will lessen, as will her influence over her siblings. It is only natural.” 

Alicent sits down, soothed by this. 

Gwayne thinks of a decoration on a lance – “I had hoped to ask for your favor, Your Grace” – and swills the wine in his cup. Tips his head back and drinks it down deep. 

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and decides that he will go to visit his sister’s children today. 

Rumors among the highborn of the Seven Kingdoms are a dangerous thing. Rumors of bastardy, of adultery, of cheating in a joust, of murder, even, cloy to the tongues of the nobility. As such, Gwayne tries his best not to think too hard on them. For his own sanity, if nothing else. 

But then, rumors come from Dragonstone, roughly a year after the wedding of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon. They slither within the Red Keep, leaving the king proud and Alicent apoplectic. They make Father grim and even more tight lipped than usual. The servants titter behind coy hands and shadowed eyes. 

Gwayne bites at his lip and stares at the letter resting against his desk. He wishes to write to Criston, to ask him to extend his congratulations to the princess. At the same time, the urge to extend a comforting word – it will be alright, he almost writes, she is stronger than her mother – nearly overtakes him. 

His letter goes: 

Ser Criston,

Please extend my warm regards and congratulations to Princess Rhaenyra for me. Helaena is most excited to be an aunt, and Aemond does not mind the thought of being an uncle. Aegon is sullen, but I think that the excitement will strike him eventually. 

Gwayne

Chapter Text

When Rhaenyra tells Criston that she is with child, he is consumed by an existential feeling of dread. His heart sinks to his feet, and a ball of lead settles in his stomach. He should be happy for her, should be proud, because she knows better to have a bastard in this lifetime, and her child is without a doubt Lord Laenor’s. He should be relieved, as well, because now that she has an heir on the way, her position grows more secure. 

But all he can see, when he looks into her face, is her mother. Rhaenyra had six children in Fire and Blood. She should, by all accounts, be safe. She is strong and healthy, and young, as well. But childbirth is a risky endeavor, and Criston would rather face battle a thousand times than have to face the birthing bed. He feels sick just at the thought of it, of Rhaenyra, bleeding out, her head spinning from the pain, facing the same fate as Aemma. 

Bile craws up his throat, and he feels cold. 

Still, revealing his worries will be of no help to anyone, least of all her. So he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and forces the fakest smile that he has ever worn. 

“Congratulations, princess,” he tells her.

Rhaenyra’s hand settles on her stomach. “Laenor will be pleased,” she says, “that is one less duty we must fulfill, at least for the time being. An heir is a good start, but we will need a spare of course.”

Criston startles. “You have not told him yet?” 

She shakes her head. “I wanted to be sure,” she says, “Laena knows, but only because I confided in her, woman to woman. I asked her how she knew she was carrying Jacaerys.” 

If there is one thing Criston is grateful for, it is the fact that Rhaenyra and Laena are best friends in this lifetime as well. They bonded shortly after the wedding, when Rhaenyra, feeling suffocated by the Red Keep and its celebrations, went to the Dragonpit to fly with Syrax. She had met Laena there, who was of a similar mind, and a few witty comments later, they had struck up a bond. 

Laena is good for Rhaenyra, Criston thinks. He does the best he can, but he is not a woman, and he is of the strong belief that there are some things only women can understand about each other, and he is, obviously, lacking in this regard. 

 “So I was among the first people you told,” Criston says, feeling a little faint. He can feel the blood rushing in his ears. His mouth feels dry, and his chest tightens. Something that he cannot name, delicate and tender and fearful all at once, forms like a knot in his ribcage. 

Rhaenyra pauses. “Yes,” she says, looking him directly in the eyes, “you were. Who else would come before you?” 

And he wants to weep. 

Criston does his best to mask his anxiety as Rhaenyra’s pregnancy progresses. She is four moons along now, and at the end of her third moon, rumors reached the Red Keep of her condition. He keeps Gwayne’s letter to him tucked in his desk, either unable or unwilling to discard it; he does not know which one it is. 

The news is public now, and there are japes aplenty because Queen Alicent is carrying her fourth child as well. “Uncle and nephew will be the same age,” people laugh, “I wonder, who will take the role of seniority there?” 

No one speaks of the child in Rhaenrya’s belly as a girl. If it is even a consideration, no one dares to speak if, for fear of the potential consequences. Criston, for his part, hopes desperately for a son. Not because he believes that women cannot rule – he is a Black, for the love of the Seven, and has supported Rhaenyra before she was even named as her father’s heir – but simply because it will make life so much easier. If Rhaenyra has a daughter, and that girl is made her heir, the lords of Westeros will only be further inclined to side against her. If she has a daughter and that girl is not made her heir, it weakens her own position, and people will point to the fact that by her own logic she is unsuited to succeed her father. Besides, she will have to carry more children to get the heir and spare she needs. If she has a son, however, her problems are staved off, granted he survives. 

More than anything, Criston wants mother and child to be safe and healthy. There is a term for a child who loses a parent, a wife who loses a husband, but there is no word for a parent who loses a child. The agony of such a thing, the grief, is incomprehensible to him, and he would not wish it upon his worst enemy, let alone himself or Rhaenyra. 

He does his best to distract himself, these days, from the worries that plague him. He busies himself with trying to set the foundations for some kind of crop rotation, and bolsters Dragonstone’s security. More often than not, he finds himself in the training yards, swinging his sword or his morningstar at everything he can reach. It is not exactly a healthy way of coping  with Rhaenyra’s possible imminent death, he knows, but it is all he has, and so he clings to it. 

He finds himself sparring now against Ser Jon, Dragonstone’s master at arms. He’s an experienced man, only a few years older than Criston, though he doesn’t look like it. He is a hard man, with a stern face and gray already touching at his temples. They exchange blows with a vicious ferocity, Ser Jon wielding a sword and shield. Criston himself holds a shield in his left hand, but in his right rests the familiar weight of his morningstar. 

When singers write their songs, they tell stories of combat that look like dances, of graceful knights and beautiful battles. 

Criston can confidently say that their songs are full of horseshit. 

As he raises up his shield to block Ser Jon’s blow, pain lances up his arm. He pivots on his feet and strikes at him with his morningstar, which Jon blocks deftly. They go at this for a while, trading and blocking blows, alongside the occasional dodge. Criston’s entire body is ablaze, with adrenaline and some pain, and no small amount of eagerness. Eagerness to fight or to forget, he does not know. Perhaps both, if he is being honest with himself. 

Eventually Criston manages to gain the upperhand. He feigns particularly well with his morningstar, bringing his entire body with the movement so that it looks especially convincing. Then, at the last second, he yanks his entire body back, feet settling into the dirt to keep him balanced. He swings at Ser Jon’s side. Not his ribcage – he does not want the man to puncture a rib, after all – and not his head or his shoulders either. He strikes at the flesh of his stomach, and with a relatively small amount of force behind the blow. 

Still, Ser Jon lets out a pain gasp, and his knees buckle as he falls to the ground. Criston raises his morningstar up, the weapon hovering in the air. “Do you yield,” he asks. 

“Aye,” Ser Jon says, clutching at his side, “I do.” 

And that is it. The fight is won. Criston sets down his shield and helps the man up. They shake hands and exchange a few words. Then Ser Jon takes his leave. That is when Criston hears a slow clapping echo throughout the training yards. 

He turns to meet the sly smile of Laena Velaryon. “Well fought, ser,” she says, her tone sincere. “I do not think I have borne witness to such a fight in a long while.” 

Criston discards his morningstar and offers her a slight bow. “Lady Laena,” he says, “I was not aware that you had returned to Dragonstone. My apologies, we would have welcomed you.” 

She waves a hand, nonplussed. “There is no need to worry, Ser Criston,” she says, “all of that fanfare irritates me anyhow.” 

Criston remembers her actions at Rhaenyra’s wedding and feels his lips curve into a thin smile. “So it does, my lady.” 

Lady Laena hums. “I think, Ser Criston, that this might be the first time I have seen you fight with such tenacity. Even at the celebrations after my brother’s and Rhaenyra’s wedding, you did not seem so ferocious.” 

Criston feels himself flush. Not from anger, or from embarrassment, per say, but instead a kind of sheepishness. He does not like to think of himself as a particularly vicious fighter, but he knows that, like it or not, that is what he can be. 

“I apologize if it disturbed you, my lady,” he says, though he knows her better than that. 

She laughs, the sound slightly chastising. “Ser Criston,” she says, “surely I do not seem like the kind of woman to faint at the sight of a little violence.” 

A pause. 

“No, my lady,” he replies, “you seem quite the opposite.” 

And he is not lying when he says those words. She has Corlys Velaryon for a father, and Rhaenys Targaryen for a mother, and she rides the most dangerous dragon in the world. She is bold and free-spirited, and seems to have little care for anything that is not her family or her dragon. He thinks that she would laugh in the face of danger whenever given the chance, and respects her for it, even if he hopes that that particular habit does not rub off on Rhaenyra. 

“Tell me, ser,” Lady Laena says, “why is it that you have trained so hard recently?” Given her tone, she already knows the answer to her own question. Criston tenses, viscerally uncomfortable. She must see this on his face, because something in her eyes softens. “I worry for her as well,” she says in a tone more gentle than he thinks he has ever heard before.

“It is difficult not to,” Criston says. He thinks of Aemma, of the pain she must have felt and the hole she left behind when she died. “Childbirth is a wretched thing.” 

He regrets the words, fueled by bitterness and grief, as soon as they leave his mouth. 

“Wretched?” Lady Laena asks, raising an eyebrow. 

The set of his shoulders grows more rigid, if that is even possible. “I meant no offense, my lady.” 

A second passes. She studies him carefully, as if searching for something. He does not know what it could be. Then she shrugs in a single, fluid moment. “I love my son,” she says, “but yes, I would agree, Ser Criston. The act of childbirth is indeed unpleasant.” 

He lets out a slow breath. “Maester Gerardys says that she will be fine,” he says, “that she is young and healthy, and that there is no cause for concern.” 

“There is always cause for concern,” Lady Laena says brusquely, “this is the way of things, and Maester Gerardys is a fool for saying otherwise. But Rhaenyra is a strong, brilliant woman. If anyone can survive childbirth, it is she.” 

Criston looks her right in the eyes. The words serve as a comfort, as a balm. Her matter of factness is blunt, but combined with her comforting words, it is more of a reassurance than any empty platitude a maester or courtier could have given him. 

“So it is,” he says. 

“So it is,” she repeats. 

There is a mighty roar off in the distance, and Lady Laena shakes her head with a breathy laugh. “I’m afraid I must be off, Ser Criston,” she says, “I have only just arrived, but Vhagar grows impatient for another flight with me, and duty calls. I must visit Rhaenyra and then take my leave.” 

Criston inclines his head. “May you enjoy your time in the clouds, my lady,” he replies. 

Lady Laena’s smile grows toothy as she turns away. 

As he watches her leave, he realizes that he has grown less tense. There is still worry, of course, but he is – at least slightly – more at ease. 

This ease dies a brutal death when, moons later, Rhaenyra’s labors begin too early.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra’s water breaks when she has just begun the eighth moon of her pregnancy. She has been complaining about discomfort all day, and Criston’s heart goes out to her. She plays cards with Lady Laena and Ser Laenor in her chambers, huffing as she loses each time. 

“You are cheating,” she accuses, jabbing a finger at Lady Laena, “no one could have won that many rounds in a row.” 

Lady Laena’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “Goodsister,” she chirps, “I am positively outraged by your accusation.” 

Ser Laenor snorts, sprawled out across his chair. “Do not believe her false innocence, wife,” he says, “she has always been a cheat, even when we were young.” 

Lady Laena smacks him on the head for that. “Are you saying we are not young now?” she retorts. 

He rubs at his head sourly and Rhaenyra bursts into laughter. Lord Laenor leans over to place his hand over her belly. “Listen here, whelp,” he says, ever cheerful, “if you must choose to have a favorite aunt, let it be Princess Helaena. Your Aunt Laena is a vicious, bitter harpy.” 

“We already know that I will be his favorite,” Lady Laena says, “there is no use in poisoning the child against me.” 

“How do you know you will be favorite?” Rhaenyra’s voice is laced with amusement. “My sweet sister is a good and gentle girl. She will charm my babe right out of my arms, if given half the chance.” 

“Your sister is as sweet as can be,” Lady Laena acknowledges, “and the strangest little child I have ever met.” Rhaenyra’s brow furrows at that, and she opens her mouth to defend Helaena. Lady Laena must be aware of the oncoming danger, Criston thinks, because she quickly adds, “Peace, goodsister, I meant no offense by it. In any case, she lacks something that I do have: Vhagar. How can I not be the favorite aunt when I take my new nephew flying on the largest dragon in the world?” 

Ser Laenor blanches at that. “You are not taking my newborn son flying on Vhagar, Laena,” he says. 

Lady Laena rolls her eyes. “Come now, brother. I did the same for Jacaerys. It will cause no harm–” 

“I am in agreement with my husband,” Rhaenyra says firmly, “there will be no flights after the birth.” 

Lady Laena meets Rhaenyra’s eyes, and whatever she finds there makes her sigh and slump back in her seat. 

“A pity,” she says. Her eyes cut to Criston. “You have raised her to be far too careful, Ser,” she tuts, “I daresay that sometimes she is no fun at all.” 

The words are teasing and lack heat. Criston feels his mouth curve up into a wry smile. “Apologies, my lady,” he says, dipping his head, “I was not aware that the Princess of Dragonstone lived for your entertainment.” 

There is a beat of silence whilst everyone absorbs his words. Then Ser Laenor barks with laughter. “Would you look at that!” he says. “Ser Criston has a bite beneath all of his chivalry!” 

Rhaenyra erupts into full-bodied giggles, and delight flashes across Lady Laena’s face. 

“My, my,” she says, “and here I thought knights of the Kingsguard were supposed to be chivalrous.” 

“I am most chivalrous, my lady” Criston says with a straight face, and a smirk cuts into the side of her mouth. 

Ser Laenor turns to Rhaenyra, his fingers glancing against her belly once more. “Did you hear that, whelp,” he says, “that was the sound of your aunt being bested.” 

He has taken to fatherhood like water, Ser Laenor. In the year after their wedding, he and Rhaenyra grew closer, to the point of being not only tenuous allies, but also friends. And now, perhaps because he is not grieving the murder of his beloved Joffrey, he is most eager to meet his son. Or his daughter, though he is confident that the child will be a boy, and will tell this to anyone who listens. The pregnancy has only lifted his mood and drawn him and Rhaenyra closer, and now Criston sees him for the man he did not, initially: a cheery, somewhat frivolous man with a love for betting and sailing and flying, with a good heart and a quick wit. 

Though still not as quick as his sister’s, for she says, “I swear, Laenor, I will tell the little prince all of your most embarrassing stories from when we were children, and he shall never respect you,” and he balks visibly. 

Rhaenyra laughs and stands to stretch. “Come now, Lady Laena,” she says, “my son will need to respect his father. You cannot go telling him tales which diminish him.” 

She winces as she rises and rubs a hand across her lower abdomen. 

Some of Lady Laena’s amusement fades. “Are you quite alright, Rhaenyra?” she asks, and Criston stiffens. His entire body goes tense. 

Rhaenyra waves a hand. “I’m fine,” she says, and then her knees give out. 

Ser Laenor springs to his feet, knocking his chair back, and Lady Laena rushes to catch her. Criston is by her side in an instant. He loops his arms around her waist to support her weight and take some of the burden off of Lady Laena. 

“That,” Ser Laenor says, his hands fluttering anxiously at his sides, “does not seem ‘fine’ to me, wife.” 

Rhaenyra’s jaw clenches, and she looks as if she might snap at him, before her face goes as white as a sheet, totally drained of color. Her head lolls against Criston’s shoulder as she sucks in a deep, ragged breath.

He feels panic claw at him, lighting a fire beneath his skin. His heart is in his throat as he asks, “Rhaenyra, what is it?” 

Terror seizes him when she fails to respond immediately. He wants to take her by the shoulders and shake her, demanding an answer. He wants to lift her up in his arms and spring throughout Dragonstone, screaming for Maester Gerardys. He wants to hold her and stroke her hair until whatever is wrong has passed. 

“My water,” Rhaenyra grits out after a moment, “it’s broken.” 

Criston stares at her numbly.

“What?” he rasps. 

“What?” Ser Laenor yelps beside him. 

“Oh, stop gasping like two useless fish,” Lady Laena snaps. “Laenor, go fetch the bloody maester. Ser Criston and I will support Rhaenyra until he gets here.” 

Ser Laenor does not need to be told twice. His face alight with panic, he turns on his heel and runs for Maester Gerardys. 

Criston feels as if he’s going to be sick as he holds onto Rhaenyra. 

“Help me lower her into a chair,” Lady Laena commands, and he hastens to do so. Rhaenyra lets out a pained groan. Her entire body spasms, and Criston feels his breaths begin to come quickly. He wants to vomit. He needs to. You are only making things worse. Help me, or leave.” 

He sucks in a deep breath, forces the bile back down his throat. Meets Lady Laena’s gaze and sees the frustration and determination there. “I’ll help,” he gasps, and her eyes flash with rueful approval. 

She gives the instructions, and he follows them to the letter. Rhaenyra curses all the while, her hands balling at her sides. 

“Give her a pillow to support her back,” Lady Laena says, and he does so. 

“Don’t let her slump, keep her upright,” she demands, and he does so. 

This goes on and on until Ser Laenor returns with Maester Gerardys, a stream of servants and midwives trailing behind them. “Keep her and yourselves clean, for the love of the Seven,” Criston finds the strength to snap. He does not find it within himself to care about the dirty looks sent his way. 

Lady Laena smoothes back Rhaenyra’s hair and kisses her forehead. “You are strong,” she says, “so strong. All will be well.” 

She is still speaking to Rhaenyra when she says the last part, but her eyes are on Criston. He suddenly feels the urge to curl into a ball and weep. 

“You must leave, m’lords,” one of the midwives says, “this is woman’s work, barring the Maesters.” 

Ser Laenor scowls, his expression thunderous. “It is my son being born,” he insists, “I will stay.” 

The midwife looks as if she wants to protest, but thinks better of it. Rhaenyra wails in pain nearby. 

Criston has no such excuse as being the father of the child, and so he is swiftly evicted from the room. He cannot say that he is complaining. Still, he paces back and forth from the other side of the door and gnaws at his lower lip. Something inside him is unable to leave Rhaenyra at a time like this, no matter how much it upsets him. 

And it does upset him. Desperately. For every scream that tears from her throat, one rises from his own in sympathy. Every wail cuts a gash deeper into his heart, and when he hears her begin to sob, his own eyes burn hot with tears. 

Criston is not a religious man, but he goes to his knees and he prays to whatever gods may be listening to spare her. If she dies here like Aemma did, he will not be able to survive it. 

Hours pass, and he receives word that Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys have arrived on Dragonstone. He does not move from his place outside the door. 

At last the screams come to a stop, early the next morning, replaced by the wails of a babe. A midwife comes to open the doors. Criston shoulders past her as soon as he can fit through, his eyes wide. 

Rhaenyra is lying on the bed. She looks exhausted, her hair a rat’s nest, her face red from exertion, and her eyes drooping, but she looks safe and healthy and happy, and there is a squirming bundle in her arms. Criston nearly collapses then and there.

He really does collapse when he sees Ser Laenor, who is seated at the side of the bed, holding another bundle. He forces himself into a nearby chair before he falls to the floor, his eyes wide. 

Lady Laena chuckles. She is seated herself and looks worse for wear. Dark bags hang beneath her eyes, and her hair is a mess. A vein throbs against her neck and she rubs at her eyes tiredly. Gratitude wells up in Criston’s chest at the sight of her; gratitude and admiration and something else he cannot describe. 

“That second one,” she says, nodding at the babe, “well, he gave us quite the scare. We were not expecting him.” 

“He?” Criston says, feeling faint, his head spinning. 

Laena smiles softly. “Aye. Rhaenyra has two healthy lads now. Two little princes of her own body.” 

“Come, Ser Criston,” Rhaenyra beckons, “look at them.” 

He rises from his chair on wobbly legs and sits at her other side. The child she holds is so small and tiny, so delicate. His eyes are closed, but his hair is silver-gold, and Criston can already see Ser Laenor in his brow and the shape of his nose. He smiles gently at the boy, something in him close to breaking. His eyes drift to the other babe. Ser Laenor shifts so that he can see him better. This child’s eyes are open. He is not fast asleep, like his brother, and his light violet eyes are wide and unfocused. His hair is not silver-gold, like either of his parents’, but rather a deep, dark shade of black, like his paternal grandmother’s. Despite his coloring, all Criston can see in the boy is Rhaenyra. If the silver-haired lad is his father’s copy, then this one is his mother’s. 

“What are their names?” he asks, his voice shaky. 

“This one,” Rhaenyra says, gesturing to the son she holds, “is Aemon, after Laenor’s grandfather. That one,” she says, nodding to the child in her husband’s arms, “is Baelon, after my grandfather. They are fitting names for my heir and his future Hand, I think.” 

A lump wells up in Criston’s throat. “I am sure they will be just as close as their namesakes,” he says, “and just as brilliant as well.” 

Rhaenyra’s smile is warm. “Would you like to hold one of them?” she asks. 

Criston startles. “I could not possibly–” 

“Nonsense,” she scoffs, “here, you will hold Baelon, since he is awake.” 

Ser Laenor does not look over eager  to part with the boy, but he acquiesces. Little Baelon is placed into his arms. He twists and blinks up at him, his little cap of Baratheon-black hair flying everywhere, and Criston promptly bursts into tears.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra is returning to court soon, that is what everyone is saying. She is bringing her husband, her goodmother and goodfather, and her sons. Helaena is excited to see her sister – Rhaenyra writes often, but she has missed her terribly, and has not seen her in person since her wedding over a year ago. She can tell that Aegon is happy as well. He has stopped sulking as much, and actually listens to Uncle Gwayne. Even Aemond seems happier, though he always seems to be frowning.

Only Mother, who does not like her sister for a reason Helaena does not understand – Rhaenyra is amazing – and little Daeron, who has never met her, do not seem excited by her return. 

In her most recent letter, Rhaenyra promised to bring gifts for them all, and what kind of sister does not do the same? This is how Helaena finds herself in the gardens with her brothers. Well, the ones who can walk anyway. Aegon looks bored as she sifts through the grass, but he helps her all the same, albeit half-heartedly. Aemond is more useful, his cheeks flushed from the summer heat as his eyes flit across the area, looking for the prize they seek. 

“This is stupid, Helaena,” Aegon grumbles, “Rhaenyra isn’t going to want a stupid butterfly that you saw from your dreams.” 

Helaena feels a prickle of irritation. She says, “She will.” 

“If you’re just going to complain,” Aemond adds, “then go away.” 

Aegon scoffs. “As if you would get anything done without me.” 

Sometimes, Aegon confuses her. He can be so lazy at some times – Uncle Gwayne has to drag him to the training yards half the time – but other times, when he actually cares, he can be startlingly determined. Now, when it comes to impressing their sister, he is giving his all, his thinking it ‘stupid’ aside. 

There – movement, at the corner of her eye. Helaena spins on her heel to face a magnificent butterfly. It is pale yellow, like Syrax, its wings patterned with delicate blue swirls. It sits upon a tall, thorned flower. Helaena narrows her eyes, intent on getting her prize. 

Aemond sucks in a sharp, surprised breath, his own body tensing. 

Aegon beats both of them to the butterfly before they can move. He rocks on the balls of his feet and springs forward with surprising speed, sunlight flashing off of the glass jar he holds his hands. Sensing danger, the butterfly’s wings flutter as it prepares to take flight. But Helaena’s brother is faster, for once in his life, and he manages to trap it in the glass. He slams it down to the ground. The flower’s thorns prick at his skin and blood drips down his hands, but he does not seem to care. Pride flashes behind his eyes as he whoops victoriously. 

Suddenly Helaena feels an ache form between her eyes, sharp and stabbing. Her mouth feels dry and her tongue is too swollen in her mouth. She stumbles into Aemond, who yelps in surprise – despite all her baby brother’s denials, boys do yelp – and squeezes her eyes shut, her hands balling to fists. 

A scene flashes across her mind, then: Aegon, taller and older, with a scruff of a beard. He wears armor and an actual sword, draped in the colors and symbols of their house. Instead of a trapped butterfly in a jar, he holds a crown; a simple gold band, set with seven gemstones of different colors. The Old King’s crown, she remembers faintly. Older Aegon is not smiling in this scene. Instead his expression is set into a grim, fierce frown. He begins to speak and a wreath of yellow laurels bursts from his mouth. They weave around his entire body, turning red and black at his wrists as they extend outward, almost like a branch. 

Spots dance across Helaena’s vision. Distantly, she can hear Aemond’s panicked voice and Aegon’s shouting. Her headache gets worse. Then her vision goes black. 

Helaena wakes to the sound of her mother’s voice. “Will she be alright, Grandmaester?” 

There is a shuffling, a ruffling of paper. Then Grandmaester Mellos’ voice rings out. “There seems to be no obvious harm,” he replies, “all signs point to a healthy recovery.” 

There is a soft exhale. “Leave me with my daughter,” Mother says. The sound of a door opening and closing reaches her ears. Then, the weight of a hand on her head, the feeling of fingers threading through her hair. Helaena does not usually like touch, but she can tolerate it from her mother. Sometimes, very rarely, she can actually like it. Though that privilege is usually only given to Rhaenyra. In quiet moments like these, soft and tender, she understands why Aegon likes it so much. “I know you are awake, sweet girl,” Mother says.

Helaena cracks her eyes open to meet her mother’s gaze. She does not look well; there are bags beneath her eyes, and her skin is pale. She has not looked well ever since Helaena’s father dismissed her grandfather as the Hand of the King and replaced him with Lyonel Strong, shortly after Rhaenyra had her children, unhappiness shrouding her like a veil. 

“You gave me such a fright, child,” Mother says, scolding now, “you are my only daughter. Do you understand the grief of losing such a thing?” 

Helaena shakes her head, because she does not. Her mother’s expression eases. She cups her face with her hands. “Be careful, child,” she says, “when you play with your brothers. They are stronger than  you, and sometimes forget themselves.” 

“It was not their fault,” Helaena wants to say, but she does not know how to explain what happened to her, so instead she simply nods. 

Her mother makes a satisfied noise. 

The vision still hangs at the back of her mind. 

Rhaenyra arrives at court with great ceremony. She descends over King’s Landing on Syrax, accompanied by Ser Laenor and Lady Laena and Princess Rhaenys. Helaena does not have a dragon yet, but something wondrous and yearning worms its way into her chest as her sister lands in the dragonpit. She is dressed in classic red and black, adorned with expensive silks and jewels. 

Rhaenyra beams to see her. “Helaena,” she laughs, “you have gotten so big since the last time I saw you!” She lifts her and spins her around, huffing with the effort. “Soon I will not be able to pick you up anymore!” 

Helaena presses her face into the crook of her sister’s neck and breathes in her smell; parchment and perfume and dragon.  Something bittersweet echoes in her chest, sad and happy at the same time. She had not quite realized just how much she missed her until seeing her again. 

Suddenly hands are tugging at her, and Aemond shoves himself into Rhaenyra’s arms too. She laughs and strokes at his hair tenderly. There is a jealous, displeased sound from behind them, and Helaena knows in her heart that it is Aegon. At the grown age of eight, he is too proud to throw himself into his big sister’s arms, as much as he wants to. Helaena thinks that’s stupid. If he wants to hug her, he should. 

“Aegon,” Rhaenyra says softly, “I have missed you.” 

She beckons him over and he hesitates. Hurt flashes across her face. “Do you truly not have it in you to embrace your beloved sister?” she asks. 

That seems to soften him, because a second later he has his arms wrapped around her. It is, Helaena thinks, the perfect cover for the fact that he wanted to hug her anyway, but she keeps her mouth shut. 

Then Aegon says, “Where are our gifts?” and Rhaenyra is laughing, and the moment is over. 

Rhaenyra’s gifts to them are this: For Aegon, a fine new dagger, embedded with jade. For Helaena: a book on insects, the sides of its pages painted in a thin coat of gold. For Aemond: a finely crafted toy dragon, crafted of real silver with emeralds embedded in its face for eyes. And lastly, for Daeron, a golden rattle. 

Rhaenyra is pleased when they present her with the butterfly jar, poked with holes to give it fresh air. She kisses Aegon, Helaena and Aemond each on the forehead, her smile wide across her face. “Oh, my darling siblings,” she says, clapping her hands, “this is the most perfect gift that I could have ever been given.” 

Helaena throws Aegon a small, victorious glance. “See,” she wants to say, “I told you she would like it.” 

She holds Daeron in her arms, smiling down at him, and says, “Beloved brothers, sweet sister, there are those I would like you to meet,” and guides them to her children. 

Aemon and Baelon are small, or at least smaller than Daeron when he was their age. Rhaenyra says it is because they are twins, and had to share a womb. Aemond is friendly enough to them, quickly loses interest.

 Aegon sniffs, unimpressed, but when Rhaenrya says, “These are your nephews, your kin, and I expect you to be kind to them and to protect them, as a good prince should,” he squares his shoulders. “Can you do this for me, Aegon?” 

Perhaps, because he cannot bear to disappoint her, he nods solemnly, no longer sulking. 

Rhaenyra smiles and kisses his brow. 

Helaena, for her own part, is oddly fascinated by the babes. They are so tiny, so fragile. There is something so precious about them, so delicate, that causes her to stay with Rhaenyra even after her brothers lose interest in their nephews.  

It is during one of these instances that Rhaenyra gets an odd look in her eye. A furrow forms between her brows. She becomes templative, watching on as Helaena watches Aemon and Baelon. 

“Sweet sister,” she says after a moment, “I have already given you a name day present from last year, but how would you like another one? For this year, mayhaps” 

Helaena looks up from her nephews. She tilts her head. She is not Aegon, greedy for gifts, or like Aemond, who is almost desperate for them, but she is curious all the same. Her name day, after all, is not for another two moons. “

What present?” she asks. 

Rhaenyra kneels so that they are eye level. She touches her cheek gently and lets her hand drop when Helaena pulls back, not in the mood to indulge any touch today.

“Sweet sister,” Rhaenyra replies, “I would give you the thing that every young girl in the Seven Kingdoms covetes. I would give you a crown.” 

And for whatever reason, Helaena is reminded of the laurels which grow in the gardens of the Red Keep. 

Chapter Text

There is no one who Alicent Hightower hates more at this moment than Rhaenyra Targaryen. She stares at her step-daughter across the table, who smiles at her husband with an innocence that makes her want to rip her face off. How dare she play the part of innocent little lamb after she has just tried to seize Helaena in her grasping hands? Alicent’s sweet, truly innocent daughter who is shy and quiet and so very delicate, has no place at the side of Rhaenyra, who has tried to turn Helaena against her for years. She has never been more grateful for refusing to vacate a room than she is now. 

The words she has just uttered echo in Alicent’s mind over and over again. “It is my hope that my sweet sister, Princess Helaena, might be betrothed to my son and heir, Prince Aemon.”  

Alicent’s blood boils. Her vision flashes red.  “No,” she snaps out before Viserys can respond. He frowns at her disapprovingly and she resists the urge to claw his eyes out. Is he truly so much of a fool that he cannot realize what is playing out before him? Yes, she thinks darkly, reflecting on all of his blind eyes throughout the years, he is. He is weak, and spineless, and can barely be called a man, let alone a king. She resents him, then, more than she ever has before. She has gotten a crown, as her father wished, but at what price, for all her troubles? Her husband is insistent that Aegon will never be king, that he will deny their son his birthright. Gwayne is withdrawn and distant, these days, and he looks at her with a quiet sort of contempt that wounds her more than his shouts ever could have. Her father has been sent back to Oldtown and stripped of his title as Hand of the King for daring to push for Aegon one too many times and ruining Viserys’ jubilation at the birth of his grandsons. Alicent’s family has fallen apart and it is all because of one stubborn man and his equally stubborn daughter, and by the Seven she hates them both for it. 

“My love,” Viserys says, “Rhaenyra’s proposal has some merit. Let us hear it.” 

Her lip curls. Her eyes cut to Rhaenyra across the table again, and her step-daughter’s smile turns smug. Alicent’s hands twitch at her sides. She clasps them together. Fury curls in her chest like a cold fire, like the great beacon of Oldtown. 

“Very well, husband,” Alicent says through gritted teeth. 

“A union between Aemon and Helaena will do House Targaryen well,” Rhaenyra continues, “it will make a queen out of Helaena and unite our house in blood and oaths both.” 

Alicent’s rage grows tenfold. Viserys frowns. “Our house has no need to be united, daughter,” he says gently, “for we are such already.” 

Something in Rhaenyra’s face twitches in tandem with Alicent’s. For a split second, she feels a sense of kinship with her when it comes to their mutual exasperation with the man who, by all accounts, is their lord and master. It is, she thinks, a shared wish to shake him until he sees sense, albeit for different reasons. 

“Of course, Father,” Rhaenyra hastens to correct, and then the moment is gone. “I only meant that this would strengthen our bonds. I only want the best for my children and siblings is all.” 

This softens Viserys; Alicent can see how the lines of his face physically ease. She scoffs. “By the time they wed, Helaena will be twenty at least,” she says, “would you make my daughter some old crone and deprive her of a life with a husband who will keep up with her?” 

Rhaenyra’s eyes could bore holes into her. She waves a hand flippantly. “Aemon is a babe now, but he will grow. Twenty is not so old an age for a woman to be wed – I do recall, Your Grace, that you were only a year younger when you married my royal father – and by the time he is a man, Helaena will still have her youth.” 

“She will be his glorified nursemaid for years,” Alicent hisses back, “and be taunted for it by the entire realm.” 

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow. “Who would taunt a princess; the daughter of a king, the sister of a queen, and the wife of a future king?” 

“You are no queen yet, princess ,” Alicent replies sharply. 

“Alicent!” Viserys booms, and Alicent howls internally. This, he has the strength to respond to, but not the blatant attempt of his favorite child to take her daughter hostage. She keeps her eyes fixed on Rhaenyra, not trusting herself to look at him. She does not know what he will find in her eyes. 

I was kind to you, she thinks, I was patient and understanding and soothed you in the face of Aemma Arryn’s death, and you repaid me by turning against your own blood and usurping your brother, the rightful heir. 

Rhaenyra must see something of this in her face, because a muscle in her cheek jumps beneath her skin. There is no shame in her gaze, only a stubborn determination. Her eyes glimmer with victory. She thinks, Alicent realizes, that she has already won. 

That is the last straw. 

Alicent pushes herself up from the table, the chair screeching behind her. This, she knows, will get her husband’s attention. “I will not sit here,” she declares, “and be party to a conversation that clearly has no interest in my insight.” She kisses Viserys on the cheek. “Husband, you and I shall discuss this later. In private.” 

Viserys looks confused and frustrated – the irony of that is not lost on her at all – but nods. “Farewell, my love,” he says. 

Rhaenyra dips her head, not even deigning to rise in acknowledgement. “Farewell, Your Grace,” she says. 

Alicent’s skin burns hotly. She storms out of Viserys’ apartments, her skirts whirling behind her. 

She finds Gwayne in the training yards as he teaches Aegon how to swing a sword. Or at least as he tries to. Aegon is not naturally gifted with a sword, Alicent is loath to admit, but it is alright. He will train until he is at least proficient. A good king must lead by example, after all. 

Unfortunately, she also stumbles into Ser Criston, who is teaching him as well, during his time at King’s Landing. Alicent’s mood only worsens at the sight of him, his white cloak wrapped around his shoulders. 

He has an oath to protect the king and his family, and yet he is actively supporting a blatant usurpation. More than actively supporting it, mayhaps. Alicent reflects, darkly, that Rhaenrya had been a sweet child before Ser Criston was named as her sworn shield. It is possible that he saw opportunity in her, and realized that her rise would equal his own. He could have poisoned her just as she has poisoned Alicent’s own children. 

She meets his eyes and thinks that the rot is very likely to have started at the root, his sterling reputation — and that infuriates her to no end – be damned. 

“Your Grace,” he says, bowing, “we were not expecting you.” 

“Must I ask permission to see my own son now, Ser Criston?” she asks waspishly. 

She sees Gwayne tense out of the corner of her eye and her mood only worsens. 

“Of course not, Your Grace,” Ser Criston replies smoothly, a polite smile fixed on his face, “I simply made a statement of surprise. I ask that you forgive me, if it offended you.” 

Alicent makes a hum of acknowledgement at his statement. She gestures to her brother and son. “I had wished to visit my family, ser,” she says, “I understand that you are training my son the prince, but I will steal my brother for a moment.” 

His head dips courteously. “Of course, Your Grace.” 

She kisses Aegon on the forehead, tells him how proud she is of him, and then promptly guides Gwayne away. Her brother frowns at her deeply. “Alicent,” he says, “what is this?” 

She fills him in on the situation quietly as they watch Aegon train. Gwayne winces as she recounts Rhaenyra’s proposal, fury still lacing her tone. “A union between Aemon and Helaena would not be the worst match,” he hedges cautiously, “if one were to sue for peace.” 

Alicent stares at him, betrayed. “What?”
Gwayne rubs at his temples. “Ali, Aegon doesn’t want the throne, that much is clear as day.” 

“Aegon is a boy of eight,” she snaps back, “he does not understand what sitting on the Iron Throne even means.” 

Gwayne lets out a harsh breath. “Whether he grows to understand it or not, he loves Rhaenyra, of that I am certain. As do Aemond and Helaena, and Daeron might learn to as well, as he grows. They are not likely to move against her. She has two trueborn sons, with the blood of both Prince Aemon and Prince Baelon. She is the Realm’s Delight, beloved by the smallfolk for attending her to her holdings and the lords have sworn oaths to her.” 

“You sound as if you want her to be queen,” Alicent replies, stricken. 

“I want my nephews and niece to be safe,” he says firmly, “and happy. Can you say the same?” 

“Of course I can. That is the entire reason I fight tooth and nail for Aegon. It is for all of our sakes, Gwayne.” 

“Do not lie to me, Ali,” he says heavily, “and do not lie to yourself either, for that matter. This is for our father’s sake, and no one else’s.” 

“What?” she gapes at him, reeling. “Gwayne, are you with me or not? If our banners are raised, will you heed the call or not?” 

“Of course I will,” he says sharply, “may the Seven help me for it. My sword will always belong to our house and our family.” 

“Then why do you say these things?” 

“I can see the lines being drawn, Alicent,” he says firmly. “If war does come, it will bleed the realm dry. And I would rather Helaena wed Aemon and see Hightower blood on the throne that way rather than rest a crown of bones upon Aegon’s head.” He kisses her brow gently. “I hope that, in time, you will see this too.” 

He leaves her, then, to rejoin Aegon and Ser Criston, without so much as looking back.

Alicent seethes as she watches his retreating back, feeling more alone than she ever has before.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra is more furious than Criston thinks he has ever seen her, save the exception of when King Viserys told her she was to be betrothed to Ser Laenor. She spins a quill between her fingers, not saying a word. The room is tense with her silence and Criston regards her warily. He knows that she is angry because her eyes are narrowed and her nostrils are flared, because her jaw is clenched so tightly that he can see the muscle jumping in her cheek and she has just gotten out of a meeting with her royal father, and all the hints are there. 

“Princess,” he says quietly, “what is wrong?” 

The quill Rhaenyra is holding stabs into the parchment on her desk. The sound of it tearing through the parchment and striking at wood sounds through the room and he jumps. “I do not understand,” Rhaenyra says, her words ripping from her mouth like a half-scream, “is he not a king? Does he not sit on the Iron Throne and wear the Conciliator’s crown? How does he allow that Hightower bitch to rule him so?” 

And suddenly, Criston knows what this is about. He can feel the telltale signs of the headaches that usually come with soothing Rhaenyra’s temper. For all she is more responsible than she ever was in Fire and Blood , for all she actually strives to be worthy of her titles, she is still, fundamentally, Rhaenyra. All spiky and foul tempered and prideful. 

He would not change her for it. 

“He rejected the match between Prince Aemon and Princess Helaena?” Criston poses it like a question, but he knows the truth. 

Rhaenyra nods, her expression growing even more thunderous, if that’s possible. Criston has to admit that he is taken aback by King Viserys’ decision. The man can scarcely deny anything to Rhaenyra, and what man would not want to give both his daughters a crown? 

This has Alicent Hightower’s work written all over it, though he does not know how. 

Criston bites back a sigh. “Did he explain why?” 

Rhaenyra twists at her rings. “He repeated his lady wife’s words,” she spits out, “to the damnable letter. ‘Aemon is too young, daughter,’ and, ‘Helaena is too old, she will be a woman grown by the time they are wed.’” She scoffs in disgust, shaking her head. “He is simply a craven who does not wish to live with Alicent’s anger.” 

Criston winces. “He is your father, Rhaenyra,” he says softly, “and your king. He is owed more respect than that.” 

Rhaenyra’s lip curls. “I love him well as both of these things,” she says, “but you were the one who taught me that respect is not given, it is earned, Ser Criston. Do not tell me falsehoods now simply because of what chair one sits on and whose loins one sprang from.” 

Criston gapes at her, taken aback. Blood rushes to his face and his cheeks sting with heat. He is embarrassed and the chastisement bites at his ego, but he feels a flickering of pride strike in his chest as he holds her eyes. Approval warms his skin and soothes the burn her words have left behind. 

“You have grown into a better woman than most could ever hope to be, young one,” he whispers, his voice so low that Rhaenyra has to take a few steps closer in order to hear him. “I am prouder than words can describe to have been able to be by your side.” 

And just like that, Rhaenyra’s anger melts away. She deflates, sliding back into her chair. Reaches for his hand and squeezes it once, twice, before letting go. “You are more than my sworn shield, Ser Criston,” she says, “you are my–” here she pauses for a second, as if searching for words, “my mentor. You taught me how to be kind, how to be firm, how to rule. I am prouder than words can describe to have been your charge throughout all these years.” 

Criston shuffles into his own seat, feeling altogether too overwhelmed. His throat feels too tight.  “Is there any hope of securing the match,” he asks, “or are those ambitions completely dashed?” 

Rhaenyra goes back to twirling her quill. He dearly hopes that she will not stab at something with it again. “He said to give it time, and that when Aemon is older, he will see. But with Alicent whispering into his ear, I know that it will never happen. It is as good as any rejection.” 

“He will not want to cross you by turning down the betrothal,” Criston points out, “just as much as he will not want to anger her by accepting it.” 

She shakes her head ruefully. “He does not have to see me each day, every day for the rest of his life. Alicent is his wife, his queen. She lives here in the Red Keep with him, and it is her nagging that he will have to hear most, not mine.” 

Criston sits up straighter then, brought to attention. He smiles as an idea begins to form in his mind. “That,” he says slowly, “does not have to be case, princess.” 

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that I abandon Dragonstone in favor of court politics? That will never work; it will damn me.” 

“Of course not,” Criston says, “I am merely suggesting that you… split your priorities a bit more.” 

Her stare demands explanation and he is happy to oblige. 

Aemon and Baelon, Criston has come to find, are two very different babes, even at their early ages. Aemon is a quiet, well behaved boy. He does not often throw tantrums and only cries for food and the like. The servants call him a wonder to be around. 

His twin brother, on the other hand, is a little terror already. 

Baelon has lungs on him, that boy, and Princess Rhaenys jests that it is an ode to his Baratheon heritage. He wriggles constantly when anyone tries to hold him, screams at the most miniscule of things, and is often pink in the face from all of his tantrums. The servants do not prefer him to his brother in the least. Criston himself doesn’t blame the lad for his attitude – he is only a babe, after all – but sometimes he can’t help but feel bad for his nursemaids. 

He approaches the nursery now with King Viserys, who wishes to visit his grandchildren. He has chosen Criston to accompany him. For all that Criston is often on Dragonstone, he is still the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard, after all. The twins and their cousin, Prince Jacaerys,  are in a separate nursery than Prince Daeron – undoubtedly due to the hostility between Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent. Laena took her son out flying this morning, and so it is just the four of them as the door clicks shut behind them and the servants are dismissed. 

King Viserys looks worse for wear than when Criston saw him last. He has gained more weight, his stomach protruding well past his belt, now, and his silver-gold hair is thinning in a tell-tale sign of male-patterened baldness. His face is puffy and swollen and his eyes grow bloodshot from all his wine. Still, he looks happier than Criston suspects he would have in canon at this time. Most likely because of the lack of scandals surrounding Rhaenyra and the comfort that his children love each other well. 

Aemon and Baelon are both sleeping soundly for once, curled up in their cradles. King Viserys beams at them. “Aren’t they the most beautiful children you’ve ever seen, Ser Criston?” he asks. “My daughter’s sons are simply perfect in every way.” 

Baelon’s eyes have cracked open at the sound of his voice. He reaches for him, lifting him up and tucking him against his chest. Baelon’s tiny little hand reaches out to try to grip at his grandfather’s mustache. King Viserys cranes his head so that he can reach it. He holds onto it and yanks with all of a babe’s surprising strength and he laughs. “He’s a lively one, our Baelon.” His eyes glimmer with something close to tears and his voice takes on a sadder tone. “Like his great-grandfather was. Like his uncle should have been.” 

Criston twitches in discomfort, unsure of how to soothe a grief as huge as this. He is lucky enough for his father to still be alive, though they are hardly close, and Rhaenyra is alive and well. He has no loss as great as a parent or a child. 

Aemon shifts at the noise, stirring just as his brother did. Something close to weeping draws from his mouth and Criston lifts him up without thinking. Too late, he remembers that this is not Dragostone’s nursery, where he might do so with impunity. 

King Viserys smiles bemusedly but only says, “You have my thanks for comforting the boy, Ser. I know that you are trained to be a fighter, not a nursemaid.” 

Criston smiles politely. 

His liege sighs, then, continuing to rock Baelon. “I am at an impasse, Ser Criston,” he says. “I have chosen Rhaenyra as my heir and I know in my heart that she will make a good queen. She is sweet and clever and charismatic, and Dragonstone loves her. But there is still unrest in my court, even for all her virtues, to the point where my own lady wife will refuse to give our own daughter a crown, purely out of refusal to wed her to Rhaenyra’s heir. I worry that this unrest extends outside of court to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. What would you do, I wonder, were you in my shoes? Were this your daughter’s crown at stake?” 

Criston’s grip on Aemon tightens ever so slightly. He forces himself to relax and keep his face impassive as he regards King Viserys. He has just been presented with an amazing opportunity, but he cannot appear too eager. 

  “May I be frank, Your Grace?” he asks. 

King Viserys nods. “Please,” he says. 

Criston takes a deep breath. “The lords swore vows of fealty to Princess Rhaenyra,” he says, “but recency is a novelty. Many of those lords were old and have died or will soon, and their children are beholden to no such words. I am not a statesman, Your Grace, but I would have the princess go on a tour, show the realm the power of House Targaryen and your dragons. And then I would have not only the lords renew their oaths to her, but also their heirs.” 

King Viserys regards him for a moment. “You are a good man, Ser,” he says, “devoted to protecting Rhaenyra, and giving honest counsel whenever asked. What’s better, good counsel. I can see why Aemma spoke so highly of you.” 

Criston thinks that hearing Aemma’s opinion of him from her husband might be the most bitter irony in existence. 

“I think that you are correct,” King Viserys continues, “I will speak to my small council and make preparations.” 

He sets Baelon back down and Criston does the same with Aemon, smiling as the boy makes a small noise of complaint at the loss. He follows King Viserys out of the room, and thinks that even if Rhaenyra has lost one battle today, he has won her another. 

Chapter Text

Criston thinks, sometimes, that Dragonstone’s reputation as cold and dreary and ominous is undeserved. Yes, the seaspray feels like ice in the morning and it is foggy and its gargoyles are quite hideous indeed, but it is so much more than that. Mayhaps his fondness for the island comes from the fact that it is Rhaenyra’s seat, that it is where she established her first threads of real power and where she bore her sons. Mayhaps it has to do with the fact that she is obviously well loved by her people. Either way, Criston finds the weather and bad architecture tolerable, an almost pleasurable backdrop for the peace that being out of King’s Landing brings him. He almost regrets suggesting to Rhaenyra she should stay in the capital for half of the year, to ensure that both her influence over her royal father and her influence over court stays secure. And, privately he adds to himself, influence over her siblings. 

Speaking of her siblings, Criston’s eyes dart to the boy who shifts from side to side beside him. He sticks closely to Rhaenyra’s side, his violet eyes wide and round. She holds his hand in hers and smiles at him comfortingly as she guides him around the castle, her hand patting his silver head. He relaxes, a little, at her touch, and her smile widens. 

Prince Aemond is only five years old, half the age he would have claimed Vhagar in the original timeline – would have , Criston stresses, because Laena is a good woman and as much fondness as he holds for them, over his dead body will any of Alicent Hightower’s children claim the most dangerous dragon to currently live – and does not quite seem to know what to make of Dragonstone yet. The fact that he is even here is of great wrath to his lady mother, and Criston pities Alicent Hightower a little for it. No matter the eruption she unleashed upon her husband after his announcement of Rhaenyra’s tour – nothing is confirmed, but this is what the rumor mill whispers in the Red Keep – no woman should have her child ripped from her. It was ill-done by King Viserys and leaves a bitter taste in Criston’s mouth. 

That being said, he is a hypocrite, because Prince Aemond becoming Rhaenyra’s ward – regardless of whether or not it was done to punish the queen – only helps his relationship with his eldest sister and he cannot help but be grateful for that. 

“Chin up, boy,” he says, careful to keep his tone gentle, “this is the seat of your ancestors, where they built themselves back up from the Doom of Valyria. You belong here; it is your home.” 

Prince Aemond straightens a little at his words. He still looks frightened and his lip trembles, but something close to pride flashes across his face for the briefest of seconds. Criston pats his shoulder. The boy will be his squire, when he is old enough – there is no other option for a princeling such as he – and it would be best to have some kind of warmth between them beforehand.

Criston pushes away the uncomfortable thought that the boy is all but a hostage. 

Rhaenyra would never so much as raise her voice at her beloved little brothers or sister, much less hold a knife to his throat, metaphorical or otherwise. Still, his presence here on Dragonstone is being hung over his mother’s head, and, setting his feelings for her as a person aside, Criston’s stomach twists at this fact. 

His discomfort does not ease for the entire day, not even as Rhaenyra takes him flying on Syrax and musses his windswept hair as he giggles. 

Lately, Criston has taken to walking the halls late at night. He finds himself pacing restlessly throughout the day, the constant anxiety of politicking beginning to wear at him, more than it had before. He does not know if it is because of the upcoming tour, but he finds that he does not like it one bit. The hours between the sun’s rising and setting, when the world is still and stagnant, he finds to be strangely peaceful. A quiet sort of bliss compared to the incessant noise of the waking world. 

It is during one of these walks that he hears something out of the ordinary. A pattering of feet and a muffled curse beneath one’s breath. “Jacaerys.” A hiss cracks like a whip in the darkness. “Jacaerys, what in the seven hells are you doing out by yourself this late?” 

Criston recognizes the voice instantly – it belongs to no other than one Ser Joffrey Lonmouth. There is a mumbled, “Uh oh,” in a voice that sounds distinctly younger, and Criston is ducking behind a nearby curtain as Ser Joffrey and Prince Jacaerys round the corner. The elder looks tired, his hair in knots, bags beneath his eyes. The younger looks as if his hand was caught in the cookie jar, something close to sheepishness painting his face. The little prince makes to flee, but the knight catches him by the collar and hoists him up into the air. 

“‘Wasn't doin’ anything,” Prince Jacaerys squeaks, “I promise!” 

“You were sneaking out, weren’t you?” Ser Joffrey accuses. There is a beat of silence and he sighs. “How did you even get past the nursemaid?” 

“... She fell asleep.” 

“She fell asle–” Ser Joffrey scoffs, the noise one of disbelief. “What would your mother say if she knew you were sneaking about like this, boy?” 

“Mama’d think it was funny.” 

A snort. “Aye, I suppose she would, and then she’d still not let you fly with her for a moon. I’ll set you down now, boy, and you won’t run. We’ll walk right back to the nursery and you’ll go back to sleep, and I’ll have a talk with that damnable nursemaid and the Lord Commander about making sure this doesn’t happen again.” 

Criston almost feels as if he’s interrupting something as he follows them back to the nursery. He makes a mental note of suring up security – it is inexcusable that a boy who hasn’t yet seen his fifth name day can sneak out of his nursery – and watches on as Ser Joffrey ruffles his hair before he falls back asleep. 

That is when Baelon begins to stir from his slumber. Criston tenses, preparing to go to him by instinct alone, but Ser Joffrey lifts him up before he can get very far. 

“Hush, little one,” he says, almost cooing, as the babe begins to weep, “you’re alright, go back to sleep.” He rocks him against his chest, cradles the back of his head and sways from side to side, and slowly, Baelon begins to quiet. 

After a bit, Ser Joffrey says, “I know you’re there, Ser Criston.” 

Criston hesitates, still standing halfway in the shadows. Then, shaking off his indecision, he approaches, refusing to feel guilty or chastised – he is the bloody Lord Commander. 

“You’re good with them,” he says, his head tilting to the babes and the toddler who sleep soundly. Ser Joffrey sets Baelon back down. 

“I am the eldest of many siblings. I’m well experienced in soothing little creatures.” 

“You soothed Baelon when you could have turned to the nursemaid.” 

“Aye.” Criston watches on as Ser Joffrey’s features twist. He shuffles on his feet, staring at the twins with a sort of sad solemness that Criston knows all too well. “I wanted to hate them, you know. I wanted to resent Aemon and Baelon – I don’t know why. Because they were the princess’, I suppose; because they were Laenor’s but not mine, as foolish as it sounds. 

“But looking at them now, up close for the first time, holding them and feeling just how small and delicate they are,  I think I realize how hopeless that was. They are half of Laenor, a part of him, and anything that is a part of Laenor is something I will have no choice but to love.” He lets out a low, bitter laugh.  “I think that if I had to fall on my own sword right now if it meant I could avoid them being hurt, because Laenor would break into a thousand pieces if anything were to happen to them, and I would rather die a thousand deaths than witness his heartbreak.” 

Criston feels his body slacken and the breath leaves his lungs. An understanding, sharp and pervasive and painful, pierces his chest and he nearly staggers with the force of it. Lilac eyes, so lovely and heart wrenchingly sad, flash across his mind. An ancient, dull sort of pain echoes in his bones, where Aemma has carved her name. Even now, all these years later, he lives for the promise he made to her. He would never wish to be free of it, but its shackles have never felt heavier than they do now. 

Criston meets Ser Joffrey’s eyes. Green meets brown. “I understand,” he says softly. 

Ser Joffrey shakes his head. “No,” he says, “you don’t. How could you? There is no need to pretend, Ser Criston. Do not treat me like a fool.” 

Criston wants to scream. Wants to seize him by the shoulders and shake him, and scream about his grief from the rooftops. Wants to tell someone, anyone, and lessen this burden. 

He swallows the urge down tightly. 

“I meant no insult,” he says instead.

Ser Joffrey grunts. “You asked me, once, to check my behavior, for the sake of your princess. I refused.” His eyes flick to the sleeping Aemon and Baelon. “I still won’t do it for her, but I think I might be able to do it for her sons.”

With that, he dips his head and walks away. 

Criston watches his retreating form, waits until he’s rounded the corner, and then crumples to the floor. He allows himself a few minutes of agony, his head resting against his knees and his cheeks wet, and then wipes at his face and sets out to create a new method of security. 

Grief and tears and rest can wait for when his duty is done. 

It is decided, in the following moons, when and where the tour will take place. Rhaenyra plays a crucial part in organizing it. “I wish to bring Aemon and Baelon with me,” she declares, “but I will not do this when they are still so young. The tour will have to wait until they are strong enough that travel is not an issue.” 

That makes sense to Criston, he has no objections. “And where will you go?” he asks. “Who will you visit?” 

Rhaenyra rests her chin against her thumb. Moves around the painted table with narrowed eyes. “The Vale – I wish to see my lady cousin again after so many years. Mayhaps I should visit Runestone as well; they are a powerful house in the region, and have been spurned since my uncle’s disastrous marriage to the late Lady Rhea.” 

Criston twitches at that, but does not object. It might very well be a necessary evil. “Where else?” 

“For the Stormlands, most definitely House Baratheon. It has been too long since our ties were strengthened once more, and the boys have Baratheon blood through Rhaenys. I suspect that Lord Borros will be most pleased to see Baelon in particular.” 

Criston’s lips twitch. “Whatever gave you that impression, my princess?” 

Rhaenyra shoots him an amused look. “Is that cheek I detect from you, ser?” 

“Of course not,” he replies. 

She laughs. 

They continue on like this for hours, and then days, and then weeks, until they have the perfect route for a tour. Rhaenyra sends a raven with her plans to King Viserys, and he replies with his approval. 

Criston cradles it in his hands, feeling both elating excitement and dreadful anxiety. There is no better chance for Rhaenyra to prove her worth as her father’s heir than this, and no grander stage for her to publicly fail on either. She will strengthen her position astronomically, or there will be no coming back from it. 

Watching as she twists at her rings, he can tell she is thinking the same thing. 

Their eyes meet. 

He smiles grimly. She stops twisting at her rings.

Chapter Text

Criston does not like Storm’s End. He would even go as far as to say that he hates the place. Loud, shrieking wind whips at his face as he urges his horse forward. The beast snorts in protest, and he does not begrudge it for that. Cold bites at his cheeks and nose especially, and his hands grow numb as they grip at the horse’s reins. Worse than anything, however, is the rain that descends down upon him. It is not bad enough for the party to stop, especially with the wheelhouses they have brought with them, but the armor of the Kingsguard is already bloody bad enough. Adding the weight of excess rain and the chill of cold water just worsens the misery. 

Criston blinks rapidly as droplets of rain obscure his vision. He licks at his lips, which have grown far too chapped upon this hellish progress, and fights the urge to frown as the looming form of the seat of House Baratheon draws closer. His teeth chatter and a chill runs down his spine. He shifts in his saddle, trying to get some warmth into his bones. 

For all his dislike and the current blackness of his mood, Criston has to admit that Storm’s End does truly look as if it belongs with the mythic story of its founding. It is surrounded by a thick curtain of outer wall, which spans one hundred feet vertically. It is forty feet thick on its thinnest side – thinnest, Criston marvels at that fact – and nearly eighty feet on its thickest side, which faces the seaward side, where a one hundred and fifty foot drop breaks off into the sea. The wall is composed of pale gray stone – a double course – and an inner core that consists of a mixture of rubble and sand. It is curving and perfectly smooth, purposely designed by the Storm Kings of House Durrandon to be unscalable. 

The progress approaches the wall and its great gates swing open with a friendly call from the guards. Criston nods, hoping he doesn’t look too much like a drowned rat, as he feels his heart beating furiously in his chest. It rages against his ribcage, leaps like a fish scrambling for water. He swallows hard, trying to bite back the lump in his throat. Rhaenyra will be perfectly fine, he assures himself. She is clever and charming and he has taught her everything he possibly could. And she has had two entire years to prepare for this tour whilst waiting for Aemon and Baelon to grow and making the arrangements. She is ready. 

“Appeal to Lord Borros’ pride,” he had told her, “his inflated sense of self is higher than the walls of his keep, higher, even, than the Wall of the Night’s Watch. Appeal to his sense of family, as well. I am concerned that he might feel forgotten by your family, despite his aunt being the wife of the heir to the throne, once upon a time. Charm him and speak sweetly to him – he is one of those men who will not take kindly to being ordered by a woman, I fear – but never let him forget that you are the one who rides a dragon, who will one day wear a crown, who will be recognized as a monarch to sit the Iron Throne, not him. Do you understand me, Rhaenyra?” 

She had lifted her chin up with flashing eyes and nodded with a solemness that had eased some of his worry. “Never fear, Ser Criston,” she had replied, “I know who I am, and he knows it as well. I will bring him to our side, if he is not ours already, and the Seven Kingdoms shall know that the Storm Lords stand with the Blacks.” 

Now, as Criston progresses further into the courtyard, he sees Lord Borros standing before the Round Hall, Storm’s End’s single massive tower – along with his wife and three daughters. Floris, it seems, has yet to be born, but Ladies Cassandra, Maris and Ellyn all watch the progress with wide eyes. At two years old, Lady Ellyn is the youngest of her father’s children, at least thus far, and clings at her mother’s skirts with one hand. Lady Elenda gently unfurls her fist as Criston dismounts from his horse. 

“Ser Criston,” Lord Borros booms, “welcome to Storm’s End! We are honored to host such a noble guest as you.” His eyes, a dark, stormy blue, flicker around the courtyard. “I was expecting Princess Rhaenyra and my cousin, Rhaenys and her children as well, however, and I do not see them. They have not forsaken visiting me, have they?” 

The words are spoken as a jest, but there is an edge to them that makes the set of Criston’s shoulders tense. He forces himself to relax and smiles politely. “Lord Borros,” he says with a sweeping bow, “I thank you for your warm welcome. Princess Rhaenyra and Princess Rhaenys have not abandoned you. Nor have Ser Laenor or Lady Laena. In fact–” 

His words are cut off by a tandem of shrieks. Criston bites back a grin as shadows fall over Storm’s End and Lord Borros’ eyes flicker upwards. The four dragons of the Blacks fly in a diamond formation, with Rhaenyra at the head. At her right and left flank Seasmoke and Meleys respectively, with Vhagar covering them at the back. The four dragons do a long lap around the walls. Syrax and Seasmoke land in the courtyard and everyone flinches back, Criston included. Princess Rhaenys slips off of Meleys’ back a short distance from the ground before her dragon perches along the walls. Vhagar, who is too huge to be landed safely with three other adult dragons in such a confined vicinity, lands outside of the walls. Laena will mount a horse with Jacaerys in tow and ride to them swiftly. 

In the meantime, Rhaenyra and Laenor dismount from their own dragons. Aemon and Baelon are held in their arms respectively. Rhaenyra is dressed in riding leathers that have been dyed in House Targaryen’s classic red and black. She wears the jade diadem that Prince Daemon gifted her all those years ago. Black earrings encrusted with gold – color-coded for House Baratheon – hang her ears, clearly visible since her hair has been drawn back into a braid that resembles the warrior queen Visenya. Ser Laenor, for his part, is dressed in his own house’s blue and silver with a sword hanging at his side. 

They begin to walk up to Lord Borros, and the courtyard falls into sharp bows and curtsies one after the other. Aemon and Baelon walk beside them, having been set down. They are dressed in a combination of their parents’ colors and imagery. They wear the exact same doublet. One half is red, embroidered with black lining for the house of their mother. This is the left half of the doublet, the part that will cover and span their hearts. The other half, on the right, is a dark shade of blue, with silver embroidery for the house of their father. Their collars, on the other hand, are a burnished shade of gold. It should not fit with the rest of their clothing, but it does, strangely enough. 

Criston glances back over to Lord Borros to see that the man’s mouth has dropped open. It practically hangs from his jaw. Lady Ellyn has buried her face in her mother’s skirts and Lady Cassandra has huddled closer to her father, but Lady Maris stares on. 

“Lord Borros,” Rhaenyra calls, “it is so glad to see you. I have not been to Storm’s End for too long, to my mourning. I am happy to be back – your seat has grown even more magnificent since I was last here. It is an honor to be here, truly.” 

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Lord Borros says, finding his voice, “the honor is all mine.” He makes a sweeping gesture toward the Round Hall. “Welcome to Storm’s End.” 

The feast that follows is quite impressive. There is much music and food and rich, mulled wine. Lord Borros is seated at the center of the room, with Rhaenyra, Laenor, Laena and Princess Rhaenys seated with him, along with the children. Jacaerys is more interested in attacking his plate than the events around him, much to his mother’s amusement, but he is not the center of Lord Borros’ attention anyway, and so Criston is not too worried about any potential offense. 

“Look at that hair!” he roars, pointing to Baelon’s mess of curls. “That’s Baratheon hair if I’ve ever seen it, it is!” He casts a fond look at Princess Rhaenys. “He has your look, cousin. Our look.” While he is not quite cool to Rhaenyra or Laenor, he is clearly warmest with Princess Rhaenys and seems, much to Criston’s belief, to have taken to Baelon quickly. 

“So he does,” Princess Rhaenys replies, pride coloring her voice. She takes a sip of Arbor Gold and tussles Baelon’s hair. Then she does the same with Aemon’s. “I am truly blessed by the Seven, to have grandsons such as these; one with my father’s name and the other with my mother’s look. And they are the heirs to a throne and the greatest fleet in the Seven Kingdoms, to boot. Few women would dream of such a thing.” 

 Lord Borros makes a noise of agreement. “I can only hope that one day, my own son’s children will bring me such joy.” His expression sours and when he speaks again, his tone is laced with envy. “Though to have grandchildren by him, I will need him to be born to begin with.” 

Lady Elenda flinches and Criston feels pity flicker for her in his chest. “I am sure that sons will come, my lord,” he assures Lord Borros, “you and your lady wife are yet young. And your bonny daughters are truly jewels. I know that many men would mourn that they were not blessed with them as well.” 

Lord Borros takes a deep gulp of his wine. “So you say, Ser Criston,” he replies, looking slightly mollified. Then he barks out a laugh and pounds him on the back. “Good man! You’re living up to the Stormlander charm. Making us all proud. I shall have to tell Lord Dondarrion to send my words of warmth to your father at Blackhaven.” 

Criston smiles. The warm words settle over his shoulders like a comforting blanket. “Thank you, my lord,” he says. 

The feast goes on. 

It is hours later, when the children have been put to sleep and the feast has reached its end, that Lord Borros fixes Rhaenyra and Laenor with a more solemn look and invites them to his solar. Rhaenyra gestures for Criston to follow, and Lord Borros sends her an odd look. 

“Ser Criston is my sworn shield,” Rhaenyra says firmly, “and I trust him with my life as such. Anything that can be said before me can be said before him.” 

They walk to his solar with a grimness that had not been there before and then settle into their seats as Criston stands guard. 

“As pleasant as the feast was, we all know why you are really here, princess,” Lord Borros says, fixing himself a cup of juice, “now, let us talk politics.”

Chapter Text

Borros Baratheon has known Rhaenyra Targaryen since she was still small enough for her father to bounce her on his knee. Now, all these years later, she sits across from him again. She is not so little anymore, he thinks to himself. At twenty she is a woman grown, with children of her own and a dragon she rides and the Iron Throne behind her. The first ruling queen in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, should Viserys have his way. Putting a daughter before a son is unnatural – Cassandra has always been a placeholder heir, no matter how much Borros loves her, and as soon as his boy is born, he will be set to inherit Storm’s End without question – but this daughter has four dragons at her beck and call, the full support of her father and king, and two strong, healthy sons, so Borros will hear her out and decide what is best after the fact. She can only be here for one reason, after all, and that is for his support against Alicent Hightower and her Greens. 

Borros takes a gulp of his juice, wipes at his mouth, and then sets the cup down. “Princess,” he says, “let us set aside the pleasantries. Tell me why you’re really here.” He wants to hear her say it. 

Rhaenyra shifts in her seat. She toys with the rings on her fingers as she smiles at him. Ser Laenor reaches for her hand and holds it gently in his own and she casts him a small smile. This surprises Borros; the entirety of the realm knows that Ser Laenor does not care for the company of women – he is a sword swallower through and through. The easy amiability displayed before him is not something he would have expected from a marriage such as this, but he supposes that today the two of them are simply full of surprises. 

Ser Criston stands guard at the door, his green eyes never straying from Rhaenyra. There is a tension in the way he holds his body, taught like a bowstring, that prickles at Borros’ pride. The man has guarded over Rhaenyra for over a decade now, he reminds himself, and this soothes him a little. It is only natural for him to be invested in the interactions of his charge.

“My lord,” Rhaenyra says after a long moment, it is my intention to renew the bond between our two families; House Baratheon is a powerful house and a great one as well. I, on behalf of House Targaryen, wish to pay my respects.” 

Borros grins a little sharply. “We both know,” he says, “that that is a lie, princess.” 

She stiffens at that. Ser Laenor’s brow furrows. “I assure you that I speak the truth,” she replies. 

“Mayhaps,” Borros says, rapping his knuckles against the wood of his desk, “but that isn’t quite the whole truth, is it?” 

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightens. Beside her, Ser Laenor smoothly interjects, “No, but it is a great part of it. My lady wife is a woman of her word, and with all due respect, my lord, I will not have her branded a liar.” 

Borros’ eyes cut to him. He has traded his riding leathers for silks and satin. His hair is soft and shiny, falling into loose waves to frame his face, and there are more rings dotted along his fingers than along his wife’s. He looks girly, but there is strength in the way he raises his chin, a protective edge to his tone, and Borros thinks that maybe he has some balls after all. Borros feels a surge of grudging respect. 

After a long second, he nods. “Tell me the other reason you are here, then,” he says, and that is the closest thing to an apology they are going to get. 

Rhaenyra takes a sip from her own cup. “Twelve years ago, you, among other great and powerful lords, traveled to King’s Landing to swear fealty to my father as king, and to me as his heir. I have come to ensure that your oaths are still in effect.” 

Borros stills. There it is . “Do you suspect me to be an oathbreaker, princess?” he asks. 

Rhaenyra’s smile is wry. “I did not say as much, my lord,” she replies, “but in these circumstances, it is best to be certain, is it not?” 

Borros snorts. He has to give her that one. “We are kin,” he says, “through both Aerion Targaryen and Alyssa Velaryon. Bound by blood and oaths alike. And yet, I find that House Baratheon has been forgotten by House Targaryen in these last years. My aunt, Lady Jocelyn, should have been made a queen, but that was before Prince Aemon was slain. And even worse, her daughter and my cousin, Princess Rhaenys, was snubbed by King Jaehaerys as his rightful heir.” Borros might think it madness to put a daughter before a son, but if a man has no sons, then so be it, bring on the daughter. If he has no sons, let Cassandra inherit Storm’s End over some cousin’s whelp. “At the Great Council,” he continues, “your own husband, Ser Laenor, was snubbed, another insult to his half-Baratheon mother, and the only time we have been called by the throne in the last two decades is for our fealty and nothing else.” 

Rhaenyra winces visibly. “I understand why you would feel cast aside by House Targaryen,” she says, “and for that insult, I do apologize profusely. But that is what I am here to remedy. I swear to you, Lord Borros, I will make your loyalty worthwhile.”

“How?” Borros says. “How will you compensate me for supporting you rather than the Green Queen, princess?”

This is the first time that anyone in the room truly broaches the subject rather than dancing around it, and the temperature drops. Something flashes across Rhaenyra’s face, a flickering of fury, but Borros is not afraid. 

That’s when something interesting happens. 

Rhaenyra opens her mouth to speak. Then a lightning-fast scowl blitzes across her face and she closes it again. But that is not what attracts Borros’ attention – no, it’s the way she glances to the side immediately after and meets the eyes of Ser Criston. A small smile, barely visible, works its way across sworn shield’s face as he regards his charge, and the lines of her brow smooth over again. She leans back in her chair, visibly more at ease. 

Borros watches this interaction with hawk-sharp eyes. A Stormlander member of the Kingsguard, the heir to the throne’s sworn shield who has watched over her since she was a little girl, has just soothed her infamously vicious temper with a naturalness that leaves him stunned. 

Borros is not a fool. He can read the lines in the sand. That alludes to a level of influence over Rhaenyra that should not be overlooked.

Ser Criston is one to be watched. 

“Laenor and I sit before you now,” Rhaenyra says, “to offer you something many lords would kill for: a royal marriage.” 

Ah–

Borros had a feeling this was in the cards. It is obvious enough, the best offer they can give him. “You would make one of my daughters a queen?” 

Ser Laenor winces. Rhaenyra clears her throat. “I am afraid that we cannot offer Aemon as a bridegroom,” she replies. 

Borros frowns. “Why bloody not? Are my daughters not fit for queenship?” 

“Of course they are,” she says hastily, “it is simply that the betrothal of our eldest son is already in the works at the present moment.” 

“My daughters are the descendants of Orys Baratheon, the brother of the Conqueror,” Borros scowls, “they are the great-granddaughters of a queen and the kin of two other women who would have been queens, had the gods not interfered. What better match could there be for Prince Aemon than them?” 

“It is not a matter of ‘better’ or ‘worse,’” Rhaenyra says. Then, after a moment, she adds, “The bride we seek for our eldest is my sister, the Princess Helaena.” 

Borros barks out a laugh. “And you think the queen will agree to this?” 

“The queen does not matter. What matters is the opinion of my father, the king. At present, it is his support that we are trying to gain.” 

“And you think he will listen?” Borros can’t hide his skepticism. 

“Yes, in time.”

Borros regards her with narrowed eyes. “Here is my offer,” he says, “I will accept a betrothal between one of my daughters – either Maris or Ellyn, not Cassandra – to Prince Baelon. For the present moment. But if Prince Aemon is not matched with Princess Helaena by his eighth name day then the match will be changed, with the elder twin replacing the younger.” 

A beat of silence passes. Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor exchange a long glance.

“These terms are agreeable, Lord Borros,” she says, "which one of your daughters will wed my son?” 

“Maris,” Borros decides immediately. Maris is four years old, only two years older than Prince Baelon – or Prince Aemon, he notes – and is a precocious and fierce little storm in her own right already. Prince Baelon is an energetic terror of a lad and their personalities will balance well, he thinks. Besides, Maris is the elder of the two daughters he is willing to marry off to Rhaenyra’s boys, and he owes it to her to give her a match that befits that. 

“Maris, then,” Rhaenyra agrees. “Now, I have two other offers, should you choose to accept.” 

“Such as?” Borros raises an eyebrow, curiosity stirring in his chest. 

“When I come to the throne, I would offer you a position on my small council, should you choose to take it. You will have a hand in my administrative decisions and the goings on of the realm. When Lady Maris is old enough, I will invite her to Dragonstone, where she may stay at my court and be a companion to my daughters, should I bear any. And finally, when your sons come of age, I would offer for them to be squired with Ser Criston, the Lord Commander of my father’s Kinsguard and the future Lord Commander of mine own as well.” 

It is a blatant bribe, her overzealous generosity, but Borros can appreciate gold when he comes across it. He flashes a wide smile at Rhaenyra which might be a bit too wide, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

“Princess,” he laughs, “you honor me. I accept your gifts with pride.” 

She smiles in response. “I appreciate your loyalty, my lord,” she says, “the crown thanks you.” Borros nods. She stands and Ser Laenor and Borros follow in suit.

With a smile, she and her husband sweep out of the room. Ser Criston hesitates for a brief moment. A deep furrow mars his brow. “Good night, my lord,” he says before following them. 

“Good night, Ser Criston,” Borros replies, still reflecting on what’s just happened. 

A seat on the small council. A son mentored by the greatest knight of the realm. A daughter close to the future queen. And a prince – or a king! – for a goodson. He could be the father to a line of kings, but his grandchildren will be dragon riders regardless. 

Borros takes another gulp of his drink and beams from ear to ear, feeling very much as if he’s struck one of the Lannisters’ famous goldmines.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra looks resplendent in her fine silks as sits upon the dais set up for her in the Round Hall. Lord Borros sits beside her, booming out a laugh at something Princess Rhaenys has said, and Laenor is chuckling at whatever Laena has whispered to him. But Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra stares into the goblet of wine in her hands. The mood of the room is bright, after Lord Borros and Lady Cassandra recited their oaths to Rhaenyra. Even Jacaerys Aemon and Baelon look more cheerful than her at this present moment, and it is all Criston’s fault. 

He was too harsh with her, he fears. 

“You gave too much, Rhaenyra,” he had rebuked as soon as the meeting with Lord Borros was over and Laenor was gone and they had been alone. 

Her eyes had flashed with frustration and wounded pride and she had said, “I got him on side, isn’t that all that matters? Storm’s End will be our most powerful ally – the Tullys are weak, and the Lannisters hate me; the Starks are shut in up North and Lady Arryn is already my kin and the Tyrells have no daughters to be wed.” 

“You have to think past the Lord Paramounts, Rhaenyra,” Criston had hissed, “and besides, what will the other lords think when they see how generous you have been right away – even besides Baelon’s suit? You have paltry to offer to them now.” 

The following had ensued in an argument, the worst Criston thinks they have ever had. He takes solace in the fact, at least, that he did not lash out at her. He might lose his temper, but he will not take it out on her, never on her. But Rhaenyra, on the other hand. Well–

She has not taken kindly to what she had originally thought her first victory being a misstep. 

She must remember that she is still young, Criston thinks to himself. She might have made a seat for herself at Dragonstone, might be a wedded woman and a mother two times over, but she is still a woman of twenty. She has only just entered her third decade. There is always room for improvement, and right now she is brash and bullheaded and over eager to prove herself; mistakes are bound to happen. He would rather that she overcompensated in appeasing Lord Borros than negotiating too hard and offending him entirely. 

Criston is pulled from his thoughts when Lord Borros’ voice echoes across the Round Hall. 

“SILENCE!” he booms, and the festivities come to a grinding halt. Criston shifts on his feet. “Princess Rhaenyra,” he continues, tipping his goblet to her courteously, “it has been my pleasure to host you at Storm’s End.” 

Rhaenyra smiles graciously. “Lord Borros, it has been an even greater honor to be your guest and to affirm old family ties.” 

A smug grin overtakes Lord Borros’ expression. “I am overjoyed, my lords and ladies, my princesses and princes, that the Houses Baratheon and Targaryen will be bound together once more in matrimony! Would you care to give the good news, princess?” 

Murmurs erupt across the Round Hall, but they do not sound surprised. Out of the corner of his eye, Criston sees Ser Lorent Marbrand, one of the Kingsguard he chose to add to Rhaenyra’s household – raises a bushy, expectant eyebrow. 

“You are correct, my lord,” Rhaenyra says easily, “it is to my great joy that I announce that my son, Prince Baelon, is henceforth betrothed to be married to Lady Maris. May they prosper and strengthen the bonds between our houses.” 

Lord Borros toasts in approval and their goblets clink together. 

The Round Hall explodes into cheers and stomping feet and ferocious claps. Baelon moves to emulate clapping, which only makes the residents of Storm’s End cheer even harder. 

“Look at him,” Lady Elenda says, smiling warmly, “he already wants to be wedded to our Maris.” 

This is a blatant falsity and everyone knows it. At two years old, Baelon hardly even knows what marriage is, let alone how to be approving of it. But everyone accepts the statement as fact, because what else will they say? 

The festivities continue. 

“You really should smile more, Ser Criston,” a voice says near his ear a while later. “If you aren’t careful, the frown will stick. And this is supposed to be a celebration.” 

He tenses, for a moment, before recognizing the husky quality to the voice. His gaze flicks to where it came from – over his right shoulder – and he meets the smiling eyes of Laena Velaryon. 

“My apologies if I have offended you, my lady,” he replies, “but I do believe that I smile often enough.” 

“Oh,” she grins, “don’t worry about offending me. I would worry about offending Lord Borros, however, especially after all the hard work you’ve put into pulling this alliance off.” 

Criston’s frown deepens. “Do I truly appear to be unhappy?” 

She shakes her head, something in her face softening. “Have no fear, Ser, it is not so obvious to those who do not know you.” She tilts her head to a nearby table. “Besides, I think that the broody look might be having its own… particular positive effects.” 

Criston follows her gaze to see a group of ladies staring at him intently. They look away as soon as he glances their way, giggling to themselves. Criston can feel heat burn through his cheeks at the implication. He can feel the tips of his ears going red. 

Laena chuckles. “Ser Criston, I dare say that this is the first time I have ever seen you blush.” 

“It is not a common sight, I assure you,” he replies, and winces at how high his voice sounds. He clears his throat, wincing. He is a grown man who has walked Westeros for thirty-five years, not even counting his life before that, not some green boy who’s never seen a woman before in his life. “My lady,” he continues, and is pleased to hear that his voice is back to normal, “you could not have come here just to point out admiring women. What can I help you with?” 

Laena’s eyes narrow a little. “My son grows tired,” she says, “I would ask for you to escort me as I put him to bed.” 

That is a maid’s duty, Criston thinks but does not dare to say it. Laena has never been particularly conventional anyway, much less so in matters of child-rearing. 

“I would be happy to, my lady,” he agrees, and a little while later they are off. 

Laena puts Jacaerys to bed with ease – at least relative ease, considering that the child is a little terror who only seems to grow more chaotic with age.

“It is a curse for my own tenacity as a girl,” she japes, “I would not ever change it.” 

Criston smiles thinly. “That is often the case with children, I have found.” He offers her his hand. “Would you care to be escorted back to the festivities?” 

Laena does not accept his hand, which does not surprise him; he suspected that she had other intentions. “Please,” she says, nodding to the chair across from her, “sit. I would like to discuss something with you.” 

Criston obliges her request. She regards him with sharp, alert eyes, resting her chin against her palm. 

“My best friend has not been herself for the last two days,” she says, “ever since she struck her deal with Lord Borros. Oh, she can try to cover it up all she wants, but I know the truth, and her mask still slips. You haven’t been yourself either, ser. You’ve been all gloom and no solemn honor for three days as well. So. What’s wrong?” 

Criston bites the inside of his cheek as he resists the urge to squirm. It is not that he does not trust Laena – he trusts her with Rhaenyra’s life, and that is the greatest honor that he thinks he could ever give to anyone – but there is something in him that flinches in revealing any of his weaknesses and flaws. He has had to be so perfect for over a decade that it discomforts him to admit to being anything less. 

“Out with it, Ser,” Laena says. Her tone is gentle but firm, her eyes steely. There is something in her, a confidence in her poise, that tells Criston that she will not let go of this until she gets her answer. 

His shoulders sag.

After one last second of hesitation, he gives her a summary of their row. 

Laena leans back in her chair when he is done, her brow creasing into a frown. “I will not pretend to know about politics,” she says slowly, “my extent of knowledge on that front ends at ‘Dare to get in my way when I have the greatest living dragon,’ but I trust in your abilities, Ser Criston.” 

“I’m flattered, my lady.” 

She raises up an index finger, smiling wryly. “One: no, you aren’t, Ser, though I am glad you pretend–” 

“It was not a lie,” he says, and she raises an eyebrow before going on.

“ – But I will not lie to you, your way of going about things left much to be desired. As someone who has known Rhaenyra since she was a girl, I think that you should have known better, no?” 

Criston feels a swelling of shame. “I have been… on edge, recently. I was sharper with her than I intended to be, it is true. I knew that the second my words left my mouth.” 

Laena’s look turns sympathetic. “We cannot be perfect all the time, Ser.” She leans back in her chair further. “The fact still stands, however, that when reasoning with Rhaenyra, one must often be careful.” 

“She is quick to anger and slow to forgive,” Criston acknowledges ruefully. 

Laena grows solemn. “She will not be slow to forgive you,” she says softly, “you are her one exception, I think.” 

Criston smiles weakly. “This is the longest she has ever been angry with me.” 

Laena snorts. “Then you are truly blessed to have her adore you so. No wonder she wanted to give a son of hers your name. Well, before she realized how ruinous that could be, anyway.” 

Criston freezes. “What?” 

The floor feels like it’s about to give way under him. 

“Ah,” she winces, “I see she did not tell you. That will be the last time she tells me anything.” 

“... What?” 

Laena straightens in her chair and snaps her fingers before her face. “None of that,” she says, “come back to your senses and go to Rhaenyra once the festivities end.” 

It takes Criston a little while longer to get out of his haze, but once he does he is blinking rapidly and regaining his balance. 

“Yes,” he says distantly, “yes, you’re right, I think I’ll do that.” 

Laena makes a noise of approval. 

Later, when the festivities end, he does end up going to Rhaenyra. 

“May I speak with you?” he asks, and she nods stiffly. 

And they speak, and apologize and patch wounded pride. Criston does not mention how a little prince of her body might have had his name, does not wonder if it might have been Aemon or Baelon, but he does wonder. 

"You told me that I was too open-handed," Rhaenyra says grimly, "so now teach me how to close my fist," and he sets out to do so. 

And when they prepare to depart from Storm’s End and make their way to Blackhaven, and his countenance is much brighter, he goes to Laena. 

“Thank you for your advice, my lady,” he says, “it was good counsel.” 

Laena shrugs easily. “You two would have solved your problems eventually, I just sped the process.” 

“I mean it,” he says firmly, and she meets his eyes again, “thank you, Laena.” 

She begins to laugh then and he frowns. 

“Is something wrong?” he asks. 

“No,” she says, “on the contrary, that’s just the first time you’ve called me by only my name.”

Chapter Text

They are on the way to Blackhaven when Rhaenyra asks Criston about the place that used to be his home. She bounces Baelon on her knee. They have sheltered in the wheelhouse, for now, as rain pours down over them, but they will be arriving at Blackhaven soon. Within days, even. 

Baelon plays with his toy dragon, giggling in delight as Rhaenyra lifts him up and kisses him on the cheek in an exaggerated motion. Here, with their faces so close together, the similarities between mother and son are more clear than they have ever been before. With each passing day, Baelon grows to resemble Rhaenyra more. He looks nearly identical to her. They have the same nose, the same cheekbones, and the same mouth shape. But there are traces of someone else in Baelon as well. He has the coloring of his father’s mother, but the angle of his jaw, the shape of his eyes – that is all his mother’s mother. That is all Aemma. 

It brings Criston as much joy to see as it does grief. 

“Mama,” Baelon says, wriggling in Rhaenyra’s grasp, “help me fly.” 

Rhaenyra chuckles and presses a flurry of kisses into his hair. She stands, carrying him with her, and circles once around the room. Baelon spreads his arms out and she beams.

“Look at you, little dragon,” she coos, “you’re flying.” 

Baelon mimics breathing fire, and Criston allows laughter to slip past his lips. Rhaenyra’s smile only grows. She makes another circle around the room before setting Baelon down. 

“He has an imagination on him, that one,” she says. 

Criston nods, feeling his mouth twitch upwards. “So he does.” 

“Aemon has his own imagination, in a different way. I sometimes wonder if I was ever so demanding for a story as a child.” 

“You were,” Criston reassures her, and she levels him with a flat, unimpressed look.

As if speaking of the boy has summoned him, Laenor is walking into the wheelhouse a moment later, Aemon perched on his shoulders. “He had fun playing outside for a time,” he says sheepishly, “but in the end, he wanted one of Ser Criston’s stories.” 

Rhaenyra lets out a strange noise, something that is not quite a snort, but is not quite not. “See,” she clicks her tongue, “what did I tell you?” 

Laenor frowns playfully. “Hush, wife,” he says, “do not add salt to the wound.” 

“Papa!” Baelon brightens to see his father. He leaves his place at his mother’s side and runs to Laenor, who struggles to balance his younger son’s attention while Aemon is still on his shoulders. “Up, Papa. Now!” 

“Help would be appreciated,” Laenor says, and Rhaenyra laughs. 

“I’ll take him,” Criston offers, feeling a flickering of sympathy. 

Laenor sends him a relieved look and passes Aemon off to him. 

If Baelon looks more like Rhaenyra with each passing day, then Aemon looks more like Laenor. His hair is in ringlets, unlike his twin’s loose waves, and his silver-gold hair grows more silver than gold as time goes on. He has Laenor’s slender nose, his ears, and more. As with Baelon, while there are traces of others, he looks mostly like one of his parents, much to Criston’s great relief. He is not a fool — when the news first spread that one of Rhaenrya’s children was black of hair, he could smell the rumors from ten miles away. 

“Cole has fathered the princess’ children,” he knows some would have said, even as the thought makes his stomach turn. 

Then they had seen Aemon, who was all Laenor, and their mouths had snapped shut quickly. 

“Tell a story, Ser Cris,” Aemon says, snapping from his thoughts. Criston blinks and adjusts his grip on him. Aemon is a calmer child than his twin, but he is still two years old, and a princeling at that, and his eyes are wide and demanding. 

Criston sighs in fond exasperation, Rhaenyra’s young, expectant gaze flashing across his mind. It seems that no matter how old he gets or how much time passes, he will always play the role of storyteller. 

Well, it’s not like he minds it. 

“Only if your parents wish it, little prince,” he replies. 

Laenor shrugs in a “why not?” gesture, and Rhaenrya nods, looking more enthusiastic. 

“Mayhaps you can tell the boys a story about Blackhaven, Ser Criston,” she says. “After all, we’ll be there soon enough.” 

Criston pauses. 

Rhaenyra has asked him about Blackhaven once or twice, in her curiosity, but not much more than that. His recollection of life before he arrived at court is… strange. Not quite fractured – his memories integrated well enough – but rather almost… impersonal. It’s like he remembers the feelings from memories back then more than that the memories make him feel things, if that makes any sense at all. 

And in any case, Criston left Blackhaven for a reason. A dead-end fate as a household knight, no close friends, and a father who felt more like an acquaintance were not exactly strong incentives to stay. 

Still, Criston digs through his memories and tries to find at least something fun he can recall. Aemon and Baelon sit excitedly at his feet as he pulls up a chair. “Listen, lads,” he says, “this is why youshouldn’t try to scale walls when your parents tell you not to, alright? You’ll end up with a broken arm.” 

And so his story begins. 

Blackhaven does not become any more familiar once they are there. Lord Dondarrion comes out to greet them, as does his son, Lord Gerold. Lord Dondarrion is old, now, pushing seventy. The wisps of hair he has left are all silver, and his skin is deep with wrinkles. He walks with a cane and looks very much as if a strong wind could blow him over, but his eyes are bright and his tongue is sharp. Despite his old age, he still demands respect. 

Rhaenyra, for her part, seems to understand this. She accepts his greeting confidently and respectfully, offering him warm but brief compliments. Pride curls in Criston’s chest at that – Lord Dondarrion has never been one for flattery, and in the brief minutes Rhaenyra has known him, she seems to pick up on that much, at least. 

Criston looks around at the staff, and he realizes that he’s searching for his father. He might not be close with his father, and might have put his duty to Rhaenyra above filial piety, as much as he flinches to admit it, but the man is still his sire. As long as he is here, he feels that he should speak to him, at least. 

He files it away for later as Rhaenyra continues in her quest to charm Lord Dondarrion. 

Lord Gerold pulls him aside later with a clearing of his throat and imploring eyes. “Might I have a moment to speak with you, Ser Criston?” he asks. 

Criston nods slowly, tensing. 

They enter his solar and he pours them some wine.

“How have you been, Ser Criston?” he asks. 

“I’ve been better than well, my lord,” Criston replies, and it is only half a lie. “I have been honored by King Viserys and Princess Rhaenyra. It has been the greatest honor of my life to serve in the Kingsguard – as its Lord Commander, no less – and every day I thank the gods for smiling upon me.”

Lord Gerold smiles warmly. He has always been a kind one, even when they were boys. He had been ten odd years older than Criston, but he had never lost his patience with him, and when they did see each other he was pleasant, even when his friends were irritated by the company of a much younger boy. 

“I am glad to hear it,” he says. Then the smile drops off of his face. “I am afraid that I will have to sour some of your good fortune.” 

Criston stiffens. Led balls up in his stomach. His thoughts leap to his father. He had not seen him, is he quite well? Is he not ? 

Lord Gerold must see the look on his face, because he sighs deeply. “It is a matter of your father, ser,” he continues. “He… is not as strong as he used to be. His constitution is weak, though he will never admit to this, and he catches chills easily. He grew ill a few days ago, and everyone thought it was just another light sickness, but his condition is not improving.” 

“What are you saying?” Criston says, feeling too much and too little at the same time. 

Lord Gerold winces and shifts in discomfort. “It could be nothing,” he begins, “but it could also – it could also be that the Stranger is calling for him. As his son, my lord father and I felt that you had a right to know.” 

The taste of iron hits Criston’s tongue, and he realizes that he’s bitten into the inside of his mouth hard enough to draw blood. 

“Thank you, my lord,” he says faintly, feeling altogether too woozy.

Lord Gerold nods. “Of course.” After a moment, he suggests “You should go to him.” 

Criston nods.

“I’ll do that,” he says. 

That is how he finds himself walking up the stairs of a keep he has not been to in over a decade, to a room he has not visited since he was still a young man in the summer of his life, to a man he has not felt close with since his mother died. 

His father lies on his bed, the side of which has been placed into the wall. The curtains have been drawn up, so Criston can only see his silhouette. The shape he sees is thin, frail, even. 

“Who goes there?” croaks a withered voice, and Criston hurts to hear it. 

He walks closer to the bed and pulls back one of the curtains, a sad smile curling on his mouth. 

“Hello, Father.”

Chapter Text

Criston’s father is only sixty years old, but he looks older. His cheeks are sunken, and there are rings beneath his eyes, and he looks so horribly thin that Criston thinks he would be able to snap his wrist with one hand if he had half a mind to.

The thought makes him sick and he fights the bile creeping up his throat. What happened to his father, the stalwart Corwyn Cole who served as the steward of Blackhaven for over half of his life? His father had always been so strong, stern but fair, with a serious bearing that many had admired. Now he is a – a husk of himself in a way that makes him struggle to meet his eyes. 

Criston watches on as his father squints at him. Then their gazes meet, and his eyes go wide. He rubs at his temple with spindly fingers. “Criston,” he rasps, “boy, is that  truly you?” 

Criston has not been a boy in a long time. 

“Aye, Father,” he says. He falls to one knee so that he can meet his eyes. “It’s me.” 

Corwyn reaches for him with shaky hands. A hand goes to cup Criston’s face. He blinks at him again, not saying a word. The silence that fills the room is heavy. It crushes Criston like a boulder. 

“I’m not dreaming,” Corwyn says faintly.

Criston forces the smile to stay on his face. “No, Father, you aren’t.” 

Corwyn coughs. He moves to draw himself up to a sitting position. Criston hastens to help him. He fluffs up his pillows and then goes to grasp his shoulders. His father bats his hands away with a hiss. 

“Off of me, boy,” he grunts, “I’m not so ill yet that I can’t move, for the love of the Seven.” 

Criston’s hands drop to his sides. Twitch. Curl tightly into fists. 

Same old Father, he thinks, something close to bitterness seeping into his chest. But no, he is better than this. He will not hold a grudge against a dying man. Instead, he sits in the chair at his father’s bedside. 

Corwyn opens his mouth to speak, but all that slips past his lips is a burst of coughs. Criston tenses and he instinctively reaches for the cup of water at his bedside.

“Here,” he says, and Corwyn grunts. 

He drinks the water grudgingly, his face twisted into a grimace as it goes down. Criston clasps his hands together, his fingers tapping nervously against his knuckles. Once he realizes what he’s doing, he forces himself to stop.

“I never expected to see you again, boy,” Corwyn says. He flinches at that, physically recoils, as if he’s struck him. Corwyn notices his reaction and scoffs. “That was not meant as an attack, boy.” 

Criston swallows hard. “Then what was it?” Corwyn bursts into another coughing fit. He raises his hand to his mouth and when he brings it back down, it is stained with red. Criston resists the urge to vomit. He rises from his chair. “Father,” he says, his voice too high, too tight, “do you need me to get the maester?” 

Corwyn shakes his head. “Leave it be, boy. There is nothing he can do to help me now. Sit back down.” 

Criston hesitates for a moment but ultimately obliges. “I’m sorry for not visiting,” he blurts out. “I realize that writing to you was a poor substitute.” If he is being honest with himself, he has always known that, deep down.

Corwyn daps at his brow with a wet cloth. “I raised you to be dutiful,” he says, “and you were. I raised you to be better than me, and you have achieved far more than becoming the steward to Lord Donadarrion. Do not apologize to me, Criston– I raised you to be a great man, and now you walk with gods among men.” 

Criston’s breath catches in his throat. He blinks hard. “I should have visited,” he says, unable to forgive himself for this grievance.

Corwyn lets out a tired sigh as he eases himself back onto the pillows. “Criston,” he says, “you always were too sensitive, even as a boy.” 

Criston fights back a frown. “I don’t understand,” he replies, trying to beat back a flicker of hurt. 

Corwyn coughs again. “I know you have a brain between those ears,” he grumbles, “so use it. You were the sworn shield of the king’s heir, then a knight of the Kingsguard, and now you are the Lord Commander. It is not as if you could have stopped to visit me whenever you wished to.” A pause. Then: “And I doubt very much that you wished to often.” 

“That isn’t true, Father,” Criston protests, and Corwyn stares at him flatly. 

“I’m old and sick and a shadow of what I used to be, boy,” he says, “but one thing that I am not is a fool; I still have my wits about me. We were never close, you and I. There was always a gulf between us, even when your mother was still with us.”

Criston’s face burns at the scolding, but his father is right. Criston’s father has always been too jaded, too jagged. He never had the patience for Criston’s softer, mellower disposition, not even when he was a child. Criston has known for a long time that his father loves him, in his own way, but that he most likely doesn’t like him. He has learned to live with it, but hearing something that is all but confirmation from Corwyn’s own mouth rips the air from his lungs. 

A lump forms in his throat. 

“You said that there was nothing the maester could do to help you now,” he says, “what did you mean by that?” 

Corwyn lets out a ragged breath. “There’s something wrong with me, Criston,” he replies, “the maester isn’t quite sure what it is, but it has to do with the blood, or so he says. That’s why I keep having these bouts of sickness.” 

“Is it fatal?” Criston asks. The question is pointless; he knows the answer before it’s spoken into the air. 

His father nods. “Aye.” 

Criston leans back in his chair. “Father,” he croaks, “I’m sorry. I–” 

“Pah,” Corwyn scoffs. He coughs and more blood collects at his lips. “Whatever for, boy? I have lived a long life. A good one, too.” 

“How long does the maester say you have?” 

Corwyn pauses. “A week, a moon, half a year, he is not quite sure. He does not expect me to live for another year, of that I am certain.” 

Criston’s eyes burn with tears. He inhales deeply, then exhales deeply. He struggles to hold back his tears. His father will not appreciate that, he will see it as a weakness. He does not wish to disappoint him, not in his final hour. 

Instead, he reaches for his hand. Squeezes it briefly as he keeps his eyes fixed on the bed sheets. He thinks it will break him if he looks up only to be met with his father’s disapproving scowl. 

He holds his hand for as long as he dares. Then he rises from his chair. “I will tell the maester that you are in pain,” he promises. 

Corwyn’s brow furrows. “Did you not already hear me? He can’t cure me.” 

“Maybe not,” Criston acknowledges, “but mayhaps he can soothe your pain.” 

It is hours later – long after he has sent for the maester – that Rhaenyra finds him. She chatters excitedly about her day as she paces around the room. 

“Lord Dondarrion has truly taken to me,” she grins, “and I haven’t even offered him anything in return! Isn’t that just marvelous, Ser Criston?” 

Criston doesn’t respond, just stares blankly at her, and her smile flickers. “Ser Criston, are you quite well?” 

And it is as if that question makes the dam break. 

To his horror, he feels a sob tear through his chest. He is grateful that he’s already sitting in a chair because otherwise, he would have fallen from the force of it. Hot tears pool in his eyes and then burn as they race down his face. 

Rhaenrya’s face lights up with alarm, then fear, then determination. She runs to him and grasps at his shoulders. She shakes at him lightly. “Ser Criston, what’s wrong?” 

He tries to get a hold of his emotions, tries to regain his composure, but that only makes things worse. She is kneeling before him, now, cradling his face in her hands. She murmurs comforting words as she tries to coax him into telling her what’s wrong. 

He does, eventually, and her eyes go wide and sad and understanding. She wraps her arms around him and tugs him close. They slide to the floor together, a position already beneath his station and far beneath hers. He rests his head against her shoulder, feeling the silks press against his cheek. His chest is so heavy it hurts.

He tries to get up, after a while, but Rhaenyra shakes her head, resolute. “You’ve always been strong for me, Ser Criston,” she says, “now let me be the one to support you instead.”  

He nods, and they stay like that for a while longer. 

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra falls over Oldtown at midday. Criston squints from where he’s seated on his horse. Laena and Laenor both ride beside him on their own horses, Vhagar and Seasmoke residing outside of the city. First comes Syrax’s shadow, not as intimidating as Vhagar’s or as graceful as Seasmoke’s, but great all the same. Then comes the shriek. It pierces through the air, louder than the great procession that Criston leads through the city, louder than the jostling of armor and the stamping of hooves and the excited conversations of the crowd. 

Syrax is not as graceful as Seasmoke or as large as Vhagar, is not as vibrant as Dreamfyre or as beautiful as Sunfyre, but there is a certain sense of awe one feels when setting eyes upon her nevertheless. It is partly, of course, because of the obvious: she’s a literal dragon. Criston thinks that there’s more to it than such a simple thing, however. For years, Rhaenyra and Syrax have almost felt like extensions of each other. Rhaenyra is not Laena – who should have been born with wings of her own considering how much time she spends on Vhagar in the skies – but these days, she is astride Syrax more often than not. Criston’s concerns about Syrax growing slow and fat have been eased, given the amount of exercise she gets. There is strong, corded muscle beneath those yellow scales, he knows. The flights, besides keeping both rider and dragon in shape, also seem to have bonded them closer than he ever recalls reading about in Fire and Blood, and it lends them both a commanding sort of aura.  Yes, the bond between them, which is on full display any time they are together, is what truly inspires awe, Criston decides. More than anything else.

Laena’s chuckle brings Criston out of his thoughts. She stares up at the sky, fingers curled around the reigns of her horse, as Syrax circles over Oldtown. “Our princess is being cheeky,” she says, a smirk cutting into the side of her mouth.

Laenor snorts. “Rhaenyra would not know how to be civil to the Hightowers if the Father himself taught her.” 

Criston sighs. “I told her not to antagonize Lord Hightower.” 

Laena glances sideways at him. She huffs out another laugh, shaking her head. “You were fighting a losing battle, then,” she says, “we all know that Rhaenyra would never pass up the chance to put the Hightowers in their place. At least she is being subtle about it – for now.” 

Criston sighs again and Ser Laenor pats him lightly on the shoulder. “Chin up, Ser Criston,” he grins, “I doubt that Rhaenyra will command Syrax to burn the man where he stands, at least. She is impulsive, not stupid.” 

As if his words have spurred her on, Syax’s shrieks increase as she circles over the city. Slowly, the laps she makes grow tighter until she is landing atop the Hightower. Laena’s eyes track the movement with no small amount of envy. 

“I would like to know how it feels to land on the highest building in all the world,” she says, “but alas, that was denied to me. Rhaenyra wanted to be the center of attention, and so I have been condemned to ride on a lesser creature than Vhagar.” 

Despite her words, she does not sound overly bitter. Criston glances at her out of the corner of his eye and finds no frustration in her expression, only wistfulness. Laenor rolls his shoulders, humming in something that could be agreement or simple acknowledgment. She stares hard at him for that, unimpressed, and Criston feels a smile tug at his mouth despite his best efforts. This is the first time, he thinks, that he’s smiled since leaving Blackhaven. 

Laena tuts at that. “Ser Criston,” she japes, “you’re supposed to be grim and serious on this procession through the heart of Oldtown, not laughing.” 

“My sincerest apologies, my lady,” he says with a straight face. 

Laena regards him for another minute. Then she turns back to the crowds, tossing some of her silver-gold ringlets over her shoulder. “You have no reason to apologize, ser,” she says, the bite of mischief coloring her tone. “Your smile is not so terrible of a sight. At least, the women of Storm’s End did not seem to think it so.” 

Criston pauses, the prickling of embarrassment heating his face at the reminder of that interaction. It’s strange, though – he’s more flustered now than he was back then. After mulling on it for a long second, he supposes it’s because the embarrassment has had more time to build. 

Laena grins at the blush he’s almost sure he’s sporting. 

“Laena,” Laenor begins, something that Criston can’t pinpoint lacing in his voice.  

Laena turns back to him. “Whatever is it, dear brother?” 

“Do not tease our good knight so,” he says. 

“Tease?” Laena’s eyes cut back to Criston. “Do you believe that I am making you the butt of a jape, Ser Criston?” 

Criston hesitates for a second, feeling very much as if he’s caught in a conflict that he doesn’t completely understand. “No, my lady,” he says slowly. And he believes that. Laena is mischievous and headstrong and more than a little arrogant at times, but in the years he has known her, he has never thought her to be cruel. He would go as far as to call her a friend, and he does not make friends with the cruel of heart. 

“See?” Laena sends a pointed look at  Laenor. “No harm done.” 

Her brother only narrows his eyes at her before looking away, a scoff rising from deep in his throat. 

They continue on their procession in a silence that is one-half amused, on Laena’s end, and frustrated on Laenor’s. Criston doesn’t have the energy to try to break it, so he lets it fall over them with a wary kind of acceptance. 

“Do you think Hightower’s gone to meet Rhaenyra yet?” Laenor asks after a while.

“I hope he has,” comes Laena’s’ bored response, “I’ve had enough of politicking for one day.” 

Criston’s eyes flicker back to the Hightower. They are on a ferry now, having left the majority of their procession behind. Criston’s armor feels heavy on his shoulders now. It is unlikely that the ferry will crash or sink, but if it does, he is dead with this weight. Deader than dead. 

The children play a distance away. He glances at them frequently. The last he needs is for one of the princelings to go toppling into the water. For the moment, at least, Aemon and Baelon seem content to sit. Jacaerys is another story, but that boy can never sit still in the first place, and the walls and rails of the ferry should prevent any accidents, Criston is just overly cautious. 

“He’ll have met her by now,” Criston responds. “Lord Hightower knows decorum, and he knows how the rest of the realm will view it if he does not at least pretend to pay her the respect she deserves.” 

His hand grip tightens on the sword at his side. “And if he has not, and any harm has come to her,” he doesn’t add, “then I will make him pay myself.” 

Laena must take note of some of his tension, at least, because she’s walking to him and staring into Honeywine’s clear blue waters. “Do you know how to swim, Ser Criston?” she asks. He nods warily. She bumps him on the shoulder at that. “Then why on earth do you look so grim? There is no danger here.” 

Criston turns to her then. “You and I both know that isn’t the case, my lady.” 

She grows more solemn. “Are you naming me a liar?” 

He shakes his head. Pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, forgive me. I’m simply worried.” 

“And I’m telling you that there’s nothing to worry about,” she says. Her voice is soft, lowered for the sake of the children, who are oblivious to the deeper politics at hand. “Hobert Hightower is an overly ambitious snake of a man, but he is no fool. No harm will come to Rhaenyra, not beneath his roof. And you know this, else you would have never allowed her to visit him, especially not alone.” 

“Rhaenyra has a mind of her own,” he shoots back, “she is not obligated to listen to me.” He does not add that ever since Blackhaven, she has treated him so gently that he wants to scream. Does not add that he worries, sometimes, that he’s lost some of her esteem. 

His response is a deflection and does not at all address the issue she’s raised. Laena’s unimpressed, arching eyebrow tells him that she’s noticed his clumsy attempt at changing the conversation. He winces a little beneath the weight of her gaze and clears his throat. Feeling almost chastised, he adds, “You bring up good points. I simply can’t help but worry.” 

Laena is silent for a long moment. She stares out across the water again. Then she says: “You worry far too much, Ser Criston. Trust in Rhaenyra, and us, or I fear that frown you’re so determined to wear will stick, and ruin the face that steals so many hearts.” 

She moves to sweep past Criston then and return to Laenor’s side. He gets the sense that she’s vaguely exasperated, and feels a flickering of regret. His hand twitches, and before he knows it, he’s gripping her arm lightly. Her eyes snap to his, boring a hole into his head. He thinks that if it were possible, his head would be set aflame by the sheer intensity of her gaze. Intensity, he thinks, but not anger. He drops his hand down to his side, his skin hot. Laena might not be angry yet, but he doesn’t want to keep holding onto her and risk pushing that intensity into anger. 

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, “I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that. I apologize if I’ve offended you.” 

Her lips twitch. “Ser Criston,” she says, “you are a truly honorable knight.”
“I strive to be,” he replies. “I wanted to thank you for your kindness. This is twice now that you’ve knocked the sense into me.” 

Laena assesses him for a long second. He holds her gaze earnestly but hasn’t the faintest clue what she could be looking for. “There’s no need to thank me,” she says eventually, “You’re important to Rhaenyra, and that makes you important to me. Besides, I could have been saddled with far worse company.” 

Then she’s walking past him and shifting back to sit beside Laenor, who hisses something in her ear, his expression pinched. She waves a hand at him lazily and he closes his mouth, still frowning. 

Criston turns back to the Hightower, his worries soothed at least somewhat.” 

As it turns out, Laena was right. Rhaenyra is waiting for them at the front of the Hightower, a red-faced Lord Hightower at her side. He looks very much like he’s swallowed a particularly sour lemon and Criston has to bite down the urge to laugh at the sight. 

“Princess,” he says, his voice tight with anger, “House Hightower welcomes you and your procession to Oldtown with open arms.” 

That’s horse shit, Criston thinks, and they all know it. 

Rhaenyra’s grin is too sharp to be pleasant, a baring of her teeth that only just skirts courtesy enough to not be deemed a sneer. “Lord Hightower,” she says in a voice as sweet as honey, “it is certainly my pleasure to be here.”

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra is being unnecessarily antagonistic toward the Hightowers. Mayhaps, if Aemond were here, she would be kinder. But as it stands he was left behind in King’s Landing, and so cannot soften his sister’s fury. Normally, Criston would not care about the more trivial things; her making Lord Hightower wait for a few minutes to meet with him and gifting Lady Hightower with a gown that does not suit her skin at all, these things are small, petty little jabs that would normally mean nothing. At court, he might even indulge her. But here, on her tour, she must walk a fine line. Landing Syrax atop the Hightower was a statement – “You might have the highest building in all the world,” she was saying, “but I have the dragons.” – and a show of strength. It was a threat, hidden beneath the guise of courtesy, and she had plausible deniability. Rhaenyra is not a fool – she will not antagonize the Hightowers in a way that does not give her plausible deniability – but Criston worries that her actions will be viewed as juvenile even with this mask. Childish, even. 

He aims to speak with her about it soon, but before he can she pulls him aside on their third day at Oldtown. They are set to leave in two days’ time  – Rhaenyra had wanted to stay for long enough to make a statement – and while he does not think that she will somehow manage to destroy the reputation he has carefully helped her cultivate, he will take no chances. They go for a stroll along the outside of the tower. The sun is beginning to fall but it is not yet night, and its descent paints the sky in beautiful pink and orange hues. 

“The sky is beautiful, is it not, Ser Criston?” Rhaenyra’s voice is deceptively light as she asks this question. She walks a few paces away from him, but her gaze is fixed on him. There is something in her eyes, a gentleness that he finds he hates. In all the years he has known her, she has never been this kind to anyone save Aemon and Baelon. He will not be treated like a child, and certainly not like her child. He has walked Westeros for thirty-five years; he is a man grown. And besides, there is too much at stake for Rhaenyra to not heed his advice, for her to treat him as some delicate, fragile thing and try to protect him, when he is the one who needs to be doing the protecting. 

Not for the first time, Criston regrets his display of emotion in front of her. 

He needed it in the moment, he supposes, but he has needed comfort before and suffered through it, this latest time should have been no different. Now he feels weak, less than in the eyes of someone who admired him. Who still admires him, he hopes. A sense of failure washes over him, a rocking self-loathing that takes him aback. 

“Ser Criston?” Rhaenyra implores. 

Too late, he realizes that she is waiting on him for an answer. 

He forces a smile, and it feels stiff on his face. “Indeed, my princess,” he agrees, “the sky certainly is beautiful.” 

Rhaenyra frowns at him, her brow creasing in that way it does when she’s concerned. He is loath to see it. She reaches out to touch his arm and he stiffens. Her eyes flit across the area, in search of Hightower spies no doubt. But there is no one within earshot of them, and so she speaks. 

“You’ve been… different, Ser Criston, ever since we left Blackhaven,” she says. 

Criston looks away. “Anyone would be, princess.” 

Rhaenyra’s grip grows tighter against his arm, squeezing affectionately, and he nearly flinches at the gesture. By some grace of the Seven, he manages not to. “It isn’t just that,” she says, more firmly, “something else plagues you, Ser. I know it.” 

A sharp exhale passes through Criston’s lips, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “You are vigilant, princess.” 

“I have known you for over a decade now,” she reminds him, “I should hope I know how to read you.” 

Criston regards her for a long second. Then he says, “You have always been clever, princess.” 

“Flattery will not distract me, Ser,” she says, “now, will you tell me what is wrong with you?” 

There it is, an almost crooning in her tone. It’s so faint that for a second, Criston thinks – hopes – that he’s imagined it. But no, it’s there, and it rings from side to side in his head like a blow from a hammer.

“Rhaenyra,” he says, then, sharply in a tone that he knows he’ll regret later, “stop that.” 

She pauses, both because of the tone he’s taken and because he hardly ever addresses her as simply ‘Rhaenyra.’

 Their walk grinds to a halt. 

“Stop what?” she asks. There is something in her voice – a softness not at all connected to gentleness – that should send alarm bells sounding to him. He will chide himself for not picking up on these queues of her building indignation later. But for now, he is too distraught. 

“I am grown,” he says, “I do not need you to treat me like one of your sons, not when you sat at my feet when you yourself were a girl. I am the Lord Commander of your father’s Kingsguard, and your sworn shield besides. Do not – do not look at me as if I am a fragile flower about to blow in the wind.” 

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrow to slits. “Is that what this is about, Ser Criston?” she demands. “Is your pride wounded by my consideration of all things?”

Some of his anger leaves him at the hurt in her tone, interlaced with anger. “Do not twist my words, Rhaenyra,” he says warily, “you and I both know that that is not what I meant.” 

“What did you mean then, ser?” she asks, and he is left with no way to answer her. How can he tell her that deep down in his bones, he is afraid? Even more, terrified that he has fallen in her eyes, that he has lost her respect and her esteem? That now she only sees him as some wretched creature, fallen from his pedestal? 

She scoffs when he does not answer her. “Mayhaps next time I choose to walk the beach,” she says, “I will bring Ser Lorent with me instead.” 

With that she is stalking back to the Hightower, burning at the brim from her wounded pride. She feels spurned, Criston realizes, and regret tastes bitter in his mouth. He curses himself and runs a hand through his hair, but tries to look unruffled. No one heard their conversation, but he does not want to give too much away to the inhabitants of Oldtown.

He goes to her, later, when he thinks she’s had enough time to cool her temper. He knocks at her door – Ser Lorent is guarding it, which against his will brings forth a sardonic twist of his lips – and waits with bated breath for her reply. 

“Who is it, Ser Lorent?” she asks. There is a coolness in her tone that suggests she already knows the answer, and he winces to hear it. 

“It’s me,” he says. 

A beat of silence passes. 

Ser Lorent sends him a look , half pitying and half “what in the hells did you do to make her upset?” 

Criston will find a suitable chastisement for his nosiness later. 

More silence passes, and for a long, dreadful moment he thinks that she’ll bar him entry. 

Then: “Enter, Ser Criston,” Rhaenyra says. He resists the urge to heave a sigh of relief and pushes the door open. 

Rhaenyra is not waiting for her in the main room to her chambers, but instead a little room to the side. Good. It will provide them with a little more privacy, at least. She is seated in a chair, carved of dark oak wood and draped and cushioned with fine, downy pillowing. 

Criston takes the seat across from her. He feels his chest tighten as he does so and wills it to ease. It stubbornly does not and only grows tighter instead. He shifts in his seat. Inhales deeply. Exhales deeper. 

“Decorum dictates that you should wait to sit until I invite you.” Rhaenyra’s tone is dry and aloof, but not quite as furious as it was before. 

Criston doesn’t feel like testing his luck with a smile yet. Instead, he raps his knuckles against the arms of the chair. “My apologies,” he replies. 

She stiffens at that. “For what, Ser? I don’t care one whit for the decorum of where you place your ass–” he feels a familiar wave of exasperation wash over him at the language she’s picked up over the last couple of years, from Laena, more than likely – “but what I do care about is your disregard for my concern. As if it was a hindrance to you and nothing else.” 

The tightness in his chest curls into a fist. Said fist goes drumming against his ribcage once, twice, a third time for good measure. An emotional pounding against his heart that he can’t do physically.

“Hurting you was never my intention,” he says lowly, softly. Both to prevent being overheard and because if he raises his voice anymore, he thinks it will crack.

“Then what was ?” she whisper-hisses back. 

He swallows hard. Here it is, the moment of truth. “I was afraid,” he says honestly, all too aware that as he says this he is baring a piece of his soul. “I thought that maybe you had lost your respect for me, that I was weaker, I suppose. Worse than when you’d seen me that morning.” 

Rhaenyra is quiet for a long moment. She keeps eye contact with him, her amethyst eyes blazing with something unreadable. Then, in a tone that is aggressively gentle, she says, “Do you truly think so little of yourself, Ser Criston? You taught me to be kind, to be good to my people. Why would that suddenly not apply to you? Why in the name of the Seven would I think less of you for weeping in my arms when I have wept in yours a hundred times at least? You are still the brave, noble, and great knight that I have always known.” 

Something in Criston breaks, then. Breaks and then heals over in an instant. Rhaenyra rises from her chair. She walks over to him. Mayhaps sensing that an embrace is too raw, given the circumstances that have led them to this moment, she rests her head on his shoulder instead. 

“I am not a little girl anymore, Ser Criston,” she says, “you can trust me to carry at least some of your burdens.” 

And in that moment, he knows she’s telling the truth. He reaches to stroke her hair. Then, after a second, he stands. He sets his hands on his shoulders and smiles. 

“I know,” he says, and before the words leave his mouth he also knows that he will never ask her to carry those burdens. She still loves him, still trusts him, but he cannot and will not risk another episode like this. He cannot have Rhaenyra coddling him, treating him too kindly, and then not being able to help her because he decided to be selfish and not bear his troubles as they are: his own, wholly and completely. 

“So you will trust me more now, with these things?” Rhaenyra asks. 

“Aye, princess, “I will.”

The lie is heavy on Criston’s tongue, clumsy as if it itself senses how wrong it is. 

He hates how much she brightens at his words and lets the guilt lash at him. 

It is early the next morning that he speaks with her about her behavior toward the Hightowers. She is grudgingly accepting of his advice, much to his relief – his influence hasn’t been lost either, alongside her esteem. She does insist, however, on a public oath of fealty by Lord Hightower, not in his keep, as Lord Borros and Lord Dondarrion renewed their vows, but in the streets of Oldtown, in public. 

Lord Hightower is furious but has little choice but to oblige. He kneels before Rhaenyra in the city his ancestors built, before his own people, surely howling on the inside, burning with humiliation, and Criston allows himself to feel a twisted sense of satisfaction from the sidelines. 

He can see why Rhaenyra got such a thrill out of needling him.

Chapter Text

Criston Cole must be the most bemusing, charming man Laena has ever met. She isn’t blind – her eyes can see perfectly well why the ladies at court swooned over him, why the ladies of Storm’s End did as well. He is handsome, tall and broad-shouldered in his armor of the Kingsguard. He wears his hair relatively long for a non-Valyrian man, and the midnight black strands frame his face like a lion’s mane. They bring out the green of his eyes, which in turn accentuates the symmetry of his face, his full lips and high cheekbones. 

There is a certain kind of sadness to him, as well. A solemness that clings to him, trailing after him like his white cloak. That only adds to the appeal for some, Laena figures; the fantasy of soothing the somber, dutiful Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, of coaxing a smile out of such a clearly tormented soul. Laena cannot say she blames them for that; she would be lying if she said she didn’t find his smile charming. It brings out a certain warmth from him, a gentleness that she finds entirely too attractive for reasons she can’t quite place. 

Daemon was the most beautiful man she ever laid eyes on, but Criston has his own kind of allure. Mayhaps, she thinks to herself, the idea of a forbidden fruit adds to the enticement. Laenor would have half a mind to strangle her if she let that leave her lips, but in the confines of her own mind, at least, she can be honest.  

As charming as he is, Laena has become almost frustrated with him. She would be more irritated if she actually hoped to fuck him, she supposes, and if it didn’t amuse her so much to see her flirtations going right over his head. How can one man be so oblivious, she wonders. Is he so occupied by duty that he does not stop to wonder whether or not a beautiful woman is flirting with him? Laena has been accused of being arrogant before, but knowing that she is comely stems less from arrogance and more from fact than anything else.

That should be the way she flirts with him next, she decides. She’ll ask him what he thinks of her, or something along those lines. 

Her plotting is interrupted by Vhagar’s low rumbling. She pats her on the side. Her hand might as well be a speck along the vastness of her scales. The realization makes Laena’s chest puff with pride, as it always does. The greatest dragon in the world lets Laena ride her. Her hair is still tussled by the wind from their flight, and her cheeks sting, but she smiles from ear to ear. 

Just then, she hears two sets of footsteps. The first is easily identifiable, light and graceful. It belongs to Laenor, as familiar to her as her own gait. The second is heavier, and steadier too. This is also easily identifiable, though not as familiar as Laenor’s. Laena feels her smile grow. She turns around to face her visitors. 

“Hello, brother,” she says, smiling at Laenor. Her eyes flick to the man beside him. “Hello, Ser Criston.” 

Criston inclines his head. “My lady,” he says in acknowledgment. 

“Laena,” Laenor says, mischievous, “I had a feeling we’d find you here.” 

Laena feigns a haughty sniff. “If you did not know that, at least, by now, I would question whether or not you truly loved me.” 

Criston’s laughter is low and soft. If she were a lesser woman, she would be blushing. As it stands, she only grins a little wider. He’s charming indeed. 

“You must forgive my appearance, Ser Criston,” she apologizes, “I didn’t realize I would be in such esteemed company, else I would have asked for time to clean up.” 

He cocks his head. “I didn’t think you were one to care about what you looked like after riding a dragon,” he says. 

Laena winks. “So I don’t.” Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Laenor’s expression flicker. His patience is running thin, she can feel it already. Taking a little pity on him, she adds, “Why have you come searching for me? Has Rhaenyra come searching?” 

Laenor shakes his head. “No,” he replies, “it’s your little terror of a son.” 

Laena scoffs. “‘My little terror of a son,’” she tuts, “as if your Baelon is not trailing after him and getting up into equal trouble.” 

Laenor’s glare lacks heat. He extends a hand toward her, patronizing, and she slaps it away lightly. “Alright then,” she says, “let’s reconvene with the rest of the party.” 

Jae throws his arms around her legs when she sees her. She lowers to her knees, runs her hand through his hair and presses a kiss to the crown of his head, relishing in the embrace. Soon enough, he will deem himself to be too old to run to her and will get it into his head, as all boys do, that he must be strong. And of course, a strong boy cannot race to his mother. 

“Will you take me flying on Vhagar again soon?” he asks. She pats him on the head and smiles. He is truly her son through and through, not only in his looks – she finds only traces of Daemon when she looks at him, and finds mostly herself – but in his love of flight as well. A burst of pride burns through her. 

“Of course,” she assures him, “We’ll be arriving at Highgarden soon; I’ll take you flying all you want once we get here, little one.” 

His nose wrinkles, the lines of his face going taught with indignation.

“I’m not a baby, Mama,” he says.  

She withholds the urge to laugh and cups his face instead. Cradling it in her hands, she presses a kiss to his brow. “Of course not,” she says, “my apologies, Jae.”

Suitably satisfied by her apology, he presses his face into the crook of her neck.

Before they arrive at Highgarden, Laena flirts with Criston one more time. Fine, twice. Never in front of Rhaenyra – she doesn’t know how she would take it, exactly, but she isn’t willing to risk her wrath over a bit of harmless flirting – but she doesn’t bother to hide her games from Laenor. She can sense his frustration reach a boiling point the day before they arrive at Highgarden. 

She raises an eyebrow as the door to her wheelhouse slams open, then slams shut. Jae has gone out to play with his cousins, and she’s taken the time to rest a little. Or at least that’s what she hoped to do, before someone so rudely barged into her space. 

Laenor’s expression is darker than she’s seen it in a long time. A scowl mars his face, makes his lips twist with anger and his brow knit and his eyes flash with fire. Laena clicks her tongue, unable to resist the urge to needle him a little. He’s her little brother, after all. 

“That was rude,” she says. He ignores her and practically throws himself into a nearby chair, folding his arms across his chest. She grows more serious at that. “What are you here for, Laenor?”

“You know what,” he grits out.

She takes a sip of her wine. “No, I’m not quite sure that I do.” 

His scowl only worsens. “Ser Criston,” he spits out then. 

“I wasn’t aware you had so much animosity toward your wife’s worn shield.” 

“Damn you, Laena, and listen to me. Stop this game you’re playing with him. It can only end in tears.” 

Laena stiffens at the harshness of his tone. Against her will, hurt jabs between her ribs at the way he’s phrased his words. He’s spat them out like she’s toying with Criston to hurt him, like she’s being malicious. 

“What’s the harm?” She raises an eyebrow. It’s a sloppy attempt to cover the hurt that she knows must have flashed across her face, if only for a second. “It’s not as if I’m trying to fuck him, Laenor, I have an actual brain between my ears.I just want to see how long it will take him to realize I’m flirting, that’s all.” 

Laenor lets out a hissing of breath. “It will start rumors, Laena, the kinds of rumors that will damage his reputation, and possibly Rhaenyra’s by extension. I will not have the mother of my children damaged by your recklessness.” His face softens a little, then. “And I would not have you hurt as well. Mother and Father have not asked you to remarry yet, but if such whispers start arising, they might just decide to give away your hand again.” 

Laena scoffs. “I would like to see them try. The moment they made a match for me, they know I would fly away on Vhagar and never return.”

“You would leave Jacaerys?” 

“I would bring him with me,” she replies sharply, “by the Seven Laenor, what kind of mother do you take me for?” 

To his credit, her brother does look chastised at that. “You would deny him a dragon,” he points out, “and deprive him of the greatest joy one of our people could experience.” 

Something in Laena twitches. “You’re speaking in theory,” she says, “far-off possibilities that I doubt would come from a bit of harmless flirting. If I brought him to my bed, that would be another story.” 

“Are you willing to take the risk?” Laenor pushes. 

The same thing in Laena twitches again. Wavers, and then crumbles. She lets out a deep sigh, and now it’s her turn to scowl as Laenor smiles. He knows he’s won. 

“This is for the better,” he assures her, patting at her leg. “If the flirting had gone on, what if you had fallen in love with him?” 

That is, in Laena’s experience, a non-issue. She’s never been in love before, has only come close to it once. If Daemon had lived, then maybe she could have loved him, with all of his fire and tenacity and daring. But he didn’t, and so all she felt for him was a passing fondness. As for the lovers before or after him, well, they haven’t left a particular impression one way or the other. 

“I wouldn’t have fallen in love with him,” she retorts, “honestly, Laenor, what do you take me for, a green girl?” 

Laenor shrugs. “It’s better than the alternative of him falling in love with you. If he had, and you had broken him, then we both know Rhaenyra would have broken you with a vengeance. No one, not even he, would have been able to stop her.” 

Laena grows more solemn at that. “I would have never hurt him,” she says, “I do consider him a friend, Laenor. And you know I don’t hurt my friends.” 

Laenor sighs. “Maybe,” he says, “but maybe not. Either way, it’s no longer an issue. Go pursue a landless knight if you’re bored, or a handmaiden. Just keep your eyes away from Ser Criston.” 

It’s a suggestion, not a command – he knows better than to command anything of her – and she thinks she’ll take it. 

They arrive at Highgarden not two days later. Within the first five hours, Laena is convinced that Lord Tyrell’s sister is sweet on her. She can scarcely keep her eyes off of her, and she blushes prettily whenever their gazes meet.

She’s no low-ranking handmaiden, and no one will be overly pleased if Laena pays her attention, but she’s already agreed to one compromise; now, she’ll do what she wants. 

Laena smirks and asks her if she’s ever seen a dragon up close. 

“I haven’t, my lady,” she admits. 

Laena tuts. “We’ll have to fix that, then.” 

She leaves the politics up to Rhaenyra and Laenor, as always, along with Ser Criston, and whisks this pretty flower away to court her. She knows that she can; she’s practically wrapped around her finger already. Laena brings her to her bed, all gallant and gentle, and her eyes are brown, not green, but they’re warm and kind and that’s close enough to intoxicate Laena. She sets Criston Cole out of her mind. She can be reckless, sometimes, but she has no intention of breaking her promise to Laenor. 

(She will break her promise, eventually, and fall in love with Cole. Fall more than in love. But for now, there is a beautiful lover in her arms, and, unaware of what the future holds, she drifts off to sleep, smug and satisfied)

Chapter Text

At four-and-twenty, Arthur Tyrell is a young man, older than Rhaenyra by less than half of a decade. He’s handsome, too, with warm brown eyes, tumbling brown curls and a neatly trimmed beard to go with a pleasant, heart-shaped face. As they walk through the gardens of his seat of power, he points out specific flowers to Rhaenyra and Laenor, naming them and what their purpose is. The fine silks he wears are fine and expertly embroidered, the sigil of House Tyrell placed at his left breast, above his heart. 

This, Criston thinks to himself, is a man who is used to getting what he wants. Who perhaps has always gotten what he wants. One should always be wary when negotiating with such a kind; they can be quite a thorn in your side. 

“Highgarden is quite beautiful, my lord,” Laenor says, and Lord Arthur beams. 

“Yes,” he says, “I do agree. It is the second most precious thing in my life.” 

“And the first?” Rhaenyra asks. 

“My daughter, the Lady Alysanne.” 

Rhaenyra’s own mouth twitches at that. “Ah,” she says, “yes, I would agree with you there, my lord. Nothing sits in your heart quite the way your children do.” 

Lord Arthur hums. Criston tries not to stare too hard at him; he already knows where this is going. Judging by the way Rhaenyra’s gaze has sharpened ever-so-slightly, so does she. 

To Criston’s surprise, Lord Arthur turns to him.

“I had hoped for a son, ser,” he says, “to one day train under you. Mayhaps in time that could still happen.” 

Between Aemond, Borros Baratheon’s future son, and possibly Jacaerys as well, Criston will not have the time for another squire. Still, he smiles pleasantly, very wisely doesn’t mention this, and says, “You honor me, my lord.” 

Lord Arthur pats him on the shoulder. “I speak only the truth, good ser. You are the most famous knight in the Seven Kingdoms, after all, and the Lord Commander of His Grace’s Kingsguard. It is every man’s dream to have a son trained by you.” 

Another plant catches Lord Arthur’s eye. He makes a cheerful noise and reaches for its flower. It is a soft yet vibrant lilac, and he twirls it between his thumb and index finger. “The bellflower,” he says, “‘tis a common type of flower, princess, and I’m sure you’ve both seen and heard of it before. I have a soft spot for it despite its commonness, nonetheless. Last year, on Alysanne’s name day, she demanded a flower crown made of these things, and ever since they have had a special place in my heart.” 

Ah– 

Criston can sense it, this is where the transition to politicking will begin. 

“Mayhaps,” Lord Arthur says breezily, “she might have another crown, in time.” 

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrow. Laenor’s smile grows a bit more tense. 

This, Criston thinks to himself, might be a problem. 

“You are bold, my lord,” comes Laenor’s wry reply. 

Lord Arthur’s smile turns a little sharper, the pretense of unworried cheer straining at the edges. He lets the bellflower drop to the ground. 

“I would hardly count it as boldness when you have come to Highgarden to gain my support. Would you?” 

Rhaenyra has gone to twist at her rings, and he thinks he catches a muscle in her cheek twitch. Still, she maintains a pleasant smile. Pride settles warmly in Criston’s chest. 

“Fine then,” she says, “let us discuss politics.” 

With all pretenses of a pleasant walk gone, Lord Arthur stops walking. He turns to face both Laenor and Rhaenyra fully, face on. 

“I want a prince for my daughter,” he says. “Prince Baelon is already betrothed, I have been made aware, to Lord Borros’ Lady Maris. That leaves Prince Aemon free to wed still, however.” 

A beat of silence passes. 

“I’m afraid that might not be possible, my lord,” Rhaenyra says. 

Lord Arthur’s smile flickers. “However so?” 

“We have already begun discussions for Aemon’s hand,” Laenor replies. 

“Discussions are not finalities.” The Lord of Highgarden is still smiling with his mouth, but not with his eyes, as he was ten minutes ago. Criston finds that he dislikes him. Strongly. “Think of it,” he pushes, “my daughter is a clever, happy girl. The Seven Kingdoms could have a second Good Queen Alysanne.” 

Rhaenyra shakes her head, firm but not hostile. 

“There are many things I am willing to negotiate on, my lord, but this is not one of them.” 

Lord Arthur’s eyes practically turn to slits. He clasps his hand behind his back, his smile growing too wide to be genuine. “Go on,” he says, “tell me what you have to offer, then, that would be worth my support, princess.” 

There is a curtness to his tone that makes Criston want to punch him across the face. He resists the urge to do so and wonders if Rhaenyra’s temper has rubbed off on him more than he thought. 

Rhaenyra’s smile grows stiff. Her velvet mask is slipping, the steel beneath unveiling itself. “I would remind you, my lord,” she says softly, “that I am the Princess of Dragonstone and my father’s chosen heir. You swore an oath to me when he first made his intentions known. You already owe me loyalty.”

Lord Arthur shrugs easily. “One could argue that the vows I made as a boy, before my majority, hold no weight now. That I should not be held down by them any longer.”

“One,” Rhaenyra replies, and now her voice borders carefully on a snarl, “would be wrong in making such an assumption. And I did not think you would be over eager to subscribe to the Hightowers’ claims, my lord, given your position.”  

Laenor takes a step closer to her. He smiles at Lord Arthur, though the expression is tinged by wariness. “There is no need for ugliness,” he says, “come, why don’t we discuss how we can help each other?” 

Lord Arthur is not affected by his attempts at peacemaking. He stares Rhaenyra dead in the eyes. “My position , princess?” 

Rhaenyra hums. “We all know of your house’s… delicate status. I would have thought you would be the first to leap at a chance to curb the ambitions of House Hightower. Who knows what they could do, with my brother Aegon on the throne? He is a sweet child, but his mother is certainly not. She would have her son’s ear, and of course, she would want to further the ambitions of her family…” 

Lord Arthur’s eye begins to twitch. Laenor looks very much as if he would rather not be here. Neither of them matters, though. Criston’s attention rests solely on Rhaenyra as he silently wills her to strike the balance between an open hand and a closed fist.

“Having a sitting queen for an ally, of course, would be much more advantageous than a hostile Hightower dowager,” she continues, and he has to fight the smile about to spread across his face. “Would it not, my lord?” 

Lord Arthur looks as if he’s swallowed a lemon. Then, almost grudgingly, a smile begins to tug at his mouth. He’s still scowling, so it looks like more of a grimace than anything else. 

“You have some cheek,” he says, “to come to my seat and threaten me with the machinations of my own vassals.” 

Rhaenyra lifts her chin proudly. “Is it a threat if it’s true? Support me and I will help you. Do not, and you only make your enemy stronger.” 

Lord Arthur hums. Looks at the sky and around the gardens. Makes her wait for an answer. Then, slowly, he says, “I want my sister – the younger one, not the elder – as your lady-in-waiting. She will be given respects and honors and you will connect her to suitable men who might marry her. When the time comes, my daughter Alysanne will join your court as well. I’ll have a pick for your Small Council as well – the Master of Coin will do fine. And lastly: when you take the throne, you will crack down on those Hightower bastards like the roaches they are.” 

Criston feels a surge of relief. These are acceptable terms, considering the circumstances. Two ladies-in-waiting and sternness with a house that seeks to usurp her is a good deal. The Master of Coin is the only potential issue, but Lord Arthur is a snake, not a fool. He will appoint someone competent, even if they will have his interests in mind. 

Rhaenyra and Laenor glance at each other for a long second. Then Rhaenyra’s eyes find Criston’s. She doesn’t search for approval – but something in his expression seems to ease the tense set of her shoulders. 

“Done,” she says, and Lord Arthur’s responding smile is thin. 

He presses a kiss to the back of her hand, accompanied by a shallow bow. 

“I look forward to us aiding each other in our future endeavors, princess,” he replies. 

Rhaenyra smiles. “As do I.” 

“I fucking hate him,” Rhaenyra complains later, stalking to Syrax for a flight, “what a bloody rat of a man.” 

Criston laughs, deeply and truly. “I don’t blame you,” he says, “luckily you’ve gotten what you wanted from him, and you’ll be leaving soon.” 

That doesn’t soothe her in the least. “I’ll still have to deal with him when I’m queen. And it will be far worse then, no doubt.” 

“Such is the price of politics.” 

Rhaenyra scoffs and readies Syrax’s chains and saddle, then clambers on her back. 

“The things I do to get on a lord’s good side,” she says, “thank the gods I have a dragon, otherwise it wouldn’t be worth it, this Targaryen business. If he annoys me too much, I can always just burn him at least.” Criston gives her a look. She feigns innocence. “What? I’m just telling the truth.” 

He shakes his head, partly because he’s exasperated and partly to hide his smile. 

“Go on your flight, princess. I’ll be waiting for you when you land.” 

She nods, a little more solemn. “I know you will,” she says, “you always do.” 

And with that, she’s shooting into the skies. Criston watches her go, pride and amusement intertwining as he finally allows himself to smile at her antics.

Chapter Text

There is blood in Criston’s eyes. It’s slipped beneath his helm, somehow, and blurs his vision at the edges. That won’t be enough to stop Criston, though. He shifts the morningstar in his right hand and braces the shield in his left hand as another knight slashes at him with his sword. He blocks the blow easily and pivots. His morningstar goes singing through the hair and strikes at his opponent’s helm. He goes crumpling to the ground, knocked unconscious, and the crowd roars as he’s dragged off to the side. 

Criston hasn’t fought in a melee in a while. He is glad to know that his skills are as sharp as ever. Years of non-stop sparring will keep a man sharp, he supposes. He scans the area quickly. Of the seventy competitors they started with, there must be twenty left, including himself. He should try to finish this as soon as possible. At five-and-thirty, he’s not old . He takes good care of himself and most would argue that he’s still worthy of his title as the best fighter in the realm. But some of the men here are younger, more durable in the way someone in their early twenties is, and he’s lost that benefit. 

There’s a knight favoring one leg more than the other. It’s barely visible, but it is there. Criston stalks toward him. He would normally feel a flickering of pity, some kind of guilt for going after someone already weakened. But he’s angry and vindictive, and he has a point to prove. The man visibly flinches when he sees Criston approach but nothing stirs in his chest. No semblance of hesitation, just pure determination. Spite solidifies when he spots the sigil of House Lannister on his breastplate. Lord Jason will regret not paying Rhaenyra the respect she is due. His own vassals were more respectful than him when she stopped to visit. 

He aims a blow at his side, at his shoulder, at his arm. His sword slips from his hands and he falls to the ground. Criston stands over him, morningstar raised above his head. 

“Yield,” he growls. 

“I yield,” the knight gasps, “I yield.” 

Criston smiles grimly. That’s one down. Now just eighteen more to go. 

There’s a strange kind of… comfort in battle. Criston won’t try to claim that it’s beautiful, because it’s not. It’s bloody and brutal and ugly, and it probably says something about him that he gets something close to a thrill out of it. Because as awful as it can be, there’s a certain kind of satisfaction he gets from the aching of his muscles, from the burning of his lungs and the clanging of steel. He can’t exactly say why – because he’s good at it, perhaps, but it feels like more than that. 

As Criston carves through his remaining opponents, a sense of nostalgia overtakes him. Ser Harrold Westerling’s face flashes across his mind. He owes that man everything, for helping him regain his talents in fighting. They were useless when they were dormant, buried beneath the fragmentation of his memories. He brought them out again, made Criston part of who he is now. 

He slams his shield into another knight and practically hears Gwayne laughing.

“Good hit, Cole,” he says in his mind, and suddenly Criston misses him more than ever. It’s been a long time since he last spoke to Gwayne outside of the occasional polite conversation. Their paths have thoroughly split. He can only hope that they rejoin at some point, but well, how likely can that be, given the circumstances? 

Another man squares up against him, and he casts the thought out of his mind. There are more important things at hand at the present moment. 

And then, there were two. 

One last man stands before Criston. His armor is gold – or painted with gold, at least, he doubts he’s wearing actual golden plate – and crimson, with his helm fashioned with the likeness of a lion. A snarling lion has been engraved into both the blade of his axe and his shield. Criston has seen him without his armor, saw him laughing with his cousin, the great Lord of Lannister, when Jason had stated that unfortunately, he wouldn’t be participating in the melee as his line of succession was not yet secure – he had only daughters, after all. 

There had been other things, too, other signs of disrespect, but that had been the straw that broke the camel's back. Rhaenyra had narrowed her eyes, and said to Criston, in the middle of Casterly Rock’s great hall, “Win for me, Ser Criston. Lord Jason forgets himself.” 

She had brought Syrax, Vhagar and Seasmoke closer to Casterly Rock, then, to remind Lord Jason of his place. 

Criston has half a mind to charge at Tybalt Lannister straight away, but he doesn’t. Adrenaline can be good, but anger will only cloud his judgment. Instead, he waits and lets the younger man come to him. 

Ser Tybalt prowls toward him, energetic. He has all the eagerness of a young man jumping to prove himself, Criston thinks. It is a weakness, something to be easily exploited, and it will be his downfall. 

The first slice of the axe comes earlier than he expected. He has the time to duck but decides to block the parry with his shield instead. He wants to see just how much force Ser Tybalt throws behind his strikes. 

He finds his answer as pain lances up his arm. He hisses sharply, his grip tightening on his shield. A lot of force, then. He’ll have to end this fight soon unless he wants to spend the rest of his energy dodging and searching for a counterattack. 

Criston allows his shoulders to sag ever so slightly. He drops his left arm, the one holding his shield, a little. A grin spreads beneath his helm as Ser Tybalt perks up at these apparent signs of weakness. Emboldened, he steps forward and swings at him again. Criston spins away, making sure that his foot drags across the ground. If he can make it look like he’s limping, all the better. 

They go on like that, dancing back and forth, and it grows glaringly obvious to both Ser Tybalt and everyone watching that Criston is on the back foot. As he dodges again, letting his movements be as sluggish as possible without being struck too badly, he sees Rhaenyra sitting in the box of honor stiffly. She scowls at the melee grounds, twisting the rings on her fingers furiously. 

“Come on,” he sees her mouth, “win.” 

He wants to tell her that he will, but resists the urge to do so. 

His actions will show that soon enough. 

After another minute or so, Criston seizes his chance. Ser Tybalt, overambitious and cocky now too, throws too much of his weight into an attack and leaves an opening for him to slip through. Criston pounces. He unleashes a flurry of fast-paced, furious blows that splinters his shield into pieces. He attacks again, his own shield raised this time, and uses its weight to give him extra leverage. He strikes at where Ser Tybalt’s right forearm connects with his elbow. In the same breath, he pulls back and strikes again, and again, and again. His opponent tries to gather himself, snarling as he swings at his head, but the element of surprise is on Criston’s side. 

He knocks Ser Tybalt down and says, “Yield.” 

He’s met with a refusal and an attempt to struggle so he slams his morningstar into his chest and beats him bloody until a weak surrender is wheezed past his lips.

The crowd practically deafens him, that’s how loudly they cheer. Well, everyone except for the Lannisters, though a few of them force smiles. 

Criston backs away from him, his chest and shoulders heaving. He removes his helmet and the screams only grow louder. He’s sure he looks a mess, with his sweat-slicked hair, early signs of bruising, and bloody smile from an unfortunate blow he took earlier. It’s taking everything he has not to slump from exhaustion and agony both because by the fucking gods he’s hurting all over. 

Lord Jason is sour-faced as he presents him with the victor’s circlet, not quite a crown yet not quite not. The crowd holds its breath. It’s as if everyone knows what he’s going to do already, but they can’t help the anticipation regardless. 

Criston approaches Rhaenyra slowly, with an ease that he doesn’t feel. Impatience beats at his chest like a drum, but he needs to get this particular piece of theatrics right.

“Princess,” he says, loudly and clearly for all to hear, “allow me to present you with the victor’s circlet.” 

She grins widely. “You honor me, Ser Criston.” 

“Think of it as practice,” he says slightly, “for the crown that you’ll actually wear in the future.” He sets the circlet on her head, then, and feels it fit into place along her brow. He falls to one knee before her. “A beautiful circlet,” he says, “for a future queen whose reign will be just as golden.” 

It’s a blatant statement, an unspoken challenge for anyone to say otherwise. No one breathes a word. The look on Jason Lannister’s face is almost worth the disrespect from earlier, especially as, in the distance, Syrax roars. 

“Did you see Lord Jason?” Rhaenyra laughs later, when they’re gone from Casterly Rock and the sting of his disrespect has waned. “He looked so stupid, just standing there gaping. It’s what he gets, for the stunts he pulled.” 

Criston smiles wryly. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have antagonized him,” he sighs, waiting for her reaction, “now we’ll never get him onside.” 

She snorts. “We’ll never get him onside regardless,” she replies, taking a bite of her apple. Her countenance grows more grim. “There are some we’ll never get onside regardless of their rekindled oaths, and he’s one of them. Why risk looking weak trying to appease them?” 

Criston pauses. Smiles. “Well spoken, princess,” he says, and she grins, her chest puffing with pride. 

“I had a good teacher,” she says.

He ruffles her hair at that and she protests only mildly. 

“You’ve kept up writing to Lady Jeyne since we left for the tour?” he asks. 

She nods. “Aye, even if it’s harder to stay in contact nowadays with all the traveling.” 

He makes a noise of approval. “Good. Make sure that you stay in contact no matter what, even as we pass through the Riverlands. Don’t let up now that we’re in the final stretch.” 

“I will,” she swears, and he smiles. 

They’ve made good progress on their tour so far, the Lannisters aside. Now they just need to keep it up.

Chapter Text

When Harwin was younger, he never much understood the appeal of having children, outside of the obligation of an heir. They were loud little creatures, perfectly fine to deal with in short periods of time, but entirely too exhausting outside of that. Now, as he throws his son up in the air, he finally understands. 

Larys is the most perfect child Harwin has ever met. At nearly a year old, he’s started to grow into his features. He has Harwin’s curly brown hair and pug nose, which looks adorable on his little face, and some of his late uncle’s features as well, though these are harder to trace. Every time Harwin notices something of his brother-Larys in his son-Larys, part of him wants to smile and part of him wants to weep. 

Larys giggles as Harwin tosses him up again. He doesn’t throw him high – barely lets him slip out of his arms – but for a babe his age, he might as well be throwing up to the Hightower, or the Wall.

“If you drop our son, husband,” Sabitha’s voice calls, “you will not live to regret it.” 

She’s leaning against the doorframe of the nursery, her fingers toying idly at the hilt of the envelope she spins between her fingers. Her tone is light, almost playful but not quite. There is a sharpness to the smile she casts Harwin’s way that tells him she means what she’s saying. He’s half-amused and half-insulted.

Larys brightens at the sound of his mother’s voice and begins squirming in his arms. Sabitha’s smile grows warmer at that.  She rises from her leaning position and walks over to press a kiss to his brow. As he giggles with delight, her face melts with a softness that Harwin has never seen her show to anyone else.

“I wouldn’t have dropped him,” he says belatedly, and Sabitha hums with amusement. 

“I know,” is all she says.

He smiles and gestures to the envelope. “What’s that?” he asks. 

Sabitha’s smile is sharp again. “A letter from the Princess of Dragonstone, if you can believe it.” 

“Are you excited,” Harwin asks later, when preparations for Princess Rhaenyra’s arrival are in full swing. 

Sabitha snorts. “No,” she says dryly, “it’s more of a burden than I want to take on, entertaining royalty at Harrenhal. But she’s on her way, and I’ve a castle to attend to, so here we are.” 

Harwin laughs. “Most ladies would be honored to host the future queen,” he points out.

Sabitha’s shoulder dips into a shrug. “I don’t want to hear any complaints now,” she says, “you knew who I was when you married me.” 

Harwin remembers the day they met when he was sulking on his way back to Harrenhal and she was insulting some poor, sniveling little lordling to within an inch of his life. She hadn’t been a proper lady then, with the curses that spilled from her mouth, nor with the man’s favorite dalliance leaning against her arm.  

No, she hadn’t seemed proper at all. But she’d seemed like good company and lightened his mood, and he’d thought that maybe Harrenhal would be less boring with someone like her around.

Harwin grins now like he grinned then and says, “I suppose I did.” 

Sabitha snorts and takes a sip of her wine. She sets the glass back down on the stable and taps the hilt of her dagger against the table. “Tell me about Princess Rhaenyra,” she says, “I’ve never met her.” 

Harwin scratches his chin. “I didn’t know her all that well,” he admits. “My father is, of course, the Hand, and one of her strongest supporters, but I never really took an interest in the politicking of the capital. That was more Larys’ area than mine.” 

Sabitha sips at her wine again. “Surely there’s something you can tell me.” 

Foolishly and without thinking, he says, “Well she was beautiful, of course, but–” 

Her shoulders begin to shake with laughter. “Only you,” she chokes out through her amusement, “could possibly think that telling your wife another woman is beautiful is a good thing.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “Well it’s not like you care, is it?” 

Her mouth twitches. She dips her head in acquiescence. “No, I suppose not.” After a second she adds, “Though that’s not the information I wanted. I wanted personality, temperament, and her relationships with the others in her retinue. If I’m to be a hostess, I’ll be a damn good one.” 

Harwin purses his lips. “She’s close with Ser Criston Cole, for one.” 

“The Lord Commander?” Sabitha nods. “Yes, I’ve heard that before. They’re practically joined at the hip if you listen to the gossip. Some have half a mind – or more than half – that he’s warming her bed.” 

Harwin winces. “There were… rumors, at first, that he was the father of Prince Aemon and Prince Baelon,” he says. “At least, before they were introduced to court and everyone saw how much Prince Aemon took after Ser Laenor. But I wouldn’t say that they were very widely believed.” 

Sabitha raises an eyebrow. “They weren’t? I find it hard to believe that court wouldn’t be abuzz with rumors like that.” 

Harwin shrugs. “He’s been in her life since she was a little girl,” he says, “since she was all of seven.” 

“As if that’s stopped grasping, ambitious lickspittles before,” she quips back. 

He shakes his head. “You don’t understand,” he says. “I wasn’t close with either of them, but even I could tell that the bond they share isn’t one of lovers. If anything, it’s–” 

He hesitates. Taps his fingers against the table. 

“It’s what?” she pushes. 

“Sometimes,” he says carefully, “it felt like she turned to him for guidance more than she turned to the king.” 

Sabitha frowns. “What are you saying?” she asks. “That the king’s own Lord Commander is more of a father to his heir than him himself?” 

Harwin shrugs again. He’s getting a little sick of making the same movement. “Like I said, I didn’t know either of them that well. I can’t say for certain.” 

“But you think so?” she asks. He nods and she hums. “Interesting.” 

Princess Rhaenyra is even more beautiful than Harwin remembered. He hasn’t seen her in two, almost three years, and in that time she’s grown positively radiant. There’s a healthy pallor to her skin, and her eyes are filled with a kind of vibrance that draws you in. Her frame is fuller than it was the last time he saw her. Carrying a child – or children in this case, he supposes – will do that to a woman, he knows. He’s seen it firsthand with Sabitha. Still, the princess can hardly be called fat. Her weight has filled out in all the right places. In her hips, in her bre–

He works very hard to try not to ogle as he greets her. 

“Princess,” he calls out, raising his voice so that she might hear him atop of Syrax, “welcome to Harrenhal.” 

The smile that she returns is warm. “Thank you, Ser Harwin,” she says animatedly, “it’s an honor to be here. I’ve wanted to visit for a long time.” 

She slides off of her great beast. Ser Criston extends an arm to help her down. His hold is gentle and secure in a way that Harwin always thought a little strange before. His conversation with Sabitha flashes across his mind and suddenly, he recognizes it for what it is. 

Rhaenyra walks to him and he bows at the waist. Her hand extends toward him and he takes it in his own, pressing a kiss to the back of it. When he looks back up, he thinks her smile is a little wider. But maybe that is just wishful thinking on his part; what man wouldn’t want to think a beautiful woman is smiling wider now that he’s been so gallant? 

Rising, he gestures to Sabitha. “Princess, this is my wife, the Lady Sabitha.”

“Princess.” Sabitha’s gesture is some odd cross between a bow and a curtsy. “It’s an honor to meet you at last.” 

Their eyes meet for a long moment. They must both like what they see of each other – at least for now – because they exchange smiles. Harwin isn’t sure about Rhaenyra, but he knows that Sabitha won’t play pretend for someone she doesn’t like. The fact that she does seem to like Rhaenyra speaks volumes. 

Harwin looks at her and feels his respect for her grow. 

“Harrenhal is beautiful,” Rhaenyra says over dinner. 

Harwin laughs. “You don’t have to pretend to love the place, princess,” he says, “I don’t even like it half the time.” 

She shakes her head. “No,” she says, “I mean it, truly. There’s something so devastating about its terribleness.” 

Harwin thinks of its melted towers and rumored curse and thinks that if anyone could love a place like this, it’s a dragon rider. Then he thinks of the rivers he grew up swimming in and the forests he hunted in and grudgingly admits to himself that even if he doesn’t particularly fancy the keep, it’s a nice enough place. He’s just bitter because his father sent him back here with no warning. 

(He’s bitter for Larys too, he thinks. Gods know he appreciated the place more than Harwin ever did.) 

He winks easily, trying to use charm to distract himself. “Perhaps we can provide a tour tomorrow,” he suggests. 

Rhaenyra grins. “I would like that.” 

Harwin grins back and pretends like he can’t feel Sabitha’s eyes drilling a hole into the side of his head. 

The next day, they take a walk around the castle grounds. Rhaenyra’s eyes are wide with fascination, and she asks constant questions about everything, from the melted towers to the way certain additions are located. 

Harwin answers as best as he can but is a little embarrassed to admit that he doesn’t know the keep enough to address all of her questions. She seems to sense this and changes tactics, trading questions for comments. He appreciates this. 

Eventually they wander to the training yards and he grins. “This is my favorite place in the entire keep,” he says proudly. “We’ve set out to fix it extensively in the last few years.” 

Rhaenyra looks at the well-kept grass, the array of gleaming weapons, the race course off to the side. She regards it with an admiration that makes him stand a little straighter. 

“Who improved it to this extent?” she asks. 

His chest puffs out a little. “I did.” 

She turns to him then, assessing him. “You’ve done well, Ser,” she says. “Might I have the honor of seeing you in action?” 

Harwin knows that his grin is entirely too arrogant. “Princess,” he says lightly, “I thought you’d never ask.” 

Every knight in the training yards is already at attention, awed by the presence of a princess. His eyes scan over them quickly. He chooses the largest, brawniest one and squares off against him, twirling his weapon in his hands with a flare that takes him by surprise. 

He wins, because of course he does. He’s bloody Harwin “Breakbones” Strong, the strongest man in the realm. It’s not an easy fight, but then again, he never intended for it to be. He would never have chosen an easy opponent. That would be an insult to Rhaenyra, who asked to see a fight expecting it would be a good one, and to Sabitha, who would look like she had a weakling for a husband, and to him as well of course. He’s no craven. 

Rhaenyra claps enthusiastically at his victory. “Well fought, Ser,” she cheers. 

He bows, feeling on top of the world. “Thank you, Princess.” 

“Perhaps you could spar against Ser Criston sometime,” she suggests. 

Ser Criston makes a noise of protest. There is something pinched about his expression that makes Harwin frown internally. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, princess,” he says. 

She frowns at him. “Whyever not?” 

He smiles thinly. “I’m an old man now. I can’t compete with the young men.” 

“‘An old man?’” Harwin repeats, laughing. “Ser Criston, you just embarrassed the Lannisters at their own seat of Casterly Rock. You’re anything but an old man.” 

Rhaenyra rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “That’s what I’ve been telling him,” she says. “For some reason, he refuses to believe it.” 

“That reminds me of my father,” Harwin replies. He feels his smile growing toothy. “He insists that he’s elderly now, long past his prime. And yet he’s the best Hand of the King to grace the realm since Septon Barth, if you ask me.” 

Rhaenyra feigns outrage. “Ser Harwin,” she tisks, “are you forgetting my grandfather, Prince Baelon?” 

Harwin blinks. Then he flushes. “Forgive me, princess,” he says, “I think of him as an heir first, then a Hand.” 

She waves dismissively. “I was merely japing, Ser.” Her look grows a little more genuine. “For what it’s worth, I agree with you.” 

Harwin feels a burst of pride for his father and appreciation for her. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ser Criston’s eyes narrow a little. Sabitha makes a noise of contemplation and casts him a look that says they’ll be talking about this later. 

“You want to fuck her,” Sabitha says later, lounging in his chambers. 

Harwin chokes on his drink. “What?” 

She levels him with an unimpressed look. “You don’t have to feign ignorance with me, husband. We both know we’ve hardly been faithful to each other’s beds.” 

“I wasn’t feigning ignorance,” he defends, “you just decided to try and choke me to death.” 

Amusement flickers behind her eyes. “My apologies,” she says. She does not sound particularly apologetic by any means. He scowls at her. “So,” she continues, “do you want to fuck her or not?” 

Harwin mumbles out a grudging, “I suppose I do.” 

She makes a noise of sympathy. “I can’t say I blame you. If I thought I had a chance, I’d be trying to fuck her too.” 

He laughs. “Seven Hells, Sabitha.” 

“What?” she protests. “I’m only speaking the truth.” A beat of silence. “For what it’s worth, I think she wants you too.” 

He feels like a boy when he says, “What makes you say that?” 

She hums. “Let’s just say she looked more than impressed as you were brutalizing that poor knight.” 

Harwin grins. “You think so?” 

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t make me say it again, Harwin. Now get ready for bed before I decide that I won’t help you get her.” 

He bursts out in laughter. 

Harwin doesn’t bed Rhaenyra before she departs from Harrenhal, but then again, he wasn’t expecting to. It’s only been a few days since this newfound attraction started, after all. 

She surprises him, however, with the offer she makes. “Would you ever consider returning to King’s Landing, Ser?” she asks. 

He pauses. “Aye,” he admits, “I miss the capital, for all of its flaws.” 

She hums. “I find the current commander of the City Watch to be too… partial to the queen and her party,” she says. “When I return from my tour, with all of my momentum behind me, I will try to convince my father to replace him. It could only do us both good.” 

Harwin thinks he knows where this is going. “Are you offering me what I think you are?” he asks. Tries to keep his voice soft and undemanding. 

She swirls the wine in her cup. “You are the son of one of my greatest supporters,” she says, “and an impressive warrior in your prime. I could think of no better commander to take control of the City Watch.” 

His father will not like this, Harwin thinks. He was determined that he return to Harrenhal after Larys’ death, to get out of the city and back to their seat. But he’ll understand when he hears what a prominent position he’s been offered, and Harwin is not a green boy. He’s a man grown with a son of his own, and he can make decisions for himself. 

“Princess,” he says, “I’d be honored.” 

Rhaenyra smiles. “Excellent.”

Chapter Text

Criston loathes the Eyrie, even more than he did Storm’s End. He’s always had an issue with heights, now that he thinks of it, and the thought of spending days upon days in a castle so high that it has a door to drop people out of makes him feel sick to his stomach. Still, he tries to keep his face blank as Rhaenyra greets Lady Jeyne; it will not do for his distress to show. 

“Cousin,” Rhaenyra says, “it’s been too long since we last saw one another.” 

The look that Lady Jeyne casts her way is wane, but warm. “I am inclined to agree,  princess. Why, it seems the last time we met you were only a little girl.” 

“A little girl?” Rhaenyra laughs. “Jeyne, you are only three years my senior; you are not so old that I had to sit at your knee.” 

“You flatter me, princess.” 

Rhaenyra clicks her tongue. “None of that,” she says, “we are kinswomen, you and I. My lady mother was your aunt, the sister of your lord father. I would ask that you simply call me by my name.” 

Lady Jeyne’s lips twitch. “Very well, Rhaenyra,” she acquiesces. “Welcome to the Eyrie.” 

They’re guided into the castle. 

As they climb higher and higher, Criston’s hand twitches in an instinctual attempt to grab at the hilt of his sword. He swallows hard and pushes down his nervosity. 

“Tell me,” Rhaenyra says over supper, “how have you fared, since the last time I saw you? I have written to you, it is true, but letters are no proper replacement for seeing someone in the flesh.” 

Lady Jeyne bites into her ham. “I have been well enough,” she says, “in terms of my own self at least. Things have been quiet ever since I had Arnold imprisoned, the traitorous little bastard.” 

Rhaenyra’s expression, so light a second ago, darkens now. “It is my greatest regret that I could not come to aid you, cousin,” she says softly. “By the time news had reached King’s Landing, Ser Arnold had already been imprisoned in the Sky Cells.” 

Lady Jeyne sighs. Something in her face looks tired all of a sudden. Beside her, Lady Jessamyn Redford reaches for her hand. She squeezes it once, twice, and Lady Jeyne squeezes back before letting go. Criston watches as Rhaenyra’s eyes track the movement. An understanding flashes behind her eyes as she takes a sip of her wine. 

“What’s done is done,” Lady Jeyne replies, “though I do appreciate your sympathies, Rhaenyra. As it stands, the Vale still faces pressing issues at this present date.” 

Rhaenyra frowns. “And such matters are?” 

This time, it’s Lady Jessamyn who speaks. Her blue eyes flash fiercely as she wraps a lock of fiery hair around her finger.  “The Mountain Clans are getting bold,” she says, “they’ve been raiding villages by the Mountains of the Moon more and more often, and it’s causing havoc.” 

“My bannermen have been retaliating,” Lady Jeyne adds, “but the savages are undeterred. They must sense the changing in the seasons as everyone else has; fall will be upon us soon, and a harsh winter after. Mayhaps they wish to be prepared.” 

Criston hides his wince at the label she’s put on them. This is Westeros, he knows, with none of the ethics or the morality of the 21st century he once lived in. It does not surprise him anymore to hear such talk – such dehumanization – but that does not mean he has to like it. 

Rhaenyra’s eyes go wide. “How bad has the damage been?” 

“Bad enough,” Lady Jeyne says grimly. “Several will starve this winter, and many more if we do not stop them. I have enough in my stores to appease the smallfolk thus far, should they need it when winter comes. But my stores will not last forever.” 

Criston’s charge shakes her head. “I don’t understand,” she says, “I understood there were raids, but this is the first time I’m hearing of something quite so awful. How is that possible?” 

Lady Jeyne’s stare is grim. “We of the Vale do not like to look weak,” she says simply, “we will not go groveling to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms to put them down. Such a request would not be feasible anyhow.

“We have a plan,” she continues, “to put them down. I’ve had scouts tracking the movements of the Black Ears, one of the larger clans. Based on the pattern of their raids, we have an idea of where they will strike next. When they move to attack, we will be ready with a host of men strong enough to crush them.” 

“A defeat of that magnitude should have them running with their tails tucked beneath their legs,” Lady Jessamyn adds, “when they bring the news back to the other clans, they will think twice before attacking Valemen.” 

This seems to soothe Rhaenyra somewhat, but not completely. The meal continues, and she wears a thoughtful, fierce frown throughout. 

“I wish to aid them,” she declares later when supper has disbanded. 

Criston stiffens. “What?” 

Rhaenyra’s face flashes with impatience. “Jeyne and the rest of the Vale. I wish to help them.” 

Absolutely not , is Criston’s first thought. He says, sucking in a slow breath, “I don’t think that that is a wise choice, princess.” 

“Why not?” she demands. 

“Rhaenyra,” he says carefully, “it’s dangerous.” He hates himself a little for it, but even as the words leave his mouth he’s calculating all of the political benefits. This could be a chance for Rhaenyra to prove that she can and will use Syrax, that she is a capable dragon rider suited for more than just peacetime, and that men are willing to follow her into battle. Just as quickly as he thinks of that, he also thinks of Visenya, struck in the middle of battle by an arrow, though she survived. Of Aerea, who could not control Balerion. Of Jacaerys Velaryon, her poor, shining son in another life who flew to his death at the Battle of the Gullet. 

Riding a dragon does not guarantee invincibility. What if she’s hit by something, what if she’s knocked off of Syrax? What if she dies?  

Criston’s chest tightens at the thought. He feels his throat beginning to tighten at the mere thought. His vision goes foggy for a long second and he shakes his head, trying to dispel his alarm. Faintly, he can hear Rhaenrya speaking. 

“Do you not trust me to help, ser?” she asks, her voice colored by indignance. “Surely it cannot be so difficult to burn a few savages.” 

Criston clenches his jaw so hard that he half-fears it might lock into place. “It is not a matter of trust,” he says, “it is a matter of safety.” 

Rhaenyra scoffs. “There is no place safer in the world than to be on dragonback.”
When he looks into her eyes, he sees that they are steely with resolve. Pride burns through his chest, hot and fierce, but it still pales in comparison to the cold terror that sinks into his stomach. 

“You will not change your mind about this,” he says. He phrases it like a question, but they both know that it is not. 

She shakes her head, the set of her chin proud. “No,” she replies, “I am afraid that I will not.” Her expression goes a little gentler, then. “You told me, once, when I threw a tantrum at the thought of being wed to Laenor, that I had a duty to my people. You walked me through the streets of King’s Landing and showed me the people who I was to rule and told me that it was my solemn responsibility to keep them safe. 

“‘The power that comes with the crown is coupled by responsibility. The responsibility to keep food in their bellies, and roofs over their heads,’ is how you put it, I believe. Well, I do not intend to fail in that. The people of the Vale will be my subjects as well someday, alongside the people of King’s Landing, and I will protect them.” 

Criston’s throat is still tight, but this time it is more with tenderness than anxiety.

“You have truly taken my lessons to heart,” he says, “mayhaps I should have taught you some caution as well.” Rhaenyra snorts and he feels a shadow of a smile grace his own mouth. “I shall inform Lady Jeyne,” he assures her. 

She nods, solemn again. 

Lady Jeyne receives the news with gratitude and good grace. Criston almost expected a worse reaction and is glad that he did not find it. Logically, he knew that she would be pleased.  Her pride is spared, he thinks, by the fact that she and her people had already developed this plan and that Rhaenyra is her blood. She is not begging at her feet for aid. And besides, having the heir to the Iron Throne’s clear support only solidifies her position. 

Rhaenyra has her retinue send out ravens to the future lords they are to visit, warning that they will be delayed. It might ruffle some feathers, but no one will be able to hold it against her once they hear of her reasoning. In fact, it will surely improve her public image. 

A little less than two weeks after arriving at the Eyrie, they march. 

Chapter Text

The ground is hard as Criston kneels by a small alcove where the earth begins to rise to the mountains, scanning the town beneath him. Howe is a cozy, charming little settlement with several shops and places of rest. A high wall surrounds the perimeter of the village, with ditches dug into the ground. They appear to be relatively well-kept, and Criston nods in approval. This will make his job easier. 

The plan is simple: the Black Ears will attack Howe tonight if Lady Jeyne’s information is right. Criston will lead a coalition of Valemen and knights from Rhaenyra’s retinue into the city before the sun falls, and catch them unaware when they strike at what they presume to be an easy target. Then they will drive the Black Ears out of the town and toward a clearing by the mountains on the opposite mouth of the wall, where Rhaenyra will fall upon them with Syrax and set them ablaze. There is less grassland there, and Syrax’s flames will do less damage to the land itself. 

Criston turns his attention away from Howe and regards the men beneath his command. The Valemen tend to be the older among them and hold themselves with a grim kind of vindication. They have a resolution to see this job done. Rhaenyra’s knights, who are generally on the younger side, shift from side to side with an anxious, eager energy. They are eager to prove themselves, to win themselves glory in battle. Criston keeps a close eye on them; he doesn’t need some green boy to get himself killed for no reason. 

This isn’t the first time Criston has led men in real battle – his memories can attest to that – but it is the first time that he’s led men since he regained knowledge of his second life. He would be lying if he said that he wasn’t at least a little nervous. He does his best to push down that feeling, to ignore the knots twisting in his stomach. He can’t afford to be nervous, to second guess himself. There are men counting him and he will do right by them. 

They are counting on Rhaenyra as well. Criston’s mind turns to her and he worries at his lip. Back at the Eyrie, it was easier to talk boldly. But the last time they had spoken she was nervous. Oh, she had tried to pretend that she was not as she stood there, fitted in her armor from the Eyrie’s armory, but it had been clear to anyone who knew her well enough. He wonders if it occurred to her, finally, that her own uncle had died in battle with his own dragon. The circumstances were different of course – Daemon, that ass had been dismounting from Caraxes after presumed victory and been struck by a stray arrow  – and Rhaenyra will be upon dragon back the entire time. But she is right to worry, and he worries as well. 

She will be fine, he assures himself. He hopes that she knows that too. 

“Ser,” Joffrey Arryn says, stopping his train of thought, “shall we descend into the town?” 

Criston nods. “Aye.” 

The sunset paints the sky in delicate hues of pink and yellow. At the edge of the horizon, Criston thinks he can spot shades of red slithering across the sky like streams of blood. He blames it on his nerves and adjusts from where he stands. 

They’ve hidden out in the town’s tavern, which lies halfway between the center of town and the wall that surrounds it. It is a strategic point, large enough to hide all of the men and close enough to the edge of Howe that they will be able to drive out the Black Ears without too much difficulty if all goes well. 

A distance away, Syrax hides away at the edge of the mountains. Vhagar and Seasmoke hide deeper in the mountains, Criston knows, but Laena and Laenor will only show if things are truly catastrophic here, which he does not intend to happen. This is Rhaenyra’s time to shine, her moment of victory. She will not be robbed of her chance to prove herself after so passionately putting herself in a battle zone; he will not allow it. 

Lady Jeyne sent out a warning for the women and children to slowly evacuate from the village to safety. Some of the menfolk followed their lead, but many stayed behind, determined to protect their homes. They are untrained in the brutal work of battle, most of them farmers and fishers in the like. But as they stand alongside Criston’s men, the lines of their faces taught with determination, they look like warriors just the same. He feels a surging of respect for them. 

Two Joffreys stand beside Criston: Lonmouth and Arryn. Joffrey Lonmouth is quiet – contemplative, almost, amidst the buzzing of the tavern. Arryn, on the other hand, is more excitable. He’s young, only nine-and-ten, with all the hunger of youth. Interestingly enough, his primary factor, from what Criston can detect, isn’t so much to make a name for himself as it is to prove himself to Lady Jeyne. This could be purely ambitious – Lady Jeyne did make him her heir in Fire and Blood after all, and he could very well covet the position – but it seems to be more than that. He seems to have a genuine fondness for his distant cousin.

Now Arryn runs a hand through his straw blond hair and smiles at Criston. His pale blue eyes are friendly when he says, “Do you think we’re ready, ser?” 

Criston’s gaze flicks to the surrounding men. “Aye,” he says, “we’ll give the Black Ears hell.” 

Arryn hoots animatedly and claps him on the shoulder. 

Joffrey Lonmouth looks to Criston as Arryn goes to join the Valemen. “It might be good to give a speech,” he says lowly, “to rally the men.” 

Criston nods in agreement. He was already planning on it. “You’re right,” he says.

Joffrey Lonmouth takes a goblet and clangs it against a nearby table once, twice. All eyes turn to the two of them. 

Criston clears his throat. He is proud that does not wilt beneath their attention, that he feels no inclination to at all. “Men,” he says, “we all know why we’re here.” 

“To beat those bastard clansmen!” a voice calls. 

“Oy!” Joffrey Arryn snaps. “Let the man speak, you idiot!” 

Criston pauses, waiting to see if anyone else has something to say. Then he continues. “We’re here to defend the village of Howe, to make this place safe for the people who live here, and make the Vale safe for every Valemen by extension. Some of you are Valemen and some of you come from other places. But we all have the same king and the same tongue and we all hold to the same gods. Today we come together to defend each other and march to victory, and that is what we will do.” 

There’s a second of silence where he stands tall and proud and tries to meet the eyes of as many of these men as he can. He tries to memorize their faces because he is sure that at least some of them will die under his command. 

That’s when the cheering begins, the thumping of fists against chests. 

“Ser Criston!” they chant. “Ser Criston! Ser Criston!” 

He can’t enjoy the attention, as much as he might want to, because that’s when the warning bell sounds. 

The Black Ears are here. 

Criston’s men stream through the town and meet the Black Ears with ferocity. His blood roars in his ears as he slices at one of the clansmen and strikes him down. The Black Ears are a fearsome group, but Criston’s men benefit from more experience – at least in regards to those who aren’t village folk – and the element of surprise. 

They’re reeling, screaming, even, as the confusion and panic begin to set in. Criston’s sword feels as light as a feather in his hands. He slices through one, two, three of the Black Ears’ raiding party with ease. Something primal unlocks within him as he advances forward, something more refined yet more barbaric than bloodlust all at once. A distance away from him, Joffrey Arryn howls as he wields his axe. Blood paints his armor and he leaves a trail of bodies in his wake himself.  

There are many of them, and they are successful, but the Black Ears’ numbers are nothing to be scoffed at either. Criston sees several of his men fall as the clansmen begin to regain some of their bearings. His heart squeezes. He grits his teeth and pushes forward. 

The tide of the battle does not turn in favor of the Black Ears, necessarily, but it does not go exactly how Criston wants it to in the next five minutes, either. The Black Ears’ stone axes and wooden clubs are not steel, but they can still kill , and Criston wants to push them to the clearing as quickly as possible before more of his men fall. 

“Lonmouth,” he barks, “move to the left flank and tell the men there to start pushing the clansmen to the right; we need to get them to where Rhaenyra can kill them. Make haste – lives depend on it.” 

Joffrey Lonmouth nods grimly and dances through the carnage to deliver his message. Criston does not know if things will ever be easy between them, but he will give credit where it is due: within minutes, they’re effectively forcing the Black Ears into the clearing. They try to flee toward the mountain pass from which they came, but Criston’s men don’t let him. The left flank practically forms a stalwart wall until they’re forced to flee in the only direction they can. 

Criston has his men advance forward a little further and then has them draw to a stop. “Hang back!” he booms, and his men shift from foot to foot nervously. 

Syrax drops down from the mountains within seconds. The she-dragon drops down from the sky at great speed. With the moonlight glinting off of her scales, she looks almost like a second sun. Like a premonition of death. Criston can barely see Rhaenyra astride her back from where he stands. He sees the smallest flashing of movement in Syrax’s saddle and takes a second to pray. 

Fire bursts from Syrax’s mouth and explodes across the clearing. 

That’s when the screaming begins. 

Most of the Black Ears incinerate on impact. They should count themselves as the lucky ones, as horrid as it sounds; at least they were afforded quick deaths. The Black Ears howl in terror as they watch their comrades fall all around them. The unluckiest of them are caught at the edge of the line of fire, where Syrax's flames are still scorching, but not enough to kill on impact.  They drop their weapons and begin to bat at their clothing. Some roll across the ground as they attempt to rid themselves of the fire, but the flames are nonstop as Rhaenyra loops around the clearing. They’re horrible, bloodcurdling cries, the howls. Criston feels sweat bead upon his brow. These are raiders who would have sacked a town, he reminds himself. They deserve no mercy. But then the smell of charred bodies reaches his nose and the screams grow louder and he winces and feels discomfort settle in his chest. It is hard to have absolutely no empathy with a sight like this before him. 

When the fighting is over, Rhaenyra lands a distance away from the clearing. Criston goes to her immediately. She’s leaning against Syrax’s side, beneath a wing she’s raised up. Her shoulders rise and fall quickly as she gasps for breath. She pushes some of the hair away from her face and when she raises her head, her expression is stricken. She doesn’t meet his eyes and instead focuses on the space by his shoulder.

Criston doesn’t go to embrace her immediately; he doesn’t know if she’ll welcome it right now and doesn’t want to make her even more alarmed. 

“Rhaenyra,” he asks softly, “are you alright?” She doesn’t reply and his worry skyrockets. “You did well,” he assures her, “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you did the best you could.” 

She doesn’t speak for a long minute. When she finally opens her mouth, her voice comes out shaking. “They were savages,” she bites out, “they could hardly be called Westerosi. They were raiders and killers and deserved what was coming to them. I delivered justice.” 

She doesn’t sound like she believes her own words in the least. 

“Rhaenyra,” Criston repeats gently, “look at me.” 

She meets his gaze, her eyes wet. 

Then she bends over and vomits.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra is quiet in the aftermath of the battle. She’s quiet when they return to the Eyrie and praise is heaped onto her endlessly. She manages to keep her alarm to herself before the masses, but there is a tension in the way she holds herself that was not there before. Criston’s heart hurts to see it. 

Lady Jeyne renews her vows to Rhaenyra, and Ser Joffrey repeats them alongside her. That sends murmurs echoing throughout the Eyrie – throughout the entire Vale, Criston is sure. She has all but declared him as her legal heir. Rhaenyra’s smile is warm when she accepts their oaths of loyalty, but not particularly proud. 

They continue on their tour through the rest of the Vale almost immediately upon their return; it’s best to strike while the iron is hot, while everyone is still speaking of Rhaenyra’s heroic deeds. The Corbrays accept them with open arms and a hero’s welcome that every young knight would dream of. They lavish praises upon Rhaenyra and congratulations, and tokens of their gratitude as well. There’s a finely crafted practice sword for Jacaerys and stuffed dragon toys for Aemon and Baelon; gowns of the finest silks for Laena and a new blade for Laenor and armor for Rhaenyra. 

Rhaenyra’s fingers glance against the armor as she inspects it. “It is a most generous gift, my lord,” she says to Lord Corbray. “I thank you for your generosity.” 

He nods. “And I thank you for your bravery, princess,” he replies, “for you have done all the people of the Vale a great service.” 

Rhaenyra’s smile takes on a grimmer edge. When she says, “There is no need to thank me. I was glad to dispense justice,” all Criston remembers is her tear-choked voice as she frantically tried to reassure herself of that at Howe. 

She’s been keeping to herself the last two weeks since Howe, holding everyone at at bit of a distance. It hurts Laenor and Laena, who have grown used to her friendship, and Aemon and Baelon, who do not understand why their mother is suddenly spending less time with them. Criston is hurting too. His hurt, unlike that of the others’, mixes with guilt as well to create an unholy combination that weighs on him more and more with each passing day. 

He’s changed guard with Ser Lorent outside her chambers at Heart’s Home when Laena slips  out past her door. Her eyes are tired and she looks warier than he’s seen her in a long while. He pauses, then smiles at her. She smiles back, which makes him glad. He hasn’t seen as much of Laena lately. While she has not been avoiding him, per say, neither has she been going out of her way to spend time with him. This both saddens and worries him; he enjoys her company and hopes that he hasn’t done anything to offend her. 

“My lady,” he says, “how is she?” 

Laena lets out a slow sigh. “Not as upset as she was in the immediate aftermath,” she says. “She’s doing better now, I think. More… contemplative than upset. She has that look in her eyes like she’s thinking up something, like she has a plan. You should speak with her.” 

Criston nods. “I intend to,” he assures her, “I’ve just been giving her space.” 

Laena raises her hand, then pauses. It hovers in the air for a long second and Criston raises his eyebrow a little. After another second, she lowers it down to his touch shoulder lightly. 

“She’ll speak to you when she’s ready,” she says softly, “and I have no doubt that that time will be soon, Ser Criston. Just have patience.” 

She releases her hold on him quickly and replaces it with a sympathetic look. Criston feels a burst of gratitude. “Thank you, my lady,” he replies, “I’ll try to keep your words in mind.” 

She nods. 

“Good.” 

Rhaenyra addresses the topic of Howe as she watches Aemon and Baelon playing.

“I didn’t know that battle could be so horrible,” she says. “I’ve seen tourneys, of course, and I’ve seen men die. But that – burning them to death… it was horrid .” 

There’s a long pause, but Criston doesn’t get the sense that she’s waiting for him to speak. Her brow is furrowed and there’s a distant look in her eyes as she clenches her jaw. The silence is thick, but not tense. 

“That is what the Greens want,” she continues eventually. “Everyone who vies to put Aegon on the throne wants a civil war between House Targaryen. My family has dragons – if war breaks between us, the Seven Kingdoms will not only bleed, they will also burn.” 

Criston nods. “Yes,” he says gently, “they will.” 

Before them, Baelon raises his stuffed dragon up in the air and shouts, “Dracarys!” at his brother. Aemon yelps and pretends to fall over dramatically, his little form pressing against the rug beneath him. 

Rhaenyra’s frown darkens into a scowl. 

“It will not be only the smallfolk to suffer from a war like that,” she says. “Dragonriders are not safe from other dragonriders. I would not have my brothers and sister fall in battle for their mother’s ambitions. I would certainly not have my sons. The fate of burning alive will never befall them, I will not allow it.” 

She walks over to Aemon and Baelon and taps both of them on the nose. They laugh in delight and clamber over her. Baelon in particular clings to her; between the two of them, he stays at her side more. Aemon is the shyer of the twins, but he seems to trail after Laenor and Corlys in the same way that Baelon does Rhaenyra and Rhaenys. 

“Ser Cris,” Baelon demands, “play dragons with us!” 

Criston chuckles. He folds his legs and settles down to the floor with them. “Who am I to be, little prince?” 

Aemon and Baelon exchange looks. 

“Balerion!” Aemon decides, and Baelon echoes his words in approval.

That is how Criston spends the next hour being climbed on by little children and pretending to be Aegon the Conqueror’s dragon. As Aemon settles on his shoulders, he locks eyes with Rhaenyra. There is a brightness there, but a steeliness as well. A determination as she regards her firstborn that he files away to bring up later. 

“Aemon must marry Helaena,” she says when he inquires. “It is the best chance we have of preventing a war.” 

Beside her, Laenor makes a noise of approval. 

Criston hums and folds his arms across his chest. He pushes down his discomfort at the topic of marriage between close family and focuses on the reality of it. “A wise choice,” he agrees, “if the queen wishes to push Aegon against you, she will set him against both of his sisters.” 

Rhaenyra waves a hand. “Aegon will never raise a hand against me,” she says, “no matter what his bitch mother wants. But a union between Aemon and Helaena will unite my line with the Hightowers’ and discourage their allies. And mayhaps, if I am lucky, Alicent will love the grandchildren born from the marriage.” 

Criston purses his lips. Queen Alicent has grown more and more volatile as the years have gone on. She loathes Rhaenyra with a force that astounds even him. He does not know if she will ever be able to love someone who has a part of Rhaenyra in them, though he truly does hope that she finds it in her to do so. 

“You already spoke to the king of this match,” Laenor reminds her, “and he rejected the offer. What makes you think he’ll change his mind?” 

Rhaenyra’s lips twist into something that could almost resemble a smile. “Why Laenor,” she says, “haven’t you heard? I’m a hero now. My father is sure to be pleased with me. This will be the proudest he’s been since Aemon and Baelon were born.” 

“And you think that will sway him?” he asks. 

“If I send a raven soon, then yes,” she says. “I’ll speak with him once we get back to King’s Landing, of course, but I’ll plant the seeds in his mind now, while he’d still move mountains to please me.” 

The manipulation of it all is not lost on Criston. Rhaenyra is bold and proud and impatient, but you’d have to be missing half of your brain to think her incompetent or a fool. Criston certainly will never forget just how clever she is. Not when she still has moments like these, where genuinely competent politicking always makes itself known. 

He scratches at his chin. “If Maris Baratheon marries Aemon,” he points out, “then Baelon’s hand will be free for an additional ally and we will have the Baratheons either way. Are you sure that you want to go down this route specifically, rather than that?” 

Rhaenyra nods firmly. “I would choose Helaena for Aemon over any other girl in the realm, regardless of the armies they might bring. Those would help me win a war, but I don’t want to win one, I want to prevent it altogether.” 

As she speaks, she’s already drawing up parchment and a quill. She slips into a chair and rests her chin in the palm of her hand. She twirls the quill between her fingers, a concentrated frown creasing her brow. 

He inclines his head. “As you say then.” 

As she begins to write, Criston stays quiet and opts to watch her set to work.

Chapter Text

One day, Cregan Stark will grow into a man. In Fire and Blood, he was a stalwart, ruthless leader, and one of Rhaenyra’s fiercest champions. He installed her son on the throne after her death and brought order back to King’s Landing. For these reasons, Criston has a soft spot for him, even if he is only just a boy now, and if the gods are willing, he will never have to march for Rhaenyra, much less avenge her. 

Cregan’s hair is a dark shade of brown. He stands tall for a boy of ten, with too-broad shoulders he’ll grow into and cool gray eyes. They are not quite innocent – life in the North is hard, and Criston’s sure he’s seen his first execution by now – but there is a kind of brightness to them, an alertness, that makes Criston understand why Septon Eustace compared them to a winter storm. 

He watches on as Theon Stark, his younger brother – the child who’s due to die next year, if the timeline doesn’t shift – plays with Aemon and Baelon and Jacaerys. They haven’t gone outside to play in the snow; Theon might be used to the cold, but the twins certainly aren’t, and Rhaenyra won’t risk them catching a chill so young. Still, they hop between the columns of Winterfell’s many halls. 

“Let’s play a game,” Baelon says. 

Theon nods. “How about the Hungry Wolf?” 

“The Hungry Wolf?” Aemon repeats. “What’s that?” 

Theon puffs out his chest. “It’s a game about Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf of the North. The fierce Lord of Winterfell who led great armies. He’s the greatest man who ever lived, and I was named after him.” 

“He sounds fierce,” Jacaerys says, impressed. “Fine then, let’s play.” 

As they chase each other around the columns, Criston glances at Cregan again. He’d like to get him to play along with them if he can. His father, Lord Rickon, seems to have taken to Rhaenyra quickly, and the other houses they’ve met in the North have made their vows easily enough, but it would do well for him to have a personal fondness for the boys. Besides, children deserve to run about and play, even if they are the heirs to great houses. 

“Will you not join them, my lord?” he asks. 

It takes Cregan a few seconds to realize that he’s addressed him. He blinks. Then, after another second, he says, “No. I’m almost a man grown, I don’t play games like The Hungry Wolf anymore.” 

Criston bites his tongue and resists the urge to laugh at how he furrows his brow and folds his arms over his chest. A great man he’ll become, but this is such a strong reminder that he’s still just a boy. A little lad. 

Was Criston ever that young, he wonders, in either of his lives? It seems like it’s been so long since he had to worry about seeming grown instead of being weighed down from being grown. 

He doesn’t try to insist that Cregan play, because that could come across as irritating at best and patronizing at worst. Instead, he says, “I’ve heard you’re quite the swordsman. Your father boasted of it nearly as soon as we arrived at Winterfell.” 

Cregan straightens and pride colors his expression. “He did?” he asks. When Criston nods, his stance grows a little straighter. A little prouder. “I’ve been learning how to fight,” he says, “the master-at-arms says I’m the best talent he’s seen in years.” 

Criston remembers the claim of Aemon the Dragonknight, the claim that Cregan Stark was the finest swordsman he had ever faced, and hums. 

“Let me know if you’d like some advice or training from me,” he says, 

The excitement on Cregan’s face makes him look younger. 

Winterfell’s master-at-arms was not lying about the boy’s inherent talent. As Criston offers him advice and pointers, as he fixes his stances and shows him new moves, Cregan picks them up impressively quickly. Lord Rickon and Lady Gillane watch on with pleased expressions, and little Theon wears a look of both admiration and envy. Rhaenyra, for her part, watches on in approval. 

“Well done, my lord,” Criston says warmly as Cregan ducks from a blow. He’s obviously not putting full or even most effort into his attacks, but even still he’s impressed. There is a rare talent on display here, the kind that appears once, maybe twice, in a generation. As he grows, this talent will only grow with him. 

They are using wooden training swords – Criston is not nearly mad enough to train him with steel – but he still keeps his blows light when he does land a hit. Cregan is not, he thinks, the kind of boy who will run to his parents, weeping, at the first inconvenience, but both his conscience and good sense tell him to avoid making any bruises. 

Cregan manages to parry another one of his blows, but the force of it sends him flying backward. Criston catches his wrist before he can fall to the ground and steadies him. 

“You’ve grown tired,” he says, “mayhaps this is where we should end things today.” 

He scowls and shakes his head. “I can keep going,” he insists. 

“Cregan,” Lord Rickon says, “listen to Ser Criston. He’d know when you’ve met your limit.” 

“But father–” Lord Rickon’s stare is firm and Cregan’s shoulders slump. “Alright,” he grumbles.

He walks over to his parents and his father ruffles his hair. His mother smiles at Criston warmly. 

“We’d like to thank you again for offering to him while you’re here,” she says, “it means a great deal to have the best knight in the realm to take an interest in him.”

Criston returns her smile. “It was my pleasure, my lady,” he replies. “There have been greater knights than me, and I’m sure that there will be greater to come, but it is truly an honor to hear you speak so highly of me.” 

Rhaenyra shakes her head in disagreement, but before she can dispute his words, someone else speaks. 

“You do yourself an injustice, ser,” comes another voice that Criston recognizes easily. By now, he knows it like the back of his hand. He turns to see Laena smiling at him from the other side of the training yards. He feels himself warm at her praise, 

“My lady,” he says, “forgive me for not acknowledging you. I hadn’t realized you were here.” 

Laena’s smile is wry. “I don’t know whether or not I should take offense to that,” she replies. Her eyes flick to Rhaenyra. “What will you do to address this grave insult from your sworn shield, princess?” 

“‘Grave insult?’” Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow. “I believe that you yourself just said you were unsure whether or not it was so.” 

Laena’s smile widens into a grin and she laughs. 

“That’s fair enough,” she replies. 

Criston stumbles into Laena again later. He’s going for a walk around the castle, feeling a little restless. It’s a few hours past midday and he feels tired, but sleep did not come to him when he tried to rest, so he has resolved to pace around Winterfell instead. At least then he can appreciate its beauty. 

He rounds a corner and recognizes the sounds of footsteps just in time. He manages to flatten himself against the wall before he can stumble into the person opposite from him. 

Surprised violet eyes widen as they meet his. Then they relax as amusement fills them instead. 

“Ser Criston,” Laena grins, “I do believe you almost hit me.” 

Her amusement is infectious. Criston smiles back at her and says, “I would ask you for your forgiveness, my lady, but I do think it could be argued that you nearly stumbled into me . Not the other way around.” 

Delight flashes across her face. “You’re meant to be a gallant knight of the realm. That means not running to helpless ladies.” 

Laughter bubbles up from Criston’s throat. “You and I know you are both anything but helpless, my lady,” he replies. 

She pauses, then dips her head in acknowledgment. “No,” she says, “I suppose I’m not.” 

She looks like she wants to say something more, but something in her expression shifts, then. She takes a few steps away from him and tosses some of her hair over her shoulder. “I should be on my way,” she says, “I promised Jae that I would take him flying.” 

Criston tries not to frown. He must not be as successful as he’d hoped because she peers at him closely. “Are you well, ser?” 

He pauses. Considers his words carefully. “No,” he says, “it’s just that… forgive me if this is presumptuous, but I hope I haven’t done anything to offend you, my lady.” 

She blinks. “Why would you get that impression?” 

Feeling a little foolish, he says, “I haven’t seen all that much of you lately. You are a busy woman, of course, but I couldn’t help but find the change… sudden.” 

Laena’s expression softens a little. “Forgive me,” she says, “I’d never intended to give you that impression at all. You’re just heavily involved in the politicking of this tour, and I have no interest in such things. We simply haven’t been walking the same circles as often.” 

He nods, relief settling over his shoulders. He feels better now. He did not realize just how much this was bothering him until this moment. 

“I am glad to hear it, my lady.” 

“Of course, ser,” she winks. “I’m afraid that you’re stuck with me now.” 

She’s japing, but he scoffs internally at the thought of her company being a burden. If anything, it’s the opposite. Laena adds a refreshing easiness to every situation, a joviality he appreciates. 

“I really must leave now,” she says after another second. 

He nods. “Of course.” 

She nods and continues on her way. He watches her go, feeling more cheerful than he had been minutes ago. 

When Rhaenyra returns to King’s Landing from Winterfell, she carries with her a confident optimism that she has the Starks in her pocket. Criston carries with him an lighter attitude, Lord Rickon’s good graces, and Lord Cregan’s deep admiration. 

Chapter Text

“I want a betrothal arranged between Aemon and Helaena,” Rhaenyra says. 

Fathers, Viserys knows, are not supposed to have favorites among their children. They should love them all equally, and treat them as such, as the Father among the Seven loves every man. 

That does not stop him from holding Rhaenyra closer to his heart than he does any of her siblings. She is his heir, his darling child, his last piece of Aemma, and Daemon as well sometimes, when her temper flares. She has grown into a fine young woman, open-handed yet fierce, clever, and charismatic. He looks at her and sees the best parts of his father and grandfather. 

“Baelon,” he had named his last son by Aemma, his sweet boy who had lived for only a day. He had hoped that he would grow into a great man, worthy of the name bestowed upon him. The stranger had snatched him away with a cruelty that had ripped the breath from Viserys’ lungs. The wound still stings, even today. Aemma and Baelon, both lost in one fell swoop. The gods are not merciful creatures. 

Now, regarding Rhaenyra as she stands across from him, he thinks that the name “Baela” would have suited her very well. He sees much of his father in her. Sees his good heart, his zeal, his stubbornness. The stubbornness in particular stands out now. 

“Rhaenyra,” he says, a little exasperated, “you’ve only been at court for a week. Can we not celebrate your success before we begin talking about matters as serious as this?” 

Her mouth flinches downward. “My success is not complete until I secure Helaena’s hand for Aemon,” she insists. 

He sighs and rubs at his forehead. “You remind me so much of Daemon sometimes,” he says wryly, “gods know you’re as relentless as he ever was.” He sets his goblet down on the table. “Fine then, let us speak. Why do you seek this match so desperately?” 

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightens. It reminds Viserys vaguely of someone else. Sometimes she makes certain movements, certain facial expressions, that have traces of another, but Viserys cannot pinpoint from who, exactly. Mayhaps it is a strange combination of Aemma and Daemon, he ponders. 

“I wish to unite our house,” she says. 

“Rhaenyra,” he replies, reproachful, “we are hardly divided.” 

“Father, surely you cannot be serious.” 

He frowns at her. “Why would we be? Aegon, Haelaena and Aemond love you, and with time, Daeron surely will as well. They adore you, and no one would ever try to argue that you do not adore them in turn.” 

“That’s–” she pauses for a moment. “They might love me,” she ends up continuing, “but their mother certainly does not. She hates me and does everything in her power to turn them against me.” 

Viserys feels wariness seep into his bones, into his very marrow. “Now you sound like Alicent,” he sighs. “Truly, will the two of you never put your differences aside for the sake of the children?” 

A muscle in Rhaenyra’s cheek jumps. Her eyebrows draw tightly together, and there it is, a trace of familiarity that Viserys both recognizes and does not recognize.

“Will you approve the betrothal or not?” Rhaenyra asks. 

He feels his expression darker and she stiffens, as if sensing she has overstepped. “Mind your tone,” he says, lets his own tone cut sharply, “I am your father, child, but I am also your king, and I will be respected in the way that station bestows.” 

A mixture of regret and frustration flickers across her face, but she wisely bites her tongue. “My apologies, Father,” she says shortly. 

Rhaenyra’s pride is wounded, he can tell. In an attempt to soothe it, Viserys draws her close and presses a kiss to her brow. When he pulls back, she is still frowning. His attempt at comfort, it seems, did not do much. In any case, he crosses his arms over his chest and sighs. 

“You performed well on the tour,” he says. “You proved yourself to be a true heir, a ruler anyone would wish to serve and kneel before.” 

“A ruler anyone would kneel before,” Rhaenyra says sourly, “but not a woman.” 

Viserys scowls at that. He can follow where her mind has wandered, sniffs it out like a hound on the chase. “Jason Lannister is a fool,” he says, “and what’s more, your Ser Criston instilled fear into the hearts of him and his leal lords that day at his tourney. They are spineless little cretins, they would not dare to cross you.” 

She sighs and runs her fingers through her hair. “I do not wish to speak of Jason Lannister and his lickspittles,” she says, “I came to you to speak of Helaena.” 

Viserys sighs. “I have already given you Lyonel’s son as the new commander of the city watch. Aemond’s status as your ward is still fresh in Alicent’s mind. How do you think she will react when I give away her only daughter’s hand?” 

“You are not giving my sister away to a stranger,” Rhaenyra says primly, “you are giving her to my son and heir, and the future king of the Seven Kingdoms. You are giving her a crown. Aemon is a sweet boy who will grow into a good man; he will treat her well, and she will be a beloved queen.” 

Viserys feels himself waver. She must see it, because she presses on, more insistently, “you have given me a crown, Father, and I am grateful for that more than you will ever know. Would you deny Helaena the same gift? Years from now, the singers might write of King Viserys, the First of His Name, and his generosity toward both of his daughters, to have made them both queens.” 

Viserys thinks of Helaena, gentle Helaena with her fascination for insects and her laughter and her gentleness, and pictures her with a circlet on her brow. Something in him softens. She would look beautiful with it, and she would make a great mother indeed for a king. 

“Very well,” he sighs. “A betrothal you have asked for, and a betrothal you shall have. But give me time to address this with Alicent. She is… volatile these days, and she will not take it well. She must have time to warm up to the idea.”

Rhaenyra’s smile is as bright as the sun. She leans in to drop a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Father,” she says, “I knew you would see the sense in my request. You are a good and wise man.” 

He chuckles. “You need not layer the flattery on so heavily, child,” he says, “you have what you wanted.” 

She has the decency to look at least a little abashed, but she still looks like a child who’s been caught with far too many sweetmeats. As she makes her way to leave, her smile reminds him faintly of his fathers. 

Baela would have been a worthy name for her indeed. 

That night, when he dines with Alicent, he does not speak with her about the betrothal. He will, when the time is right, but that time is not now and will not be for some time to come, he thinks. He is the king, his rule law, but even kings do not wish to deal with screeching wives. Instead, he smiles and asks her how the children have done today. 

“Aegon is well,” she replies, “his training with Gwayne is progressing nicely. He is no master yet, but my brother thinks he might be good with a blade in time, should he apply himself.” 

Viserys hums and wisely does not speak of how Aegon will most likely not apply himself at all. He is lazy, that child. If something does not have to do with impressing Rhaenyra or winning at a competition, he finds little interest in it at all. He worries for the boy, sometimes. A brother should not spend so much time clinging to his sister’s skirts. Still, he will not begrudge him for it. There is a peace that the boy finds in Rhaenyra, he thinks, that he does not find elsewhere. The same could be said, in different ways, for Helaena and Aemond as well. 

Aegon is a good lad, he thinks. Ser Gwayne has been a good influence on him. Though he is still lazy and slothful, there is a good heart beneath his vanity. A sincerity beneath his sarcasm. A cleverness behind his lack of effort. In another life, he might have been shaped into a good king with the right guidance. 

But that is not this life. 

“The word at court is that you met with Rhaenyra in your solar,” Alicent continues. Her voice and smile are light, to Viserys’ relief. 

“Aye,” he says, “I did.” 

“What did the two of you speak of, my love?” 

His gaze turns wary over the brim of his cup. “Matters of state,” he says, “and matters of family.” 

She frowns. “That is vague.” 

He feels his smile grow strained around the edges. “We spoke of Aemon and Baelon,” he says, and ignores the half-lie he tells his wife, “and of their futures. The children of a future queen must have good guidance, after all.” 

Alicent’s mouth tugs downward at the edges in the way it always does when she’s displeased. He ignores it and presses a kiss to the back of her hand. “You are beautiful tonight, wife,” he says, “I have been blessed by the Seven to have a queen as beautiful as you.” 

This does not assuage her anger, but it puffs up her pride, and that will do for now. She softens and kisses him. When she is sweet like this, it reminds him of why he married her. She is a bright, clever woman, with a fire anyone would desire. When she allows it to burn purely, unmarred by anything else, she is at her most beautiful. More than ever he is determined not to tell Alicent of his agreement to Aemon and Helaena’s betrothal for a while yet. He wishes to keep this side of his wife in the light as much as possible. 

Chapter Text

“I don’t think Ser Criston likes me very much,” Harwin says. 

Sabitha hums. “I would not blame him,” she says, “it is difficult to get along with you, sometimes.” 

He lets out a frustrated huff. “You know that is a lie,” he replies, “and I’m being serious, Sab. There’s something tense about him any time I’m around.” 

She glances up from the book she’s reading. He’s leaning against the headboard of his bed, his arms across his chest. His brow is furrowed in that way it always does when he’s irate, and the corners of his mouth have pulled downward. 

“Mayhaps he realizes you’re trying to despoil his would-be daughter,” Sabitha suggests dryly. 

Harwin groans and rubs at his forehead. “We’ve hardly been here a moon,” he says, “I can’t be that obvious.” 

“You haven’t been here at King’s Landing,” she agrees. “Back at Harrenhal, you were… less subtle.” 

Harwin winces. “In my defense, a beautiful woman had just shown interest in me.” Sabitha laughs and his frown deepens into a scowl. “Don’t chide me about subtlety. Have you forgotten that the day I met you, you were insulting some poor wretch after stealing his favorite whore?” 

“That,” she drawls, “was a whore. This is a dragon rider, a princess, and the heir to the Seven Kingdoms. We must be more careful about these things, husband.” 

He scratches at his cheek. “What would you suggest?” 

She waves a hand. “If her father figure loathes you, I doubt that the princess will think very highly of you, much less let you into her bed. You should focus on getting Ser Crison to warm up to you; for now, I will endear you to Rhaenyra while you busy yourself with that.” 

Harwin squints at her, his mouth tugging into a smile. “You want to get her alone, do you? Should I be worried that you wish to steal her for yourself?” 

A smirk cuts into the side of Sabitha’s mouth. “Would that be so bad? It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve shared a woman.” 

“That was a whore,” he says, turns her own words against her. “This is a dragon rider, a princess, and the heir to the Seven Kingdoms. We must be more careful about these things, wife.” 

She throws an empty goblet at his head for that. He ducks away, snickering. 

“Fear not,” she says dryly, “as much as I would like it to be the case, the princess doesn’t seem to be the type to want a woman in her bed.” 

“I’ll ask Ser Criston for advice with the City Watch,” Harwin decides the next day. They are breaking their fasts, Larys seated with them. Sabitha ruffles her son’s hair as she bounces him on her knee. He giggles and huddles further into her embrace. She smiles. She would be lying if she said she was not disappointed that he has nothing of her looks, but it is moments like these that remind her that he is hers all the same. Hers and Harwin’s, and gods help anyone who ever tries to harm him. 

“That seems like a wise choice,” she approves. “Ser Criston seems like a responsible man; he will give your advice if you ask for it.” 

Harwin kisses Larys on the forehead. “It is done, then,” he says, “now you’ll play your part.” 

There is a questioning lilt to his done. Not doubt, but inquiry. Sabitha smiles. “I am due to walk with the princess around the godswood on the morrow. She wishes to know the wife of her new captain of the City Watch better, I suppose.” 

Harwin nods. “Good,” he hums, “good.” 

The godswood, Sabitha has to admit, is breathtaking. Even she, who is often grudging in giving compliments – except, of course, to beautiful women – is forced to admire its beauty. The surrounding area is an acre of spry elm, adler, and black cottonwood. The heart tree is a great, towering oak covered in smokeberry vines. Red dragon’s breath curls its roots, an almost bloody embrace, though perhaps that is Sabitha’s penchant for aggression bleeding through. 

“Ah,” Rhaenyra says, “I see that another has been stricken by the godswood of the Red Keep.” 

Sabitha laughs. “Does such a thing happen often, my princess?” 

A dimple flashes across her cheek as she smiles. Sabitha tries to regulate her reaction to that; she has always had such a weakness for dimples. Damn Harwin, he is a truly lucky man. “I’m afraid so,” she says. 

Sabitha makes a noise of consideration. “Did I atleast avoid making myself look like a fool whilst I did so?” 

“My lady,” Rhaenyra replies, “I think that it would be very difficult to make you look like a fool.” 

Sabitha grins, sincerely smug at that. She inclines her head. “I am glad I have made such a good impression already.” 

Rhaenyra gestures toward the heart tree and they settle beneath it. The sun peeks out through the leaves, casting them in a dappled shadow. As it catches in Rhaenyra’s hair, Sabitha can’t help but sneak a glance. She is not some Septa, after all; when a beautiful woman is before her, it is in her nature to take at least one look. 

“I must ask, princess, why you invited me here today,” she says, “even if I am grateful to have the honor.” 

Rhaenyra twists at the rings on her fingers for a brief moment, before her hands settle in her lap, clasped. “Is it so strange to want to know the wife of the new Lord Commander of the City Watch?” she asks. “To include her in my circle?” 

“Perhaps not,” Sabitha acknowledges. But it is stranger when you want to fuck that woman’s husband, she does not add.

“That was my thinking,” the princess says, “I enjoy making friends with my allies, my lady, and it is my hope that you will be among them.” 

She’s thinking when Rhaenyra’s dimple flashes again and some of her skepticism fades. She grows a little warm beneath her collar. Because she has always been susceptible to the charms of beautiful women, and because part of her cannot herself, Sabitha does something foolish. She eyes the mossy ground they’ve settled near and spies a particularly beautiful array of red dragon’s breath, and plucks one from the ground. 

“Let this be a first offering then,” she murmurs, “a beautiful gift for a beautiful woman.” 

She reaches over to tuck the flower in Rhaenyra’s hair, lets her touch linger for a second more than necessary, perhaps. Not because she takes this minor attempt at seduction seriously – which is nothing; by her standards, really it’s quite pitiful — but because she wishes to see if she can get away with it, if it will work. 

Rhaenyra lets out a short, surprised breath. When Sabitha pulls away, her eyes are wide. Sabitha smiles and is about to go on about their friendship – her little stunt could easily be perceived as innocent enough, given the society they live in – when she notices that the tips of Rhaenyra’s ears are red. 

It takes everything Sabitha has to not an eyebrow. She hides her smirk. 

Well, that’s a surprise. 

She finds Harwin that night, staring out across the city from their window. He’s leaning against the wall, his eyes distant. The energy in the room is wrong. The smug remark about her earlier discovery dies on her lips. She settles into a chair beside him. 

“Did winning Cole over not work as well as you hoped?” she asks. 

He shakes his head. “I’m not meeting with him for another few days at least,” he says, “he’s a very busy man, as Rhaenyra’s sworn shield and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.” 

Sabitha eyes him carefully. Reaches out to let her hand glance against his elbow. “That is not what is bothering you then.” 

He sighs deeply. “No, it is not.” 

Sabitha isn’t a fool; there are very few things that could possibly dull Harwin’s joy at being back in the capital. “Are you thinking of your brother?” 

There’s a beat of stillness. Then he nods. 

Ah. 

She’d had a feeling this would happen sooner or later. Even if this city has good memories for him, it is the place where his brother died. That would bring a certain kind of grief with it no matter what, even as a bastion from Harrenhal. 

“Where was his favorite place in the Red Keep?” she asks. 

Harwin doesn’t hesitate in giving his reply. “The library. Without a doubt, the library.” 

“Tomorrow we will take Larys there,” she says breezily. 

Harwin’s eyes snap to her, surprise and something else, something more vulnerable, flickering across his face. “The boy can’t read yet,” he points out, “I doubt he’ll appreciate it much.” 

Sabitha shrugs. “It was his namesake’s most loved place here,” she replies, “he should know it as early as he can.” 

Harwin is silent for a long moment, studying her. Then he reaches for her hand. 

“Thank you, Sabitha,” he says, “you are a good friend.” 

And she is not a soft woman, far from it, and not very good with emotions, either, but she squeezes his hand back and sits there with him for a while longer. 

Chapter Text

Criston has a problem on his hands. A problem that makes his eye twitch, his jaw clench, and his nostrils flair. Said problem stands before him now, a gold cloak wrapped around his shoulders as he chatters away about his plans for the City Watch. They’re admittedly solid plans – Criston can’t find any fault in them – but the fact that they’re coming from Harwin Strong chafes at him. 

Criston has the self-awareness, at least, to admit that his dislike for the man might not be completely fair. By all accounts, he seems like a good man. Sabitha Vypren married him in this lifetime – gods , Criston had been surprised when he’d heard that – and if she respects him enough to wed him, it says something at least about his competence. He might even like him if it weren’t for the fact that he very clearly has his eyes set on Rhaenyra. Oh, it might not be obvious to everyone, but Criston can see it clear as day. 

He loathes it. For many reasons. 

The first and most obvious is that the affair if it were to be discovered – if it happens – would do immense damage to Rhaenyra’s reputation. All the hard work that’s been put into giving her a strong foundation, all his lessons to try and make her a good queen, could be for naught if the lords of Westeros deem her a whore. It would not be a fair assessment, but since when has Westeros ever been fair to women, or the smallfolk, or anyone who isn’t a wealthy, powerful lordling? 

The second reason is the fact that Ser Harwin’s genes are, with no pun intended, strong . If he gets a child on Rhaenyra, if they’re foolish and don’t use moon tea – or even if they do, moon tea is not a complete guarantee to prevent unwanted children – and she bears a babe with brown hair, brown eyes, and a pug smile… Criston loathes to think of the consequences. Aemon and Baelon exist, thank the Seven, but the fallout of birthing a bastard would be even worse than simply being caught with a man beside her husband. It makes him ill just thinking about it. 

The third reason is that Criston cannot stop it. Rhaenyra is a grown woman now at one-and-twenty. The heir to the Seven Kingdoms and He knew from the moment she married Laenor that she would not be content with him as her sole company for the rest of her life. Truly, it is a miracle that she has not taken one already, at least as far as he knows. Criston sees the way Rhaenyra looks at Ser Harwin. If she… wishes to return his fondness, then there is no one on this earth who will be able to stop her. She is so dreadfully hard headed sometimes. All Criston will be able to do, if this affair takes place, is to cover it up as best he can and ensure that she always has moon tea. He could try to dissuade her, but he doubts he would be successful. And part of him, foolishly, cannot find it within himself to try and deny her some kind of happiness in matters of the heart. He thinks of Aemma, so tired and wary in her marriage to Viserys, and grinds his teeth together. 

“What do you think of my plans for the City Watch, ser?” 

Ser Harwin’s voice resounds through the room, dragging Criston slowly from his thoughts. He blinks and reaches for a goblet of wine, trying to find an answer that won’t make it obvious that he’s been half-listening for the last ten minutes. 

“It’s a good start,” he says neutrally. “There are still some issues to be worked out with patrol rotations and locations, but I think you’re off to a good start.” 

Ser Harwin grins. He claps him on the shoulder. “I’m glad to hear it,” he says. His expression grows a little more teasing. The corner of his lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smirk but isn’t quite not a smirk either. “It means a lot, coming from the greatest knight in Westeros. Now all we need to do is work out the rough patches.” 

And here, here is the fourth and final reason why Criston doesn’t like this business with Ser Harwin and Rhaenyra one bit. In certain lights, when he makes certain expressions, he looks like Larys Strong. Criston is not a saint. He has his regrets, as does everyone who has ever walked the earth. Still, shame is not a feeling he is accustomed to. He doesn’t feel shame for killing Larys Strong – the little fucking worm deserved to go careening down the stairs on the Sea Snake’s orders – but isn’t heartless either. He played at least a partial role in taking this man’s brother away from him. A brother who was dear to him, if the naming of his son is any indication. And he might not like Ser Harwin, but he’s not a bloody monster either. 

“Ser Criston?” Ser Harwin implores. “Is everything well?” 

He offers him a strained smile. “Yes, forgive me. Rest didn’t come easily to me last night, I fear. I apologize if I do not seem like myself.” 

Ser Harwin’s eyes are friendly. “There is no need for apology,” he says, “forgive me for holding you for so long; we could always reconvene on the morrow.” 

Criston nods warily. “Yes,” he agrees, “that could work. I thank you for your accommodation.” 

Ser Harwin laughs. “You’re the one doing me a favor, ser,” he says, “a little understanding is the least I could offer you.” 

They put away the papers with their plans and leave the room. They walk together for a few minutes in silence. Criston isn’t typically the kind of person to mind silence, but standing before this particular man in particular, with irritation and dislike and something uncomfortably close to guilt twisting in his gut, he finds that it sits ill with him. 

“How are you finding King’s Landing, Ser Harwin?” he asks. “It’s been a good few years since you were last here.” 

Ser Harwin rolls his shoulders. “It’s a bit strange being back,” he admits, “when I was last here, I was commander of nothing. Now I command the City Watch, and I have a wife and son at my side and one less brother.” 

His eyes lower to the ground at the mention of Lord Larys. Something sad steals across his face. Criston eyes him for a long moment, a question hovering on the tip of his tongue. And he doesn’t know why he asks the question, but damn him, he does. 

“You were close with Lord Larys, then?” 

Ser Harwin’s smile is melancholy. “Aye. He was my little brother, and I loved him for it. I would defend him from the foolish sons of River Lords when we were boys – I felt it was my duty to protect him, given his condition. I could not protect him as he fell to his death.” 

Criston feels a heaviness settle over him. “I see.” A pause. “I am sorry for the loss of your brother, Ser Harwin.” 

He isn't. He never will be. But maybe, he’ll admit, he’s sorry for Harwin’s grief. Maybe it’s because he can relate more to the death of a family member now than he could before; no ravens have flown from Blackhaven yet informing him of his father’s death, but it is a looming thing. It is bound to happen soon, he knows. 

Ser Harwin hums. “Thank you,” is all he says, and the conversation is over. 

With nothing more to say, they go their separate ways. 

Criston walks to the training yards, feeling older than he did before he met with Ser Harwin. His skin itches with something he can’t name and there is a wariness to him that he needs to alleviate. As crass as it might sound, a good fight has always made him feel better. 

He rifles through the yards, preparing himself for a spar. Part of him pities anyone who will face off against him today. Another part of him knows himself – he will not embarrass a young knight horribly without due cause. 

It’s then that a familiar voice reaches his ears. 

“Care for a spar?” 

He turns and meets the eyes of an old friend. Gwayne is getting older now, no longer a young man. Though neither is Criston himself, he thinks with no small amount of wryness. The first hints of gray have begun to creep at his temples and pepper his beard. Smile lines map his face. Some of his hair is thinning at the corners, though it’s barely noticeable at this stage. Despite the signs of aging, his brown eyes are still bright, if less boyish than Criston knew them to be when they first met. 

“Gwayne,” he says, surprised, “how long have you been standing there before?” 

His old friend’s smile is wry. “Enough to tell that it looks like you need to fight someone. And I would be remiss to let you beat some poor young lad into the dirt.” 

Criston startles himself with a laugh. “You think I can’t beat you?” 

He shrugs in an easy slope of his shoulders. Tilting his head, he pretends to consider for a moment. Then he says: “I suppose we’ll have to see. I know that either way, I won’t embarrass myself. So are you on, or not?” 

After a second, Criston nods. “You’re on.” 

Gwayne’s grin reminds him so much of old times that it takes him by surprise.

Chapter Text

The fight with Gwayne is brutal. It’s a flurry of steel, dirt, sweat, and blood. Criston can taste iron on his tongue by the time it’s done. He’s standing over Gwayne, his sword leveled at his throat. Pain burns across his skin, the promise of bruises coming with it if they haven’t formed already. Despite that, he finds himself smiling. Truly smiling in the kind of way that takes a weight off his shoulders. For this brief time, they’re not in their thirties and Criston isn’t responsible for anyone’s murder yet and Aemma isn’t dead, and they’re still friends, and Rhaenyra isn’t infatuated with Harwin fucking Strong. 

“Yield,” he gasps, a little savagely. 

Gwayne smiles through bloodied teeth. He half-rises and the skin along his throat presses against the blade. Threatens to break. Criston loosens his hold on the sword and tugs it back a little. 

“I yield,” he says, his voice ringing through the training yards. 

Clapping reaches Criston’s ears then. He looks up, startled, to see a crown has formed nearby. At the front of the crowd are Aemond and Aegon. Aemond’s smile is bright as he darts to them, his brother close behind him. 

“That was amazing, Ser Criston,” he chirps, “you truly are the greatest knight in the realm.” 

“Boy,” Gwayne mock-grumbles, “have you forgotten about your own poor uncle?” 

Aemond looks sheepish at that. He mumbles a few words of apology and Gwayne sighs and ruffles his hair. Aegon punches at his armor lightly. 

“You put up a good fight, Uncle,” he says, almost comforting, “if it were anyone but Ser Criston you were fighting, you would win.” 

Criston looks at the boy in surprise. He’s fond enough of the lad, and the lad is fond enough of him. Likes him, even, for Rhaenyra’s sake. But to call them particularly close would be a lie. He smiles at him and inclines his head. 

“I’m flattered, my prince,” he says. 

Aegon spares him a quick smile before turning back to Gwayne. “Since we’ve watched the two greatest knights in the realm duel, do you think we can get out of training today? That’s more educational than any drills you could put me through.”  

Criston resists the urge to laugh at the exasperated look that steals across Gwayne’s face. He boxes his nephew lightly across the ears, with no real weight behind the movement, and sighs. 

“So that’s why you came here,” he accuses, “not to support your dear mother’s favorite brother, but to try and wriggle your way out of your princely duties.”

Aegon’s smile is mischievous in a way that distinctly reminds Criston of Rhaenyra. “No,” he replies, “I wanted to support you too.” 

“You little–” 

Laughter overtakes Gwayne. He tries to look stern, crosses his arms over his chest and feigns a frown, but that fight is lost within seconds. With the break of his bearing comes the break in Criston’s own. He feels his shoulders shake with laughter. Aegon and Aemond laugh with them and for another few minutes, Criston still feels light. 

That lightness dies when Gwayne pulls him to the side after a bit, a concerned frown on his face. “We haven’t been close in a while,” he admits, “but I hope you understand, Criston, that I value our old friendship. You seemed so… on edge, earlier. If you need to speak with someone…” 

His expression is kind. Open. Inviting. 

Criston feels a bittersweetness erupt in his chest yet. A wish to tell Gwayne of his troubles, an appreciation for his consideration, but also a resignation that he cannot vent to him anymore. Certainly not about this. So instead of telling him what’s on his mind, he offers a thin-lipped smile that’s so forced it manages to mangle itself into a grimace. 

“Thank you, Gwayne,” he says, “but I’m fine.”  At his doubtful look, he adds, “Truly.” 

Hurt flickers across Gwayne’s face. Then a bitter kind of acceptance. He nods stiffly. “Of course,” he says, “if nothing ails you, I’ll be taking my leave then.” 

As he walks away, his back stiff and his gait clipped, Criston feels old again. 

“I haven’t seen you fight that ferociously since Rhaenyra was heavy with Aemon and Baelon,” Laena says later. 

She’s sitting in the gardens, settled beneath the shade of a tree. A distance away, Laenor fiddles with his rings and Rhaenyra sits with Lady Sabitha and Ser Harwin. Criston is their guard, for all intents and purposes, but he feels a flickering of irritation as Rhaenyra throws her head back and laughs far too hard at whatever Ser Harwin’s just said. 

Laena’s chuckle makes his eyes flicker to her. “I wasn’t aware that you were at the spar yesterday, my lady.” 

Her smile is thin. “I only managed to catch part of it; Jacaerys had demanded a flight on Vhagar and he would have raised the Seven Hells if we had stopped. But from what I did see… you seemed upset.” 

Criston lets out a low sigh. Feels his attention catch on Rhaenyra again as she all but bats her eyes at Ser Harwin. Ser Harwin’s grin is confident and more than a little smug, and a bit of pink dots on his cheeks that can’t just be coming from the heat. Criston’s eyes narrow viciously.

Laena snickers. “Am I correct in assuming that the sources of your discontent are with us at the moment?” Despite her amusement, her voice is quiet. Careful. The walls have ears, after all. 

Criston blinks owlishly. “Sources?”

Laena tips her head slightly to Rhaenyra again. “Wait a moment,” she says. 

Criston waits. 

Watches as Sabitha Vypren gestures to Rhaenyra. “Princess,” she says, “I do believe that there is a leaf in your hair.” 

Rhaenyra makes a sound of dismay. “Will you help me get it out, my lady?” 

Lady Sabitha’s smile is dazzling. “Of course, I would be remiss not to help a fellow woman in need.” 

Criston squints. There are no leaves in Rhaenyra’s hair. Lady Sabitha’s fingers comb through the silver-gold locks for a brief moment, as if searching for any hints of greenery. They linger there longer than they ought to. As they pull back, Rhaenyra’s smile is brighter than he’s seen it in a long time. Very nearly shy. Lady Sabitha winks and she lets out a bashful peeling of laughter. 

Laenor eyes them with amusement glittering in his own eyes as he regards them with a knowing look. He balances a dagger in his palm, looking like a cat who’s caught a canary. Like a man who knows a secret no one else is privy to. 

Surprise fills Criston then. There had been different interpretations about Rhaenyra’s preferences in Fire and Blood among readers, but most of these speculations had been concerning her relationship with Laena. When she had not taken her to be a lover, Criston had assumed that she had no interest in women, that it had all been just that, speculation. Given the sight before him, it seems it was more accurate than he’d thought. 

He can feel a headache forming between his eyes, brutal and merciless. Laena says, “I assume you’ve caught on then, given how you look as if you’ve swallowed a particularly sour lemon?” 

He gnashes his teeth together. “Aye.” 

She swirls the wine in her cup. “If it’s any consolation,” she comforts, “this could be a good thing; no one will hold true to possible rumors about her with Ser Harwin, not if she’s such close friends with the notoriously prideful Lady Sabitha.” 

Criston’s jaw is so tight he thinks it might snap off. “And if rumors swirl about her with Lady Sabitha as well?” 

Laena snorts. “That would be far too outlandish; it is one thing to think she might be bedding one. But both? No, that’s practically an inconceivable thought.” 

Criston meets her eyes and thinks stormily that is little comfort at all. 

After some consideration, he pays a visit to Ser Harwin. He purposely does so when Lady Sabitha is not around. Ser Harwin is the most pressing concern between the two of them, and if he has to speak with both of them at once about this, he thinks he might do or say something he regrets. So that’s how he finds himself here, riding upon a fine horse with the man. It’s warm out, a perfect day, but that does little to ease Criston’s sour mood. 

“Thank you for agreeing to ride with me,” Ser Harwin smiles, “I have to confess, I find it preferable to being locked in a room when it comes to drafting plans.” Criston hums. Draws his horse to a stop. Stares at him grimly. Ser Harwin’s smile fades slowly until it dies altogether. “Is something wrong, Ser?” 

Criston’s smile is sharper than he intended for it to be. “I’ll give you this, Strong,” he says, “you have some guts. Not many men would try what you’re doing, not many at all.” 

Ser Harwin’s stare is wary. “I’m not sure I follow.” 

“Of course you do,” Criston replies sharply. “It pertains to your business with Rhaenyra.” 

Ser Harwin stiffens. “Ser Criston–” 

He raises a hand sharply to silence him. “I don’t want to hear your excuses,” he says firmly, “or any lies you may have. I would be a fool not to notice your interest in her or her interest in you or your wife.” 

“My wife–” Ser Harwin’s tone is genuinely colored by surprise here. Then it’s colored by what would be amusement were it not for the situation at hand. “Of course Sabitha would find a way to win her over.” 

Criston is going to die young with how much his blood pressure has risen over the last few weeks. He stares Ser Harwin dead in the eyes and ignores any traces of Larys Strong he finds in his features. 

“Here is what is going to happen,” he says grimly, “if you insist on carrying on with this utter foolishness, if you will continue to ignore all of the reasons why you should not seek out the heir to the Seven Kingdoms as your… companion, you will follow these instructions: You will not hurt Rhaenyra, ever. Not emotionally, not physically. You will be attentive to her and patient, and everything she deserves. You will take pains to ensure that moontea and other such contraceptives are always at her disposal; a Strong bastard in a royal cradle is the last thing the realm needs. And you will not be discovered. Not now, not ever. If there ever comes a time when you have the slightest inkling that your relationship with her is known, you will report it to me at once. Her reputation cannot be ruined. Can you do these things? Will you?

Criston purposely leaves the threats out of his demands. They are not requests, but he would rather not threaten a man whose brother he murdered. He will, if he feels he has to, but he hasn’t gotten to that point yet. 

Ser Harwin’s frown is solemn. He’s uncharacteristically serious in the silence that opens between them. After a long moment, he nods. “Aye,” he says, “I can hold to those promises. I’m a man of my word.” 

Criston nods sharply. “And the Lady Sabitha?” 

“She’ll hold to them as well; they aren’t unreasonable.” 

Criston hums grimly. “Ensure that she does.” 

Later in the day, a note arrives in Criston’s chambers. He unfurls it and recognizes the scrawl of Lady Sabitha’s handwriting. The block-like letters of Ser Harwin’s as well. 

Terms accepted, the note reads, and Criston rests his forehead against his interlocked fingers and sighs. He’ll take his victories where he can get them.

Chapter Text

It’s been four moons since Criston had his chat with Ser Harwin, and Rhaenyra is positively glowing. Ser Harwin and Lady Sabitha have remained close to her side throughout these last few moons and frowns mark the faces of certain members of court. Not because of any rumors of impropriety, thank the gods, but because her closeness with the Lord Commander of the City Watch and his lady wife spells for her level of influence over the Gold Cloaks. 

Queen Alicent looks even more sour these days, and that would almost be enough to make Criston smile – he bloody hates the wretched woman – if he weren’t so miserable. It’s more than just the concern for Rhaenyra’s reputation, he realizes as Rhaenyra’s face lights up to see Ser Harwin. It’s something close to nostalgia. Except nostalgia is supposed to be warm, supposed to be pleasant. This would be more like deja vu.  The way Rhaenyra is looking at Harwin reminds him of the way that Aemma used to look at him. Not as devotedly – not yet, at least – but with a level of affection that sends echoes of familiarity echoing across Criston’s mind. 

He swallows hard. Ignores it. Stares straight ahead. 

After that, despite trying as best as he can, he can’t help but think of himself and Aemma whenever he sees Lady Sabitha or Ser Harwin interact with Rhaenyra. It’s in the way Ser Harwin shows off in the training yards, the way Lady Sabitha does her best to coax smiles and laughter out of her, and the way they exchange small, subtle gifts with her. 

That’s what does it, in the end. That’s what gets Criston to snap. Ser Harwin and Lady Sabitha her a box containing beautiful earrings. Criston can’t see how beautiful they look because he’s a good distance away. But he sees how Rhaenyra’s face brightens with delight and then softens with genuine affection. 

“A gift,” Ser Harwin grins, “Sab helped me choose them.” 

“Harwin,” Rhaenyra breathes, looking genuinely touched, “they’re beautiful . Thank you.” 

A smirk cuts into the side of Lady Sabitha’s mouth, but it looks softer than it usually does. More genuine. “You deserve no less,” she says easily. 

He’s reminded, then, of all those years ago when he and Aemma stood in the library. When they exchanged books and read together and didn’t dare to name what was forming between them. When times sure as the seven hells weren’t simple, but when Criston was young and stupid and desperately in love and he hadn’t felt like a fucking shadow of a man. Memory splits him open with a knife, splits him right at the center of his stomach, and twists upwards to slide between his ribs and stab through his heart. 

Criston clenches his jaw. “I have some business of the Kingsguard to attend to,” he tells Rhaenyra, hoping that she doesn’t notice the tightness of his voice and the tremor in his hands. “I’ll have Ser Willas guard you while I’m gone.” 

She laughs. “Ser Harwin is the strongest man in the realm, Ser Criston,” she says, “and Lady Sabitha has talents of her own. I do not need Ser Willas here.” 

“I’ll bring him anyway,” Criston says. His eyes flicker to the Strongs. They are too hot, dangerously close to burning. “I trust that won’t be an issue.” 

Ser Harwin looks a little sheepish, and Lady Sabitha frowns a little. “No ser,” she says, “have no fear, we’ll keep the princess safe until Ser Willas gets here.” 

Safe from any possible outside harm, the implication goes, and also safe from her reputation being marred. 

Criston nods sharply. 

“Very well then,” he says, and he leaves before anyone can say anything else. 

Once he’s dispatched his orders to Ser Willas, Criston returns to his quarters. He locks the door and slides down to the floor. Rests his head against his forearms as he draws his knees to his chest. He takes one breath, then two. Then he takes a third. 

Lovely lilac eyes race across his mind, lovely lilac eyes and a shrill, perfect laugh and platinum hair, and the words, “There is no need to return it,” as soft hands passed him the book gifted to him all those years ago. 

A sob rises from his throat. His hands curl into fists. He stares up at the ceiling. He wills himself to find the strength he needs to get up, to collect himself. Much to his horror, hot tears run down his face instead. They burn like drops of acid as they leave trails down his cheeks, collecting against his skin in hot pools. He lets out a strained gasp as he fights for air, his breath rattling in his chest. 

Fuck. 

He’d thought he was past this, but he should know better by now. Every time he thinks that his grief for Aemma has eased, that it has turned into a dull ache rather than a fresh wound, the scab rips open again and her loss is as acutely agonizing as it was thirteen years ago. There’s a hole in his chest and he’s rotting from the inside out as the years tick by and it never closes. 

“Aemma,” he croaks.

He doesn’t say anything else both because he doesn’t want to and he’s not sure he could even if he tried. He half-rises to his feet and stumbles over to the box where he keeps all his most prized possessions. Feverishly, desperately, he scrounges through it, dumping everything that isn’t what he’s looking for to the floor. When he finds the adventure book that Aemma gifted him all those years ago, he clutches it to his chest tightly. 

He catches sight of himself in the mirror, then, and recoils at what he sees. Gods, how pathetic he looks. His eyes are rimmed red and his hair looks a mess and he’s clutching at Aemma’s book like it will somehow make her come back to life. He’s sobbing so hard that he’s on the verge of vomiting and he’s probably having a panic attack and he hates himself for it. 

He’s supposed to be stronger than this. Aemma entrusted him with Rhaenyra’s safety; how is he supposed to fulfill that duty if he breaks so easily? If he snaps at the smallest reminder of her. Revulsion fills him. Self-loathing, too. He looks away from the mirror, unable to bear the sight of himself. Before he knows it, his first is rising in the air to strike at the floor. His knuckles strike at the stone head on and he hears a crack. Then he registers a searing, awful pain. He flinches and draws his bleeding, mangled hand to his chest.

And just like that, all of the fight leaves his body. It’s as if he’s bleeding out his energy with the literal blood dripping from his fist. Criston rolls on his back and stares at the ceiling. He needs help. He’s self-aware enough to know that, at least. But there’s no one to speak with in this world, no professionals capable of giving the kind of aid he needs. This burden is his alone to bear. 

Criston drags his non-injured hand over his face and rests for a moment longer. He allows himself just a few more minutes to stall before he goes to visit Grand Maester Orwyle.

Later, when the Grand Maester has fixed his hand into a splint and Rhaenyra has worried over him, and he’s come up with the lie that he was trying to help a poor maid with something and accidentally caught his hand on a door, Criston finds himself sitting in an isolated corner of the Red Keep, flipping through Aemma’s book. It hurts him to see it, to run his fingers along the same pages that Aemma once read, but the ache has lessened since his episode, and in its own twisted way, that’s reassuring. The grief is still there, but the panic has passed, and even if he has to keep scratching at that scab to remind himself that he hasn’t lost his mind, he’ll keep doing it. 

“I thought I’d find you here.” 

Laena’s voice is warm and rich. Criston looks up from the book. 

“My lady,” he says, offering her a strained smile, “how did you find me?” 

Laena must see how fake the look on his face is, because she grows a little more solemn. “The servants talk,” she says, “and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard’s favorite place to retreat is always noted.” 

Criston lets out something that could have been a laugh any other time. “Am I truly so predictable?” he asks. 

Laena settles beside him. “Not so much predictable as dependable,” she replies. She leans over to catch a look at his book. “What book is this, to make you so blue?” 

Her voice is teasing but gentle. Light but full of warm concern. Criston meets her eyes, so full of life, and before he can stop himself, he says, “It’s an adventure book. A gift from someone very dear to me once.” 

She arches an eyebrow. “Oh?” Her tone is playful. “How dear, Ser?” 

And Criston should stop, shut the hell up, and not say anything at all in response to that, but he’s so tired and the wind in his sails is gone and even if he can’t tell the whole truth, he needs to get at least some of this off his chest. He trusts Laena more than he trusts a great many people, and that’s enough to get him to say what he does next. 

“Its previous owner was a woman I loved once,” he replies. 

Laena is silent for a long moment. Her eyes go soft in that way they did three years ago when he worried over Rhaenyra’s labors. 

“Ah,” she says softly, “I see.” 

Criston lets out a slow sigh. “It was before I joined the Kingsguard,” he adds, feeling defensive, “I hadn’t said my vows yet.” 

Laena shakes her head. “I would not have judged you if it were after.” That takes him by surprise, though it shouldn’t. A long moment of silence passes. “Will you tell me about here?” 

He glances at Laena out of the corner of his eye, hesitating. How much should he tell her? “She was a good woman,” he settles on finally, “and the kindest soul I’ve ever met. She suffered many hardships, but she still shined brighter than the sun. She had a quiet sort of strength about her that I admired deeply.” 

Laena hums. “She sounds like she was a lovely woman. What happened to her?” Criston’s jaw clenches. His expression darkens and she raises a hand. “Be at ease, Criston. If you do not wish to speak any more of her, I will not force you to.” 

He leans back so that his back is pressed against the wall. It feels less vulnerable that way. “Queen Aemma died and she left court,” he says, and it is not a lie. Not completely at least. “Rhaenyra needed me, and I could not follow her.” 

He ignores the treacherous part of him that thinks that maybe some part of him did follow her to her funeral pyre. When he looks back at Laena, he finds raw admiration on her face. 

“You loved Rhaenyra to give up on a woman you loved desperately, given you still hold on to her old possessions,” she says. “I am sure you hear it often, Criston, but you are a good man. Better than many in this world deserve.” 

He smiles tiredly. “I wish I had more to remember her by,” he says. Rhaenyra is worth more than any amount of gold, worth more than the stars and the sky and the world itself, but if he could have more of Aemma, he would always take it. 

Laena traces over the book. “The artwork is beautiful,” she says, her fingers flitting across the falcon flying on the cover. 

Criston nods. “So it is.” 

Her look grows contemplative. After a moment, she rises to her feet. 

“Forgive me,” she says, “I didn’t mean to intrude on your silence. I’ll let you remember your lady love, whoever she was, in peace.” 

You didn’t bother me, Criston thinks. He’s too wary to say the words out loud. 

Instead, he just nods and watches her leave. 

It’s three moons later, on his thirty-seventh name day, that he finds a box left in his chambers. He frowns as he opens it, both curious and all too tired to deal with whatever nonsense it could be. What he finds is a sterling silver pendant hanging from a chain. It’s a beautiful thing, delicate and elegant and exactly as it looked on the cover of Aemma’s book. 

A note has been left in the box. It reads: 

I could not give you something new of your woman, whoever she was, but mayhaps I can give you something that honors her. I had it commissioned by the finest silversmith in King’s Landing. Wear it, or do not, if it is too painful. All I ask is that you smile to see it. 

– Laena

And Criston does smile. It spreads across his face from ear to ear. His cheeks hurt from the force of it. He cradles the pendant in his palm. He hesitates for a long second, despite how touched he is. He’s a little afraid that he’ll curl into a ball all over again when he puts it on. But he won’t squander Laena’s consideration. He refuses to. Slowly, as if he fears he will break it or himself or both in the process, he slips it over his head. It rests, coolly, against his sternum. 

He turns to look at himself in the mirror and sees the metal peeking out from beneath his shirt. He doesn’t think he could bear it if he saw it hanging from his neck with nothing to cover it, but he doesn’t have to. This move of generosity from Laena, this testament to Aemma, is enough to steal the breath from his lungs, but not in a way that threatens to ruin him. 

Criston turns away from the mirror and decides he’ll keep the necklace on. 

Laena doesn’t say anything when she sees the chain around his neck, and it feels like too raw of a thing to thank her outright. But she smiles at him and he smiles back, and an understanding forms between them. 

Chapter Text

The Twenty-Third day of the Fourth Moon, 120 AC

Criston has faced many opponents over the years. He’s crossed blades with great fighters and bad fighters, grown men and green boys. He has decades of experience by this point, a whole life of it even. That doesn’t stop him from regarding Aemond carefully in the Dragonstone’s yards as he runs training drills. He’s gifted with a blade, Aemond. He certainly takes more interest in it than Aegon. That could be a dangerous thing, part of Criston murmurs. It could also very well be a boon in this life if the cards fall right. 

“Aemond,” he calls, “stop.” 

The boy lowers his wooden training sword, his brow furrowed. “Did I do something wrong, Ser Criston?” he asks. 

Criston pauses. “No,” he said, “this isn’t something you did wrong, only something you could do better.” 

Aemond’s glance at that reminds him very much of Rhaenyra when she is put out. “I did make a mistake then.” 

Criston softens a little at his clear dejection. In the years that he has been his sister’s ward, he’s grown fond of the boy. It’s hard not to when he’s so genuine. The trauma of losing his eye to Lucerys Velaryon must have ruined him, but there must have been something else that fundamentally broke him in the events of Fire and Blood ; Criston cannot imagine the sweet boy who stands before him now committing war crimes in the Riverlands. 

“Rest easy, lad,” Criston says to him, “you’re doing just fine. I was only going to tell you to hold your blade up higher. You’re doing well.” 

Aemond’s expression lights up. “You think so?” 

He ruffles his hair. “Did I not just say so, lad?” 

They keep training for a while, and Aemond manages to get the hang of the drills after a bit longer. He’s tired by the end of it, sitting on the ground as he tries to catch his breath. Criston hauls him up, feeling a strange combination of pity and amusement. 

“Stand,” he suggests at the boy’s wheezing, “it will help you catch your breath.” 

“Ser Criston,” comes a chiding voice, “I sincerely hope you are not trying to kill my brother.” 

Aemond perks up to see its owner. “Rhaenyra!” he calls. He stumbles to his feet, dirt and sweat and grass clinging to his clothes, and rushes to embrace her. Rhaenrya wrinkles her nose at the state of him, a grimace flashing across her face, but wraps her arms around him all the same. Aemond is small for his age, but Rhaenyra is short for a grown woman. He reaches her ribcage. She drops a kiss to the top of his head, her lips pressing against his damp silver-gold hair. 

“I am happy to see you too, fierce one,” she smiles, “tell me, how has training gone today?” 

Aemond wriggles further into her hold. “It went well,” he said, “Ser Criston is a very good teacher.” 

Criston smiles“I am flattered, my prince,” he says. 

Rhaenyra hums in contemplation. “He is a decent enough teacher, I suppose,” she agrees, “though there is always room for improvement.” 

Criston arches an eyebrow at that. “Should I be offended by that, my princess?” he asks. 

She smiles at him sweetly. “Of course not, ser. After all, that is one of the lessons you taught me when I was about Aemond’s age.” 

He squints at her. Crosses his arms over his chest. “If I were a lesser man,” he says dryly, “I would be hurt.” 

“It is a good thing then that you are a giant among men,” Rhaenyra quips. She kisses Aemond once more on the head and drops her arms. “Go take a bath, Aemond,” she says affectionately, “you reek.” 

Aemond’s face goes red. He goes to sniff at his clothing. “I don’t smell that bad!” he replies in a futile attempt to defend himself. 

Rhaenyra levels him with an unimpressed look and Criston laughs. “My apologies, my prince, but I fear the princess is right.” 

Aemond glares at the ground. Rhaenyra ruffles his hair and sends him on his way. As she watches him go, a smile stays fixed on her face. Criston eyes her curiously for that. When she returned to Dragonstone, she did not bring Ser Harwin or Lady Sabitha with her. Ser Harwin because, of course, he commands the City Watch. And Lady Sabitha because, though she is her lady-in-waiting, she had some business to attend to with her family. In the nearly two years since they started their arrangement, Rhaenyra has not been without the both of them at once for such a long stretch before. When she isn’t completing her duties upon Dragonstone, she’s been moping. Except for now. 

“What makes you smile so widely, my princess?” he asks. 

Rhaenyra’s eyes flicker to him. “I received a raven from my father this morning,” she says, “he tells me that he’s finally told the Hightower bitch –” he gives her a look at that and she rolls her eyes “the queen ,” she amends grudgingly, “of the betrothal between Aemon and Helaena.” 

It’s about time, Criston thinks with no small degree of relief. He pushes down the twinge of discomfort and focuses on the practicality of it. After all the tap dancing around the issue that King Viserys had done for the last two years, he’s finally mentioned it to Queen Alicent. If he’s done that, he’ll be announcing it publicly soon. There will be no chance for revocation then. The match will be secure.

“That’s good,” he replies, “you must be pleased.” 

She nods, one corner of her mouth quirking upwards. “I am. This is the best chance I have of uniting my blood with Otto Hightower’s. If a war breaks out now, I will know that I have done all I possibly can to prevent it. And Helaena deserves a crown. I am glad to be able to give her one. She and Aemon will make a fine match.” 

Criston regards her for a moment. “I am proud of you, Rhaenyra,” he says, “you have grown so much from the little girl I first met all those years ago.” 

She laughs. “When you first met me, I was a girl of seven. Now I am a woman of three-and-twenty. It seems only natural that I would grow.” 

Criston’s smile is thin. She has him there, he supposes. But still–

“You have grown into a woman I am proud to call my future queen,” he insists, “both as a ruler and a person. Queen Aemma would be proud of you if she could see you today.” 

Rhaenyra’s eyes meet his. There is something sad in her gaze, a sort of bittersweetness. “Thank you,” she says. Then, after a second, she adds, “I am glad that my mother could call you a friend at court. She bore a terrible burden; even as a girl, I could tell that you lightened her mood.” 

Criston stares at her for a long moment. Feels a lump rise in his throat. Then he smiles and squeezes Rhaenyra’s hand. “It was my honor, princess,” he says. I loved her, he does not add. Instead, he says, “I would have done it any day.” 

Rhaenyra’s good mood about the betrothal between Aemon and Helaena does not last for very long. The disruption to her mood comes in the form of two dragons swiftly approaching Dragonstone less than two nights later. It’s storming when the servants come to them with the news that two dragons have been sighted flying to Dragonstone. 

Rhaenyra waves a hand at the servant as she plays her game of cards with Laena and Laenor. “Dragonstone has many wild dragons,” she says, “what’s the difference here?” 

The servant hesitates. “It is difficult to tell, with the rain and the darkness, but your men believe them to be Sunfyre and Dreamfyre, my princess.” 

Criston stiffens. Rhaenyra sets down her cards. 

“What?” she frowns. “Why would Aegon and Helaena be here? Was there any news from King’s Landing that they would be arriving?” 

The servant shakes his head helplessly. “Not that I know of, princess.” 

Rhaenyra stands from the table. 

“Rhaenyra,” Criston calls, “where are you going?” 

“If my brother and sister are going to land anywhere, it will be in the great courtyard,” she says grimly, “they have flown to me in the middle of a storm; it could not have been for any small motivations. I will see them now, and not a moment later.” 

“Put on a cloak at least,” he says, “it’s bound to be cold outside.” 

To his immense frustration, she ignores him. He grabs one himself and hastens to follow after her; gods, she’s fast.

They walk out to the courtyard. Lightning cracks across the sky. The rain pours down on them, stings their eyes, and weighs down on their clothing. Criston’s teeth are chattering and Rhaenyra is shivering. 

“Here,” he says, not even trying to hide his surliness, “put a cloak on. You’ll get sick otherwise.” 

To his relief, she obeys this request. Her gaze, though, is entirely focused on the two great forms before her. And sure enough, Sunfyre and Dreamfyre have settled before Dragonstone. As lightning crackles again, their golden and blue-and-silver scales respectively flash in the dim lighting. The rain beats down harder. 

“Aegon!” Rhaenyra’s voice is high with anger and concern. “Helaena! What are you doing here? By the Seven, it’s storming , you could have been hurt !” 

Aegon and Helaena, who have clambered from atop their dragons, run to her. Helaena’s eyes are distant in that way they are when she’s lost to the world, preoccupied by things no one else can dream of or understand. Aegon’s eyes, on the other hand, are wild. Wild, Criston thinks grimly, and more than a little rabid. 

“Rhaenyra,” he shouts over the wind, “please, you have to help us.” 

Rhaenyra must see the distress on his face because she softens and goes to cup his cheek. “Help you with what, little brother?” 

What happens next gives Criston an absolutely horrible headache. 

Aegon wrinkles his nose and points to Helaena.

“I don’t want to marry her,” he says.

Chapter Text

The Twentieth Day of the Fourth Moon, 120 AC

In Aegon Targaryen’s thirteen years of being alive, he holds two fundamental truths close to his heart. They are not ones he would ever admit out loud, he thinks. They should stay unspoken, secrets that only he knows. It’s better that way, for different reasons. Uncle Gwayne would never stop smiling his stupid smile if he knew, and he doesn’t know what Rhaenyra’s reaction would be. 

As he descends up the steps of the Red Keep to its rookery, he nearly stumbles into Grand Maester Orwyle. He shouts at the man’s sudden appearance – and it is a shout, not a yelp – and barely manages to twist out of the way. It is a testament only to the horrid training Uncle Gwayne makes him suffer through that he manages to avoid him. His back presses against the wall as the Grand Maester levels him with a flat look. He smiles a little sheepishly, feeling the back of his neck brickle in embarrassment. 

“My prince,” he says, “you seem to be in a rush today.” 

Aegon nods. “Aye.” 

“Would I be correct in presuming that you are headed to the rookery?” he asks. 

“You would be correct,” Aegon acknowledges, “another letter from Rhaenyra should be arriving soon. They always come around this time of the week.” 

Grand Maester Orwyle hums. “You have training with Ser Gwayne soon, do you not? I doubt that your mother, the queen, would be pleased to see you here when you should be preparing to train.” 

Aegon looks at him sharply. “What I do with my own time is my business, Grand Maester,” he says. 

The man inclines his head. “Of course it is, my prince,” he assures him, “I only meant to spare you and Queen Alicent both the frustration of a row.” 

Aegon squints at him. “Thank you, then,” he says grudgingly. Then he adds, “I’m still going to the rookery.” 

Grand Maester Orwyle’s smile is thin. “I believe I did see a letter for you there,” he says, “you might get your wish after all.” 

He brightens at that. “Wonderful,” he chirps, and then he rushes up the steps to get to the rookery, leaving his mother’s man in the dust. He’s still sore from the training Uncle Gwayne put him through yesterday, and his lungs suck in air sharply, a tell-tale promise of the burning to come, but he doesn’t care. If Rhaenyra’s letter for him is truly here, then it will all be worth it once he is holding it in his hands. 

Aegon opens the door to the rookery quickly, a grin cutting into the side of his mouth. He steps inside and his weight sinks into the lush red rug set across the floor. He rustles through the letters quickly, searching for Rhaenyra’s. As he does so, he sees one for his mother amidst the piles. That’s not exactly a surprise – she is the queen, after all, and lords and ladies from all across the realm write to her to curry her favor. What catches his attention is the sigil of House Hightower emblazoned across the envelope. Without thinking, he snatches it up. Frowning, he looks around to see if there’s anyone else here. Then, feeling a little foolish, he holds it tighter. He would have seen if the rookery were occupied upon entering it. And even if it were, he is the eldest son of the king. He might not be his father’s heir, but that still counts for something at court. What’s more, he’s picking up his own mother’s letter. He isn’t snooping, he’s just… observing it. 

Aegon turns the letter over in his hands and tries to guess who it’s from. It could be any one from his mother’s family – from his family, he thinks distantly. It could be from Lord Ormun, who is his mother’s cousin, or his lady wife, or any of their sons. It could be from a more distant relation as well, from a cadet branch of their house who seeks to gain her favor by informing her of the comings and goings of Oldtown. The most likely sender of this letter however, Aegon thinks, is his lord grandfather. 

Grandfather left court before his tenth name day after infuriating Father. Aegon isn’t a bloody fool, he knows it was over making him heir instead of Rhaenyra. He has fuzzy memories of his mother’s father. He remembers his stern face and brown hair and solemn eyes. He remembers how his mother, who has always stood so tall, almost seemed to fall into his shadow when he was around. He remembers the stupid lessons he made him take, the ones Mother still makes him take even now. For the letters alone, Aegon could mislike the man. For his disrespect to Rhaenyra, Aegon certainly does mislike him. 

He sets his mother’s letter back to its original place, feeling a scowl steal across his face. When his mother gets a letter from his grandfather, she always grows more agitated. Sometimes she seems vindicated, but other times she is wroth. He is not particularly eager to discover which one this letter will bring with it. He abandons the letter from Oldtown in search of Rhaenyra’s once again. 

He finds it after another minute or so and beams to see it. He rips it open excitedly, his foot tapping impatiently against the floor, and reads it right then and there. Rhaenyra’s handwriting is as elegant and looping as always. 

Dearest Aegon,

I hope that you’ve been well. Helaena has told me in her letters that training has been difficult for you, a detail you neglected to mention last time we spoke. I can practically see you frowning, little brother – I would ask you to stop. The purpose of me mentioning this is not to chastise you, only to remind you that I, as your older sister, will always be there for you. You can trust me with your struggles. Mayhaps I might even be able to offer you good advice. Though in this instance, I suppose my advice would be to relay your problems to Ser Criston and then record his response to them. 

Dragonstone has been calm since my return. Aemon is glad to be back, though I think Baelon might miss the bustle of the Red Keep. It is fine; he will adjust. He has his brother and cousin, and Aemond as well. Speaking of Aemond, I am proud to say that he has been progressing well in his training. The next time you write to him – and really, Aegon, you should be sending him more letters – you should congratulate him. 

The smallfolk continue to thrive here on Dragonstone. The crop rotation we implemented all those years ago is seeing fruition quite nicely. I will have to see if any other lords might be interested in implementing it. Though the lords are stubborn and set in their ways, and they regrettably are not always interested in what is best for their smallfolk. Nevertheless, I will speak with our father about how it might be implemented in the countryside around King’s Landing upon my return. 

I am not to return for several moons, so when you write to me, tell me what you might like as a gift or something else you might appreciate more than steel. You already have far too many daggers, but mayhaps I can find you a fine tunic you might like. Oh, and be a darling and check on Helaena for me. In her last letter, she seems distressed by something. She wrote of curses quite fervently.  I know that she is often plagued by her dreams, whatever they may be, dragon dreams or otherwise. Go to her the day you receive this letter – I am not above holding your next gift hostage, my favorite oldest little brother. Make sure she’s alright, and then write back to inform me. I worry about her, sometimes. Our sweet sister deserves the world, as I am sure you would agree. 

In any case, I hope that your time in the Red Keep has not been too miserable since I left. I know that you must miss me terribly – stop your pouting, I can feel it already. As always I will remind you of my eternal fondness and devotion. I hope that, upon my return, you will not be too old to embrace your favorite older sister. You are nearly a man, but not quite yet. And you will never be too old for me to dot kisses on your brow. 

With the greatest love,

Rhaenyra

Aegon’s smile is so wide that he thinks his face might just crack in half. He closes his eyes and clutches Rhaenyra’s letter tightly in his hands. The parchment crumples a little and he swears and sets it out across a desk to smooth it over. He feels warmth fill him as he looks over the last paragraph again. He can almost see her open arms and quirked brow already. He misses her terribly. He always does, even if she is only a flight on Sunfyre away. 

Aegon’s first memory is of Rhaenyra. He can recall it vaguely. In the memory he’s sitting in her lap, his face pressed against the fabric of her gown as she rocks him gently. He can’t remember what the color of her gown was – he thinks it might have been maroon, but he cannot be sure – but he does recall trying to play with the rings on her fingers as she laughs and tells him the story of Boba Fett, the greatest sellsword to ever live. That’s one of the stories Ser Criston told to her when she was a girl, Aegon knows. The fact that she then chose to tell the same story to him makes his throat tighten with emotion. No one would ever dare say it at court, but Ser Criston is Rhaenyra’s second father. The stupid ones, or the ones who haven’t been here long, might titter at their closeness, but anyone with a properly functioning mind and a halfway decent pair of eyes would be able to tell that they’re like father and daughter, those two. 

And here lies one of Aegon’s greatest secrets, one of his two truths: if Ser Criston is  like Rhaenyra’s father, then Rhaenyra is, in some way, like his own mother. When Aegon thinks ‘mother,’ often Alicent Hightower and Rhaenyra flash across his mind at the same time. Maybe it is because he is ten years his senior, and they have grown up in the same stages at the same time. Maybe it is because of his sometimes tenuous relationship with his actual mother. But in any case, the lines between ‘sister’ and ‘parent’ blurred a long time ago. 

Rhaenyra is some strange combination between a sister and a mother with her kisses on his brow and her patience to listen to his troubles and his desperate need to make her proud. He craves her approval, craves her attention, in a way that a boy younger than him would seek out his mother. It’s foolish, Aegon knows, and ever since he overheard one of his father’s comments, he’s tried to avoid clinging to her skirts so obviously. He is too old for such things, and he already has a mother. But he can’t help but see Rhaenyra in that light all the same. 

The ringing of the bells makes Aegon’s head snap up. He tucks Rhaenyra’s letter between his doublet and his ribcage and swears. It’s almost time for his training! He might not care for the training one bit, but he’ll never hear the end of it from Uncle Gwayne if he arrives late for the third time this week. He races down the steps and rushes to his own chambers. He haphazardly tugs his training shirt over his head and changes the rest of his attire as well. Then he runs as fast as his legs can take him to the training yards.

He must run like the Stranger is chasing after him, because by some miracle he manages to get to the training yards just before they’re about to start. He props his hands against his kneels and leans over, gasping for breath as sweat trickles down his brow. 

“Aegon,” Uncle Gwayne says, “you’re just on time, I see.” 

He looks up, feeling sheepish all over again. “That I am,” he huffs out, “see? I’m able to manage my time just fine.” 

Uncle Gwayne lets out a skeptical sound and he looks up to see his exasperated expression. He hides a wince. He might not like training, but he is loath to disappoint his favorite uncle, his mother’s favorite brother. 

Instead of yelling at him, like his sister would have done, Uncle Gwayne just sighs. “I will give you a moment to collect yourself,” he says, “after that, we’ll get to work.” 

Aegon straightens at the steel in his voice. He meets his eyes and nods grimly. 

As with every training session they have, Aegon gets the piss beaten out of him. Uncle Gwayne is not purposely cruel, but he does not go out of his way to hold himself back either. By the end of it all, he’s got the promise of bruises littered all over his body. His ears ring as he stares up at the sky, lying flat on his back. His sword has been cast off to the side, knocked from his hand. The taste of iron sits heavy on his tongue. When he rolls over to his side and spits, blood drips from his mouth. He wipes at his face and grimaces. 

Uncle Gwayne sighs. A calloused pair of hands reaches beneath Aegon’s arms and hoists him up. He leans against him and groans. Uncle Gwayne pats at his back. “You’re alright lad,” he comforts, “stand up straight. There you are.” 

His eyes are gentle as he guides him to a spot of shade, the autumn sun unusually warm. He sends a servant to fetch Aegon some juice. Aegon breathes hard, wheezing. His uncle ruffles his hair awkwardly. Worriedly. 

“I hate this,” he gasps, “why does Mother insist I train like this?” 

His uncle sighs. “I know it seems harsh, what we’re doing here, lad. But the truth is that we’re making you into a worthy man.” 

He frowns at that. “Is a man’s only worth in his ability to wield a sword? My father is too fat to fight, and he sits on the Iron Throne.” 

“You shouldn’t speak of the king in such a fashion,” Uncle Gwayne chides, “he is your lord and master as well as your father.” 

Aegon shrugs. “I’m right all the same. And you didn’t answer my question.” 

He shifts uncomfortably. Then, after a long second, he says, “No, not every man is held to the same standards that you will be held to, once you’re grown. The standards that you’re held to now, to be truthful. But you are the eldest son of the king, and you must fulfill certain expectations. It is not fair, but such are the matters of life.” 

Aegon huffs. “I don’t see why I’m being held to these standards. It’s not like I’m going to be king.” 

Uncle Gwayne hesitates. “Aegon–” 

He shakes his head. “It’s the truth,” he insists, “if anyone should be held to these standards, it should be Aemon once he’s old enough. He is my sister’s heir, and Rhaenyra is going to be the one to succeed our father, not me.” 

Uncle Gwayne’s expression is tight, but he holds his tongue and does not say anything in reply. Instead, he simply passes Aegon his cup of juice once the servant returns. In that moment, he loves him for it. His mother would have screeched at him for even uttering those words in her presence. 

Sometimes, Aegon thinks that even if Mother loves him, she sees him more as a tool than anything else. 

Uncle Gwayne treats him like an actual person. He does not ignore him in favor of another child, like Father, and does not constantly remind him that he is the “rightful king,” like Mother. Even if he makes him train, he always makes sure not to push him too far and makes sure he’s alright after. He bounced Aegon on his knee when he was younger, and fought with Grandfather to get him to take lessons when he was especially young. He has been a constant in his life since he was little, always constant, even when they have had their disagreements. 

As Aegon gulps down his juice and wipes at his mouth, he thinks about his second great secret, about his second truth: that Uncle Gwayne has been more of a father to him than Viserys Targaryen, the First of His Name. That it is Uncle Gwayne who flashes across his mind upon the mention of ‘father,’ not the neglectful man who only seems to care about Rhaenyra. Who has only cared about Aegon or Helaena or Aemond or Daeron in passing, and only when it has suited him. He would sooner celebrate him as a father than anyone else. 

Instead of saying all of that, he just decides to shut his mouth and stop complaining. He will not ever be king, regardless of what his uncle wants, but that does not mean he needs to fight with him about it now, especially since he’s had this argument with so many people already. 

Exhaustion fills him. He runs a hand across his face. “I’m going to bathe,” he mumbles, “Mother wants us to dine as a family tonight. Father agreed.” 

Uncle Gwayne nods and ruffles his hair one last time. “Go then,” he says, “and make sure to rest tonight. We’ll take tomorrow off.” 

Aegon pauses. Grins. “Thank you, uncle.” 

Uncle Gwayne’s responding grin reminds him faintly of his mother’s. 

After Aegon bathes, there are still a few hours left before dinner. Remembering his promise to Rhaenyra, he goes to find Helaena. She is in the gardens of the Red Keep with a few girls her own age – potential ladies-in-waiting, he remembers. A beetle crawls over her hand. As it’s about to fall off, she lowers her other hand so that it drops into her waiting palm rather than the ground. The other girls regard her with horror. One fans herself, looking very much as if she’s about to faint. 

Aegon scowls. Helaena and her bugs. He walks up to them and the girls around her all drop hastily to curtsies. 

“My prince,” one of them says, “we weren’t expecting you!” 

“That’s because I didn’t tell you I was coming,” he replies curtly, “leave us, I wish to speak with my sister.” The sooner he gets this over with, the better. The girls flinch and he would almost feel bad about it if his mood were not so sour. 

They leave and he settles beside his sister. She doesn’t acknowledge him, only mumbles something incomprehensible beneath her breath. Aegon rolls his eyes. Hard. 

“What are you prattling on about now?” he asks. The beetle scuttles across her arm and his scowl deepens. “You shouldn’t play with random bugs, you know. They could be poisonous.” 

“You’re worried?” Helaena’s voice is soft, but teasing. 

He blinks. Then he scoffs. “You’re my sister,” he says, “obviously I’m going to watch to make sure you don’t get yourself killed. Even if you’re bloody strange.” For a second, he thinks he catches a shadow of a smile flickering across Helaena’s face. He squints and it vanishes. “What’s this about you rambling about curses?” he adds. 

Helaena hums. “Rhaenyra told you about them?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “She asked me to check on you.” 

His sister’s hand closes around the beetle in a loose fist. Not tight enough to crush it, but not loose enough to let it fly away randomly. Her eyes get distant in that way they do when she’s slipping into her own world. He stiffens. 

“The child, named for a house’s wronged heirs, and second to break the curse they bear,” she mumbles, “the child, named for the eldest born of a sniveling king. Destined to unite seven kingdoms with a will uncompromising.”

Aegon grasps her shoulder and squeezes. He knows by now not to shake her, that might only make things worse. “Helaena,” he snaps, “come back to your senses.” 

He hates it when she gets like this, all somber and eerie and distant. He hates to admit it, but it gives him a proper spook every time. 

He keeps squeezing his hand tighter and tighter until Helaena lets out a pained hiss. Her eyes snap to him, no longer distant, but accusing all the same. He drops his hand, feeling a flickering of shame. 

“Sorry,” he grunts, “I didn’t mean to squeeze you so hard.” She rubs at her shoulder. He picks at a blade of grass and does not look at her. “What was all of that about?” he asks. 

Helaena sighs deeply. “I dreamed it.” 

He frowns. “You’ve been dreaming many things lately, it seems.” 

She shakes her head. “No,” she corrects him, “just this one dream.” 

Aegon doesn’t know what to say to that. He just stares at her, hapless and unnerved. This is exactly why he doesn’t like spending time with her, she’s so fucking strange all the time. 

“You should speak with Father about it,” he says, “he likes you best, besides Rhaenyra. Maybe he’ll know something that can help you.” 

She only hums. 

Dinner that night is unusually tense. Aegon glances warily from over the brim of his cup as his mother stares frostily at his mother from across the table. Helaena keeps murmuring to herself about the same things from earlier. Daeron is still very little and huffs, cross to be seated in one place for so long. Father pretends as if he doesn’t know that Mother looks like she wants to stab him with her knife. Best of luck to him with that, because if she tries, Aegon certainly is not going to put himself between the two of them. 

“Lad,” his father says to him, breaking the tense silence, “how did your training with Ser Gwayne go this morning?” 

Aegon pokes at his food sullenly. “About as well as expected,” he drawls, “I got the piss beaten out of me.”
“Aegon,” his mother admonishes sharply, “watch your words. Such behavior is not befitting of that of a prince.” 

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, Mother. Apologies, Mother.” 

“When Rhaenyra returns, I will ask if Ser Criston can train you. If all goes well, mayhaps you can participate in the melee celebrations.” 

Aegon raises an eyebrow. “The melee celebrations for what? It’s not as if Rhaenyra doesn’t return every half-year’s turn.” 

His father raises a cup to his lips and casts a wary look at his mother. “Aemon is to be betrothed,” he says lightly. 

Aegon’s eyebrows leap to his hairline. Helaena’s murmuring grows more fervent.

Mother’s grip on her knife tightens. “That is significant news,” she says tightly, the tone of her voice dangerously soft, “might I inquire to whom?” 

Father sighs. “Come now, Alicent; I have been trying to hint to you all day the bride I intend for my grandson.”

A beat of silence passes. Helaena says beneath her breath, “Second to break the curse they bear.” Aegon ignores her in favor of the impending eruption of an argument between their parents. 

“I want to hear your answer for myself,” Mother replies. Her voice is as smooth as butter.

Father sighs. “Helaena, wife. I have agreed to betroth Aemon to Helaena.” 

Aegon’s eyes widen. He holds his breath, feels his heart beat wildly in his chest. If there’s one third fundamental thing he knows to be true, it’s that this won’t be well received. Not well received at all. 

Sure enough, his mother’s chair scrapes across the floor with a loud shriek. She’s stood up, her face pale with fury, the chair thrown behind her with the force of momentum. 

“How could you?” she spits. “I thought we had already agreed on Helaena’s husband. It was not Rhaenyra’s whelp.” 

Father scowls and rises to his own feet. “You will not speak of my grandson in this way, Alicent. Mind your tongue.” 

Aegon takes that at his hint to promptly leave. He nudges Helaena lightly and picks up Daeron. As strange as his sister is, and as loud and occasionally irritating as his youngest brother is, he will not abandon them to this. 

“Let’s go,” he hisses.

They slip out just as their parents’ voices raise to full on shouts. 

The Twenty-Second Day of the Fourth Moon, 120 AC

It’s the two days later that Aegon overhears a conversation he was never supposed to bear witness to. He does not know it yet, but it might just alter the future of the Seven Kingdoms. He’s on his way to his mother’s chambers for his lessons – she’s recently started making him attend lessons of the Seven ever since she caught him kissing a servant girl. He still hasn’t forgiven her for sending the girl away. He might not have loved her, but Jeyne was pretty and sweet, and she blushed whenever he smiled at her. 

In any case, that’s how he finds himself here, standing before the doors to his mother’s chambers. It’s then that he hears voices through the door. Furious, intense hisses. There are no guards within eyesight, to his surprise – she must have sent them away, but why? Curious, he draws closer and presses his ear against the door. 

“How dare he!” his mother is hissing. “Helaena was always meant to marry Aegon. It is his right as a Targaryen. The marriage would have lended him a legitimacy Viserys otherwise refuses to grant him. But my useless husband refuses him even this.” 

“He was wrong, yes,” comes Uncle Gwayne’s voice, “but there’s hardly anything we can do about it now, Alicent. The betrothal has been made. It is legal and acknowledged by the king.” 

There’s a long beat of silence. Then feverishly, almost desperately, Aegon’s mother says, “Viserys has not yet made the match public. What if we had Aegon and Helaena marry, in secret?” 

Growing horror fills Aegon. Dread sinks like a stone in his stomach. Marriage? To Helaena? He would rather never get married at all. 

“Are you mad?” Uncle Gwayne snaps. “The king would just annul the match. Helaena hasn’t even flowered yet besides.” 

“Viserys is weak,” Aegon’s mother replies, “if the marriage is done, he will not fight it. Even if it remains unconsummated until Helaena’s flowering.” 

A chair pulls back and the sound of footfalls reaches Aegon’s ears. He shuffles forward and, with bated breath, cracks the door open as much as he dares, which is not much at all. He’s betting on the fact that they’ll be too absorbed in their argument to notice. Uncle Gwayne is holding Mother by her shoulders, his teeth bared back into a snarl. He shakes her fiercely, his grip on her rough. 

“You are being monumentally foolish, sister. You are not just defying a legal betrothal, you are defying a legal betrothal sanctioned by the king. To force your children, my nephew and niece, into marriage – do not lie to yourself and pretend as if either Aegon or Helaena will want this marriage. How do you think the lords of the realm will regard you? Even our supporters will sneer at us and decry you as mad.” 

Aegon’s heart drops as his mother’s expression remains resolute.

By the gods, she’s really going to make him marry Helaena. 

He turns around, feeling bile crawl up his throat as he races away. He needs to warn Helaena, needs to find her. They have to get out of here. He refuses to be tied to her under the eyes of the Seven for the rest of his life, and he doubts she wants that either. So he’ll be damned if he lets it happen. 

(In his rush to leave, he misses how his mother’s resolve crumbles. How she weeps and says, “I know,” and how Uncle Gwayne comforts her, assuring her that she will not lose her only daughter to Rhaenyra.)

Aegon waits until the sun sets to make his move. He finds Helaena in her chambers. He sneaks into her room, his chest heaving. He has two bags thrown over his shoulder. One is full of his things, essentials haphazardly thrown inside. The other is empty, for his sister. 

“Wake up,” he hisses, shaking her fiercely, “for the love of the gods, Helaena, wake up.”  

She stirs with a groan. The stare she levels him with once she finally cracks her eyes open is the closest he’s ever seen her get to a glare. 

“What’s going on?” she asks. 

Aegon drags her out of bed. He’s not gentle, but he makes sure not to be rough after yesterday at the gardens. “Mother wants to marry us,” he says. 

She stares at him with wide eyes. “What?” 

“You heard me,” he snaps. 

She begins to tremble. “The child, named for a house’s wronged heirs, and second to break the curse they bear,” she repeats, “the child, named for the eldest born of a sniveling king. Destined to unite seven kingdoms with a will uncompromising.”

Aegon snarls. “Helaena, now isn’t the time. Get yourself together, we’re leaving.” 

That seems to shake her from her stupor a little at least, though her eyes are still distant. “Leaving? Leaving where?” 

He smiles grimly. “We’re going to someone who can help us run to Rhaenyra.” 

Helaena draws herself up, more steely than he’s ever seen her. “Only death awaits a green union,” she murmurs, “only in the mirror image of the seahorse brings the chance of salvation.” 

Aegon huffs. “Don’t go breaking out into fits now,” he warns, “we can’t afford that.” 

With that, they’re slinking through the halls of the Red Keep to find the two people who Aegon trusts completely to get them to their sister. 

If Harwin Strong and Sabitha Vypren are surprised to see them so late at night, they do not show it. Instead, Rhaenyra’s fiercest supporters at court offer them watered wine and bread. Aegon doesn’t eat; he hasn’t got the stomach for it. 

“What can we help you with, my prince?” Lady Sabitha’s gaze is sharp with curiosity. Ser Harwin looks torn between amusement at whatever they could be getting up to and concern that something is genuinely wrong. 

Aegon and Helaena glance at each other. 

“Mother–” 

“Betrothed to Aemon–”

“Wants to marry us–”

Ser Harwin’s amusement fades to total concern. “Slow down,” he says, “and repeat what you just said.” 

Helaena draws back into herself and so it’s up to Aegon to explain the situation. He sucks in a deep breath. Clutches at his hair as panic fills him. “Three nights ago, our father told our mother that he betrothed Helaena to our nephew, Aemon. Earlier today, I overheard her speaking with our Uncle Gwayne. She plans on marrying us before our father can make the announcement public.” 

Lady Sabitha lets out a low, unpleasant noise. Her eyes blaze with anger. 

Ser Harwin’s brow knits together. “I see,” he says, “that would be alarming indeed. I see why you would be upset.” 

“So, little prince,” Lady Sabitha interjects, “what can we do for the both of you?” 

Aegon looks her dead in the eyes. He’s always liked her, ever since she arrived at court. Many mislike her because of her sharpness, her fondness of holding a blade, and her abrasiveness. But she is one of his sister’s best friends, one of her most ardent supporters, and he respects her for that. What’s more, he trusts her. 

“Get us out of the Red Keep,” he says, not above pleading if he has to, “and to the Dragonpit. If we can reach Sunfyre and Dreamfyre, we can fly to Rhaenyra.” 

Ser Harwin sucks in a sharp breath. “You intend to flee from King’s Landing?” 

Aegon’s hands ball into fists. “What else can we do? If we stay, our mother might very well drag us before a septon.” He squares his shoulders. “So, will you help us or not?” 

Ser Harwin and Lady Sabitha exchange a long look. Then they nod in unison. 

“Aye,” the heir to Harrenhal says, “we’ll help you.” 

And Aegon doesn’t like Ser Harwin nearly as much as he does Lady Sabitha – not through any fault of his own, his wife is just much more fascinating than him, in his own humble opinion – but the amount of relief and respect that mingles together in his chest is palpable. He nearly crumbles as his eyes fill with years. 

“Thank you,” he rasps. 

Ser Harwin rests a hand on his shoulder. “Of course.” 

Lady Sabitha grasps Helaena’s hand. “We would never let any harm come to Rhaenyra’s beloved siblings.” 

Ser Harwin and Lady Sabitha do not accompany them personally, but they do send four of their most trusted members of the City Watch with them. They scramble through the secret tunnels of the Red Keep in the dead of night. Aegon’s heart beats so wildly that part of him thinks it might stop. 

“How do you know about all of these tunnels?” he had asked. 

Lady Sabitha had winked and said, “We have our ways – it’s secret City Watch business, you know,” as Ser Harwin had snorted. 

It had been amusing then, but is less amusing now as they struggle out with the map drawn for them. Aegon is so tense that he thinks he might be permanently stuck with stiff limbs. Beside him, Helaena holds herself similarly. They let out tandem breaths of relief when the night sky grows visible. Stars offer some modicum of light. It’s more than just the torches at least. 

Together, with the trusted members of the City Watch, they snake through King’s Landing and toward the Dragonpit. Sunfyre must sense Aegon’s anxiety on some level or another because his roar splits through the air. The dragonkeepers regard them warily when they catch sight of the group. 

“Prince Aegon,” they greet, “Princess Helaena. What can we help you with so late in the night.” 

Aegon lifts his chin. “My sister and I want to fly our dragons.” 

The dragonkeepers frown at each other. Then one of them, old and weathered with graying hair and pale violet eyes, says, “Forgive me, my prince, but do you have the leave of the king or queen?” 

Aegon hesitates. Then one of the City Watch men steps forward. His movements are easy, almost lazy, as his fingers run along the hilt of his sword. “Step aside, old man,” he says softly, “these are not matters that concern you.” 

The dragonkeepers stiffen. “What–” 

“You heard us,” another City Watch man says, “no one needs to get hurt here. Just mind your own business and move along.” 

The old dragonkeeper regards Aegon, dismayed. “My prince?” 

Aegon bites his lip. Finds it difficult to look him in the eyes. Beside him, Helaena reaches for his hand. “You heard them,” he says finally. It’s as if he finds strength in his sister’s gesture. “Move.” 

Grudgingly, the dragonkeepers all obey.

Aegon and Helaena race to Sunfyre and Dreamfyre respectively. 

It begins to rain soon after they depart, because of course it does. As if they haven’t had bad enough luck already. The rain slams down over their heads. It clings to their clothing and their hair, and it’s absolutely frigid. Aegon’s teeth chatter as he grips at Sunfyre’s slippery reigns with numb hands. Lightning crackles across the sky and thunder roars ferociously. Helaena shrieks and drives Dreamfyre lower, closer to the Blackwater Bay. Aegon swears and urges Sunfyre into a dive after her. 

“Helaena!” he calls. “Be careful! Don’t let the waves swallow you!” 

“To his relief, she seems to hear him because Dreamfyre flies a little higher again, though still closer to the waves than he would like. 

By the time they land on Dragonstone early into the morning, Aegon is freezing. He can’t feel his hands and he’s trembling all over, and his lips are so numb that part of him worries they might just fall off. 

All of these things are almost forgotten – almost, not completely – when he catches sight of Rhaenyra’s form in the courtyard, Ser Criston at her heels. Aegon and Helaena clamber off of their dragons, eager to reach her.

“Aegon!” Rhaenyra’s voice is high with anger and concern. “Helaena! What are you doing here? By the Seven, it’s storming, you could have been hurt!”  

Aegon runs closer to her, desperation clawing at his throat. Desperation and more than a little wildness. 

“Rhaenyra,” he shouts over the wind, “please, you have to help us.” 

Rhaenyra must see the distress on his face because she softens and goes to cup his cheek. “Help you with what, little brother?” 

Aegon wrinkles his nose and points to Helaena.

“I don’t want to marry her,” he says.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra’s solar is deadly quiet. Outside, the storm has reached its weight, the rain lashing and the wind shrieking. Criston can hear it raging against the castle itself. That rage, however, pales in comparison to Rhaenyra’s own stony countenance. She stares at Aegon from across her desk, her expression blank. The boy shivers even now, even after having bathed and changed into a warm pair of clothes. Beside him, Helaena mumbles to herself. 

The silence is oppressive. Suffocating, even. Criston looks at Rhaenyra out of the corner of his eye, pursing his lips. What an absolute disaster this is. The queen, plotting to force her eldest children into marriage. Aemon and Helaena’s betrothal being disrespected. Aegon and Helaena fleeing from King’s Landing in the middle of the night – during a storm no less – with the help of Sabitha and Harwin. 

It’s more than a disaster, he decides grimly, it’s a fucking nightmare. 

Aegon sneezes, the movement shaking his entire body, and Helaena flinches at the sudden noise. Rhaenyra’s stony facade breaks, for a moment, at the pitiful sight her siblings make. She stands and walks over to the other side of the desk. She reaches to Aegon with one hand and to Helaena with the other. 

“My bold brother and sweet sister,” she says, “how brave both of you have been. I am so very proud of you.” 

Aegon melts into her at those words. She kisses the crown of his head, her lips pressing into his silver hair. Helaena wriggles further into her hold. Criston averts his eyes. Rhaenyra is his, but the other two are not, as much as she might love them. He almost feels as if he’s intruding upon a quiet moment, a tenderness that should be reserved for the three of them alone. 

He clears his throat, loathe to separate them, but anxious to resume their business. “Princess,” he says, “mayhaps your brother and sister should get to bed. It has been a long night for them, after all.” 

Aegon scowls. “You’re going to talk about what to do next,” he accuses, “I refuse to be left out–” his jaw cracks with the force of the yawn that overtakes him. “I refuse to be left out of the conversation.” 

Rhaenyra’s smile is gentle but firm as she regards him. “Ser Criston is right, little brother. Go rest, and then we will reconvene once you and Helaena wake. I promise we will not bundle you up and ship you to King’s Landing while you sleep.” 

He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “That wasn’t funny, Rhaenyra.” 

But his eyes are drooping and Helaena herself is slouching, and they are ushered off to bed without much more protest. Rhaenyra watches them leave with fondness. Then, turning back to Criston, Laenor and Laena, she grows more serious again. 

“What am I to do with this?” she says sharply. “What a mess Alicent has dropped into my lap.” 

Laenor frowns from where he’s seated. “Can we not simply keep them here until things blow over in the capital?” 

She shakes her head. “I would not put it past Alicent to try to claim that I have kidnapped her children.” 

Laena scoffs. “She could try to claim such a thing,” she replies, “but everyone at court knows those children adore you, goodsister.” 

Rhaenyra runs her fingers through her hair. “Everyone at court,” she agrees, “not those further from King’s Landing.” 

Laenor rubs at his brow. “We cannot send them back. Not when you have given your word to them.” 

“Do you not think I know that?” Rhaenyra whirls on him, all bared teeth and flashing eyes. “I would never simply thrust them back into the claws of that evil Hightower bitch regardless.” 

Criston shuffles on his feet, his mind whirling. “You do not need to return them,” he says, “you need only inform the king of their whereabouts, and quickly.” 

Rhaenyra turns to him, her eyebrow raised. “Explain.” 

“There’s a good chance the queen will already pin the blame of their flight on you,” he says, “at the very least, she will try to poison the king against them remaining at Dragonstone. If they return to court, there will be no guarantee that she does not try to have them married as soon as they arrive.” 

“Where is the solution here, ser?” Rhaenyra bites out. Her brow is furrowed and her eyes are narrowed, and her neck is taught with alarm. He tries to keep her stress in mind and does not take her retort to heart.

“As soon as the storm ends, Ser Laenor should fly to King’s Landing. Let our side of the story meet the king face-to-face, not through letter.”
“Me?” Laenor pipes up with a furrowed brow. “Why not Rhaenyra?” 

Criston grimaces. “Aegon and Helaena fled to Dragonstone for the safety she offered. I do not think they would flee again if she were to leave, but that is not a chance I wish to take. And besides, I do not know if Rhaenyra has it in her to lower her head to the queen in a case like this.” 

“‘Rhaenyra’ is right here,” comes the voice of the princess.

Laena’s mouth ticks up into a small smile. “Is our good knight wrong?” she teases. 

She huffs, and in this light, she looks very much like Aegon indeed. “No,” she grumbles.  

Laenor rubs at his chin, his brow furrowed. “Might it not be a stronger show of force if we send Laena upon Vhagar instead?” 

Criston shakes his head furtively. “We must be firm,” he insists, “not threatening. The king might take Vhagar flying over his city negatively.” 

Laenor bristles a little at that. “Is Seasmoke not an intimidating sight?” 

Laena pats him on the shoulder, a smirk cutting ever so slightly into the side of her mouth. “Peace, brother,” she says, “it is not your fault that I have the superior mount.” She looks back to Criston. “I shall set for Driftmark now. Vhagar can withstand this storm, I know it. And the sooner we have the aid of my lord father and lady mother, the better.” 

Concern sparks, hot and sharp, in Criston’s chest. “No,” he snaps, more fiercely than he intended to. Laena’s eyebrows jump to her hairline. “No,” he repeats, softer this time, “I do not doubt your flying ability, my lady, but the risk is not worth it. A few more hours without Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys will not kill us. We may seek them out when it is safe to do so.” 

“Were you anyone else, ser,” Laena says wryly, “I might have taken offense to that.” 

Laenor clears his throat. “I am glad that you care for the safety of my family, Ser Criston,” he says, “but it might be time to draw this meeting to a close. I will need my rest if I am to fly to King’s Landing in the coming hours.” 

“Ser Criston will go with you,” Rhaenyra says firmly. 

Criston blinks. What? he thinks. 

“What?” Laenor blurts. His cheeks flush with indignance. “Do you not think I am capable of handling myself?” 

Rhaenyra taps at her temple. “If the Lord Commander himself goes with you, it will give you more legitimacy, husband.” 

Laenor leans back into his chair, somewhat soothed by her words. “Very well,” he grunts. “So it shall be.” 

“So it shall be,” Criston echoes. 

Rhaenyra’s answering smile is grim. 

They set off a few hours later, before the sun has slid over the horizon. The sky is gray and murky and there is still a chill in the air. Rain still drizzles slightly, but it is not much of anything at all and it is safe enough to fly. 

Laenor curses to himself as he mounts Seasmoke. He is put out, it seems, by the ill weather. He wears a thick tunic-doublet combination and pants made of wool. His boots are high and gloves adorn his slender hands. He’s tied his silver hair back and the angles of his face are sharper in this light, made only sharper by the irritation glimmering in his violet eyes. 

“Fucking Alicent Hightower,” he grumbles, “turning what should have been a good day to shit.” 

“I was unaware that you had plans for the day, Ser,” Criston replies dryly. His stomach rolls as he clambers onto Seasmoke’s back. Even after all these years, being upon dragonback still does not come easily to him. 

Laenor snorts. “My plans consisted of lying in my bed with Joffrey until noon. In my warm, soft covers that I now will not see for days on end. Nor will I see my beloved.” 

 “I am sure that Ser Joffrey will survive without you,” Criston replies. “It is only for a few days, if we are lucky.” 

Laenor laughs. “Spoken like a man who has never been in love.” 

Criston’s mouth draws very tight at that. Laenor commands Seasmoke to take to the skies, and for the rest of the flight, he is silent. 

King’s Landing, when they arrive, is not in as much disarray as it could have been. It is certainly abuzz – there are sideways glances in spades as Criston and Laenor are led to the throne room – and on edge, but it is not full of the chaos that they might have expected. 

The reason for why becomes obvious once they arrive to meet the king. 

King Viserys, for once in his life, looks intimidating as he sits ramrod straight upon his throne. His silver-gold hair is greasy and there are bags under his eyes and his belly is as round as ever, but there is an intensity burning behind his eyes, a fierceness, that makes Criston do a double-take. 

Before him stand two figures, one much taller than the other. Criston’s eyes narrow as he recognizes the broad shoulders of Ser Harwin and the angular form of Lady Sabitha. Both of them grimace beneath the weight of his glare.

At the sound of footsteps, King Viserys’ eyes shift to Criston and Laenor. “Lord Commander,” he greets coldly, “goodson. Would you care to explain to me why the Commander of my Gold Cloaks and his lady wife have reported to me that my son and daughter have fled to their sister? To Rhaenyra, your charge and wife respectively?” 

And instantly, it makes sense. The reason the Red Keep is not in complete chaos is because – quite wisely – Lady Sabitha and Ser Harwin reported to King Viserys before complete panic could take root.  He glances at them out of the corner of his eye, feeling a grudging flickering of approval. Despite Rhaenyra’s unfortunate taste, they are good for something. 

Laenor clears his throat beside him, looking very much as if he does not want to be there. Then he recounts Aegon and Helaena’s time on Dragonstone to their retirement to bed. 

The king’s expression grows more and more stormy. He rises from the throne, his face pale with anger. “Unbelievable!” he roars. “First, mine own children flee from my care, and the only reason I know is because my own Goldcloak commander reported it after he aided them. Now you claim my wife the queen was to wed my children in secret – breaking the betrothal between Aemon and Helaena in the process – and that was the cause of their flight?” 

Laenor winces at his tone. “Aye, Your Grace.” 

King Viserys looks to Criston, then. “Ser Criston?” he asks. 

He raises his chin. “Ser Laenor speaks the truth, Your Grace, to the extent of my knowledge.” 

King Viserys’ shoulders sag. He rubs at his temples. He looks, at this moment, far older than his years. 

“Return to Dragonstone, boy,” he grinds out to Laenor, “and recite this command to Rhaenyra: she will return to King’s Landing at once, with Aegon and Helaena in tow. She will not dally, will not stall. By the end of the morrow, I want all of my children beneath my roof. Rhaenyra tells me one thing, and my wife the queen another. I will find the truth for myself.” 

Laenor bows. “As you wish, Your Grace.” 

And so it is done. Rhaenyra returns to King’s Landing a few months before she was initially due to. Two other dragons accompany her, however – Vhagar, who was expected, and Meleys, who was somewhat less expected. Criston raises an eyebrow. It seems that Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys have come to support Rhaenyra personally. That is good. The bonds of blood and marriage are strong. 

King Viserys hears the different points of view, the contradictions and growing frustration between Queen Alicent, Gwayne, and others of the Green faction, and Rhaenyra and her Blacks. 

“Enough!” he spits out eventually. Turning to Aegon and Helaena, he says, “Son, daughter, I will speak with you in private, away from these differing arguments. Maybe then we will get to the bottom of this.” 

They enter a room together, all three of them, and stay there for what seems like hours. 

In the meantime, to soothe her own frustration and distract from the “mind-numbing boringness of waiting,” as she puts it, Rhaenyra challenges her husband and his family to a round of cards. 

She, Laenor and Laena set out to play on one team. Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys are set to play on the other. 

“The teams are imbalanced,” Princess Rhaenys frowns. “I will not play against cheats.”
Laenor laughs. “Mother,” he says, clicking his tongue, “how could you accuse your own children of such a vile accusation?” 

She levels him with a flat look. “It is not an accusation if it is true, Laenor.” 

Laenor only laughs harder.

Rhaenyra groans. “Please,” she says, “can we not just play? Only the Seven know how long my Father will keep poor Aegon and Helaena trapped in that room for, and I have no intention of simply looking at the wall whilst I wait.” 

Lord Corlys sighs. Then his eyes meet Criston’s. A smile tugs at his mouth. He likes him, Lord Corlys does. Ever since they… took care of the issue that was Larys Strong all those years ago, they have had a report. The Sea Snake feels gratitude toward him, yes, but a certain measure of respect has been built up over the years as well. 

“Cole,” he calls, commiserating, “you’re off duty anyway, why don’t you play? If I must listen to any more of this clucking about rules and fairness, I think I will throw myself into the sea.” 

Outraged words are exchanged in response to that. He simply cocks an eyebrow and regards Criston. 

Criston debates the pros and cons of refusing to play and quickly decides that simply giving up and playing will make this all go by more quickly. Lord Corlys flashes him an approving shade of a smile tinged with moroseness. He feels, then, a sudden stab of betrayal. This was not about making the teams even, this was about having someone else to share his misery! 

As he moves to sit at the table, Rhaenyra’s eyes narrow. She frowns and points to his chest. “What is that?” she asks. 

Criston looks down and bites off a curse; his necklace, Laena’s gift to him, has slipped from beneath his tunic. The silver of the falcon pendant glows softly in the torchlight. Before he can stop her, Rhaenyra is reaching for it, grasping it between his fingers. 

“It was a commission I received recently,” he says curtly. It is one thing to wear the pendant beneath his clothing, to cradle it closely to his skin. It is another thing to bear it in the open, to have Rhaenyra of all people holding it. He tugs it out of her grasp as quickly as he can while still being gentle and places it back beneath his tunic. 

Her smile is soft. Nostalgic, even. “It is quite beautiful, Ser,” she tells him, her voice very soft suddenly, “it reminds me of the Arryn falcon. I so enjoyed my time at the Vale.” 

Criston stills. His throat grows tight. He hardly dares to breathe. His face fixes into a thin smile, something he knows looks painfully false. He hopes that the falseness of it is mistaken for exhaustion and nothing else. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Laena’s posture stiffen from a slouch into a straighter position. He pretends not to notice her eyes boring holes into his head for the rest of his game. 

Aegon and Helaena are dismissed from their father’s company after an hour and a half or so. To Criston’s surprise, Rhaenyra is summoned back to him. He rises from his seat out of habit to follow her. She shakes her head with a smile and rests her hand on his shoulder, stopping him before he can fully stand. 

“There is no need to accompany me, Ser,” she says, “your last few days have been difficult. You have already done your part; I can face my father on my own.” 

Criston bites the inside of his cheek. “Are you sure?” he wants to ask. 

But Rhaenyra is a woman grown now, has bloodied herself, and proven to be a capable diplomat. Questioning her would be an insult she would not take kindly to in the least. 

“Very well,” he says instead, grudging.” 

She eyes him for a moment, as if able to read his mind. Then her smile grows bright. She squeezes his shoulder, almost as if in thanks. Thanks for what, he does not know. Is it his concern? His willingness to stand aside? A combination of both?” 

Then she’s off. 

With Rhaenyra gone, the teams are uneven again. The remaining group gives up on cards and are instead content to just converse. Laenor is arguing with his royal mother about something or another, and Lord Corlys is content to watch on neutrally. Laena does not join in. Instead, she shuffles to sit closer to Criston. 

He stiffens as she approaches. The hair at the back of his neck rises. He finds that he cannot meet her eyes, cannot even look at her. There is a shift in the air. There are times in your life where you can sense you’re well and truly fucked. When you can feel yourself nearing the edge of a cliff, about to plummet with no hope of stopping. 

“So,” Laena hums, “an Arryn falcon, hm?” 

Criston’s hands curl to fists so tightly that his knuckles go white and he leaves crescents in his palms. He thinks his knuckles might pop out of his sockets if he grips any harder, but he can’t find it within himself to loosen his fists, even as the hand he injured cries out in pain. 

“Laena,” he says, and his voice is soft and quiet and breathy, nothing more than a whisper, “please don’t.” 

There is a long beat of silence. He stares at his lap. 

She sighs. “Fine,” she acquiesces, “but at least loosen your fists, you’ll only injure yourself.” 

He does not. 

“Criston.” Her voice comes out angrier, this time, commanding. 

The door to the room they’re in opens again, and suddenly Rhaenyra is back. It’s only the surprise her presence brings that gets his hands to uncurl. 

She looks completely exhausted and worn beyond measure. There are bags under her eyes and tension in her shoulders and her jaw is clenched, but there is victory behind her eyes as well. Smugness. 

“Wife,” Laenor chirps, “how was your audience with the king?” 

“It could have been better,” Rhaenyra responds, “he is still not sure of Alicent’s movements to marry Aegon and Helaena. He does acknowledge, however, of her consideration of the union.” 

“And?” Laena asks. 

“And I have coaxed him into a date for the wedding of Aemon and Helaena,” she replies back, clearly pleased. “Alicent’s good behavior is no sure thing, he knows this. So I pushed for an early wedding. It will give us enough time to make a spectacle of it before the great lords, and forgo the concern that Alicent might force my siblings before a septa.” 

Criston suddenly feels very cold. “When is the wedding?” he asks. It feels as if he has something stuck in his throat. “How soon are we talking?” 

Please, he thinks – and he has never been a godly man, but now he prays – let it not be horrific. 

“It will be on Aemon’s seventh name day,” Rhaenyra replies, “a holy number for a day of victory.” 

It’s as if the floor crumbles beneath Criston. “What?” he croaks. “Rhaenyra, no. There are other ways to prevent the queen’s movements.” 

“No way as sure as this,” she says, firm. Unflinching. In this moment, with a sinking heart, the remnants of his modern moral recoiling, he knows that he cannot change his mind. “It is done. Already, ravens are being prepared to announce my father’s intentions.” 

Criston stands from his chair. Almost stumbles. 

Rhaenyra frowns. “Ser Criston,” she says, “are you well?” 

“I need air,” he says, his chest heaving. He thinks he might hyperventilate. He can’t stand to look at her now, can’t stand to stay and consider what she’s done. Part of him worries that he might see sense in such a monstrous thing, and he does not wish to. 

He slips out of the room. 

It has begun to rain again. Criston hears the pattering of droplets hitting the roof. He wanders aimlessly, as if his feet have a mind of their own. He doesn’t realize that they are guiding him to the gardens until he’s already there. The gardens, where he first realized he held a flame for Aemma. Aemma, who was wed at all of eleven and bedded when she was still just a child, an innocent girl. Aemma, whose grandson is now to be married at an even younger age, even if no consummation will take place until years later. 

He trembles as he slumps against the weirwood tree. The rain drenches his hair and makes it stick against his face. His clothing clings to his frame too tightly. He doesn’t try to get up, just lets the downpour unleash all of its fury upon him. His stomach rolls. He feels sick to his stomach. 

And then he begins to weep because part of him, as much as he hates himself for it, sees the sense in Rhaenyra’s actions. 

He pays for staying outside in the cold, pouring rain.  He grows ill and is bedridden. Perhaps this is his penance, though he could have been punished with far worse. His teeth chatter as he shivers and trembles beneath his covers and vomits in the bucket set out for him. 

He could pay a worse price, he thinks grimly. 

His fever grows worse, much to Rhaenyra’s alarm. He falls into a sort of delirium where he dreams and dreams and dreams. And then, one day, during the height of this state, he confesses his greatest burden to another. 

Chapter Text

Criston is sick, and Rhaenyra is miserable, and both have become Laena’s problems. She watches on as Rhaenyra paces across her chambers, her hands wrung together and her brow pinched. She twirls at the rings on her fingers. Laena follows the motion, and tracks it through narrowed eyes. She knows Rhaenyra well enough to catch her tells. 

“The Grand Maester says his condition is stagnant,” she says. The words growl out from her throat. Her lip curls and her eyes flash. “How useless is the man that he cannot heal the Lord Commander of the Kingsgaurd?” 

Laena takes a sip of her wine and does not speak. Rhaenyra continues to pace. Laena lets her do it. Her goodsister is worried, and she will not begrudge her for that. Especially when she herself is concerned as well. But there is something else there, as well. It is in the lines of her face, in the way Rhaenyra’s eyes shine with something that could be dangerously close to tears. 

Guilt. 

“He should never have gone outside,” Rhaenyra grits out, more to herself than to Laena, “who sits in the pouring rain?” 

“A man in distress,” Laena says before she can think any better. Rhaenyra swings back to face her, her expression dark. She does not flinch. Instead, she shrugs a shoulder and takes another sip of her wine. “Don’t give me that look; you know as well as I do that he was displeased by the upcoming marriage between Aemon and Helaena.” 

Rhaenyra’s expression grows even more thunderous. “Mind your words,” she says. 

Laena raises an eyebrow. She sits up a little straighter in her chair. Rhaenyra is in distress and feels guilt ridden and seeks to lash out at everyone else as a result. That does not mean that Laena will tolerate being spoken to in such a way. 

“Mind my words?” she echoes. “Or what?”

A tense beat of silence passes. Rhaenyra’s eyes stay fixed on her own. Turmoil swirls behind them, full of all kinds of conflicting emotions that she will not even begin to try and decipher. Then she’s slumping into her own chair. 

“Mayhaps my snapping was undeserved,” she says grudgingly. That is the closest Rhaenyra ever gets to an apology, in most cases. Laena has learned to accept them. She is not like Laenor, whose pride is sometimes as puffing as a peacock’s, or like her father, whose ambitions fill his dreams, or like her mother, who still nurses grievances from decades ago.  She is able to forgive easily, and so she does. 

“You are only worried for Ser Criston,” Laena says, “it is only natural.” 

Rhaenyra does not seem to absorb her words. “For as long as I can remember,” she says, “he has always taught me that it is my responsibility to care for my people, to ensure they live under a banner of peace. Then, when I made moves to ensure that peace, he looked at me as if I was some kind of monster.” 

Laena resists the urge to click her tongue. “He did not look at you as if you were a monster, he was distressed. There is a difference.” 

Rhaenyra takes a deep gulp of her wine. She chokes and some of it spills down her jaw to trace her throat. She keeps gulping it down and down and down until she’s done. Her cup slams against the table. Her mouth is smeared with red. Like wine and like blood. 

“He’s never looked at me like that,” she says. 

The statement hangs heavy in the air, unfinished. It’s as if she wants to add something else. Laena allows the silence to settle over them, waiting to see if Rhaenyra will say anything else. 

She does not. 

For the first few days, Laena is mildly concerned, but mostly assured that Criston will be fine. Then time drags on, and then it has nearly been a week since he fell ill, and he has grown worse. She throws a ball against the wall, scowling, as rain pours over the world outside of the Red Keep. The very same rain that made Criston ill, and that keeps her from flying Vhagar and relieving at least some of her stress. 

And she is stressed. Criston is Rhaenyra’s father in all but blood and name, he adores Aemon and Baelon, and he is good and patient with Jacaerys. It was he who helped to ensure that Rhaenyra and Laenor would not have a miserable marriage, and that they could find any sort of friendship. Their union is passionless, but it is not loveless. There is an understanding between them that Laena thinks many men and women would love to have. She did not have it with Daemon, though she thinks that, had he lived, it might have formed with time. 

But more than what he has done for those Laena cares about, more than how he treats them, is the fact that over the years, she has come to care for him himself. Not because he is Rhaenyra’s sworn shield, not because he is Laenor’s friend, or for any other reason, but because he is Criston. She had taken a liking to him early on thanks to his good looks and dry wit, but the care is deeper now. He is well and truly a friend to her, and a good one at that. 

His condition, as a result, troubles her. 

“Is there truly nothing that can be done?” she asks Rhaenyra. “The Grand Maester is sure he must pull through on his own?” 

Rhaenyra’s mouth flinches downward. “I’m no more thrilled about it than you are,” she grumbles, “but yes.” 

Laenor kisses her chastely on her brow. “I’m sure Ser Criston will be fine,” he tells her, “he would not be felled by something as small as a fever.” 

Rhaenyra scoffs. “Of course he wouldn’t. You don’t need to tell me that, husband.” 

Despite that, her hands tremble from their place in her lap. Laena glances at her out of the corner of her eyes. Her own hands twitch and before she knows it she is holding Rhaenyra’s. 

“You should visit him,” she says, squeezing her goodsister’s hands lightly. Rhaenyra’s grip grows firmer. “I know he would be glad to see you.” 

Rhaenyra looks away. “I’m the reason he’s sick in the first place,” she says, her voice laced with bitterness, “I do not think he would be glad to see me at all.” 

This time, Laena cannot stop herself from clicking her tongue. This earns her a sharp glance, but she pays it no mind. “Self-flagellation does not suit you,” she tells her. Rhaenyra scowls and pulls her hands away. Laena allows herself to mourn the loss but keeps her eyes fixed on her. “You know I’m right.” 

“I do not wish to be lectured like a child,” Rhaenyra says with finality. “Go visit Ser Criston, if you must, and tell him I wish him well, but do not try to chastise me into doing what you wish me to.” 

Rhaenyra has always been too stubborn for her own good, sometimes even at the cost of herself and of others. 

Laena sighs and leans back further into her chair. She knows when to pick her battles, and the effort spent on this one would not be worth it. “You will regret this,” is all she says, wary. 

Rhaenyra flinches. Something behind her eyes grows wounded. But then her pride gets the best of her and she draws herself up. She scoffs as she stands up. When she storms out of the room, she does not look back. 

(Despite her clear resentment, Laena finds a letter stuffed unsanctimoniously between her books. In looping, elegant lettering, the envelope reads: give this to Ser Criston, should you visit him)

Laena does go to visit Criston, both because she feels she owes it to him, and because she knows that Rhaenyra will break once she does. She is stubborn and prickly and too proud by half, but she is not cruel. She will not leave Criston alone once she has time to cool her head and see that her challenge has been accepted. Laena thinks that she would have gone to him regardless – she loves him too much not to – but at least now she will not hate herself for waiting too long. 

She grips Rhaenyra’s letter loosely in her hand as she strides into the sick room. Septas and an attending maester jump in surprise at her presence. She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed against her chest. 

“My lady,” one of the maids says, “how may we help you?” 

“My lady,” the maester protests at the same time, “you should not be here.” 

Laena takes a moment to eye them both. This maid, with her rough skin and calloused hands and crow’s feet. This maester, with his soft skin and round belly and proud, aristocratic features. One pair of eyes wisened and wary, another arrogant. In the span of a moment, she finds which one she likes more. 

“I should not be here?” she repeats. Allows the right side of her mouth to twitch into a too-sharp smile. “I believe I can go anywhere I want. Or do you mean to tell the Princess of Dragonstone’s goodsister, the rider of the greatest dragon alive, where she can and cannot be?” 

The maester swallows nervously, his bobbing throat giving away his unease. Part of Laena is aware that she is being cruel. Her eyes flick to Criston’s form on the bed. Another part of her, a larger part, finds that she does not care. 

“Forgive me, my lady,” the maester says, inclining his head, “I meant no offense.” 

Laena hums lowly, nearly lazily. “Leave us,” she commands, “I bring news from Princess Rhaenyra.” 

The maid flees the room with her initial wiseness. The maester flees the room with newly learned wiseness. 

Laena pulls up a chair by Criston’s bedside. Her heart twinges as she sets her eyes on his frame. 

He does not look well, not in the least. 

His face is flushed and his breathing is labored. His hair, damp with sweat, fans across his pillow in black strands. His lips are chapped and his skin is sallow. Every time he takes a breath, a faint wheezing fills the air. 

Laena looks away. It is more difficult than she thought it would be, seeing him like this. She is so used to Criston in all his might, polite and kind and radiating with quiet strength. Seeing him so weak makes something in her chest twist sharply.

Her hand lifts to hover over his face. She keeps it suspended in the air so as not to wake him. With one index finger, she traces an imaginary like down his cheekbones, down the path of his jaw. She is not completely sure where this tenderness comes from; she is an affectionate creature, not a gentle one. She pictures him as he usually is, so assured and tall and powerful, and tries to will that version of him back to the surface as she brings her hand back down to her lap. 

Criston’s eyes flutter open, glazed and bright with fever. They swim with confusion as he regards her. 

“Laena?” he groans. His voice is a brittle, harsh thing. “Is this a dream?” 

She smiles her kindest smile. “No, Criston. I came to visit you. I brought a letter from Rhaenyra as well.” 

He burrows deeper into his covers. “Rhaenyra,” he rasps, “is she here?” 

Laena shakes her head. “She wishes to come, I think, but she fears her presence would be unwanted.” 

Too late, she realizes that Criston’s fever-addled mind might not be able to properly grasp the nuances of such a conversation. His eyes stray to the ceiling, unfocused and unsteady. 

“How could I ever not want her here?” he says. “She has been woven into my heart for nearly fifteen years now. She is Aemma’s child, and I wish, I wish–” 

He breaks into a fit of coughs. Laena jumps to grab him a nearby cup of water. His coughs are terrible, hacking things that sound like they’re tearing his throat. She loathes to hear them. “I loved Aemma,” he continues, his voice choked with fever and grief and what might be the threat of tears. “I loved her, and I couldn’t save her, and now her daughter will wed two children in a marriage horribly young. Aemon will be even younger than she was.” 

Laena hums softly, comfortingly. She raises the cup to his lips, supporting his back. This confirms her suspicions, then. She had had an inkling, with the book, but it had not been a sure thing. It had been made stronger given Rhaenyra’s comment on the pendant. But now those suspicions are ironclad, irrefutably. It makes her heart heavy, the weight of his grief, of his pain. 

 “The marriage will not be consummated for many years,” she says. The words, she knows, ring as a hollow comfort. Queen Aemma, may she rest in peace, should not have been bedded as young as she was either, but still she was. 

Criston shakes his head. He trembles against her grip and his breathing grows more strained. When she looks at him, she can tell that the fever has taken him again, stronger than before. 

“I loved her,” he babbles, “and I knew what would happen to her, and I could not save her.” 

Laena stiffens. “You knew what would happen to her?” She had meant to be gentle with the question, but it comes out more sharply than she intended. “What do you mean?” 

“I remembered it,” Criston whispers. He sinks back against the bed. “From another life, I remembered it.” 

His eyes flutter closed. 

The room is still. 

For a long, terrible moment, Laena thinks that he’s fallen into the arms of the Stranger. Then she hears his wheezing and her tension eases. Her mind whirls. He remembered it? What could that possibly mean? She’s heard stories of the North with their rumored wargs and their greenseers, of the Rhoynar with their water magic, and of course Valyrian blood magic, but as far as she can recall, the Andals never had any specific gifts? They have always had their determination and their Seven, and that has been it. 

Criston is no Valyrian. He might have some Dornish blood in his lineage somewhere down the line given Blackhaven’s proximity to the Red Mountains, but if he does, it is faint. Could it be the blood of the First Men, then, that has caused him to ‘remember?’ The gift of some ancestor long passed? 

Laena bites her lip. Part of her wants to shake him awake, to demand answers from him, but she has a heart. She lets him rest and sets Rhaenyra’s letter on his bed, near his face. She will confront him about this all later, she decides. She will not be content with having no answers. 

With that in mind, she leaves him be. 

Eventually, Criston grows better. Rhaenyra visits him and they speak quietly amongst themselves and his fever breaks. Laena does not visit him again in his illness, but she hears of how he is making strong progress and is set to return to his duties again. 

In the end, it is he who finds her first. No longer bedridden, he cuts a significantly healthier sight. There is a healthy tint to his skin again and his eyes are not wild, and he’s had enough energy to put himself together at least a bit. 

Laena is in the gardens when he approaches her. He’s dressed in a simple white tunic with a black doublet and black breeches. He is not well enough yet to resume his duties, and so he dons no armor. As he regards her, however, with an expression blanker than she has ever seen from him before, she thinks he has brought his own armor regardless. 

“My lady,” he says, “might we speak?” 

She gestures to the free spot on the bench. “Of course, Ser.” 

He settles beside her stiffly, his entire body taut with tension. The veins in his neck stand out starkly against his skin. His fists are clenched tightly in his lap. 

Laena tuts. “I thought we’d had this discussion about clenched fists before, Ser.” 

It is a jape, meant to alleviate at least a bit of tension. He does not laugh. 

“When I was ill,” he says instead, “I dreamed that you came to visit me. I said things I should not have. When I woke up, I was relieved. That is, until I turned and saw Rhaenyra’s letter to me. The one you left behind with you. 

Laena tilts her head. “Men say many things beneath the duress of fever,” she points out, “that does not mean they are true.” 

A beat of silence passes. 

Then, tensely, Criston asks, “And if they were true? Everything I said, I mean.” 

She looks up at the sky, at the floating clouds. “Then I would say I was unsurprised by some things and shocked by others. I would tell you that your secret is safe with me, and that I am sorry for your loss, but that I would ask how such a feat of memory is possible.” 

He blows out a harsh breath. Silence falls over them and for a long minute, Laena does not think he will answer her. Then, haltingly, he says, “Many years ago, someone in my line married a woman from the North. Why she decided to move South, I do not know; the reasons have been lost to time. She had the blood of the First Men in her. 

“I am not sure if you’ve heard of the legends of the greenseers, but I suspect that might have had a part to play in whatever visions I had. The day I won at King Viserys’ tourney and crowned Rhaenyra with the victor’s laurels, I recalled a life that was both my own and not my own. I… saw things that would come to pass. One of those things was– was Aemma dying.” 

Laena sits very still. Lets the information wash over her. There are many things she could say at this moment, but she struggles to settle on the right one. She reaches to grip his arm. She handles it, for all it is corded with muscle and deadly force, like glass as she curls her fingers around his bicep. 

“Criston,” she says, “look at me.” His eyes shift to meet hers. “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me.” 

His smile is thin and tinged with bitterness. “It’s hardly as if I had the choice, after I opened my big mouth in the first place.” 

She squeezes his arm lightly. “It was not your fault, you were consumed by a fever. Will you tell me more?” 

He shakes his head, which does not surprise her but disappoints her nevertheless. “No, I have spoken enough for the day.” 

He gets that look on his face, that furrow of his brow that Rhaenyra also dons so often. It tells Laena that she will get nothing more out of him today. She pulls back, letting her hand drop to her side.

“Very well,” she says. 

He rocks from side to side with nervous energy. Then he moves to stand. 

“If you’ll excuse me, Laena,” he says, “I should be going.” 

The tone of his voice betrays the gentle demand cloaked in the request. In another situation, Laena might have been offended by it. Here, she lets it pass with no complaint. 

“Of course,” she says, nodding. “I wish you a good day, Criston.” 

He turns to walk away. As he grows more and more distant, the set of his shoulders rigid and his gait tense, she adds, “I hope that sometime you will entrust me with more to know.” 

He pauses in his walking. Turning halfway around, he says, tightly, “Mayhaps, Laena.” 

She smiles, feeling distinctly as if she’s won something.

Chapter Text

Ser Cris looks sad, and Aemon does not understand why. He stands before a multitude of servants, holding his arms out to the side, and raises his chin as he peers at his mama’s sworn protector. The adults always like it when he acts seriously – Ser Cris doesn’t approve of it as much, he thinks, but he calls him an old soul and is gentler with him than any other time, and Aemon treasures those moments. 

“Look, ser,” Aemon says, “I look like a man grown!” 

Ser Cris does not smile. Instead, the frown that is etched across his brow only grows. Aemon bites his lip; he did not intend for such a result. 

Beside him, Mama smooths back his hair to kiss his brow. Her lips are soft against his skin. “You are not quite grown yet, little one,” she says with a smile, “but you make an important step toward being a man today. Do you remember what I have told you?” 

Aemon nods solemnly. “I must always honor Helaena as my wife,” he says intones, “I am to never bring shame to her, and treat her with dignity, and be a good father to our children.” 

Ser Cris clears his throat. “You are still young, Aemon,” he says, “children need not come for many years.” 

“Of course not,” Mama agrees quickly, “children will not come for many, many years.” 

He looks at her, then, his frown deepening. Aemon gets the impression that Ser Cris does not like this marriage to Helaena, though he cannot understand why. Mama approves of the match, and Mama is always right abut everything, so this must be the right thing to do. 

Behind him, a servant laces up Aemon’s doublet too tightly. He bites back a hiss of pain; he is a royal prince, the son of the Princess of Dragonstone, and the blood of House Targaryen. Pain is beneath him. Mama and Papa do not say as much, but he knows it is true. He must be perfect, as Mama’s heir. 

There is a knocking at the door, and a herald pokes his head into the room. “Ser Laenor and Prince Baelon bid entry, my princess,” he says, “along with Lady Laena and Prince Jacaerys.”  

Mama inclines her head. “Let them in.” 

Papa, Aunt Laena, Baelon, and Jacaerys stride in a few moments later. Aemon catches his twin’s eyes and watches as a grin spreads across his face.

“You look stupid,” Baelon says, throwing an arm across his shoulders. 

Aemon rolls his eyes and shoves him lightly. “We’re nearly wearing the same thing,” he shoots back. 

Baelon sniffs, flicking at a piece of lace that’s been embroidered into Aemon’s doublet. “Nearly,” he says, “but I still look better. They’ve dressed you so much that you look like a girl.” 

Beside him, Jacaerys laughs. Aemon’s cheeks go scarlet. 

Papa clicks his tongue and sets a hand on Baelon’s shoulder. “Do not tease your brother,” he says, and Baelon gives him an innocent look that makes Jacaerys laugh even harder. 

Aunt Laena, as if sensing the humiliation that burns at Aemon, tilts his chin up with her index finger. The smile she fixes upon him is dazzling, all pearl-white teeth that are just a bit too sharp. 

“Don’t heed your brother, little one,” she says, “you look like a perfect, proper prince.” 

Aemon smiles gratefully at her, soothed by her words. 

“The ceremony is to begin soon,” Mama says. “Does everyone remember their roles? Ser Criston, you are to stand guard as you always do. Laenor, you will stand by the dais with me. Baelon, sit with Maris Baratheon and do not act like a terror.”

Baelon offers a mock salute, but his smile is mischievous. He has taken a liking to Maris Baratheon since she arrived at King’s Landing, delighted by her sharp tongue and quick wit. She, on the other hand, has not seemed very impressed by him. For whatever reason, Aemon’s twin has only seemed more impressed by this. He is determined, now, to become her friend. 

Aemon does not understand it. If the girl he was betrothed to disliked him – if Helaena were ever as scathing to him as Maris is to Baelon – he would be hurt by it. But Baelon has always been tougher than him, always been stronger. Sometimes, Aemon thinks that he should have been born first, that he is more suited to the crown. Let Baelon be king, and Aemon would be perfectly happy as Lord of the Tides. 

But the gods, it seems, had other plans for them when they brought Baelon into the world first. 

“Aemon,” Ser Cris says, snapping him from his darkening thoughts, “are you ready?” 

He blinks up at his mother’s sworn protector. Ser Cris’ smile is kind as he regards him, a heavy hand on his shoulder. He leans into his hold ever so slightly, and the smile grows just a touch more sincere. 

“Yes,” he says, “I’m ready.” 

As Aemon stands across from Helaena, he tries to remember the lines he is supposed to say. It’s a silly thing – he has repeated them ten times, a hundred, probably even a thousand. But as he peers into his aunt’s face, he chews on his lip. His hands are clammy and feel too sweaty, and he resists the urge to wipe them against his pants. His mind, suddenly, feels blank. Panic wells up inside his throat, makes it tighten.

They are in the royal sept, and the Star of the Seven hangs above their heads. Dazzling crystals flicker from their places in the sept’s high windows, showering the surrounding nobles with small little rainbows. Incense reaches Aemon’s nose, a mixture of ceder and apple. He finds that he rather likes the smell. Stained glass windows paint visions of beauty in the high walls. He tries to focus on them to avoid hyperventalating. 

How humiliating will it be if he forgets his vows to Helaena? Baelon and Jacaerys will surely laugh at him, and Mama will be so disappointed, and–

Oh gods, it’s his time, now, to offer his vows, isn’t it? 

The septon regards him expectantly, and Aemon’s throat tightens even more. His gaze lowers to his feet. He scrambles desperately for his vows, and draws a blank. His eyes burn. He is aware of everyone watching him, of everyone expecting a response. If he doesn’t speak soon, then everyone will know he has forgotten, and then what will he do? 

The weight of a stare itches at Aemon’s skin. He turns slightly, pursing his lips, and meets the gaze of Ser Cris. Ser Cris’ eyes are warm and gentle, and he raises his chin as they catch Aemon’s. His mouth twists, setting into a thin line, and for some reason, that is the most reassuring thing in the world to Aemon. Ser Cris has noticed that something is wrong, and is trying to reassure him, and–

Just like that, as if by some magic, Aemon recalls his vows to Helaena. With no small amount of relief, he brings his hand to hers and allows a ribbon to tie their wrists together. He tells her that he is his, and he is hers, from this day until the end of their days, that he shall honor her and their children for as long as they both shall live. 

She is nearly serene as she echoes these words back to him, a small, quiet smile playing out across her lips. Aemon is not completely sure why she is smiling so brightly – Helaena often keeps to herself, is not one to show such emotion so openly – but it reduces a bit of the pressure that has built up in his chest. If his bride is smiling, then surely he could not have embarrassed himself, no? 

With their wrists still together, they turn to face the crowd of assorted nobles that surround them. They are a collection of great lords and minor lords from the North to the Reach. Aemon thinks that he might even have glimpsed a few curious Dornish faces in the crowd, who will report back to their prince once the celebrations are over. 

Baelon cheers loudly from his place in the stands. Despite his earlier teasing, his chest is puffed up as proudly as a peacock. The thin frame of Maris Baratheon stands beside him. She pushes a strand of black hair from her stormy blue eyes, then resumes clapping politely. Baelon’s hand waves a bit too closely to her face and her eyes narrow. She says something to him, and Aemon’s brother only laughs and shuffles a bit away from her. 

Mama and Papa are beaming with pride. Aunt Laena’s smile is warm as she regards him. Jacaerys, though he looks a bit bored, claps alongside her. Mayhaps he knows that his mother will deny him rides on Vhagar if he does not act on his best behavior today. 

Helaena’s wrist thrums warmly against Aemon’s own, and he feels self-conscious, suddenly, of the picture they paint. She is older than him and wiser to boot. He must look like a silly little boy in comparison to her, nearly a woman grown. 

As if she can sense his thoughts, she turns to him. 

“Do not doubt yourself,” she says in that odd but gentle way that is so Helaena. He looks at her curiously. 

“What?” he asks. 

She smiles, and the relief in it makes him blink. 

“You are a good boy and will make a good king. And I would not have Rhaena without you. Your legacy will shine, Aemon. Do not doubt yourself.” 

And Aemon has no idea what that means, but he knows enough to understand that she is trying to comfort him, and appreciates her for it desperately. 

He turns back to the crowd and searches for Ser Cris’ eyes. When he finds them, he beams and hopes that his gratitude shows through. 

I could not have done this without you , he hopes the look says, thank you, thank you, thank you. 

A shadow of a smile flickers across Ser Cris’ lips, almost as if he can understand him, and he winks.

Chapter Text

There is a certain kind of grief, Criston thinks, that comes with doing something that you know, with every cell in your body, is wrong. As he regards Aemon and Helaena sitting upon their wedding dais, he thinks that this is one of these times. Oh, their marriage will not be consummated for many years to come – of this, Rhaenyra has assured him. And he believes her. But still, even with all of his years in Westeros, a marriage between two children, who are aunt and nephew no less, makes Criston’s heart sink. He has accepted it grudgingly, has come to acknowledge that Rhaenyra is right, that this is the best possible way to ensure that Alicent will not hatch another foolhardy plan to take Helaena’s hand away from Aemon, and thus remove a means for what is hopefully future peace. But that does not mean that he has to like it; it does not mean that it does not sicken him. 

He crosses his arms over his chest, releasing a sharp exhaling of breath, and tries to hide his frown from any watchful eyes. It is one thing to internally be disturbed by current affairs, and another thing entirely to showcase that to the world. Criston is many things, but he likes to think that he is not stupid. 

A chuckle reaches his ears softly, then, rich and raspy. He recognizes it instantly; Laena. He turns to her, feeling one eyebrow arch up curiously. 

“My lady,” he says, “should you not be with your family?” 

Laena chuckles again throatily. In the torchlight, flames dance across her eyes as she smirks. “Why Ser Criston,” she tuts, “are you so eager to be rid of me?” 

He shakes his head ruefully. “On the contrary, your presence is appreciated.” 

Her smirk grows more genuine, softening at the edges in a way that Criston knows means she is touched. “I wanted to check on you,” she says, “I know that this wedding has not been… easy for you.” 

“That’s putting it mildly,” Criston says dryly, keeping his voice low so that they are not overheard, “but I’m– I’m managing.”

Laena reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. She must have forgotten that he was wearing armor because her hand glances across the shining metal of the Kingsguard with a clang. Rather than squeezing his shoulder, she pats it instead. 

“I should return back to the dais,” she sighs, wincing, “I am glad that you are well.” 

He is not quite ‘well,’ but he sees no point in telling her that. It will only make her worry, and a frown always looks misplaced on Laena’s features, too dark where there should only be brightness. In the past two years since he confided in her, he has grown to appreciate her counsel even more than before. But even if she is willing to lend her ear, that does not mean that Criston should always give in and spill his guts. Something in him flinches at the idea even now, even after he has told her things that he would never dream of telling another living soul. 

He inclines his head at her words, lips twitching. “Best of luck to you, my lady,” he says, “I apologize in advance for the politicking that will surely bore you to tears.” 

Laena wrinkles her nose at the mention of politicking. “Don’t remind me,” she huffs, “the lords of the realm, it seems, are beginning to remember that I am a desirable bride. They’ve spent the entire wedding trying to court me.” 

Criston frowns, protectiveness flaring up in his chest. He knows Laena, knows that she has no intention of marrying again, and that she hates the mere idea of it. She is a woman who deeply cherishes her independence, and it is undeniable that a husband would strip her of at least part of that, even if she does ride the greatest living dragon in the world. Part of him hisses at the thought of these men courting her. He supposes that this makes sense; he and Laena have become close since he revealed his truths to her. He would not be a good friend if he did not feel at least a little protective over her. 

“If any of those lordlings get too greedy, too insistent,” he tells her, “I am only a call away.” 

Laena smiles, then. It is not a smirk or a grin, but something gentler. “I can handle myself, ser,” she says, “but I appreciate the support.” 

He nods stiffly. “As you say.” 

After Laena’s complaint, Criston begins to… notice things throughout the wedding. He notices the men who speak with Lord Corlys eagerly, notices the men who eye Laena with barely-concealed ambition. Notices how one man tries to speak with Jacaerys, as if to get on his good side, and how the boy turns his nose up at him, much to the lord’s outrage. That particular scene is almost enough to make Criston smile. 

Almost. 

In truth, he is on edge. His teeth are gritted and his hands are curled to fists, and anger, dark and fierce, throbs in his veins. He is angry for Laena, angry that she has to put up with this nonsense, this stream of suitors that she could not want less. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a man approaching Laena, entreating. Laena says something to him, looking bored, and something unpleasant flashes across the man’s face. He reaches for her, and Laena bats his hand away, her lip curling.

Criston is pushing himself off the wall in an instant, teeth bared. He forces himself to fix his face, to turn it into something more pleasant. Still, he cannot keep his footsteps from being harried as he approaches them, twisting between dancers, servants, and other concentrated groups. 

“My lady,” the lord is saying, “I am a man of considerable standing, and of good strong stock. Surely I deserve more than to be turned away so abruptly, without even being graced with a dance.” 

Laena’s eyes go cold in a way that Criston doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. And he knows that she can handle herself, knows that this spoiled lordling is probably no actual threat, but at this moment, all Criston wants to do is draw his sword and press the blade to the man’s throat. His hand twitches at his side, drifts close to his hip before he snatches it away. Fury makes his throat tight, makes his vision go red. 

Finally, he stops next to them. Drawing himself up to his full height, he asks Laena, “Is there a problem here, my lady? Is this man bothering you?” 

   “Bothering–” the lordling blusters. “Of course not, I–” 

“As a matter of fact, Ser Criston,” Laena drawls, “I do believe he is.” 

“Ah,” Criston says, rolling the word around in his mouth, “I see.”

When he turns to the lord, he offers him a too-sharp smile. On the surface – from a distance – it might seem perfectly pleasant, but it is too full of teeth to be taken as anything other than a threat. 

“Something that you will find, here at King’s Landing, my lord,” he says, “is that if a lady declines to dance with you, then the appropriate response is to lick your wounds and return to your seat. What you should most definitely not do is harass her.” 

That’s horseshit, what he’s saying about King’s Landing. Worse things occur here than harassing a woman for a dance. But as long as Criston is standing here, he will not allow Laena to be bothered. He will see to it that she can attend her nephew’s wedding without being brigaded on all sides by ambitious, power-hungry lords. 

Criston’s eyes flicker to the sigil embroidered above the man’s breast; a 7-pointed star, countercharged, on gyronny silver and blue. He is a Tarbeck, then. He forces himself to maintain a plausibly deniable expression of neutrality; he does not know why a man of the Westerlands would even dream of approaching Laena, given Jason Lannister’s fraught relationship with Rhaenyra, but it was a delusion. 

A movement flickers in the corner of Criston’s eye, then. He turns to see Harwin Strong, with his broad shoulders and dimpled cheeks, beaming at Laena. 

“Lady Laena,” he says happily, “I promised Princess Rhaenyra that I would dance with you, she decreed that her most beloved goodsister ought to stop brooding away from the dance floor.” 

His eyes flit to Criston briefly, eyebrows raised slightly in what might be reassurance. Criston takes a step away from him to grant him some space. Laena sighs, taking Harwin’s hand in her own. 

“Well,” she drawls, “if the Princess of Dragonstone has commanded it, then who am I to deny her?” 

Harwin laughs brightly and tugs Laena closer to him, and then they’re twirling across the dance floor in a whirl of color.

Criston watches them for a moment, feeling a grudging appreciation for Harwin. When he turns back to speak more with the Tarbeck man – he doubts that he is Lord Tarbeck himself – he finds him gone. 

Criston sucks in a sharp breath, allows himself to relax. The set of his shoulders eases, and his fists uncurl, leaving crescents in their wake. For once in his life, he is actually grateful for Harwin Strong. 

“You didn’t have to rush to me, you know,” Laena says the next day, hands propped against her hips, “I could have taken care of it myself.” 

Criston nods. “I know.” 

She cocks her head at him, something in her expression easing. “It is not that I am ungrateful for your help,” she amends, “but I am the blood of Old Valyria. I am the rider of Vhagar, and the goodsister of the heir to the throne. No one in their right mind would dare cross me.” 

Criston nods again. “I know.” 

She huffs out a laugh. “Then why did you act as you did, striding to me as if I needed your protection?” 

Despite the phrasing of her question, she does not sound angry, more curious. 

Criston smiles wryly. “You are my friend,” he says, “and you have been a pillar of strength for me when I had no one else. It did not seem right to leave you to the wolves.” 

Laena hums. “I suppose I can accept that,” she says. Then, nudging him, she adds, “I suppose I will have to tell Rhaenyra that I have stolen her sworn shield.” 

Silence reigns over them for one moment, two moments. Then they break out into laughter. 

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra has been acting strangely, and Criston is remiss as to why. It is in the subtle things, the way her brow will furrow and she will not laugh at Laenor’s japes, and the way that she is distant even with her children and siblings. They are at King’s Landing, still, and Aegon is cross, though he tries to hide it. Criston supposes that he cannot blame the boy for it; if his beloved elder sister was trapped within the confines of her own mind during the limited time he could spend with her, he would hardly be pleased either. For her part, Helaena does not seem to mind it, busy as she is adjusting into her life as a wife – Criston still can’t fully manage to mask the grimace on his face at the thought. Aemond seems slightly saddened, but he sees her always and is not quite so upset. And Daeron, though he does love Rhaenyra, is not as close with her as his other siblings; instead he spends his time latching onto Aegon, who is displeased by his constant trailing.  Aemon is too busy trying to be a good husband to Helaena to mind his mother’s distance, and Baelon seems to half of his time needling Maris Baratheon and the other half of his time doing his best to befriend her – he has not had the time to mind Rhaenyra’s behavior. 

That only leaves Criston, to the best of his knowledge, who has noticed Rhaenyra’s strange behavior. Criston and Lady Sabitha and Ser Harwin, at least. He sees them exchange glances, sometimes, when Rhaenyra purses her lips, her usual lightness seeming to have left her. They are gentle with her, her lovers, even more than they are usually. In most cases, Criston would be glad for the display of such tenderness. It eases his heart to see that Rhaenyra is in such capable hands, woman grown as she is. But now, it feels… different. Their gentleness feels more like conspiracy, as if it derives from some secret that Criston is not privy to. 

He mislikes this. Intensely. 

It is during one of these instances that he confides in Laenor. Little Larys – and gods, it is not easy to have a boy named after the man he murdered around him – runs around after Baelon and Jacaerys, trying to keep up with them. Aemon sits beside Helaena, his brow furrowed as he inspects his book. Maris, who thinks that at all of nine, she is the second-most mature child in the room after Helaena – Jacaerys being oher elder, it seems, does not matter – sniffs imperiously. 

“Don’t fall and crack your head open  on the flagstones,” she warns Baelon. 

A grin cracks across Baelon’s face, sharp and thrilled. “Maris,” he says, clicking his tongue, “it almost seems as if you’re worried.” 

She rolls her eyes, and Criston’s lips twitch. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she replies, “I just don’t want a simpleton for a husband, that’s all.” 

“Oi,” Jacaerys interrupts, “do I not matter? Does Larys not matter?” 

Maris levels with an unimpressed look and his lip juts out into a pout. Beside him, Larys giggles. Jacaerys’ outraged expression softens a touch at the sound. He leans over to ruffle the younger boy’s downy brown hair. 

“Aunt Rhaenyra,” Jacaerys whines, “will you not defend your favorite nephew?” 

Rhaenyra frowns into open space, her eyes unseeing. She has not cracked a single smile at the interaction between the children, and Criston files that away for later. This is just more proof that something is really and truly wrong with her. 

“Mama,” Baelon says now, trying to get his mother’s attention, “did you hear Jae?” 

Rhaenyra startles at the sound of his voice and peers at him with wide eyes. “Hm? Did you say something, sweetling?” 

Baelon’s cheeks puff out. “Mama, please, I’m too big to be called that now!” 

Finally– finally Rhaenyra’s mouth ticks upwards. “You will always be my sweetling, Baelon. You and Aemon both. You will grow into men, but you will never stop being my precious boys.” 

At this, Aemon leans into his mother’s hold, pressing his face into her shoulder. She hums, running her fingers through his hair. 

“I do believe, Rhaenyra,” Laena hums, “that my son was asking you to defend his honor.” 

“Me?” Rhaenyra asks, arching an eyebrow. “Why not you?” 

“Mother would only make fun of me more,” Jacaerys accuses. 

Laena cackles. “This is true,” she agrees. 

“See?” Jacaerys howls, outraged. “Treachery!” 

Under normal circumstances, Rhaenyra would burst into laughter at this, and her shoulders would shake with the force of her mirth. Instead, her expression goes flat and dull again. Criston bites the inside of his cheek, well and truly concerned, now. 

“Ser Criston,” Jacaerys says, turning to him, “will you defend my honor, at least, if my mother and aunt will not? You are the Lord Commander of my uncle’s Kingsguard.” 

Criston clears his throat and pretends to inspect the scene before him. “My prince,” he says after a moment, “I am afraid that I cannot defend you from a mere look. If Lady Maris draws steel upon you, however, please inform me.” 

Baelon guffaws at that, his little fists pounding against his knees. 

Jacaerys scowls. “Traitors,” he grumbles without heat, “all of you.” 

Laena pats him on the head and mutters a soothing word. 

In the mirth of the moment, Criston almost misses how Rhaenyra bites into the side of her apple – she has been craving those, lately – with a glassy expression. 

Almost. 

He resolves to speak with her sooner rather than later. 

It becomes apparent soon after that incident that Laena has, somewhere along the line, become privy to Rhaenyra’s secret as well. Laena is many things, and is capable of great kindness, but Criston would never call her especially gentle. Even still, he catches them holding hands in Rhaenyra’s solar, their fingers intertwined. He is standing half-way in the room, his frame obscured by the door, when he hears it.

“It’s alright,” Laena is saying to Rhaenyra, her tone soft and soothing, “everything will be well.” 

“How can you say that?” Rhaenyra asks, her voice tight. Criston stiffens at once. He recognizes that tone of voice from her, all high and constrained and thick with tears. “Ser Criston will be so disappointed in me–”

Criston’s heartbeat stops. 

“Rhaenyra,” Laena says firmly, “you have known Ser Criston since you were seven years old. You practically grew up at his knee. And he adores you, everyone knows it. That man loves you more than he loves anything. He might be disappointed, but he will understand.” 

Criston shuffles in place for half a second, suddenly feeling a deep sense of wrongness. He shouldn’t be listening to this, shouldn’t be intruding upon this private conversation. It is clear that something is plaguing Rhaenyra, something that she fears will elicit his anger. As much as he wants to know what that something is, as curious as he might be, he inches away from the door, his heart in his throat. He will not break Rhaenyra’s trust by eavesdropping on her. He trusts that she will tell him, when she is ready. 

All he can do in the meantime is wait. 

He does not sleep well that night. He is not on guard for Rhaenyra, and so he retires to bed early and does his best to sleep. It does not come easily to him. He stares up at the ceiling of his chambers, sweat breaking out across his skin, and worries. 

Of course he does. He cannot help it. Rhaenyra is the last thing he has of Aemma, and the light of his life besides. Laena was correct in her assessment that he loves her more than anything else on this earth. She is one of the few people who he can call close to him. He has watched her grow from a girl of seven to a woman with children of her own. She is as good as his daughter, and if anything happens to her–

In a fit of frustration, Criston throws his empty goblet across the room. It clatters to the floor, metal ringing against slated stone. The sound is an unpleasant thing and he winces, regretting his actions. He is nearly forty, not some young, hot-blooded boy; he is above throwing things across the room like a child. 

He rises from bed and picks up the goblet, depositing it back by his nightstand. He pours himself some wine and gulps it down grimly. 

He does not sleep for the rest of the night. 

Criston is lucky that in the next morning, Rhaenyra reveals the reason behind her strange behavior to him. He is unlucky in that it might be the absolute fucking last thing he wants to hear. 

As he prepares to enter her chambers, Laena exits them. She eyes him for a long moment. Then, firmly, she reaches out to clasp his shoulder. 

“Be gentle with her,” she says crisply. 

Then she brushes past him. 

He watches her leave, his brow furrowing. What is that supposed to mean? 

He raps his knuckles against Rhaenyra’s door, still bemused. 

“Enter,” her voice calls. 

He pushes his way into her chambers. She is sitting at the main table, her posture stiff. Her shoulders are nearly at her ears, the way she has sunk into herself, and she toys at the rings on her fingers. 

Criston’s heart sinks at the sight she makes. 

What could possibly have happened?

“Sit, Ser,” she tells him, gesturing to the chair beside her. “Please.” 

He does, feeling too heavy as he does so. 

“Rhaenyra,” he says warily, “what is this? Talk to me?” 

Rhaenyra sucks in a harsh breath, her hand reaching out to settle over her belly. When she speaks, the words are rushed and jumbled together. 

“I am with child,” she says, avoiding his eyes. 

Criston blinks. “I was not aware that you and Laenor were trying for any more children,” he says. “Nevertheless, congratulations.” 

Rhaenyra looks at him with round, teary eyes, and he stiffens. It all clicks into place, then: her lovers’ devotion, Laena’s gentleness, her fear that she will disappoint him. 

“Rhaenyra,” he says slowly, “tell me that the father is not who I think it is.”

The first tear slips down her cheek.

Criston has never wanted to geld Harwin Strong so badly in his entire life.

Chapter Text

As Criston stares at Rhaenyra and takes in her trembling form, her wringing fingers, and the tear tracks on her cheeks, he clenches his jaw. He does not trust himself to speak. He lays his hands flat against the table, fighting the urge to curl them into fists, fighting the urge to punch at something. Rage and despair clog at his throat, make his vision go red. The floor, for a moment, seems to sink beneath him. 

A Strong bastard. 

Criston has worked so hard to change things, but some elements, it seems, will always remain the same. What will the realm think, when Rhaenyra births a brown-haired, pug-nosed child? Her reputation will be ruined, the lords will not respect her–

“Ser Criston,” Rhaenyra says, her voice trembling, “please say something. Anything.” 

Criston chews on the inside of his cheek. He blows out a harsh breath. 

“What would you have me say, Rhaenya?” he snaps. “How difficult was it to use moon tea?” 

She flinches at the sharpness of his tone, at the disappointment that she must see behind his eyes. Something flickers across her face, raw and wounded. She looks, at this moment, very much like a little girl again. 

“We did use moon tea,” she says in a very small voice. “I must have been given a faulty batch, last time, or it must not have worked or–” she cuts off, her throat bobbing. Then, lamely, she says, “We were careful.” 

Criston turns away from her and paces. He cannot look at her, does not want to look at her. If he does, he might say something harsher than his moon tea comment, might well and truly hurt her. No matter how furious he is, no matter how unmoored and disappointed, he would sooner cut off his sword hand than be purposely cruel to her.

“How far along are you?” he asks. 

“My courses are late by two moons,” she replies.

Two moons. By the Seven, two entire moons that the destruction of her reputation has been brewing. He runs his hand through his hair and leans against a nearby wall, pressing his brow to the cool stone. His eyelids flutter as he grits his teeth. 

This time, he really does punch at something. 

Pain lances up his arm, starting at his knuckles and then extending up the rest of the limb. He doesn’t yelp; the pain was expected, given how he struck at stone. He does it again, and then a third time for good measure. 

Rhaenyra’s voice raises in concern. “Ser Criston,” she cries, “stop, stop!” 

The alarm threaded within her words stays his hand. Slender, elegant fingers crash out to cradle his hand, still curled in a fist. When he opens his eyes, he is met with Rhaenrya’s wide ones. She strokes at his hand, holds it as if it is something precious. 

“Please,” she says softly, “do not hurt yourself. It pains me to see you like this.” 

And it pains me to see you like this, he wants to say back. He swallows the words. 

Two moons. He’s no maester, but he thinks that is early enough that, should she choose to take tansy, it will not cause her any permanent damage.

Criston is not a monster. He will not force her to take it, will not pry her mouth open and pour it down her throat. But if he had to choose between her and the life she has built for herself versus this unborn child, he would hand her the tansy himself. He squeezes her hand gently. Perhaps, he thinks, not all is lost. 

“Rhaenyra,” he says, trying to keep his voice soft, trying to keep it level, “have you considered–” he clears his throat here, stumbling over his words “have you considered not carrying the babe to term?” 

Her grip tightens on his hand, though this time it seems more for her benefit than for his own. “Harwin and Sabitha have been searching for a wise woman,” she says miserably, “she will… provide me with the methods to circumvent carrying the child.” 

Criston blinks, taken aback. Is she saying what he thinks she’s saying?

“You do intend to lose it, then?” he asks. 

Something in her expression crumples. Instinctively, he opens his arms to hold her. She sinks into his embrace, pressing her face to his chest. 

“Yes,” she whispers. “Harwin found a woman earlier this week. Sab will bring me the tansy tonight.” 

He sets his chin against the crown of her head, relief lancing through him. It seems into his bones, heavy and lightening both. He could leap for joy, as awful as it sounds. He could also crumple to the floor in exhaustion. 

He settles for pressing a kiss into her hair. 

He wants nothing more than for her to be rid of this child, to be rid of what could be the beginning of the end for her claim to the throne. But there is a shakiness in her voice, a tightness, that gives him pause. 

“Is this what you want, little one?” he asks. She stays silent. He backs away from her a bit, reaching out to cradle her cheek. “Answer me,” he says, a gentle command. 

She sniffles. “No,” she admits, “I don’t want to lose the child.” 

He stares at her. “Then why?” 

She rubs at her eyes, which have filled with tears once more. “I know what having a bastard as a woman means, Ser,” she says. “The title of heir to the throne will not protect me from it. Perhaps it will even worsen the consequences. I will lose the respect of the lords who are one day to become my vassals. I will be branded as wanton, as a whore who cannot keep her legs closed. More of them will begin to think that Alicent is right, that perhaps Aegon should be king. 

“I cannot put myself in that risk, I cannot endanger Aemon and Baelon. I want this child. Desperately. I loved him as soon as I knew that he was growing within my belly. But I cannot keep him.” 

Her voice breaks as she utters the last sentence, and something in Criston’s chest breaks for her. He strokes her cheek, trying to soothe her. 

“You are right,” he assures her, “this is the best course of action.” 

She sniffles. “Then why does it feel so awful?” 

He smiles sadly. “Because it is not an easy choice. Because this is one of many difficult choices that you will have to make, to be queen.” 

She leans into his hold once more. “Will you stay with me, when I take the tansy?” 

He blinks, thinking he has misheard her. “Rhaenyra–” 

“Please,” she says, looking smaller than she has in years, “please, I need you there, more than anything.” 

He regards her solemnly. “If that is what you need,” he replies softly, “then of course I will be there.” 

The tansy is delivered that night by Lady Sabitha. Criston stares a hole into the side of her head as she deposits it to Rhaenyra’s bedside. She winces when their eyes meet. To her credit, however, she does not flinch and when she leaves the room, it does not feel like a retreat. 

Criston will deal with her and Ser Harwin tomorrow, will unleash his pent-up rage on them then. For now, he swallows his anger for Rhaenyra’s sake. 

Rhaenyra grips his hand as she swirls the tansy inside its cup. She swallows hard, her throat bobbing. 

“Ser Criston,” she says, “I am afraid.” 

He strokes the back of her hand. “Fear is natural,” he says, “it takes a brave heart to overcome it. And your heart is a very brave one.” 

She taps the cup against the table. “I do not want to take it,” she admits. 

His throat tightens. “I know.” 

“I do not have any real choice in the matter, however, if I want to keep my throne.” 

“You do not.” 

Rhaenyra makes a strangled noise. Then, in one jagged movement, she raises the cup to her lips and tips her head back. She chugs the tansy down lightning-fast, as if she doesn't want to give herself a chance to hesitate, to stop. 

Criston averts his gaze. He is here for Rhaenyra’s sake, but he cannot help but feel as if he is intruding. 

Nevertheless, he stays. 

He is standing guard outside of Rhaenyra’s chambers that night when she loses the child. He is standing tensely, worn from the day’s events when he hears a wail, horrible and primal and wounded, sound from her room. He bursts through the doors to her chambers, his sword half drawn – how foolish, as if that could possibly help in this situation – when he sees her clutching at her stomach. 

There is blood on her bed. Everywhere. It is on her sheets, on her sleeping down, on her skin. Rhaenyra’s eyes are wide and panicked and full of fear. She half-rises from the bed, stumbling toward him. 

“Ser Criston,” she croaks, “it hurts.”  

He catches her as she falls, pulling her close to his chest. He cradles her carefully, regretting the presence of his armor. It cannot be comforting as she rests her cheek against it. “I know it does,” he says, kissing her brow, “you will bear it, I swear this to you.” 

“He’s dying,” she gasps, “I can feel it. He’s dying , Ser Criston. I am his mother, and I have killed him.” 

“You have done what is necessary,” Criston says firmly, “do not blame yourself.” 

A great sob wracks through her body. Then another one. He rocks her back and forth, murmurs as many gentle comforts to her as he possibly can. They stay like that, curled up against the floor, long into the night. When she has exhausted herself, he carries her to her couch and calls for maids. 

“Clean the princess’ bedding,” he commands, “and replace it.” 

They take one look at the bed of blood before them and balk. He is sure that come morning, the news of Rhaenyra’s ‘miscarriage’ will have spread throughout the Red Keep. 

“I killed him,” she weeps, “I killed him, I killed him–” 

And Criston has seen many things, but he is helpless in the face of this.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra will not eat. 

In the days since she lost her child, the Red Keep has been aflame with rumors and speculation. Well-wishing letters and various gifts have flooded her chambers. She has not seen any of them, because she has refused to leave her bed. The very bed where the babe bled out of her. She bathed once, in the immediate aftermath of it all, but she has not since, and the smell of sickness and the faintest remains of iron linger heavily in the room. 

“Princess,” Criston says gently, “you must eat.” 

He brings the tray that he has brought for her to her bed. It is a simple meal, consisting of flat bread, potatoes and roasted duck, but it will give her the strength that she needs now more than ever. 

She turns away from him, the pale skin of her cheek flashing in the lowlight of her chambers. “I don’t want to,” she replies in a thin, ragged voice. 

  He frowns. “Please, princess, you need to keep your strength up after the recent events.”

“The recent events,” she echoes bitterly, “do you mean when I murdered my child, Ser Criston?” 

His grip tightens on the tray of food. He can hear his pulse thrumming in his ears. He stares at her, unsure of what to say. 

She scoffs at his silence. “So even you cannot refute it,” she says, “well then, leave me. I do not deserve to eat. Not after what I have done.” 

Criston reaches out to touch her shoulder. His hand rests uneasily on its perch, her bone pressing against the last joints of his knuckles. 

“Rhaenyra,” he says, as gentle as he can be, “you murdered no one. I know that you wanted the babe, and I am truly, deeply sorry for your loss. But you cannot blame yourself for protecting the children you already bore.” 

His attempt at comfort is met with cold silence. Rhaenyra continues to face away from him, curling more tightly around herself. He swallows the lump in his throat. 

“Please,” he says, working very hard to keep his voice steady, “princess, if not for yourself, eat for your children, who long to see you. For Ser Laenor and Lady Laena and your siblings, who worry for you.” 

Rhaenyra makes a pained nose. Then, in a high, reedy voice, she says, “Leave me be, Ser Criston. I do not wish to be bothered.” 

Criston knows how to take a dismissal when he is given one. He sets the tray of food down at her bedside reluctantly. Then, with another tender touch to her shoulder, he exits the room. 

He is brooding in his chambers when Laena comes to visit him. He is off duty, and so dons no armor. He rests his sword across his lap, polishing it. As he slides the cloth across the sharp side of the blade, he purses his lips, his grip on the hilt tightening. Part of him wants to spit, wants to curse and swing his sword at something. A wiser part of him knows that this will not be conductive. It is not a blade that Rhaenyra needs, at this moment, but firm and sincere support. 

If only she would accept it when it is offered, rather than drown in her own self-loathing. 

A knock echoes from the other side of the door and he raises his head, arching an eyebrow. Sheathing his sword, he rises from his chair and makes his way across the room. He opens the door to meet worried violet eyes. 

“Ser Criston,” Laena says, “might I be allowed entry?” 

He inclines his head, nodding. “Aye, my lady.”

She slips through the doors with all the ease of someone who has never been told no in her life. His lips twitch into what could almost resemble a smile, were circumstances not so dire. 

“For what reason do I have the pleasure of your company, my lady?” he asks. 

Laena’s expression is grim and unsmiling. She runs a hand through her silver hair, her fingers catching on the ringlets. She pours herself a healthy helping of wine, downing it in several gulps. 

Then, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand, she says, “I attempted to visit Rhaenyra, half an hour or so ago. She would not bid me entry.” 

Criston winces. “She has allowed precious few entry, in the past few days.” 

Laena’s eyebrows knit in concern. “How does she fare?” she asks. 

Criston stares at the floor glumly. “Poorly. She refuses to speak to anyone, to eat, or even to leave her bed.” 

Laena hisses sharply. “That won’t do,” she says.

He nods. “Trust me, my lady, I am well aware.” 

She raises her chin, her eyes flashing. “We must help her. Get me into her chambers, and I will care for her.” 

He purses his lips. “She will not like that.” 

“No,” Laena agrees, “she will not. But if she is to get better, then someone needs to drag her out of that damned bed. Help me, and I will have her washed and dressed in fresh clothes. I will keep her company, if she has me, whilst you go to scream at the Strongs.” 

Criston startles. “How did you know–” 

“Criston.” Laena’s voice is dry. “Please. I know that, save for seeing Rhaenyra better, there is nothing else you would rather do right now than beat Ser Harwin and Lady Sabitha into the dirt.” 

“I am a knight,” he replies, “and do not harm women. Lady Sabitha, at least, will be spared from my wrath.” 

“And Ser Harwin?” 

He snorts. “It would be too suspicious to beat him so soon after Rhaenyra’s ‘miscarriage.’ But both he and his lady wife will receive a verbal lashing, if nothing else.” 

Laena’s hand settles on his shoulder. She squeezes it lightly, something gentle in her eyes. “Come, Ser Criston. Let us face Rhaenyra’s wrath. Then Ser Harwin and Lady Sabitha may face the consequences you deem fit.”

Criston meets her eyes and nods. 

Rhaenyra is not pleased by Criston’s presence when he enters her chambers once more. She is even less pleased to see Laena standing at his side. A scowl darkens her face, as black as thunder. 

“What is this?” she asks, her voice jagged. 

Criston resists the urge to flinch at the sound. It is a hollow, sharp thing, so unlike the usual brightness that belongs to its owner. He hates it. If he could, he would slash the sound in half with his blade and replace it with Rhaenyra’s usual honey. But he cannot, and so here he stands. 

“This,” Laena says, firmly but not unkindly, “is a move that we are making for your own good. Rise from the bed, goodsister.” 

Rhaenyra burrows further beneath her blankets, her lip curling into a snarl. “What?” 

Laena approaches her with steady, self-assured footfalls. She sits at the side of her bed and raises a hand toward her. Rhaenyra flinches, but she only smooths back some of the silver-gold hair from her brow. Then, gently, she says, “We worry for you, dear one. You refuse to see anyone, refuse to eat, and even refuse to rise from your bed. You will only continue to grow worse like this, not better.” 

Rhaenyra looks away. “Maybe I don’t want to grow better,” she says. 

Laena kisses her gently on the cheek. Then, sweetly, she says, “When you are heir to the Seven Kingdoms, it does not always matter what you want. If you languish here and refuse to eat, if you catch a fever and waste away, what do you think will happen to Aemon and Baelon? They will be left without their greatest champion, and then your children really will be damned.”

It is a harsh statement to make, even with the sweetness of her tone. Criston flinches instinctively. These are not words that he would ever permit to leave his mouth, at least not so soon after Rhaenyra’s loss. The mention of something happening to her children after her babe bled out of her feels cruel. He would not have the heart to say it himself. 

It is a good thing, then, that Laena is not him, because at the mention of her sons, a hint of life flickers across Rhaenyra’s face. “Fuck you, Laena,” she spits, “I would never put those boys in danger, recent events should make that clear enough.” 

“Prove it again, then,” Laena says smoothly. 

Rhaenyra stares at her for a long moment, confliction evident across her features. Criston touches her arm lightly. “Princess,” he says, “Lady Laena only wants what is best for you, as do I.” 

Rhaenyra’s eyes flick to him. Their gazes meet. He tries to be encouraging, tries to pour all of the love that he has for her within a single glance. She looks away from him, grunting, and moves to stand. 

Criston’s heart soars. 

His joy is almost immediately replaced by alarm as she sways in place, nearly collapsing back onto the bed. He catches her before she can fall. One of his arms hooks beneath her knees and the other settles at her lower back. He holds her, then, suspended in the air. She looks so small in his arms, so fragile, as if she might splinter to pieces at any moment. Something in his chest breaks at the sight; his breath catches in his throat and his eyes grow hot. As he cradles her to his chest, the full weight of her devastation crashes down on him. He clenches his jaw tightly; he will have words with Ser Harwin and Lady Sabitha once this is done. Resentment for them burns hotly in his gut. 

“There, there,” he murmurs, trying to ignore said resentment, “you’re alright. I’ve got you.” 

“Ser Criston,” Laena says, “will you carry Rhaenyra to her bath? I’ll have the maids draw it.” 

He nods solemnly. She’s gone in a whirl of skirts, and he’s left to hold Rhaenyra. She breathes weakly against his chest, her chest rising and falling in shallow motions. He bites his lip at the sight, worry consuming him. 

“Oh little one,” he says, “what have you done to yourself?” 

Laena returns a moment later, her brow pinched. Maids trail in after her, carrying a tub of water and soap. Criston carries her to the tub, his arms aching as he accommodates Rhaenyra’s weight. 

“Ser Criston,” Laena says briskly, “set her down by the tub.” She looks to the maids, then. “You may leave. I shall bathe her myself.” 

The maids look between each other, clearly taken by surprise. Criston supposes that he cannot blame them for that; it’s not every day that one highborn woman bathes another. Still, despite their surprise, they bob into respectful curtsies and exit the room. 

As Laena helps Rhaenyra undress, Criston averts his eyes. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says, clearing his throat, “and give you some privacy.” 

Laena nods. Then she says, “That’s likely for the best. Besides, there’s company outside who you should speak with.” 

Criston raises an eyebrow curiously. He exits Rhaenyra’s chambers, wondering who this mysterious visitor could possibly be. 

He draws to a stop when he is greeted with the lean figure of Sabitha Vypren and the broad-shouldered form of Harwin Strong.  

His eyes narrow. 

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” he says in a tone as cold as ice. “Let’s have a chat, shall we?”

Chapter Text

If there is one thing that Harwin takes pride in, it is his boldness, his willingness to throw himself into the heat of battle and win. He is the Breakbones, the strongest knight in the Seven Kingdoms. He fears nothing and laughs in the face of danger. That is who he is, has always been, and always will be. As he rides beside Criston Cole, however, dread, thick and cloying, sticks to the back of his throat. It is a bitter, foul-tasting thing, something that he resents. Snakes twist in his belly and his hands are clammy and the hair at the back of his neck stands straight up. 

He and Sabitha have not seen Rhaenyra for days now. At first, they were willing to wait it out, to allow some time to lapse lest any potential suspicion be placed upon them. But now, with some time having passed, the only thing that he wants is to see her. He wants to hold her and kiss her brow and comfort her in any way that he possibly can. He has not seen her since before she lost the babe – his babe – and worry eats at something bruised and aching in his chest. It wraps its harsh, clawed fingers around his heart and squeezes.

Beside Harwin, Sabitha is tense. He risks a glance at her. Her jaw is clenched and her eyes are narrowed as she observes Ser Criston, who rides a few paces ahead of them. Her fingers have curled tightly around the reins of her mount. Worry has carved into the lines of her face, and has not eased ever since she delivered the tansy to Rhaenyra. Harwin knows that she feels guilt, that she feels just as much concern as he does. He feels a flickering of appreciation for her, then, even more than usual. At least he has his fast friend beside him as they march to be ridiculed by Ser Criston. 

And ridicule is what it will be. He tries to disguise his fury as he urges his horse onward, but he is not as subtle as he might hope to be. Harwin can recognize his thinly-veiled outrage in the tense set of his shoulders, in the stormy silence that has descended over their little group of three. He has not even looked at Harwin and Sabitha since addressing them earlier. And even more than that his green eyes, in all their brilliance, burned like wildfire when he set eyes upon the two of them. 

Yes, Criston Cole is more furious than Harwin has ever seen him before.

They ride in silence for many more minutes before Ser Criston draws his horse to a stop. Grass and hills surround them, divotting into a meadow. Ser Criston dismounts, holding his horse by its reins. He ties the lead of his horse to one of the few trees in the area and inclines his head to Harwin and Sabitha. 

“Come,” he says, “let us speak.” 

The tone of his voice, despite the burning behind his eyes, is as cold as ice. 

Harwin and Sabitha follow his lead, securing their horses. His eyes track them, boring holes into their heads. Harwin thinks that he might be trying to set them on fire with his mind. He does not put it past the man. When it comes to Rhaenyra’s safety and happiness, Ser Criston has no patience for anything less than a stellar condition. 

They walk a few paces further into the meadow. No one else is here. The birds chirp and the sun shines and the wind whistles, but all Harwin can feel is his dread intensifying. He grits his teeth. He is a man grown, just as Sabitha is a woman grown. Ser Criston might chastise them, but ridicule them, but if it goes on for too long, if it is too harsh, he resolves to put a stop to it. He lost his child just as much as Rhaenyra did, and he will not allow for this to be ignored. 

Ser Criston stops walking, suddenly. It is as if he freezes in place. His shoulders hike up to his ears and he makes a small, angry noise, and then he is as still as a statue. Harwin and Sabitha exchange a glance behind his back. Just as Sabitha begins to arch an eyebrow, he whirls on them. And gods, the fury on his face is unmatched by anything Harwin has ever seen before. His lip is curled, and his eyes are blown wide, and his fair face has drained of color. His hands curl to fists and he stalks right up to Harwin until their faces are mere inches apart. 

“Just what in the seven hells,” Ser Criston snarls, “were you thinking?” 

Shame coils tightly in Harwin’s chest, then. Shame and hurt and grief. He meets the man’s eyes, though, refuses to be cowed. He is many things, but he is no craven. 

Sabitha steps forward, then, rests a hand on the Lord Commander’s shoulder. “Peace, ser,” she says warily, “there’s no need to come to blows.” 

Ser Criston’s gaze flicks to her, then. His jaw working tightly, he says, “Remove your hands from my person, Lady Sabitha.” The words come out as a hiss, cracking like a whip through the air. Sabtiah assesses him for a long second, trying to determine if this is a fight she can win. Then, wisely in Harwin’s opinion, she allows for her hand to drop. 

“You are lucky,” Ser Criston snaps to them, “that I have sworn to defend women and not strike them, and that coming to blows with you would cause unnecessary speculation besides.” 

Harwin stiffens. Pride flares in his chest, mixing with his shame. “I do not take kindly to threats, Ser Criston,” he responds coolly. 

“And I do not take kindly to holding my wailing dau- charge as her child bleeds out of her,” Ser Criston says, “but here we are. How could you be so foolish as to get her with child?” 

Harwin scowls. “We took every precaution. She took moon tea. I spent on her belly–” 

Ser Criston raises a hand, grimacing. “I do not wish to know where you spent on her,” he grunts. 

Harwin forges onward. “It is the truth in any case,” he says. “Every precaution was taken. It is a matter of awful circumstances that she came to be with child despite our best efforts.” 

“And when Harwin’s seed did take root,” Sabitha adds, “we immediately acted to put an end to it. We provided her with the tansy, lest you forget.” 

“I should have put a stop to this affair from the moment of its conception,” Ser Criston grouses, “but I wanted Rhaenyra to be happy. And now look where it has gotten her. Do you know that she has refused to eat, to even rise from her bed? Gods, it took Laena’s interception today to get her to even bathe.” 

Something in Harwin withers. He stumbles back a little, breathless. The news of Rhaenyra’s condition comes as a physical blow. It leaves him reeling. “Is she truly suffering so?” he croaks. 

Ser Criston merely glares at him. 

“With all due respect, ser,” Sabitha says, “if Rhaenyra’s condition is truly so awful, we should be at her side, not arguing with you.” 

Ser Criston’s glare grows darker. “No,” he snaps, “I think that you’ve done enough.” 

Harwin straightens. “That’s not fair,” he hisses, “it was my child as well. Do you know how awful it was to seek out a source for her tansy? Do you know how much I wanted to fall to my knees and beg her to keep the child? I wanted my son desperately, but I knew that if Rhaenyra were to know this, it would only make things more difficult for her. So I kept my mouth shut and bore that burden myself, and found her a solution to the problem that was our child.” 

“That,” Ser Criston says coldly, “is the least that you could have done. Let me make one thing clear, Ser Harwin. I care nothing for your suffering, nor Lady Sabitha’s. The only person whom I care for in this entire mess is the princess. If, after she calms, she decides that she no longer wants you at her side, I will delight in cleaving you from her. If she decides that she wants you to remain, then I make this solemn vow to you now: if you ever put her into this position again, if you ever force her to make a choice like this again, I will ensure that you dearly regret it. You will have more than just harsh words from me, more than ridicule. You will have pain.”  

“Is that a threat, ser?” Harwin snaps. His hands twitch. He itches now, for a weapon, even if only to steady himself. 

Ser Criston meets his eyes flatly. “No,” he says, “it is a promise.” 

Then he’s striding away, stalking back to his horse. 

As Harwin watches his retreating back, he can’t shake the sense that he and Sabitha have made an enemy today. 

That intuition does not abate, not even as Ser Criston, who is on guard for Rhaenyra the next day, allows for them to enter her chambers after being summoned. Harwin cannot shake the feeling of green eyes boring into his back, burrowing beneath his skin, as he goes to hold Rhaenyra, as Sabitha kisses her brow. She breaks into heaving sobs and they comfort her as best as they can, cradling her and murmuring sweet words and pressing their lips to her skin. 

As Harwin and Sabitha settle on either side of her, she seems so small, frail in a way that she never has before. Harwin meets her eyes, which are glassy with tears, and his breath catches. As her tears pool down her cheeks, some part of himself deep inside him hates himself for her agony. He finds that he cannot begrudge Ser Criston’s loathing, for all of his pride. If he found his daughter in the same condition, he would kill the man who caused her suffering. 

As it stands, he pulls the light of his life closer and hopes desperately that what has broken inside of her can be fixed somehow.

Chapter Text

If Criston has one thing to say about winter, it is that he absolutely loathes it. He resents the chill that creeps into his bones, that stings at his throat and burns at his eyes. The armor of the Kingsguard seems even heavier when winter comes, which makes wearing it a trial and a half. Not to mention, the metal can sometimes burn to the touch with a cold fire. Yes, Criston would much prefer the brief spring period or even summer to winter. 

As it stands, his own resentment toward the season has no bearing on his charge’s enjoyment of it, nor her family’s. Rhaenyra has declared that, since Dragonston’s lake has frozen over, it is time to skate upon the ice. She sent the maester and several men to test it earlier. They deemed it safe, much to her delight. This is how Criston finds himself guarding the Targaryen-Velaryon clan as they twirl upon the ice.

He stands a ways off from the frozen ice of the lake, his hand on his sword as he observes the situation through narrowed eyes. It’s not as if waving a sword around will help anyone if they go crashing through the ice, but it comforts him. The hilt is a comforting presence in his hand, familiar after so many years. It has etched itself into the grooves of his hands, made itself known in the callouses that have risen up from his fingers. It is a constant companion, rivalled by a precious few. Criston tries not to judge himself too harshly for gripping at it. 

Rhaenyra dances upon the ice, hand in hand with Laenor. He dips her lowly and she laughs, throwing her arms around him. He presses a kiss to her brow affectionately, then twirls her. Her skirts whirl, fanning out in a storm of maroon. Criston resists the urge to smile at the sight. Since her abortion nearly a year ago, Laenor has made a point of being present at Rhaenyra’s side. He has been gentle with her, and patient, and understanding in a way that Criston never would have thought him capable of before. As a result, the two have grown close. That is not to say that they were not friends before, but there is something more than bonds them now, that draws them tighter together. Criston is glad to see it. Rhaenyra needs all the true friends that she can get in this world. 

A distance away from their parents, Aemon and Baelon skate. Aemon skates with Helaena, his hand held in hers. Criston tries to fight the surge of disgust that overtakes him at the difference in their heights, at the likeness of their features. It is done now, they are married; it should not bother him so. He refocuses his attention to Baelon, who skates with Maris. He is saying something to her, his cheeks pink with the cold. She rolls her eyes, apparently unimpressed, but the upward tick of her mouth betrays her amusement at whatever her betrothed has said. Baelon grins at the sight and tugs at her hand. She makes a noise of protest but he tugs at it again, and the two of them start doing twirls of their own, copying Rhaenyra and Laenor. It becomes apparent to Criston that they are trying to copy the older couple. They last for a few minutes, but then, with their limbs uncoordinated with the clumsiness of youth, fail. They go careening into each other rather than twirling around each other and land flat on their backsides in the snow. Baelon bursts into laughter and Maris throws snow at him. Criston feels his lips twitch at the sight. 

“Ser Criston,” Laena calls from her place at the lake, “come, won’t you skate with us?” 

Criston stiffens. He shakes his head wryly. “With respect, my lady,” he says, “I hardly think that that is a good idea. I should be guarding you, not skating.” 

Laenor rolls his eyes beside his sister, stopping his dancing for a moment. “Come now,” he says, “it isn’t as if you are on duty for today’s events, ser. And besides, shouldn’t you be closer to us should any threats occur?” 

Criston hesitates. Laena bats her eyelashes and Laenor pouts. He feels his will bending. 

In the end, however, it is Rhaenyra who delivers the final blow. “Come, ser,” she says, “will you not have some fun, even if your beloved charge requests it?” 

She looks at him with her big amethyst eyes, so much happier than they have been in moons, and that does it. He cannot deny her this, not when it will make her happy. Not when doing what she asks will keep that look of joy on her face. 

“Very well,” he sighs, “if my princess requests it, then who am I to deny her?” 

“Just if your princess requests it?” Laena protests. “I’m offended, ser. What about myself and Laenor?” 

Criston smiles at her wanly. “I do believe that my words spoke for themselves, my lady,” he replies. 

She feigns outrage, gasping and clutching at her chest. She slumps against Laenor, who grunts as he bears her weight. “Did you hear our Lord Commander’s words, baby brother?” she asks. “He cares for us not.” 

Criston laughs, feeling lighter than he has in moons. He approaches the bank of the lake and tugs at his heavy overcoat. He lays it out against a nearby bench. He doubts that he will need it soon, with all the exercise that he’s about to be getting. Even though he expects the chill, he cannot help but shiver as the winter wind blows and slaps at his now-vulnerable form. 

Laena winks at his shiver. “That, ser,” she snickers, “is just what you deserve for being so harsh toward me. Now come, skate with us before you catch a cold.” 

He moves steps onto the ice and nearly falls flat on his backside, just like Baelon and Maris earlier. Jacaerys, who watches on, laughs. Like mother like son, Criston supposes. It is no surprise that Laena’s child should have a chuckle at him. He takes it with a grin. 

“Are you laughing at the Lord Commander of your royal uncle’s Kingsguard, my prince?” he asks. 

Jacaerys shakes his head, even as laughter continues to bubble past his lips. 

Criston feigns a scowl. Rhaenyra extends a hand and he accepts it. She helps to bear his weight as he rises to his feet. “Many thanks, my princess,” he says. 

She smiles. “Think nothing of it, ser. I ask only that later tonight, you play cards with myself and Laenor. We have some news that we would like to share with you.” 

He tilts his head. “What kind of news, if I may be so bold in asking?” 

For a moment, something haunted and wounding flickers across her face. His heart drops. Then it is gone as quickly as it appeared. She rubs at her stomach absentmindedly with one hand. With her other, she reaches for his hand. She squeezes it tightly. 

“The good kind,” she assures him, “the very good kind.” 

He inclines his head. “I shall be very happy to receive this news then, my princess, and honored to play cards with you and Ser Laenor.” 

Rhaenyra’s smile is as bright as the sun. “Wonderful.” 

“Ser Criston,” Laena says, “are you going to stand around all day, or are you going to skate?” 

Rhaenyra frowns at her. “If you hadn’t noticed, goodsister, I was speaking with him.” 

Laena shrugs her shoulders. “It seemed like you were done to me. Now I am stealing your sworn shield to skate.” The look she sends to Criston is teasing. “Unless you’re frightened of falling again, ser?” 

And Criston is many things, but a craven is not one of them. His pride flares at her challenge, as playful as it is. “My lady,” he says, “never in a million years am I scared of a little ice.” 

“Good,” she winks, “now, I’ll race you to the end of the lake.” 

With that, she takes off, a streak of silver ringlets trailing behind her. Criston blinks, taken aback by the playfulness of it all, by the childishness. Something in his chest flutters. 

“That’s cheating!” he protests, already following her. 

She only laughs in response.

He does his best to make haste after her, does his damnedest to catch up. He might be faster than her on regular terrain, but she is better acclimated to the ice than he is. He slips and trips over himself several times, just barely managing to avoid falling flat on his face. On land, he might have had a chance even with her advantage. On the ice, he has none. 

By the time he’s two-thirds of the way across the lake, Laena has already reached the other side. She throws her head back and laughs at his struggle, and he rolls his eyes. “What is your goal here, my lady?” he calls, still skating. “Do you enjoy poking fun at an old man?” 

Laena tilts her head, peering at him through her lashes. “Do yourself some credit, ser,” she says, something that he cannot recognize in her tone, “you are not so old.” 

He opens his mouth to make a jape at his own expense, to laugh and assure her that he is older than she thinks but pauses when the sound of cracking fills his ears. He looks down to see lines emerging at his feet, divots in the surface of the lake. 

“What is tha–” he says. 

That’s when the ice gives out beneath him.