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i. The white of his cloak reminds him (taunts him) daily of the precarious honor (responsibility) he now possesses.
Having been born in no castle and with nothing close to servants, he has washed his own clothes and bathed his own skin, and he remembers this now as he fumingly rubs at his cloak the first time he kills in the name of duty. His sword lies sheathed (clean) on the ground beside him and he scrubs and scrubs and scrubs but the crimson stains seem to be in no rush to give way for the pristine white he has grown to admire and obsess. Maybe love. He wonders what parts of a man’s body must metal trespass to stain this badly.
He wonders as he scrubs, a midst of honor and pain clawing at his chest. Duty. He is sure this is what it is. Duty is his utmost priority and the white, the white is-
The knock on his chamber door startles him more than it should have. When the Princess enters and looks upon him, his protests are all but frail, his questioning dying on his tongue.
He does not know how she left her guarded chambers, though her charm has gotten her everywhere else before, and he does not know why she is here. But when she sits beside him and grabs his sponge, his chest constricts further, caving in itself, and he wills himself to simply admire and obsess. Not love.
He is mostly sure love is nothing but the death of duty.
-
ii. “What do you see in the stars, sir Criston?”
He looks fleetingly to his right, capturing her blue eyes for a not too long moment before turning to contemplate the gorgeous sky they are lying beneath. He has been her guard for over 2 years now and she is still all but a puzzle in her manner of thinking. It is almost strange to him that her beauty is what her suitors dwell on the most, all but drooling at her near presence, when her mind shines even brighter than her hair and eyes ever could. When he looks to his right again, he thinks maybe he can empathize.
“I see the Gods, Princess. And the path that lies ahead. Though I must say, I am no great reader, so it is all bright spots to me.” He smiles slightly, and she giggles at his side, eyes transfixed on the darkness above. When she turns, he looks as well, and decides he should maybe enjoy this sight, so rare to come, instead of the stars.
It is not the first time she has run from family events, and it is not the first time he has chased her. If the stars allowed him for more introspection, he would have to admit his duty to protect her shares the stage with an increasing need to see her like this, soft, smiling, lying on wet grass with her hair cascading, loosened from her braids, so close he could sense the faint lavender it smells of. He is thankful the stars do not allow this, otherwise he would need to address why his breath falters at the way her eyes seem to be locked on his, and not the stars.
“Do you think it will always be like this?” she asks in a whisper. He cannot know what she means, but something keeps him from asking. Instead he furrows his brows, a silent question, and her gaze roams his face momentarily before continuing. “Do you think it will always be this hard to be Queen?”
Her vulnerability licks through him like daggers, and he has the instinct to reach for his sword and slaughter whoever is responsible for her unhappiness. He quickly disregards this, a silly thought when they are alone in the woods with a few rabbits and dogs around, and almost as quickly realizes his helplessness outside of battle. Or in a different battle.
“Princess,” he sighs, pretending not to hear her whimper Rhaenyra, pretending not to sense her hand on his armor, pretending not to acknowledge her fully turning towards him, almost hovering over his large figure. His hand reaches of its own accord to her waist, stilling her movement, and she gazes at him from above, half propped on her elbow, pain etched in the subtlest lines on her face. “Not everything you want is worth fighting for, Rhaenyra. This is.” And then, squeezing slightly, “The Crown is.”
Here, in the woods, miles away from the big hallways and the golden crowns and the swords of the iron throne, she allows herself to hurt, and he allows himself to be the reason. It is a fleeting thing, this feeling, or rather its announced presence, for it might always be there, even if unannounced. He feels her ribcage trembling with a small laugh, and she propels onto her back again, nodding her head.
He wants to say something, but knows he shouldn’t. His hand shakes with the feel of her.
She refuses to sleep, instead insisting on keeping guard with him, and he knows there is no use arguing with her. When she leans against him to preserve the warmth of the fire, he counts to ten, slowly, painfully, and knows in his head he doesn’t have much time. Not like this.
-
iii. It is the day before it changes. Though, arguably, it is the day before that is the actual change. They stroll through the large gardens surrounding the palace, hardly a dangerous activity in need of her personal guard, but she insists on his presence nonetheless. She looks ahead as they move further away, the roses turning from red to beaming yellow as they approach the bench near the end of the gardens, and as she sits, she motions for him to do the same.
Before he can, though, he stills when she asks, “Do you consider yourself to be my friend, sir Criston?”
The familiar smell of the battlefield crosses his nostrils before disappearing altogether. He looks down. “Do you want me to, Princess?”
“That is not what I asked.” And then, softer, guiding his eyes towards hers. “I have not many friends remaining here. You have been with me every day for three years. I would think you to see me as more than a protegee.” And softer still, “I believe you do.”
The change in tone is not lost on him, and the sudden urge to be in the woods, in the darkness, far away strikes at him from the side, loosening his balance. He nods to her question, and then once again to her second, unasked question. “I do, Princess.” he raises his head. “I consider you a friend, yes.”
“Good,” she smiles, then beams. He smiles too. “Would you mind telling me about sex?”
He almost dies a horribly shameful death of choking on air in front of the person he has sworn to protect, and she laughs wholeheartedly as he nearly crumbles to his knees in search of air. It is the greatest sound he has ever heard. When he recomposes himself, she is looking at him eagerly, and he realizes this has not been to put him on the spot. She wants to know.
He could feign stupidity, but unfortunately, he has never been one to resist her. “What do you want to know, Princess?” he asks, moving to sit on the farthest end of the bench, feeling so on edge he could swear the stone turned boiling the moment he sat.
“Is it… pleasant? Do you do it?” so, so innocent, and he clasps his hands on his knees, begging silently for mercy. He forces himself to face her.
“I am in the Kingsguard, as you know. We take an oath,” he smiles, she smiles, sadness in the corners of their mouths. “It is pleasant, if done right.”
She ponders over this, always looking at him. Always looking. “Can it really be so pleasant if you have sworn it away?”
He blinks, once, twice. There is a miserable quality to her voice that he can’t quite decipher, but she urges him silently to go on. “Your safety is the only important thing, Princess. I can live without the rest.”
“Would you ever break your vow?”
“No.”
“Sir Criston-“
“Rhaenyra-“ harder tones, exasperation on his face. Something close to pleading. She stops, looks around, moves closer. The inevitability of their situation dawns on him, closer and closer by the second, and he once again knows this will have no way out. No way around. “Please don’t ask me that.”
“But why?”
“Because you know I will say no.” he answers, simply, straightforward. The disappointment on her face is nothing in comparison to his duty to serve, he reminds himself, but even then he is sure she sees through it and he is sure he cannot even convince his own mind.
When she smiles, he knows he is doomed. “We should head back.” He tries, and she only smiles harder.
“Yes. We should.”
-
iv. She apologizes after. For sacrificing his vow. For staining his cloak she had once helped clean.
There have been enough days that have passed since he has touched her in ways he has denied dreaming of before, though he has, but he would be lying even further if he claimed to blame her in any way. “It was my own choice, Rhaenyra. I hoped it wasn’t. But there is no denying I-“ the words stick like honey on his throat, and for the first time, she does not look at him when he speaks.
He has come to escort her to her father, but she has not yet moved from facing the window, and he has not yet been able to stop admiring her reflection in the glass, his armor directly behind her, shielding her, his cloak dragging across the floor. He shivers. “There is no denying-“
“Please don’t.” she interrupts, but does not move, her back still turned to him. He doesn’t quite know how he would complete the sentence, but she seems to. She hurts, he notes. He hurts too.
“I won’t.”
When she turns, slowly, her words are barely above a whisper. “Thank you, sir Criston. But you were right. One must pick the things worth fighting for.”
-
v. In the end, he always knew it would come to this. One last night before her wedding, the stink of despair and heartache, her sighs dying on his lips. He always knew it would come to a time where all that surrounded them was sadness, and he yearned for the days where he was the only who ached, and she smiled, and beamed, and wasn’t stained by the blood his hands have felt. Shed.
“If I could,” she starts, and the urge to interrupt her is so large it seems to engulf him. But this is not about him. Never has been. “I would take you on my dragon and go south. Or east. Anywhere. I would-“ she shakes her head, and he looks straight at the ceiling as a tear falls on his chest. It is not his. It could be. “I would take you anywhere.”
He doesn’t know when his day will come. In any manner, at any age, he knows his true death was here, in her chambers, with her legs tangled in his and the feel of her shaking against him. With dreams of dragons and gorgeous smiles forever etched on his mind.
upon the stars, we count our deaths