Chapter Text
The gentle chirping of the lark awoke him soon after the first whispers of air in the morning had started playing with the thin, white curtains that hung over the windows. The rays of sunshine had travelled from the far east and kissed his face and shoulders, although they- nor the thin sheet draped over his body- were the reason for his warmth. He peeked through his eyelashes, his eyes springing to and fro until he found her leaning on the windowsill, watching the early boats leave the Blackwater as dawn bathed her silver hair and turned it into diamond threads that reached the small of her back. She tilted her face upwards, greeting the sun as if it were the loveliest of gifts, and stretched on the tip of her toes to cannily take all she could before anyone else woke inside the Keep. His undershirt – that tufthunting slip of linen – was an eager replacement for any nightgown she might have worn when he didn’t share her bed, and Criston, try as he might – and even he would admit he wasn’t trying in the slightest– couldn’t help but purr at the sight of her. He was feeding a beast, he knew, one born from their stolen moments, that craved her sighs of pleasure and longed for her sweet embrace; the same one that coiled when it heard the rumours of her impending betrothal and bared its teeth at the parades of suitors. The one lulled to sleep after they were both spent after finding solace in each other’s arms.
The murmur of the rising city could barely be heard inside her solar, yet she would often ask him to leave the shutters open at night. “Life happens all around us, at every moment, my Knight; how will I soak it all if I cannot hear them when I sleep?” she would say after she readied for bed, smiling, reaching up and bringing his face down until his eyes were level with hers. “Listen, Criston, there is so much to know if only you are willing.”
It amused him, so he indulged her, and that morning, he had woken up to the early daylight on the makeshift bed they had built with a couple of carelessly thrown pillows and a thick woollen blanket that had once been a gift from some northern Lord. He studied her as holy men studied the Seven-pointed star, committing her to memory in case he’d be cursed to forget her, bleeding every second of their borrowed time because nothing would ever taste as sweet.
Criston could have fought an entire army for the smile she had worn when she had looked back down and set her eyes on him. She barely made a sound as she padded to him and sat on his lap a moment later, straddling his hips and scraping his nose with hers in a way that would make a sinner of every saint. Her fingertips drew the path from his navel to his chest, from his nipple to the base of his throat, and from his jaw to his eyebrows until her fingers raked through his curls and pushed them away from his eyes. She kissed the tip of his nose with the same reverence he stored for her, and Criston swore that he would die a happy man if the maids stumbled upon them then. Instead, the swift whispers to the other side of the heavy oak doors had pulled them back to the bittersweet reality of a new dawn, and the soothing promise of the approaching dusk.
He hadn’t known that he would lose her days later. That he would spend the next hundred nights adrift, lost in a thousand sorrows he couldn’t confide to his own shadow.
Months had turned to years, but he still woke up when the first signs of daylight slithered into his cell in the White Tower. Some maid would deliver lukewarm porridge every morning, and he would eat it in silence, sitting next to Ser Arryk, who knew not to bother him until Criston had had his turn about the training yard, where some stable boy would have already readied the four wooden mannequins that would soon turn into toothpicks. Were he expected by Queen Alicent, he would then walk the short distance to Maegor’s Holdfast, then stick to the West side of the castle for the rest of the day; were he not, he would spend his morning out of sight, then stew for luncheon and a game of cards with Ser Arryk if he were around, or a short lay in before sunset, and then, he would walk the Keep through it western halls and stand guard for Queen Alicent during the night. It was simple, uncomplicated, worked just fine, and Criston preferred it that way.
Could he fathom what was to happen, he doubted he would have chosen it. By the time he had known the winds had changed, he had stumbled upon the edge of a precipice he had once promised he would never again dance on the edge of. Often, fate seemed to laugh at the whims of those she deemed lesser than her and set them on a path chosen for them long ago, convoluted and inevitable as it may appear.
The sunny morning after a seven-night of rain had revived young and old alike. King’s Landing rejoiced under the warm summer sun as Queen Alicent’s royal retinue made their way to the Sept atop Visenya’s Hill, through the puddle-filled streets where children covered in mud chased one another. As was their custom when they visited, Criston followed Queen Alicent to the Mother’s altar while lordlings and ladies-in-waiting fluttered about. Only once she had settled on her preferred kneeler had Criston walked a few paces to light a single candle to the Warrior before standing at his post again. There, his shoulders squared and his feet firm on the marble floor, he pretended not to look at the face of the Maiden and draw a thousand different comparisons to hers . The light that shone over the Maiden’s pure marble form pulled the memory of their last morning together from the bottom of whatever pit he had once covered with loathing. And even if he were no longer full with delusions of the divinity he had once adorned her in, the cursed image haunted him still, for he was wistfully suspect that had been the last time Criston Cole had been honestly, truly, happy. Alas, she was no Maiden, and he had forgotten what kindness was.
Numbness had become his constant companion, one that Criston had welcomed. At some point, one became adept at entertaining their mind when they were expected to spend hours staring at the same blurry spot somewhere to the other side of the neverending halls. At some point, one learnt how to ignore the heaviness of the armour on their shoulders, the growing itch between one’s scalp and the steel helmet, the drop of sweat forming at the nape that would, sooner or later, trickle down their spine towards unexplored territories, the cramping, the feel of the cold floor against the sole of one’s boots, the thousand noises travelling from one courtier to the other, the stares, the whispers, the cloak-
The cloak, pulling at the base of his shoulders as if it would fall at any moment, an expertly handcrafted piece of fabric dangling and threatening to expose what they all knew: that he had fought for his delusions and paid the price with someone else’s flesh, so that he could rebuild himself in the image of something he thought worthy, and the man whose heart dissolved with the salt of the ocean where it was broken, was gone. Gone like the first white cloak he had been given and had to be replaced when he swore his sword to Queen Alicent, discarded somewhere between her arrogance and his pride.
They arrived at the Keep hours later, after making the way through the streets that seemed fuller every corner they took. The castle seemed awake and out of its thick walls when Queen Alicent and her retinue entered the yard. Criston felt the once familiar buzz of excitement as soon as his feet hit the ground like lightning pulsing from one maid to the courtier that passed her by, jumping to one of the new house guards standing at their post, scurrying from one person to the other until it had infected all of them.
One of the King’s pageboys rushed to Queen Alicent’s carriage the moment she alighted to inform her the King wished to see her. It wasn’t a strange occurrence in itself; usually, it meant his health had taken a sudden turn. Criston saw Queen Alicent tense, tugging her dress sleeves and pinching her lips before she started walking, her demeanour a stark contrast to the thrill that appeared to have taken over the rest of Kings Landing. Queen Alicent walked, and so Criston followed suit.
The air inside Maegor Holdfast had been infused with the same spark present outside its walls, so the sight that greeted them when they arrived at the King’s chamber shouldn’t have surprised him as much as he had. Still, Criston in all the time he had spent in King’s Landing Criston couldn’t remember ever seeing the King almost perched on his window, giddy as a boy fresh out of the school room, as he eagerly called Queen Alicent forward, clapping at something only he could see.
It had barely been half an hour when the King had marched out of his chambers, Commander Westerling right behind him, full of the same sizzling energy that commanded the castle. Queen Alicent dragged her feet behind them, her slippered feet a mere whisper to the clatter of the men she walked after. The King called for her every few seconds, forcing her to pick up her pace and not fall behind.
He ignored what had brought it about that time, but it would be one of those days again, Criston realised when Queen Alicent started murmuring under her breath, and not even he could hear her. She had days like those. Mornings when she woke up before the sun and paced the length of her chambers until the time came for her ladies to awake and tend to her. Afternoons that she would spend alone, save the few moments in the company of the children. Nights when they could hear her praying, an unending litany that seldom calmed her down. She barely slept when she got in her moods, and in consequence, any ill feelings Queen Alicent might harbour would only fester.
She hadn’t had one for months before the storms, then, suddenly, four nights ago, after the children had been sent to bed, Queen Alicent had closed the doors on her solar. When Criston had relieved a bleary-eyed Ser Arryk that morning, he had hoped the cloudless skies would turn Queen Alicent’s spirits, but whatever she had seen in the King’s rooms had brought on another wave of restlessness that he had no remedy for.
All doubts flew from his mind when they reached the Middle Bay and saw her .
She had been riding by the looks of her black boiled leathers with bright red stitching, “I will look like an ember about to burst into flames,” she had giggled as she told him about them, twirling in his arms just a few days before it all fell apart. He had blissfully smiled back, for that was the only thing to do when he’d had her. She was entirely covered in scale-like finery, except for the golden diamond shape over her heart. She had taken from Syrax what felt like a lifetime ago, “One for each person I have lost” she had told him once as she stitched one of them herself. He had been sprawled on her bed, acting as her cushion, when she neatly placed the other two clean scales on the mattress. She had spent most of her morning looking for them on the ash-covered floor of the depths of the Dragonpit while Criston had restlessly waited for her at the entrance. He had assured her they would love the gesture, tenderly kissing the back of her head before leaning back and lazily braiding and unbraiding her hair.
She was talking to the King, her arms around her son, who grinned a toothy grin, a head full of dark curls whipping to look from his mother to his grandsire. For what little Criston knew of the boy, he knew the lad was good, that he loved to sing little songs and chase after cats in the halls of the Keep. Criston, a man grown, had no reason to feel any kind of animosity for a child so young, and yet, with every bit of praise the boy collected, every giggle, a horrible mixture of feelings bubbled up to the base of his throat. The guilt came later, always, and when it did, Criston felt wretched again.
“She took him for his first ride. The boy,” Queen Alicent whispered beside him, pursing her lips and swiftly jutting her chin towards Prince Jacaerys, who giggled in his mother’s arms. “The King is ecstatic, of course. There is no room for any other feeling in his heart, it seems, pure delight that his first grandson took to the skies.” Her lip wobbled as she breathed in. “A babe, barely over his second name day, and yet, his own mother proposes the idea. We are all meant to celebrate when he survives; of course, call him a true dragon and revere him. Not yet three, he won’t know his left from his right, and yet, his accomplishments have made others around him lesser when all they have been lacking is a chance to experience the same. Targaryens would rather peruse the clouds than tend to what’s left on the ground, blessed with luck as they are. It is no matter. No matter at all. Nothing matters. Nothing. Not to them.”
Queen Alicent was prone to mutter sometimes, changing the phrasing of her words but not the meaning. She would often mull over what she found queer about her husband’s family – usually, something to do with her – and murmur about it under her breath only for Criston to hear.
In his weakest moments, Criston would admit that it weighed on him. That, which Queen Alicent said without truly saying, pierced through him and lodged itself between his ribs, dangerously close to what was left of his battered heart, adding to the ever-growing pile of bitterness and resentment.
She sweetly swept the little Prince’s dark, wavy hair away from his eyes and rubbed her nose against his, sending the toddler into another fit of giggles as the King adoringly looked at them. That same mixture of sadness and envy pulled on Criston’s heartstrings, seeping into his bloodstream and pooling at the base of his stomach.
He longed for her as a wilting flower longed for water. Nay, he longed for them both, for a version of the world where they could have been his, where he would stand right by them as little Jacaerys babbled on about what he had seen on his first flight, his small arms stretching in impossibly large gestures that had captured the King’s attention.
Slipping into the fantasy of what could have been had they found a life that suited the three of them happened as frequently as clouds would swarm Storm’s End. Criston had gotten better at it, halting his daydreams, grasping to the pain to remind him of reality, unlike he could with the visions his subconscious conjured at night. Images of a life where Jace – for he would have the right to call him thus– would greet him every morning and hug him every night. A life that allowed many a lazy afternoon with Rhaenyra in his arms. A life where their eyes would seek his in the crowds, and he, well, he had never been able to look away, had he?
As it happened, the truth had a way of slapping him out of the sweet poison of his dreams. As Criston stood on the bailey with Queen Alicent, watching them as they lived without him, without sparing him a thought, Strong had laughed at something the little Prince had said, something Crinston had been too far away to hear, and the spell broke like glass. It came to that, in the end. She had asked too much of him, and Criston had walked away, found a place somewhere safe, where he would barely see them, and he wouldn’t be close enough to hear. Of course, Strong had been only willing to take Criston’s place, and it suited her just fine to have one or the other.
Queen Alicent huffed in front of him, turning on the balls of her feet before anyone noticed, and started walking back inside Maegor’s Holdfast. She set a brisk pace, her long sleeves swishing in the air as she swung her arms while she walked.
“He showers him with praise.” Criston barely heard her mumbling over the clutter of his armour as they walked. “Of course he does. He has barely been able to get out of bed all week, but the moment she is away, the second she blinks at anything, there he is. My children have not seen him in days, and he- He saves all his attention for that- that- that boy!” She stopped abruptly, taking a long-suffering breath.
Criston stayed silent. Nothing good ever came from talking to her in moments like those. He looked around. There wasn’t a soul in the hallway, but the words out from Queen Alicent’s lips should be for his ears only.
“Aegon came to see me yesterday when the maids brought Helaena and Aemond. He was excited, screaming at the top of his lungs about an egg that was about to hatch in the Dragonpit. And Aemond– Oh, Aemond was so very happy for a moment. So happy that I considered taking the children to Viserys to celebrate the joyous news. But it is not my Aemond’s egg that will hatch, it turns out; it is his .”
Queen Alicent rubbed on her eyebrows for a moment before sighing and looking at Criston. She looked young, almost like the girl she had once been, the same one that had chased after the carefree Princess they had both loved. She looked tired, almost like a crone hardened by time and strife.
“My children come from the untainted blood of the Conqueror, and yet, he -” she spat out the word- “who is mudded will get his own dragon when two of my children are bereft of their birthright. She does as she wishes, she parades her missteps, and not only are we all to look the other way, she is rewarded for it. Over and over again. “Is my lesser blood such disappointment to the gods? Why do my children suffer such humiliations day and night when her-…”
“My Queen,” Criston said, not knowing what else to say.
“It is no matter. It never matters.”
Queen Alicent took another shaky breath and straightened her spine before leaving her hiding spot and setting off to her chambers. Criston dutifully followed her and stood by her door after she had slammed it shut.
Silence reigned in the western halls of Maegor’s Holdfast after that. Until he had started serving under Queen Alicent, Criston hadn’t known the halls of the Red Keep could be as quiet. Queen Alicent kept a neat household where servants wore Hightower green and were not seen or heard. The halls where her solar was had always been busy, a constant whirlwind of voices and people, and of course, she had been the wildest and loudest of them all. Even at night, candles seemed to glimmer, dancing a tune Criston didn’t know.
After they had begun their ill-fated affair, she had opened the door to her chambers one morning and pulled him by the sleeve until she had found a narrow nook and rose to meet his lips. His surprised chuckle had broken the peace of the bright dawn, and she, in turn, had hushed him with kisses. They had walked down the empty hallways as close as they had dared after that, the back of her glove brushing at the back of his on their way to the Dragonpit.
Dragons. Every Targaryen’s blessing. Every Targaryen’s undoing.
Criston fidgeted in his armour, the steel creaking as he swayed his weight from one foot to the other. Time passed, it must have, and every second gone brought Criston closer to the end of the day, to the bliss that was his bed and the sorrow that his dreams would bring. He wondered about the version of their story he would live in his sleep, if he would be tortured with joy and flashes of a paradise of his mind’s making; or the brought back to reality by reminders of the misery he had lived in these past years.
It wouldn’t matter, he decided, not as long as he awoke with the first rays of the sun of the new day, once again firm in his resolve to get on with his life, with his loyalties set where they should and his head cleared. As long as he could trick his soul back into pretending all remnants of his feelings had died when they should have.
The Gods seemed against Criston’s desire for peace, however. The thud of the cain when it hit the floor, followed by the scratching sound of the leather against the stone, meant Larys Strong was near. Criston didn’t like the man. Plain and simple. There was something rotten in him, in the way he would stand in a corner and smirk when he thought nobody watched him, but particularly in the way he would gaze upon the women that crossed his path and his uncanny ability to appear whenever Queen Alicent was most on edge. Even after everything with Ser Harwin, if Criston had to save one of the brothers to let the other one perish, well, there wouldn’t really be a choice to make.
The little man cleared his throat when he reached Criston. “Her Grace is expecting me,” he said, tapping his cane once.
“I was not aware. Let me ask Queen Alicent,” Criston answered, turning to the door. He opened it barely wide enough for the man to sneak through and stood on his post when Queen Alicent confirmed she wished to see him.
Larys Strong left before the hour had passed. Criston watched as he struggled to keep the pace he had set for himself, barely stopping to acknowledge Queen Alicent’s children as they walked the short passageway that separated the nursery and the Queen’s Chambers. Prince Aegon marched ahead, swinging a toy sword, making way for him and his siblings. Prince Aemond followed him, his fists tight to the sides of his body, muttering something Criston couldn’t catch. Princess Helaena walked after the maids, her eyes lost in the high ceilings. Like every other day, in they went, and out they came without much pomp or fuss.
When Ser Erryk arrived, fresh-faced and cheerfully walking down the hallway, Criston barely stayed long enough to relay him a brief summary of the day before he set off. He turned left first, walking down a set of stairs that would take him to the servant halls, where he would take a flagon of wine and grab whatever spare food he could catch.
He barely paid attention to the two tables that had already been set, took his strong wine and a plate of bread and cheese, and climbed up the winding staircase that would take him to his favourite spot in the Holdfast. The small terrace overlooked the Godswood, far enough away from everything to grant some blessed peace to those who went through the trouble of seeking it. He had spent many an afternoon waiting for the sun to set, for the red treetops to drown in darkness before he made his way to his cell, sprawled in the low footstool that still leaned against the back wall. He had found it soon after he’d started serving at the Keep, and it had been one of the few secrets he had kept for himself.
“Leave,” a raspy, accusatory voice demanded to his right. Criston ignored it, taking another swing at his bottle. Whereas he would usually return the disdainful sneers in kind, Criston didn’t have the energy to deal with Jeyne that day. Jeyne– just Jeyne– had entered her service around the same time as he had. She was as common as a nameless girl from the Riverlands ought to be, and Criston had disliked everything about her almost as soon as he’d met her.
“I go where I please,” he answered.
“Not here,” she barked, taking the wine away from him and kicking his stool, “Find somewhere else on your side of the castle.” She donned her black and red dress like chainmail and looked like she was debating whether she could bash his head with the bottle in her hand. She, along with those who had stayed fiercely loyal to her despite the rumours and the gossip, had passed judgment on Criston the night he had changed his allegiance, and clearly, they found him lacking. “You done it the last three years, shouldn’t be too hard.”
Perhaps it had been because of his nightmarish day, because exhaustion threatened to drain him until he’d just be conscious enough to torture him in his sleep, or because this one was another battle not worth fighting. Still, Criston took his leave, pushing Jeyne with his shoulder in his wake. He wouldn’t know what made him turn to the right instead of taking the staircase he had come from; maybe he had wanted to annoy Jeyne, maybe his feet had decided to take the familiar path on their own.
Be it as it may, and no matter if pride or stupidity were to blame, Criston realised the winding passageways of Maegor’s Holdfast had taken him to a part of the castle that had been familiar to him once. It had barely changed in the past few years; dragons decorated almost every surface, fearsome sculptures propped about the hallways, and tapestries hung on every wall. Large bronze braziers lit the way Criston should follow, across the once familiar halls, passing in front of her chambers and walking to the far end of the Holdfast, where he would find the staircase that would take him to the drawbridge.
He would soon turn the corner that would take him to her rooms, the heavy armour clunking as he walked. He expected Strong to be posted outside the doors that had once been Criston’s to guard, and yet his only hope for the night was that Strong wouldn’t ask too many questions when they came face to face. Instead, when he turned, he saw Ser Arryk leaning against the stone wall, with his eyes closed and – Criston hoped– half asleep.
Criston crossed the empty hallway in a handful of long strides and shook Ser Arryk awake by his shoulders.
“What in the seven Hells?” Ser Arryk asked, startled.
“You fell asleep,” Criston answered, shaking him once more. “Had I been anyone else-”
“I am aware,” he answered, vigorously rubbing his face. “I hadn’t intended on it.”
“And yet you did, had anyone but me found you-”
“Yes, yes, punishment, terrible pain…” he said, rolling his eyes, and again Criston was grateful it was just the two of them in the hallway. “This is my third post today, did you know? The seventh in three days. I suspect even the great Criston Cole would struggle had he guarded the Queen’s door last night, then the nursery this morning and the King in the afternoon. It would have been no bother had Ser Harwin not been pulled to the tower of the Hand for supper. He was going to send some Goldcloak, I believe, but Larys Clubfoot suggested having a Kingsguard at the door. The King, of course, agreed. You know how he is when it comes to his Heir.”
“Careful,” Criston warned him. “The Lord Commander should have sent for someone else.”
“There was nobody else.” Ser Arryk said, stretching his back. He said it with the kind of finality that dared make truths out of lies, as if saying it so changed that Criston could have, should have - would have- guarded the door had the circumstances been different.
There was a murmur of steps to the other side of the door, and Criston wondered if she had heard him at the door and tip-toed to confirm it. He waited for her to open the door and send him away, but she walked away instead.
“She paces,” Ser Arryk said, noticing Criston, “she is prone to it just like the Queen. She will pace the length of the blasted room until she gets tired of it, whispering and humming as she walks from one side of the room to the other. It gets bloody annoying if you ask-”
Criston had spent most of his nights in that same hallway, more often than not, standing outside that same door, she hadn’t paced then, not that he recalled. He had become familiar with her routine, even before the door that had kept them apart had opened that fateful night. She had always seemed to flutter from around the room, aimlessly searching for whichever form of entertainment would catch her attention. Near the end, she had often thrust some book of another into his arms and asked him to read it aloud. Even now, if he strained his ear just enough, he would probably hear the setteè creak as she fidgeted on her seat while she read.
There was a muffled cry inside the room, and Criston stepped forward on instinct. Ser Arryk’s inane chatter became background noise as every nerve in Criston’s body came alive and told him something was wrong. He raised his fist as if to pound on the door but caught himself at the last moment. Ser Arryk was the Princess’ guard for the night, and even if the circumstances were different, she wouldn’t open her door for him just because he had heard a whimper.
Criston nodded to whatever Ser Arryk kept blabbering about until he heard it. Another noise, this one sharper, like a mallet hitting a cymbal, and then the undeniable racket of clutter falling to the floor. Criston pushed Ser Arryk aside and pounded on the door.
“Princess!” He called. “Everything right?”
“Princess?” Ser Arryk asked, pushing Criston away from the door.
Criston had never been known for his patience in his best moments, so he pushed Ser Arryk away, ignoring the knight’s protests as he forced the door open with his shoulder.
Rhaenyra lay on the floor, her hand still wrapped around the knife she had plunged into her assailant. A man twice her size and dressed in dirty linen garbs twitched on top of her, clawing at the base of his neck, trying to get the knife out. Criston rushed to her, but the few paces between them felt neverending.
He grabbed the man by the shoulders, pulling him away from her and throwing him to the side. The man’s skull made a crushing sound when it hit wood; he twitched once before he frumped at the base of the closed wardrobe.
Criston turned to Rhaenyra, then. She had been the reason for his wayward thoughts all day, the source of his joy and pain for years, and now, as she lay on the floor of her rooms, her day dress covered in blood and paler than he’d ever seen her, her bright violet eyes wide like saucers, she was the only thing his mind dared to focus on.
“Princess,” he said, kneeling beside her, carefully cradling her head. Criston looked back at the door. Ser Arryk stood under the doorframe, frozen in place with his eyes saucers. “Whatever are you doing?” he hollered, “Fetch the maester and the Lord Commander. GO!”
“Ser,” she gasped.
“What happened? How could this happen?” He muttered to himself, looking her up and down, searching for injuries, a thousand thoughts wildly battering around his mind.
“Criston.” His name on her lips, a balm for his soul, and a blade in his heart, all at once. He turned to her, violet meeting brown, and it felt like time stretched around them just so he could have that one moment. Criston felt warm, viscous liquid sweep from the base of her head and through his fingers.
“You must stay awake, Princess,” he urged, looking around for Ser Arryk. “Ser Arryk has gone to fetch the maester, and they will be here soon.”
“Criston,” she spoke again.
“Save your breath,” he whispered, almost fearing the Gods would take it away if they heard him. “Stay awake and save your breath. They shall be here soon. You shall see.”
“Criston,” she whispered again, moving her left hand closer to his, pushing something round into his palm. He took it without hesitation, not caring what it was at the moment, only that he would give her any comfort she wished for at that moment. Her eyes softened as she looked up, sighing when her heavy eyelids threatened to take her where Criston couldn’t find her. She fought against the darkness that pulled at her and slowly moved the hand he wasn’t holding, caressing his cheek on the way to his forehead, and with a gesture that felt as old as time itself, as familiar as the warm sun in spring, she pushed his hair away from his eyes. “Criston. Jace…”
“I am sure the little Prince is safe,” he reassured her.
“No, Criston, listen,” she begged him. “Once. Listen this one time. Jace is not-”
“Princess?”
“Jace is-” she gasped, her eyes turned towards the back of her head.
“Rhaenyra?”
He shouldn’t shake her, that much he knew; even when every desperate thought in his head begged him to do something, to fix it, he knew he shouldn’t shake her awake, lest he do more harm than good.
Criston gulped down a desperate breath. The girl that had broken his heart and never looked back. Once, he had wished to have her between his arms, and he had repeatedly berated his weakness. The fates, amused only by cruelty, had decided to grant it. Her breathing was shallow, but she was breathing, and her eyes danced under her closed eyelids. He could feel the intense beating of her heart at the nape of her neck even through his gloved hand, but his knowledge of medicine was scarce, and he couldn’t know if the rapid beat of her heart meant she would recover or if she were doomed.
‘Criston, listen,’ she had said, ‘Jace is not-’ and now he wished he had reigned his feelings in and listened. What? Her first words to him in years had been a desperate whimper urging him towards. She hadn’t asked for her father or Strong; she had needed Criston to know something. Something he would never get to hear even when she did wake up.
She had to.
He heard the thundering steps before they reached Rhaenyra’s chambers, and even to this day, Criston couldn’t explain why he chose to hide the object she had given him between his chest plate and his gambeson.
“What happened?” Commander Westerling roared as he walked in. “How did it happen?”
Maester Orwyle walked right behind him, making a beeline to the Princess. “Allow me, Ser Criston,” he said, walking around both to treat his patient. The young maester gently pushed his hands away, but Criston couldn’t let go of her.
“She fell on her head, I think,” he said, refusing to move his left hand from the nape of her neck. “I believe she was bleeding.”
“Allow me, Ser Criston,” Maester Orwyle repeated, taking a clean rag from the case he had brought with himself, dousing it with some foul-smelling liquid and replacing Criston’s hand with his. “I shall have to clean and dress the wound if you are right.”
“Will either of you explain what happened? How did this man get inside the Heir’s chambers when two knights from my Kingsguard stood outside?”
“I- We heard noises, then a loud bang,” Criston explained. Still kneeling on the ground, he looked around the familiar room for the first time in years. It hadn’t changed much.
There were curtains over the arches that led to the windows, which were new, and they had built a new golden screen next to the hearth– just like the ones that separated the Princess’ bed from the rest of her solar. She had kept a low bench and some books there before, he remembered. More toys were lying around the floor than Criston had thought there would be, and the large desk to the left-hand side was packed to the brim with books and papers. The settèes in the middle of the room had been there before Criston had entered her service, and the woolly lavender blanket on one of them had once belonged to Queen Aemma. There were oranges scattered on the floor, from beneath the large dining table that was new to Criston to the old wardrobe that was almost as old as the castle itself.
“She must have hit him with that,” Ser Arryk said, nodding at the cambered brass platter thrown on the floor. “He was on top of her when we entered. She had stabbed him with a small knife.”
He turned his head to assess the man, then. The beds of his bony fingers were full of grime, as were the undersides of his nails; Criston could see from the way his jaw hung open that half of his teeth were rotten, and someone had cut his tongue out. His shoulders were covered in dust and cobwebs, but the boots on his feet were new.
“She has stopped bleeding, Ser Criston,” Maester Orwyle said, looking up at him. “I believe we should move her.”
With a shaky breath, Criston wrapped his arms around her and lifted her, careful not to jostle her. He would blame the shudder coursing down his spine and the shake of his legs on his heavy armour on gravity pulling and keeping him frozen. Instead, he took her to bed, dreading what his face would betray if he stopped to think of all they’d shared.
He thundered away as soon as he laid her down, walking around the golden divider and kicking a miniature wooden horse that happened to be on his path. Criston paced, and even though he couldn’t show it, lightning trickled up and down his legs, so he went towards the hearth. When he parted the curtains, he found little Prince Jacaerys in his crib, his eyes big and full of tears and his bottom lip wobbling as he tried to keep quiet. He clutched onto a black and red blanket with both hands, shaking like a leaf, and seeing him that way made something inside Criston snap.
“Good heavens,” he whispered, and the Prince started crying. “Prince Jacaerys is here!” He shouted at the rest of the people in the room.
Ser Harrold rushed to his side and ordered Ser Arryk to take the boy to the nursery. The miserable wail that came out of the poor boy would haunt him every night to come, Criston knew, the way he had desperately called for his mother ingrained now in Criston’s memory. It broke something in him, longing to be the cure for the child’s malady.
“Son,” Ser Harrold said, placing a hand on Criston’s shoulder but barely catching his attention. “How about you go to your cell, have a wash, send those clothes off to the maids and have some rest?”
Criston must have mumbled something without understanding.
The Lord Commander looked down at him.
Nodding, Criston took a step back. Then another. Then another. He was barely aware of his surroundings when he’d crossed Breakbones in the hallway. Every step took him away from the home of all his dreams and nightmares and towards the bitter reality he had designed. Leaving her once again, his white cloak turned red by her blood.