Chapter Text
( ( ( O ) ) )
To this day, what surprised him the most was how suddenly it happened.
Criston turned in his bed for the hundredth time, or at least it felt like it. Sleep wasn’t coming. Not tonight. The phantom pains in his missing leg were having a little midnight party, gnawing at the emptiness like they had rent to pay. He flexed his toes, or would have, if the toes were still there. He cursed softly.
To make matters worse, his roommate was still awake. Erryk had apparently decided that two in the morning was the perfect time to yell into his phone like a soap opera extra auditioning for a meltdown scene. He was probably having another argument with that twin of his. The townhouse was not that big and the walls were thin, and Criston could feel every syllable vibrate through his ribs. His teeth itched to grind against one another.
Because of course he did. Erryk was, objectively speaking, a piece of shit. Smug, loud, and somehow immune to the concept of courtesy after ten p.m. Criston should have started looking for a new place three years ago, back when he first said he would.
He reached instinctively for his phone to check the time, only to find the screen dark. Dead battery. Naturally, the charger was across the room, atop a precarious stack of books and empty soda cans, clearly placed there to test his willpower, or maybe just his balance. He weighed the acrobatics it would take to reach it and decided against it.
With a sigh that belonged to a man at least twenty years older than he was, Criston pushed himself upright. His prosthetic lay across the chair beside the bed, already prepared for the day. He swung his remaining leg over the side of the bed, rubbing his face with one hand, feeling the familiar hollow ache in his chest as fatigue and frustration tangled into one stubborn knot. Sometimes, Criston thought grimly, insomnia was less about not being able to sleep and more about surviving everything else while lying still in the dark.
He shuffled to the kitchen, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and poured himself a glass of water. The cool liquid was a small comfort, a reminder that some things, at least, still made sense. Finally, he dragged the charger close enough to revive his phone. The screen blinked awake with an old message, four hours ago, from Alicent.
He agreed!!!
Criston smiled despite himself, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, and thumbed out a reply: Good for you. Talk later.
She’d been chasing a small corner of independence for a while now, and it looked like she’d finally gotten Viserys on board. Theology classes, of all things. But a second life beyond the endless, suffocating duties of being Mrs. Targaryen. Criston had cheered her on from the sidelines, but if Viserys had really said yes, it probably had less to do with his encouragement and more to do with his daughter’s. Rhaenyra would have gladly helped.
The night air called, so he went out for a walk, prosthetic secured, each step a quiet negotiation with memory and muscle. It was easier to breathe outside, easier to imagine that things might actually be settling down for once. He thought about calling Alicent when he got back. Later, when the city was awake and she wasn’t recovering from that night’s gala.
By dawn, Erryk had finally passed out in his bed, and Criston returned home in blessed silence. He set his phone on the counter, ready to make breakfast. Cooking had become something of a lifeline since the discharge. A way to impose order on days that too easily fell apart.
That’s when he noticed the notification.
A missed call.
He didn’t think much of it, certain it would be Alicent, until he saw the name.
Rhaenyra.
His stomach turned cold. They didn’t call each other. Ever. Not since the breakup. A polite text for birthdays, the occasional forced exchange when Alicent insisted they all share the same space, that was the extent of it. For her to break that unspoken rule meant something was seriously wrong. Criston felt the pulse at his temples quicken.
He took a breath and called back. The line rang, once, twice, three times, and then—
“Rhaenyra, what’s wrong?” he asked at once.
“Cole,” came the voice. A man’s voice. Definitely not hers. “It’s Harwin.”
The husband, muttered a petty little voice in Criston’s head, but he silenced it immediately. This was no time for judgment.
“What’s going on? Where’s Rhaenyra?”
There was silence on the other end. Too long. Then, at last:
“Cole… it’s Viserys and Alicent.”
Another pause.
“They had a car accident last night. They’re gone.”