A Crown of Laurels (I Lay On Your Head) -- Criston Cole OC Insert

[Dawn_Star]

Summary:
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.

or

A young man, reincarnated as Criston Cole, remembers his past life, and Rhaenyra Targaryen is forever changed for it. For better or for worse, Westeros is set on a different path.

.
.​

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?

.
.​

A/N: Hey guys! You might be thinking, "Oh God, she's off writing another fic," but I have this one fully outlined and my pride relies on finishing this one thanks to some friends. It'll be fairly short, so I hope to finish it within a reasonable time.

 

[Dawn_Star]

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.

 

[Dawn_Star]

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 horesan 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.

.​

A/N: This was a bit of a slow chapter, but I feel that it was important to establish Criston's character and motivation going forward. I hope you all enjoyed!

 

[Dawn_Star]

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. )

 

[Dawn_Star]

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 quietas 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 damn breaks and her 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.

 

[Dawn_Star]

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.

 

[Dawn_Star]

A/N: I'm over the flipping moon y'all! I just got my first acceptance letter for one of the colleges I applied to! I've been insanely busy my senior year, but now I finally feel like a huge weight is being taken off my chest!



I was just so overjoyed that I needed to put it out there. That shot of dopamine was so intense that now I just feel like writing, writing, writing, so here we are!

.​

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.

 

[Dawn_Star]

"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.



A/N: It's been a while since I updated this, huh? That's my bad. I was pretty busy with school, and then writer's block hit me like a sledgehammer, but I think that I'm finally starting to make a comeback. The next chapter will be longer, and won't take almost three months to post : )

 

[Dawn_Star]

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.

 

[Dawn_Star]

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.




A/N: So. Yes. It's been almost another three months since I updated this and y'all, I am so sorry. I know this is a bit of a filler chapter, but I really just needed to get the ball rolling again and work through my writer's block. The next chapters will certainly have more plot going on.

I have good news, though! Starting the week of the 22nd, I fully plan on posting this fic every Saturday until it's finished. Yay for a consistent update schedule!