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

[Dawn_Star]

Criston does not like Storm's End. He would even go as far as to say that he hates the place. Loud, shrieking wind whips at his face as he urges his horse forward. The beast snorts in protest, and he does not begrudge it for that. Cold bites at his cheeks and nose especially, and his hands grow numb as they grip at the horse's reins. Worse than anything, however, is the rain that descends down upon him. It is not bad enough for the party to stop, especially with the wheelhouses they have brought with them, but the armor of the Kingsguard is already bloody bad enough. Adding the weight of excess rain and the chill of cold water just worsens the misery.

Criston blinks rapidly as droplets of rain obscure his vision. He licks at his lips, which have grown far too chapped upon this hellish progress, and fights the urge to frown as the looming form of the seat of House Baratheon draws closer. His teeth chatter and a chill runs down his spine. He shifts in his saddle, trying to get some warmth into his bones.

For all his dislike and the current blackness of his mood, Criston has to admit that Storm's End does truly look as if it belongs with the mythic story of its founding. It is surrounded by a thick curtain of outer wall, which spans one hundred feet vertically. It is forty feet thick on its thinnest side – thinnest, Criston marvels at that fact – and nearly eighty feet on its thickest side, which faces the seaward side, where a one hundred and fifty foot drop breaks off into the sea. The wall is composed of pale gray stone – a double course – and an inner core that consists of a mixture of rubble and sand. It is curving and perfectly smooth, purposely designed by the Storm Kings of House Durrandon to be unscalable.

The progress approaches the wall and its great gates swing open with a friendly call from the guards. Criston nods, hoping he doesn't look too much like a drowned rat, as he feels his heart beating furiously in his chest. It rages against his ribcage, leaps like a fish scrambling for water. He swallows hard, trying to bite back the lump in his throat. Rhaenyra will be perfectly fine, he assures himself. She is clever and charming and he has taught her everything he possibly could. And she has had two entire years to prepare for this tour whilst waiting for Aemon and Baelon to grow and making the arrangements. She is ready.

"Appeal to Lord Borros' pride," he had told her, "his inflated sense of self is higher than the walls of his keep, higher, even, than the Wall of the Night's Watch. Appeal to his sense of family, as well. I am concerned that he might feel forgotten by your family, despite his aunt being the wife of the heir to the throne, once upon a time. Charm him and speak sweetly to him – he is one of those men who will not take kindly to being ordered by a woman, I fear – but never let him forget that you are the one who rides a dragon, who will one day wear a crown, who will be recognized as a monarch to sit the Iron Throne, not him. Do you understand me, Rhaenyra?"

She had lifted her chin up with flashing eyes and nodded with a solemness that had eased some of his worry. "Never fear, Ser Criston," she had replied, "I know who I am, and he knows it as well. I will bring him to our side, if he is not ours already, and the Seven Kingdoms shall know that the Storm Lords stand with the Blacks."

Now, as Criston progresses further into the courtyard, he sees Lord Borros standing before the Round Hall, Storm's End's single massive tower – along with his wife and three daughters. Floris, it seems, has yet to be born, but Ladies Cassandra, Maris and Ellyn all watch the progress with wide eyes. At two years old, Lady Ellyn is the youngest of her father's children, at least thus far, and clings at her mother's skirts with one hand. Lady Elenda gently unfurls her fist as Criston dismounts from his horse.

"Ser Criston," Lord Borros booms, "welcome to Storm's End! We are honored to host such a noble guest as you." His eyes, a dark, stormy blue, flicker around the courtyard. "I was expecting Princess Rhaenyra and my cousin, Rhaenys and her children as well, however, and I do not see them. They have not forsaken visiting me, have they?"

The words are spoken as a jest, but there is an edge to them that makes the set of Criston's shoulders tense. He forces himself to relax and smiles politely. "Lord Borros," he says with a sweeping bow, "I thank you for your warm welcome. Princess Rhaenyra and Princess Rhaenys have not abandoned you. Nor have Ser Laenor or Lady Laena. In fact–"

His words are cut off by a tandem of shrieks. Criston bites back a grin as shadows fall over Storm's End and Lord Borros' eyes flicker upwards. The four dragons of the Blacks fly in a diamond formation, with Rhaenyra at the head. At her right and left flank Seasmoke and Meleys respectively, with Vhagar covering them at the back. The four dragons do a long lap around the walls. Syrax and Seasmoke land in the courtyard and everyone flinches back, Criston included. Princess Rhaenys slips off of Meleys' back a short distance from the ground before her dragon perches along the walls. Vhagar, who is too huge to be landed safely with three other adult dragons in such a confined vicinity, lands outside of the walls. Laena will mount a horse with Jacaerys in tow and ride to them swiftly.

In the meantime, Rhaenyra and Laenor dismount from their own dragons. Aemon and Baelon are held in their arms respectively. Rhaenyra is dressed in riding leathers that have been dyed in House Targaryen's classic red and black. She wears the jade diadem that Prince Daemon gifted her all those years ago. Black earrings encrusted with gold – color-coded for House Baratheon – hang her ears, clearly visible since her hair has been drawn back into a braid that resembles the warrior queen Visenya. Ser Laenor, for his part, is dressed in his own house's blue and silver with a sword hanging at his side.

They begin to walk up to Lord Borros, and the courtyard falls into sharp bows and curtsies one after the other. Aemon and Baelon walk beside them, having been set down. They are dressed in a combination of their parents' colors and imagery. They wear the exact same doublet. One half is red, embroidered with black lining for the house of their mother. This is the left half of the doublet, the part that will cover and span their hearts. The other half, on the right, is a dark shade of blue, with silver embroidery for the house of their father. Their collars, on the other hand, are a burnished shade of gold. It should not fit with the rest of their clothing, but it does, strangely enough.

Criston glances back over to Lord Borros to see that the man's mouth has dropped open. It practically hangs from his jaw. Lady Ellyn has buried her face in her mother's skirts and Lady Cassandra has huddled closer to her father, but Lady Maris stares on.

"Lord Borros," Rhaenyra calls, "it is so glad to see you. I have not been to Storm's End for too long, to my mourning. I am happy to be back – your seat has grown even more magnificent since I was last here. It is an honor to be here, truly."

"Princess Rhaenyra," Lord Borros says, finding his voice, "the honor is all mine." He makes a sweeping gesture toward the Round Hall. "Welcome to Storm's End."



The feast that follows is quite impressive. There is much music and food and rich, mulled wine. Lord Borros is seated at the center of the room, with Rhaenyra, Laenor, Laena and Princess Rhaenys seated with him, along with the children. Jacaerys is more interested in attacking his plate than the events around him, much to his mother's amusement, but he is not the center of Lord Borros' attention anyway, and so Criston is not too worried about any potential offense.

"Look at that hair!" he roars, pointing to Baelon's mess of curls. "That's Baratheon hair if I've ever seen it, it is!" He casts a fond look at Princess Rhaenys. "He has your look, cousin. Our look." While he is not quite cool to Rhaenyra or Laenor, he is clearly warmest with Princess Rhaenys and seems, much to Criston's belief, to have taken to Baelon quickly.

"So he does," Princess Rhaenys replies, pride coloring her voice. She takes a sip of Arbor Gold and tussles Baelon's hair. Then she does the same with Aemon's. "I am truly blessed by the Seven, to have grandsons such as these; one with my father's name and the other with my mother's look. And they are the heirs to a throne and the greatest fleet in the Seven Kingdoms, to boot. Few women would dream of such a thing."

Lord Borros makes a noise of agreement. "I can only hope that one day, my own son's children will bring me such joy." His expression sours and when he speaks again, his tone is laced with envy. "Though to have grandchildren by him, I will need him to be born to begin with."

Lady Elenda flinches and Criston feels pity flicker for her in his chest. "I am sure that sons will come, my lord," he assures Lord Borros, "you and your lady wife are yet young. And your bonny daughters are truly jewels. I know that many men would mourn that they were not blessed with them as well."

Lord Borros takes a deep gulp of his wine. "So you say, Ser Criston," he replies, looking slightly mollified. Then he barks out a laugh and pounds him on the back. "Good man! You're living up to the Stormlander charm. Making us all proud. I shall have to tell Lord Dondarrion to send my words of warmth to your father at Blackhaven."

Criston smiles. The warm words settle over his shoulders like a comforting blanket. "Thank you, my lord," he says.

The feast goes on.



It is hours later, when the children have been put to sleep and the feast has reached its end, that Lord Borros fixes Rhaenyra and Laenor with a more solemn look and invites them to his solar. Rhaenyra gestures for Criston to follow, and Lord Borros sends her an odd look.

"Ser Criston is my sworn shield," Rhaenyra says firmly, "and I trust him with my life as such. Anything that can be said before me can be said before him."

They walk to his solar with a grimness that had not been there before and then settle into their seats as Criston stands guard.

"As pleasant as the feast was, we all know why you are really here, princess," Lord Borros says, fixing himself a cup of juice, "now, let us talk politics."

 

[Dawn_Star]

Borros Baratheon has known Rhaenyra Targaryen since she was still small enough for her father to bounce her on his knee. Now, all these years later, she sits across from him again. She is not so little anymore, he thinks to himself. At twenty she is a woman grown, with children of her own and a dragon she rides and the Iron Throne behind her. The first ruling queen in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, should Viserys have his way. Putting a daughter before a son is unnatural – Cassandra has always been a placeholder heir, no matter how much Borros loves her, and as soon as his boy is born, he will be set to inherit Storm's End without question – but this daughter has four dragons at her beck and call, the full support of her father and king, and two strong, healthy sons, so Borros will hear her out and decide what is best after the fact. She can only be here for one reason, after all, and that is for his support against Alicent Hightower and her Greens.

Borros takes a gulp of his juice, wipes at his mouth, and then sets the cup down. "Princess," he says, "let us set aside the pleasantries. Tell me why you're really here." He wants to hear her say it.

Rhaenyra shifts in her seat. She toys with the rings on her fingers as she smiles at him. Ser Laenor reaches for her hand and holds it gently in his own and she casts him a small smile. This surprises Borros; the entirety of the realm knows that Ser Laenor does not care for the company of women – he is a sword swallower through and through. The easy amiability displayed before him is not something he would have expected from a marriage such as this, but he supposes that today the two of them are simply full of surprises.

Ser Criston stands guard at the door, his green eyes never straying from Rhaenyra. There is a tension in the way he holds his body, taught like a bowstring, that prickles at Borros' pride. The man has guarded over Rhaenyra for over a decade now, he reminds himself, and this soothes him a little. It is only natural for him to be invested in the interactions of his charge.

"My lord," Rhaenyra says after a long moment, it is my intention to renew the bond between our two families; House Baratheon is a powerful house and a great one as well. I, on behalf of House Targaryen, wish to pay my respects."

Borros grins a little sharply. "We both know," he says, "that that is a lie, princess."

She stiffens at that. Ser Laenor's brow furrows. "I assure you that I speak the truth," she replies.

"Mayhaps," Borros says, rapping his knuckles against the wood of his desk, "but that isn't quite the whole truth, is it?"

Rhaenyra's jaw tightens. Beside her, Ser Laenor smoothly interjects, "No, but it is a great part of it. My lady wife is a woman of her word, and with all due respect, my lord, I will not have her branded a liar."

Borros' eyes cut to him. He has traded his riding leathers for silks and satin. His hair is soft and shiny, falling into loose waves to frame his face, and there are more rings dotted along his fingers than along his wife's. He looks girly, but there is strength in the way he raises his chin, a protective edge to his tone, and Borros thinks that maybe he has some balls after all. Borros feels a surge of grudging respect.

After a long second, he nods. "Tell me the other reason you are here, then," he says, and that is the closest thing to an apology they are going to get.

Rhaenyra takes a sip from her own cup. "Twelve years ago, you, among other great and powerful lords, traveled to King's Landing to swear fealty to my father as king, and to me as his heir. I have come to ensure that your oaths are still in effect."

Borros stills. There it is . "Do you suspect me to be an oathbreaker, princess?" he asks.

Rhaenyra's smile is wry. "I did not say as much, my lord," she replies, "but in these circumstances, it is best to be certain, is it not?"

Borros snorts. He has to give her that one. "We are kin," he says, "through both Aerion Targaryen and Alyssa Velaryon. Bound by blood and oaths alike. And yet, I find that House Baratheon has been forgotten by House Targaryen in these last years. My aunt, Lady Jocelyn, should have been made a queen, but that was before Prince Aemon was slain. And even worse, her daughter and my cousin, Princess Rhaenys, was snubbed by King Jaehaerys as his rightful heir." Borros might think it madness to put a daughter before a son, but if a man has no sons, then so be it, bring on the daughter. If he has no sons, let Cassandra inherit Storm's End over some cousin's whelp. "At the Great Council," he continues, "your own husband, Ser Laenor, was snubbed, another insult to his half-Baratheon mother, and the only time we have been called by the throne in the last two decades is for our fealty and nothing else."

Rhaenyra winces visibly. "I understand why you would feel cast aside by House Targaryen," she says, "and for that insult, I do apologize profusely. But that is what I am here to remedy. I swear to you, Lord Borros, I will make your loyalty worthwhile."

"How?" Borros says. "How will you compensate me for supporting you rather than the Green Queen, princess?"

This is the first time that anyone in the room truly broaches the subject rather than dancing around it, and the temperature drops. Something flashes across Rhaenyra's face, a flickering of fury, but Borros is not afraid.

That's when something interesting happens.

Rhaenyra opens her mouth to speak. Then a lightning-fast scowl blitzes across her face and she closes it again. But that is not what attracts Borros' attention – no, it's the way she glances to the side immediately after and meets the eyes of Ser Criston. A small smile, barely visible, works its way across sworn shield's face as he regards his charge, and the lines of her brow smooth over again. She leans back in her chair, visibly more at ease.

Borros watches this interaction with hawk-sharp eyes. A Stormlander member of the Kingsguard, the heir to the throne's sworn shield who has watched over her since she was a little girl, has just soothed her infamously vicious temper with a naturalness that leaves him stunned.

Borros is not a fool. He can read the lines in the sand. That alludes to a level of influence over Rhaenyra that should not be overlooked.

Ser Criston is one to be watched.

"Laenor and I sit before you now," Rhaenyra says, "to offer you something many lords would kill for: a royal marriage."

Ah–

Borros had a feeling this was in the cards. It is obvious enough, the best offer they can give him. "You would make one of my daughters a queen?"

Ser Laenor winces. Rhaenyra clears her throat. "I am afraid that we cannot offer Aemon as a bridegroom," she replies.

Borros frowns. "Why bloody not? Are my daughters not fit for queenship?"

"Of course they are," she says hastily, "it is simply that the betrothal of our eldest son is already in the works at the present moment."

"My daughters are the descendants of Orys Baratheon, the brother of the Conqueror," Borros scowls, "they are the great-granddaughters of a queen and the kin of two other women who would have been queens, had the gods not interfered. What better match could there be for Prince Aemon than them?"

"It is not a matter of 'better' or 'worse,'" Rhaenyra says. Then, after a moment, she adds, "The bride we seek for our eldest is my sister, the Princess Helaena."

Borros barks out a laugh. "And you think the queen will agree to this?"

"The queen does not matter. What matters is the opinion of my father, the king. At present, it is his support that we are trying to gain."

"And you think he will listen?" Borros can't hide his skepticism.

"Yes, in time."

Borros regards her with narrowed eyes. "Here is my offer," he says, "I will accept a betrothal between one of my daughters – either Maris or Ellyn, not Cassandra – to Prince Baelon. For the present moment. But if Prince Aemon is not matched with Princess Helaena by his eighth name day then the match will be changed, with the elder twin replacing the younger."

A beat of silence passes. Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor exchange a long glance.

"These terms are agreeable, Lord Borros," she says, "which one of your daughters will wed my son?"

"Maris," Borros decides immediately. Maris is four years old, only two years older than Prince Baelon – or Prince Aemon, he notes – and is a precocious and fierce little storm in her own right already. Prince Baelon is an energetic terror of a lad and their personalities will balance well, he thinks. Besides, Maris is the elder of the two daughters he is willing to marry off to Rhaenyra's boys, and he owes it to her to give her a match that befits that.

"Maris, then," Rhaenyra agrees. "Now, I have two other offers, should you choose to accept."

"Such as?" Borros raises an eyebrow, curiosity stirring in his chest.

"When I come to the throne, I would offer you a position on my small council, should you choose to take it. You will have a hand in my administrative decisions and the goings on of the realm. When Lady Maris is old enough, I will invite her to Dragonstone, where she may stay at my court and be a companion to my daughters, should I bear any. And finally, when your sons come of age, I would offer for them to be squired with Ser Criston, the Lord Commander of my father's Kinsguard and the future Lord Commander of mine own as well."

It is a blatant bribe, her overzealous generosity, but Borros can appreciate gold when he comes across it. He flashes a wide smile at Rhaenyra which might be a bit too wide, but he can't bring himself to care.

"Princess," he laughs, "you honor me. I accept your gifts with pride."

She smiles in response. "I appreciate your loyalty, my lord," she says, "the crown thanks you." Borros nods. She stands and Ser Laenor and Borros follow in suit.

With a smile, she and her husband sweep out of the room. Ser Criston hesitates for a brief moment. A deep furrow mars his brow. "Good night, my lord," he says before following them.

"Good night, Ser Criston," Borros replies, still reflecting on what's just happened.

A seat on the small council. A son mentored by the greatest knight of the realm. A daughter close to the future queen. And a prince – or a king! – for a goodson. He could be the father to a line of kings, but his grandchildren will be dragon riders regardless.

Borros takes another gulp of his drink and beams from ear to ear, feeling very much as if he's struck one of the Lannisters' famous goldmines.

 

[Dawn_Star]

Rhaenyra looks resplendent in her fine silks as sits upon the dais set up for her in the Round Hall. Lord Borros sits beside her, booming out a laugh at something Princess Rhaenys has said, and Laenor is chuckling at whatever Laena has whispered to him. But Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra stares into the goblet of wine in her hands. The mood of the room is bright, after Lord Borros and Lady Cassandra recited their oaths to Rhaenyra. Even Jacaerys Aemon and Baelon look more cheerful than her at this present moment, and it is all Criston's fault.

He was too harsh with her, he fears.

"You gave too much, Rhaenyra," he had rebuked as soon as the meeting with Lord Borros was over and Laenor was gone and they had been alone.

Her eyes had flashed with frustration and wounded pride and she had said, "I got him on side, isn't that all that matters? Storm's End will be our most powerful ally – the Tullys are weak, and the Lannisters hate me; the Starks are shut in up North and Lady Arryn is already my kin and the Tyrells have no daughters to be wed."

"You have to think past the Lord Paramounts, Rhaenyra," Criston had hissed, "and besides, what will the other lords think when they see how generous you have been right away – even besides Baelon's suit? You have paltry to offer to them now."

The following had ensued in an argument, the worst Criston thinks they have ever had. He takes solace in the fact, at least, that he did not lash out at her. He might lose his temper, but he will not take it out on her, never on her. But Rhaenyra, on the other hand. Well–

She has not taken kindly to what she had originally thought her first victory being a misstep.

She must remember that she is still young, Criston thinks to himself. She might have made a seat for herself at Dragonstone, might be a wedded woman and a mother two times over, but she is still a woman of twenty. She has only just entered her third decade. There is always room for improvement, and right now she is brash and bullheaded and over eager to prove herself; mistakes are bound to happen. He would rather that she overcompensated in appeasing Lord Borros than negotiating too hard and offending him entirely.

Criston is pulled from his thoughts when Lord Borros' voice echoes across the Round Hall.

"SILENCE!" he booms, and the festivities come to a grinding halt. Criston shifts on his feet. "Princess Rhaenyra," he continues, tipping his goblet to her courteously, "it has been my pleasure to host you at Storm's End."

Rhaenyra smiles graciously. "Lord Borros, it has been an even greater honor to be your guest and to affirm old family ties."

A smug grin overtakes Lord Borros' expression. "I am overjoyed, my lords and ladies, my princesses and princes, that the Houses Baratheon and Targaryen will be bound together once more in matrimony! Would you care to give the good news, princess?"

Murmurs erupt across the Round Hall, but they do not sound surprised. Out of the corner of his eye, Criston sees Ser Lorent Marbrand, one of the Kingsguard he chose to add to Rhaenyra's household – raises a bushy, expectant eyebrow.

"You are correct, my lord," Rhaenyra says easily, "it is to my great joy that I announce that my son, Prince Baelon, is henceforth betrothed to be married to Lady Maris. May they prosper and strengthen the bonds between our houses."

Lord Borros toasts in approval and their goblets clink together.

The Round Hall explodes into cheers and stomping feet and ferocious claps. Baelon moves to emulate clapping, which only makes the residents of Storm's End cheer even harder.

"Look at him," Lady Elenda says, smiling warmly, "he already wants to be wedded to our Maris."

This is a blatant falsity and everyone knows it. At two years old, Baelon hardly even knows what marriage is, let alone how to be approving of it. But everyone accepts the statement as fact, because what else will they say?

The festivities continue.




"You really should smile more, Ser Criston," a voice says near his ear a while later. "If you aren't careful, the frown will stick. And this is supposed to be a celebration."

He tenses, for a moment, before recognizing the husky quality to the voice. His gaze flicks to where it came from – over his right shoulder – and he meets the smiling eyes of Laena Velaryon.

"My apologies if I have offended you, my lady," he replies, "but I do believe that I smile often enough."

"Oh," she grins, "don't worry about offending me. I would worry about offending Lord Borros, however, especially after all the hard work you've put into pulling this alliance off."

Criston's frown deepens. "Do I truly appear to be unhappy?"

She shakes her head, something in her face softening. "Have no fear, Ser, it is not so obvious to those who do not know you." She tilts her head to a nearby table. "Besides, I think that the broody look might be having its own… particular positive effects."

Criston follows her gaze to see a group of ladies staring at him intently. They look away as soon as he glances their way, giggling to themselves. Criston can feel heat burn through his cheeks at the implication. He can feel the tips of his ears going red.

Laena chuckles. "Ser Criston, I dare say that this is the first time I have ever seen you blush."

"It is not a common sight, I assure you," he replies, and winces at how high his voice sounds. He clears his throat, wincing. He is a grown man who has walked Westeros for thirty-five years, not even counting his life before that, not some green boy who's never seen a woman before in his life. "My lady," he continues, and is pleased to hear that his voice is back to normal, "you could not have come here just to point out admiring women. What can I help you with?"

Laena's eyes narrow a little. "My son grows tired," she says, "I would ask for you to escort me as I put him to bed."

That is a maid's duty, Criston thinks but does not dare to say it. Laena has never been particularly conventional anyway, much less so in matters of child-rearing.

"I would be happy to, my lady," he agrees, and a little while later they are off.




Laena puts Jacaerys to bed with ease – at least relative ease, considering that the child is a little terror who only seems to grow more chaotic with age.

"It is a curse for my own tenacity as a girl," she japes, "I would not ever change it."

Criston smiles thinly. "That is often the case with children, I have found." He offers her his hand. "Would you care to be escorted back to the festivities?"

Laena does not accept his hand, which does not surprise him; he suspected that she had other intentions. "Please," she says, nodding to the chair across from her, "sit. I would like to discuss something with you."

Criston obliges her request. She regards him with sharp, alert eyes, resting her chin against her palm.

"My best friend has not been herself for the last two days," she says, "ever since she struck her deal with Lord Borros. Oh, she can try to cover it up all she wants, but I know the truth, and her mask still slips. You haven't been yourself either, ser. You've been all gloom and no solemn honor for three days as well. So. What's wrong?"

Criston bites the inside of his cheek as he resists the urge to squirm. It is not that he does not trust Laena – he trusts her with Rhaenyra's life, and that is the greatest honor that he thinks he could ever give to anyone – but there is something in him that flinches in revealing any of his weaknesses and flaws. He has had to be so perfect for over a decade that it discomforts him to admit to being anything less.

"Out with it, Ser," Laena says. Her tone is gentle but firm, her eyes steely. There is something in her, a confidence in her poise, that tells Criston that she will not let go of this until she gets her answer.

His shoulders sag.

After one last second of hesitation, he gives her a summary of their row.

Laena leans back in her chair when he is done, her brow creasing into a frown. "I will not pretend to know about politics," she says slowly, "my extent of knowledge on that front ends at 'Dare to get in my way when I have the greatest living dragon,' but I trust in your abilities, Ser Criston."

"I'm flattered, my lady."

She raises up an index finger, smiling wryly. "One: no, you aren't, Ser, though I am glad you pretend–"

"It was not a lie," he says, and she raises an eyebrow before going on.

" – But I will not lie to you, your way of going about things left much to be desired. As someone who has known Rhaenyra since she was a girl, I think that you should have known better, no?"

Criston feels a swelling of shame. "I have been… on edge, recently. I was sharper with her than I intended to be, it is true. I knew that the second my words left my mouth."

Laena's look turns sympathetic. "We cannot be perfect all the time, Ser." She leans back in her chair further. "The fact still stands, however, that when reasoning with Rhaenyra, one must often be careful."

"She is quick to anger and slow to forgive," Criston acknowledges ruefully.

Laena grows solemn. "She will not be slow to forgive you," she says softly, "you are her one exception, I think."

Criston smiles weakly. "This is the longest she has ever been angry with me."

Laena snorts. "Then you are truly blessed to have her adore you so. No wonder she wanted to give a son of hers your name. Well, before she realized how ruinous that could be, anyway."

Criston freezes. "What?"

The floor feels like it's about to give way under him.

"Ah," she winces, "I see she did not tell you. That will be the last time she tells me anything."

"... What?"

Laena straightens in her chair and snaps her fingers before her face. "None of that," she says, "come back to your senses and go to Rhaenyra once the festivities end."

It takes Criston a little while longer to get out of his haze, but once he does he is blinking rapidly and regaining his balance.

"Yes," he says distantly, "yes, you're right, I think I'll do that."

Laena makes a noise of approval.




Later, when the festivities end, he does end up going to Rhaenyra.

"May I speak with you?" he asks, and she nods stiffly.

And they speak, and apologize and patch wounded pride. Criston does not mention how a little prince of her body might have had his name, does not wonder if it might have been Aemon or Baelon, but he does wonder.

"You told me that I was too open-handed," Rhaenyra says grimly, "so now teach me how to close my fist," and he sets out to do so.



And when they prepare to depart from Storm's End and make their way to Blackhaven, and his countenance is much brighter, he goes to Laena.

"Thank you for your advice, my lady," he says, "it was good counsel."

Laena shrugs easily. "You two would have solved your problems eventually, I just sped the process."

"I mean it," he says firmly, and she meets his eyes again, "thank you, Laena."

She begins to laugh then and he frowns.

"Is something wrong?" he asks.

"No," she says, "on the contrary, that's just the first time you've called me by only my name."

 

[Dawn_Star]

They are on the way to Blackhaven when Rhaenyra asks Criston about the place that used to be his home. She bounces Baelon on her knee. They have sheltered in the wheelhouse, for now, as rain pours down over them, but they will be arriving at Blackhaven soon. Within days, even.

Baelon plays with his toy dragon, giggling in delight as Rhaenyra lifts him up and kisses him on the cheek in an exaggerated motion. Here, with their faces so close together, the similarities between mother and son are more clear than they have ever been before. With each passing day, Baelon grows to resemble Rhaenyra more. He looks nearly identical to her. They have the same nose, the same cheekbones, and the same mouth shape. But there are traces of someone else in Baelon as well. He has the coloring of his father's mother, but the angle of his jaw, the shape of his eyes – that is all his mother's mother. That is all Aemma.

It brings Criston as much joy to see as it does grief.

"Mama," Baelon says, wriggling in Rhaenyra's grasp, "help me fly."

Rhaenyra chuckles and presses a flurry of kisses into his hair. She stands, carrying him with her, and circles once around the room. Baelon spreads his arms out and she beams.

"Look at you, little dragon," she coos, "you're flying."

Baelon mimics breathing fire, and Criston allows laughter to slip past his lips. Rhaenyra's smile only grows. She makes another circle around the room before setting Baelon down.

"He has an imagination on him, that one," she says.

Criston nods, feeling his mouth twitch upwards. "So he does."

"Aemon has his own imagination, in a different way. I sometimes wonder if I was ever so demanding for a story as a child."

"You were," Criston reassures her, and she levels him with a flat, unimpressed look.

As if speaking of the boy has summoned him, Laenor is walking into the wheelhouse a moment later, Aemon perched on his shoulders. "He had fun playing outside for a time," he says sheepishly, "but in the end, he wanted one of Ser Criston's stories."

Rhaenyra lets out a strange noise, something that is not quite a snort, but is not quite not. "See," she clicks her tongue, "what did I tell you?"

Laenor frowns playfully. "Hush, wife," he says, "do not add salt to the wound."

"Papa!" Baelon brightens to see his father. He leaves his place at his mother's side and runs to Laenor, who struggles to balance his younger son's attention while Aemon is still on his shoulders. "Up, Papa. Now!"

"Help would be appreciated," Laenor says, and Rhaenyra laughs.

"I'll take him," Criston offers, feeling a flickering of sympathy.

Laenor sends him a relieved look and passes Aemon off to him.

If Baelon looks more like Rhaenyra with each passing day, then Aemon looks more like Laenor. His hair is in ringlets, unlike his twin's loose waves, and his silver-gold hair grows more silver than gold as time goes on. He has Laenor's slender nose, his ears, and more. As with Baelon, while there are traces of others, he looks mostly like one of his parents, much to Criston's great relief. He is not a fool — when the news first spread that one of Rhaenrya's children was black of hair, he could smell the rumors from ten miles away.

"Cole has fathered the princess' children," he knows some would have said, even as the thought makes his stomach turn.

Then they had seen Aemon, who was all Laenor, and their mouths had snapped shut quickly.

"Tell a story, Ser Cris," Aemon says, snapping from his thoughts. Criston blinks and adjusts his grip on him. Aemon is a calmer child than his twin, but he is still two years old, and a princeling at that, and his eyes are wide and demanding.

Criston sighs in fond exasperation, Rhaenyra's young, expectant gaze flashing across his mind. It seems that no matter how old he gets or how much time passes, he will always play the role of storyteller.

Well, it's not like he minds it.

"Only if your parents wish it, little prince," he replies.

Laenor shrugs in a "why not?" gesture, and Rhaenrya nods, looking more enthusiastic.

"Mayhaps you can tell the boys a story about Blackhaven, Ser Criston," she says. "After all, we'll be there soon enough."

Criston pauses.

Rhaenyra has asked him about Blackhaven once or twice, in her curiosity, but not much more than that. His recollection of life before he arrived at court is… strange. Not quite fractured – his memories integrated well enough – but rather almost… impersonal. It's like he remembers the feelings from memories back then more than that the memories make him feel things, if that makes any sense at all.

And in any case, Criston left Blackhaven for a reason. A dead-end fate as a household knight, no close friends, and a father who felt more like an acquaintance were not exactly strong incentives to stay.

Still, Criston digs through his memories and tries to find at least something fun he can recall. Aemon and Baelon sit excitedly at his feet as he pulls up a chair. "Listen, lads," he says, "this is why you shouldn't try to scale walls when your parents tell you not to, alright? You'll end up with a broken arm."

And so his story begins.




Blackhaven does not become any more familiar once they are there. Lord Dondarrion comes out to greet them, as does his son, Lord Gerold. Lord Dondarrion is old, now, pushing seventy. The wisps of hair he has left are all silver, and his skin is deep with wrinkles. He walks with a cane and looks very much as if a strong wind could blow him over, but his eyes are bright and his tongue is sharp. Despite his old age, he still demands respect.

Rhaenyra, for her part, seems to understand this. She accepts his greeting confidently and respectfully, offering him warm but brief compliments. Pride curls in Criston's chest at that – Lord Dondarrion has never been one for flattery, and in the brief minutes Rhaenyra has known him, she seems to pick up on that much, at least.

Criston looks around at the staff, and he realizes that he's searching for his father. He might not be close with his father, and might have put his duty to Rhaenyra above filial piety, as much as he flinches to admit it, but the man is still his sire. As long as he is here, he feels that he should speak to him, at least.

He files it away for later as Rhaenyra continues in her quest to charm Lord Dondarrion.




Lord Gerold pulls him aside later with a clearing of his throat and imploring eyes. "Might I have a moment to speak with you, Ser Criston?" he asks.

Criston nods slowly, tensing.

They enter his solar and he pours them some wine.

"How have you been, Ser Criston?" he asks.

"I've been better than well, my lord," Criston replies, and it is only half a lie. "I have been honored by King Viserys and Princess Rhaenyra. It has been the greatest honor of my life to serve in the Kingsguard – as its Lord Commander, no less – and every day I thank the gods for smiling upon me."

Lord Gerold smiles warmly. He has always been a kind one, even when they were boys. He had been ten odd years older than Criston, but he had never lost his patience with him, and when they did see each other he was pleasant, even when his friends were irritated by the company of a much younger boy.

"I am glad to hear it," he says. Then the smile drops off of his face. "I am afraid that I will have to sour some of your good fortune."

Criston stiffens. Led balls up in his stomach. His thoughts leap to his father. He had not seen him, is he quite well? Is he not ?

Lord Gerold must see the look on his face, because he sighs deeply. "It is a matter of your father, ser," he continues. "He… is not as strong as he used to be. His constitution is weak, though he will never admit to this, and he catches chills easily. He grew ill a few days ago, and everyone thought it was just another light sickness, but his condition is not improving."

"What are you saying?" Criston says, feeling too much and too little at the same time.

Lord Gerold winces and shifts in discomfort. "It could be nothing," he begins, "but it could also – it could also be that the Stranger is calling for him. As his son, my lord father and I felt that you had a right to know."

The taste of iron hits Criston's tongue, and he realizes that he's bitten into the inside of his mouth hard enough to draw blood.

"Thank you, my lord," he says faintly, feeling altogether too woozy.

Lord Gerold nods. "Of course." After a moment, he suggests "You should go to him."

Criston nods.

"I'll do that," he says.




That is how he finds himself walking up the stairs of a keep he has not been to in over a decade, to a room he has not visited since he was still a young man in the summer of his life, to a man he has not felt close with since his mother died.

His father lies on his bed, the side of which has been placed into the wall. The curtains have been drawn up, so Criston can only see his silhouette. The shape he sees is thin, frail, even.

"Who goes there?" croaks a withered voice, and Criston hurts to hear it.

He walks closer to the bed and pulls back one of the curtains, a sad smile curling on his mouth.

"Hello, Father."

 

[Dawn_Star]

Criston's father is only sixty years old, but he looks older. His cheeks are sunken, and there are rings beneath his eyes, and he looks so horribly thin that Criston thinks he would be able to snap his wrist with one hand if he had half a mind to.

The thought makes him sick and he fights the bile creeping up his throat. What happened to his father, the stalwart Corwyn Cole who served as the steward of Blackhaven for over half of his life? His father had always been so strong, stern but fair, with a serious bearing that many had admired. Now he is a – a husk of himself in a way that makes him struggle to meet his eyes.

Criston watches on as his father squints at him. Then their gazes meet, and his eyes go wide. He rubs at his temple with spindly fingers. "Criston," he rasps, "boy, is that truly you?"

Criston has not been a boy in a long time.

"Aye, Father," he says. He falls to one knee so that he can meet his eyes. "It's me."

Corwyn reaches for him with shaky hands. A hand goes to cup Criston's face. He blinks at him again, not saying a word. The silence that fills the room is heavy. It crushes Criston like a boulder.

"I'm not dreaming," Corwyn says faintly.

Criston forces the smile to stay on his face. "No, Father, you aren't."

Corwyn coughs. He moves to draw himself up to a sitting position. Criston hastens to help him. He fluffs up his pillows and then goes to grasp his shoulders. His father bats his hands away with a hiss.

"Off of me, boy," he grunts, "I'm not so ill yet that I can't move, for the love of the Seven."

Criston's hands drop to his sides. Twitch. Curl tightly into fists.

Same old Father, he thinks, something close to bitterness seeping into his chest. But no, he is better than this. He will not hold a grudge against a dying man. Instead, he sits in the chair at his father's bedside.

Corwyn opens his mouth to speak, but all that slips past his lips is a burst of coughs. Criston tenses and he instinctively reaches for the cup of water at his bedside.

"Here," he says, and Corwyn grunts.

He drinks the water grudgingly, his face twisted into a grimace as it goes down. Criston clasps his hands together, his fingers tapping nervously against his knuckles. Once he realizes what he's doing, he forces himself to stop.

"I never expected to see you again, boy," Corwyn says. He flinches at that, physically recoils, as if he's struck him. Corwyn notices his reaction and scoffs. "That was not meant as an attack, boy."

Criston swallows hard. "Then what was it?" Corwyn bursts into another coughing fit. He raises his hand to his mouth and when he brings it back down, it is stained with red. Criston resists the urge to vomit. He rises from his chair. "Father," he says, his voice too high, too tight, "do you need me to get the maester?"

Corwyn shakes his head. "Leave it be, boy. There is nothing he can do to help me now. Sit back down."

Criston hesitates for a moment but ultimately obliges. "I'm sorry for not visiting," he blurts out. "I realize that writing to you was a poor substitute." If he is being honest with himself, he has always known that, deep down.

Corwyn daps at his brow with a wet cloth. "I raised you to be dutiful," he says, "and you were. I raised you to be better than me, and you have achieved far more than becoming the steward to Lord Donadarrion. Do not apologize to me, Criston– I raised you to be a great man, and now you walk with gods among men."

Criston's breath catches in his throat. He blinks hard. "I should have visited," he says, unable to forgive himself for this grievance.

Corwyn lets out a tired sigh as he eases himself back onto the pillows. "Criston," he says, "you always were too sensitive, even as a boy."

Criston fights back a frown. "I don't understand," he replies, trying to beat back a flicker of hurt.

Corwyn coughs again. "I know you have a brain between those ears," he grumbles, "so use it. You were the sworn shield of the king's heir, then a knight of the Kingsguard, and now you are the Lord Commander. It is not as if you could have stopped to visit me whenever you wished to." A pause. Then: "And I doubt very much that you wished to often."

"That isn't true, Father," Criston protests, and Corwyn stares at him flatly.

"I'm old and sick and a shadow of what I used to be, boy," he says, "but one thing that I am not is a fool; I still have my wits about me. We were never close, you and I. There was always a gulf between us, even when your mother was still with us."

Criston's face burns at the scolding, but his father is right. Criston's father has always been too jaded, too jagged. He never had the patience for Criston's softer, mellower disposition, not even when he was a child. Criston has known for a long time that his father loves him, in his own way, but that he most likely doesn't like him. He has learned to live with it, but hearing something that is all but confirmation from Corwyn's own mouth rips the air from his lungs.

A lump forms in his throat.

"You said that there was nothing the maester could do to help you now," he says, "what did you mean by that?"

Corwyn lets out a ragged breath. "There's something wrong with me, Criston," he replies, "the maester isn't quite sure what it is, but it has to do with the blood, or so he says. That's why I keep having these bouts of sickness."

"Is it fatal?" Criston asks. The question is pointless; he knows the answer before it's spoken into the air.

His father nods. "Aye."

Criston leans back in his chair. "Father," he croaks, "I'm sorry. I–"

"Pah," Corwyn scoffs. He coughs and more blood collects at his lips. "Whatever for, boy? I have lived a long life. A good one, too."

"How long does the maester say you have?"

Corwyn pauses. "A week, a moon, half a year, he is not quite sure. He does not expect me to live for another year, of that I am certain."

Criston's eyes burn with tears. He inhales deeply, then exhales deeply. He struggles to hold back his tears. His father will not appreciate that, he will see it as a weakness. He does not wish to disappoint him, not in his final hour.

Instead, he reaches for his hand. Squeezes it briefly as he keeps his eyes fixed on the bed sheets. He thinks it will break him if he looks up only to be met with his father's disapproving scowl.

He holds his hand for as long as he dares. Then he rises from his chair. "I will tell the maester that you are in pain," he promises.

Corwyn's brow furrows. "Did you not already hear me? He can't cure me."

"Maybe not," Criston acknowledges, "but mayhaps he can soothe your pain."




It is hours later – long after he has sent for the maester – that Rhaenyra finds him. She chatters excitedly about her day as she paces around the room.

"Lord Dondarrion has truly taken to me," she grins, "and I haven't even offered him anything in return! Isn't that just marvelous, Ser Criston?"

Criston doesn't respond, just stares blankly at her, and her smile flickers. "Ser Criston, are you quite well?"

And it is as if that question makes the dam break.

To his horror, he feels a sob tear through his chest. He is grateful that he's already sitting in a chair because otherwise, he would have fallen from the force of it. Hot tears pool in his eyes and then burn as they race down his face.

Rhaenrya's face lights up with alarm, then fear, then determination. She runs to him and grasps at his shoulders. She shakes at him lightly. "Ser Criston, what's wrong?"

He tries to get a hold of his emotions, tries to regain his composure, but that only makes things worse. She is kneeling before him, now, cradling his face in her hands. She murmurs comforting words as she tries to coax him into telling her what's wrong.

He does, eventually, and her eyes go wide and sad and understanding. She wraps her arms around him and tugs him close. They slide to the floor together, a position already beneath his station and far beneath hers. He rests his head against her shoulder, feeling the silks press against his cheek. His chest is so heavy it hurts.

He tries to get up, after a while, but Rhaenyra shakes her head, resolute. "You've always been strong for me, Ser Criston," she says, "now let me be the one to support you instead."

He nods, and they stay like that for a while longer.

 

[Dawn_Star]

Rhaenyra falls over Oldtown at midday. Criston squints from where he's seated on his horse. Laena and Laenor both ride beside him on their own horses, Vhagar and Seasmoke residing outside of the city. First comes Syrax's shadow, not as intimidating as Vhagar's or as graceful as Seasmoke's, but great all the same. Then comes the shriek. It pierces through the air, louder than the great procession that Criston leads through the city, louder than the jostling of armor and the stamping of hooves and the excited conversations of the crowd.

Syrax is not as graceful as Seasmoke or as large as Vhagar, is not as vibrant as Dreamfyre or as beautiful as Sunfyre, but there is a certain sense of awe one feels when setting eyes upon her nevertheless. It is partly, of course, because of the obvious: she's a literal dragon. Criston thinks that there's more to it than such a simple thing, however. For years, Rhaenyra and Syrax have almost felt like extensions of each other. Rhaenyra is not Laena – who should have been born with wings of her own considering how much time she spends on Vhagar in the skies – but these days, she is astride Syrax more often than not. Criston's concerns about Syrax growing slow and fat have been eased, given the amount of exercise she gets. There is strong, corded muscle beneath those yellow scales, he knows. The flights, besides keeping both rider and dragon in shape, also seem to have bonded them closer than he ever recalls reading about in Fire and Blood, and it lends them both a commanding sort of aura. Yes, the bond between them, which is on full display any time they are together, is what truly inspires awe, Criston decides. More than anything else.

Laena's chuckle brings Criston out of his thoughts. She stares up at the sky, fingers curled around the reigns of her horse, as Syrax circles over Oldtown. "Our princess is being cheeky," she says, a smirk cutting into the side of her mouth.

Laenor snorts. "Rhaenyra would not know how to be civil to the Hightowers if the Father himself taught her."

Criston sighs. "I told her not to antagonize Lord Hightower."

Laena glances sideways at him. She huffs out another laugh, shaking her head. "You were fighting a losing battle, then," she says, "we all know that Rhaenyra would never pass up the chance to put the Hightowers in their place. At least she is being subtle about it – for now."

Criston sighs again and Ser Laenor pats him lightly on the shoulder. "Chin up, Ser Criston," he grins, "I doubt that Rhaenyra will command Syrax to burn the man where he stands, at least. She is impulsive, not stupid."

As if his words have spurred her on, Syax's shrieks increase as she circles over the city. Slowly, the laps she makes grow tighter until she is landing atop the Hightower. Laena's eyes track the movement with no small amount of envy.

"I would like to know how it feels to land on the highest building in all the world," she says, "but alas, that was denied to me. Rhaenyra wanted to be the center of attention, and so I have been condemned to ride on a lesser creature than Vhagar."

Despite her words, she does not sound overly bitter. Criston glances at her out of the corner of his eye and finds no frustration in her expression, only wistfulness. Laenor rolls his shoulders, humming in something that could be agreement or simple acknowledgment. She stares hard at him for that, unimpressed, and Criston feels a smile tug at his mouth despite his best efforts. This is the first time, he thinks, that he's smiled since leaving Blackhaven.

Laena tuts at that. "Ser Criston," she japes, "you're supposed to be grim and serious on this procession through the heart of Oldtown, not laughing."

"My sincerest apologies, my lady," he says with a straight face.

Laena regards him for another minute. Then she turns back to the crowds, tossing some of her silver-gold ringlets over her shoulder. "You have no reason to apologize, ser," she says, the bite of mischief coloring her tone. "Your smile is not so terrible of a sight. At least, the women of Storm's End did not seem to think it so."

Criston pauses, the prickling of embarrassment heating his face at the reminder of that interaction. It's strange, though – he's more flustered now than he was back then. After mulling on it for a long second, he supposes it's because the embarrassment has had more time to build.

Laena grins at the blush he's almost sure he's sporting.

"Laena," Laenor begins, something that Criston can't pinpoint lacing in his voice.

Laena turns back to him. "Whatever is it, dear brother?"

"Do not tease our good knight so," he says.

"Tease?" Laena's eyes cut back to Criston. "Do you believe that I am making you the butt of a jape, Ser Criston?"

Criston hesitates for a second, feeling very much as if he's caught in a conflict that he doesn't completely understand. "No, my lady," he says slowly. And he believes that. Laena is mischievous and headstrong and more than a little arrogant at times, but in the years he has known her, he has never thought her to be cruel. He would go as far as to call her a friend, and he does not make friends with the cruel of heart.

"See?" Laena sends a pointed look at Laenor. "No harm done."

Her brother only narrows his eyes at her before looking away, a scoff rising from deep in his throat.

They continue on their procession in a silence that is one-half amused, on Laena's end, and frustrated on Laenor's. Criston doesn't have the energy to try to break it, so he lets it fall over them with a wary kind of acceptance.




"Do you think Hightower's gone to meet Rhaenyra yet?" Laenor asks after a while.

"I hope he has," comes Laena's' bored response, "I've had enough of politicking for one day."

Criston's eyes flicker back to the Hightower. They are on a ferry now, having left the majority of their procession behind. Criston's armor feels heavy on his shoulders now. It is unlikely that the ferry will crash or sink, but if it does, he is dead with this weight. Deader than dead.

The children play a distance away. He glances at them frequently. The last he needs is for one of the princelings to go toppling into the water. For the moment, at least, Aemon and Baelon seem content to sit. Jacaerys is another story, but that boy can never sit still in the first place, and the walls and rails of the ferry should prevent any accidents, Criston is just overly cautious.

"He'll have met her by now," Criston responds. "Lord Hightower knows decorum, and he knows how the rest of the realm will view it if he does not at least pretend to pay her the respect she deserves."

His hand grip tightens on the sword at his side. "And if he has not, and any harm has come to her," he doesn't add, "then I will make him pay myself."

Laena must take note of some of his tension, at least, because she's walking to him and staring into Honeywine's clear blue waters. "Do you know how to swim, Ser Criston?" she asks. He nods warily. She bumps him on the shoulder at that. "Then why on earth do you look so grim? There is no danger here."

Criston turns to her then. "You and I both know that isn't the case, my lady."

She grows more solemn. "Are you naming me a liar?"

He shakes his head. Pinches the bridge of his nose. "No, forgive me. I'm simply worried."

"And I'm telling you that there's nothing to worry about," she says. Her voice is soft, lowered for the sake of the children, who are oblivious to the deeper politics at hand. "Hobert Hightower is an overly ambitious snake of a man, but he is no fool. No harm will come to Rhaenyra, not beneath his roof. And you know this, else you would have never allowed her to visit him, especially not alone."

"Rhaenyra has a mind of her own," he shoots back, "she is not obligated to listen to me." He does not add that ever since Blackhaven, she has treated him so gently that he wants to scream. Does not add that he worries, sometimes, that he's lost some of her esteem.

His response is a deflection and does not at all address the issue she's raised. Laena's unimpressed, arching eyebrow tells him that she's noticed his clumsy attempt at changing the conversation. He winces a little beneath the weight of her gaze and clears his throat. Feeling almost chastised, he adds, "You bring up good points. I simply can't help but worry."

Laena is silent for a long moment. She stares out across the water again. Then she says: "You worry far too much, Ser Criston. Trust in Rhaenyra, and us, or I fear that frown you're so determined to wear will stick, and ruin the face that steals so many hearts."

She moves to sweep past Criston then and return to Laenor's side. He gets the sense that she's vaguely exasperated, and feels a flickering of regret. His hand twitches, and before he knows it, he's gripping her arm lightly. Her eyes snap to his, boring a hole into his head. He thinks that if it were possible, his head would be set aflame by the sheer intensity of her gaze. Intensity, he thinks, but not anger. He drops his hand down to his side, his skin hot. Laena might not be angry yet, but he doesn't want to keep holding onto her and risk pushing that intensity into anger.

"Forgive me," he murmurs, "I shouldn't have grabbed you like that. I apologize if I've offended you."

Her lips twitch. "Ser Criston," she says, "you are a truly honorable knight."
"I strive to be," he replies. "I wanted to thank you for your kindness. This is twice now that you've knocked the sense into me."

Laena assesses him for a long second. He holds her gaze earnestly but hasn't the faintest clue what she could be looking for. "There's no need to thank me," she says eventually, "You're important to Rhaenyra, and that makes you important to me. Besides, I could have been saddled with far worse company."

Then she's walking past him and shifting back to sit beside Laenor, who hisses something in her ear, his expression pinched. She waves a hand at him lazily and he closes his mouth, still frowning.

Criston turns back to the Hightower, his worries soothed at least somewhat."




As it turns out, Laena was right. Rhaenyra is waiting for them at the front of the Hightower, a red-faced Lord Hightower at her side. He looks very much like he's swallowed a particularly sour lemon and Criston has to bite down the urge to laugh at the sight.

"Princess," he says, his voice tight with anger, "House Hightower welcomes you and your procession to Oldtown with open arms."

That's horse shit, Criston thinks, and they all know it.

Rhaenyra's grin is too sharp to be pleasant, a baring of her teeth that only just skirts courtesy enough to not be deemed a sneer. "Lord Hightower," she says in a voice as sweet as honey, "it is certainly my pleasure to be here."

 

[Dawn_Star]

Rhaenyra is being unnecessarily antagonistic toward the Hightowers. Mayhaps, if Aemond were here, she would be kinder. But as it stands he was left behind in King's Landing, and so cannot soften his sister's fury. Normally, Criston would not care about the more trivial things; her making Lord Hightower wait for a few minutes to meet with him and gifting Lady Hightower with a gown that does not suit her skin at all, these things are small, petty little jabs that would normally mean nothing. At court, he might even indulge her. But here, on her tour, she must walk a fine line. Landing Syrax atop the Hightower was a statement – "You might have the highest building in all the world," she was saying, "but I have the dragons." – and a show of strength. It was a threat, hidden beneath the guise of courtesy, and she had plausible deniability. Rhaenyra is not a fool – she will not antagonize the Hightowers in a way that does not give her plausible deniability – but Criston worries that her actions will be viewed as juvenile even with this mask. Childish, even.

He aims to speak with her about it soon, but before he can she pulls him aside on their third day at Oldtown. They are set to leave in two days' time – Rhaenyra had wanted to stay for long enough to make a statement – and while he does not think that she will somehow manage to destroy the reputation he has carefully helped her cultivate, he will take no chances. They go for a stroll along the outside of the tower. The sun is beginning to fall but it is not yet night, and its descent paints the sky in beautiful pink and orange hues.

"The sky is beautiful, is it not, Ser Criston?" Rhaenyra's voice is deceptively light as she asks this question. She walks a few paces away from him, but her gaze is fixed on him. There is something in her eyes, a gentleness that he finds he hates. In all the years he has known her, she has never been this kind to anyone save Aemon and Baelon. He will not be treated like a child, and certainly not like her child. He has walked Westeros for thirty-five years; he is a man grown. And besides, there is too much at stake for Rhaenyra to not heed his advice, for her to treat him as some delicate, fragile thing and try to protect him, when he is the one who needs to be doing the protecting.

Not for the first time, Criston regrets his display of emotion in front of her.

He needed it in the moment, he supposes, but he has needed comfort before and suffered through it, this latest time should have been no different. Now he feels weak, less than in the eyes of someone who admired him. Who still admires him, he hopes. A sense of failure washes over him, a rocking self-loathing that takes him aback.

"Ser Criston?" Rhaenyra implores.

Too late, he realizes that she is waiting on him for an answer.

He forces a smile, and it feels stiff on his face. "Indeed, my princess," he agrees, "the sky certainly is beautiful."

Rhaenyra frowns at him, her brow creasing in that way it does when she's concerned. He is loath to see it. She reaches out to touch his arm and he stiffens. Her eyes flit across the area, in search of Hightower spies no doubt. But there is no one within earshot of them, and so she speaks.

"You've been… different, Ser Criston, ever since we left Blackhaven," she says.

Criston looks away. "Anyone would be, princess."

Rhaenyra's grip grows tighter against his arm, squeezing affectionately, and he nearly flinches at the gesture. By some grace of the Seven, he manages not to. "It isn't just that," she says, more firmly, "something else plagues you, Ser. I know it."

A sharp exhale passes through Criston's lips, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "You are vigilant, princess."

"I have known you for over a decade now," she reminds him, "I should hope I know how to read you."

Criston regards her for a long second. Then he says, "You have always been clever, princess."

"Flattery will not distract me, Ser," she says, "now, will you tell me what is wrong with you?"

There it is, an almost crooning in her tone. It's so faint that for a second, Criston thinks – hopes – that he's imagined it. But no, it's there, and it rings from side to side in his head like a blow from a hammer.

"Rhaenyra," he says, then, sharply in a tone that he knows he'll regret later, "stop that."

She pauses, both because of the tone he's taken and because he hardly ever addresses her as simply 'Rhaenyra.'

Their walk grinds to a halt.

"Stop what?" she asks. There is something in her voice – a softness not at all connected to gentleness – that should send alarm bells sounding to him. He will chide himself for not picking up on these queues of her building indignation later. But for now, he is too distraught.

"I am grown," he says, "I do not need you to treat me like one of your sons, not when you sat at my feet when you yourself were a girl. I am the Lord Commander of your father's Kingsguard, and your sworn shield besides. Do not – do not look at me as if I am a fragile flower about to blow in the wind."

Rhaenyra's eyes narrow to slits. "Is that what this is about, Ser Criston?" she demands. "Is your pride wounded by my consideration of all things?"

Some of his anger leaves him at the hurt in her tone, interlaced with anger. "Do not twist my words, Rhaenyra," he says warily, "you and I both know that that is not what I meant."

"What did you mean then, ser?" she asks, and he is left with no way to answer her. How can he tell her that deep down in his bones, he is afraid? Even more, terrified that he has fallen in her eyes, that he has lost her respect and her esteem? That now she only sees him as some wretched creature, fallen from his pedestal?

She scoffs when he does not answer her. "Mayhaps next time I choose to walk the beach," she says, "I will bring Ser Lorent with me instead."

With that she is stalking back to the Hightower, burning at the brim from her wounded pride. She feels spurned, Criston realizes, and regret tastes bitter in his mouth. He curses himself and runs a hand through his hair, but tries to look unruffled. No one heard their conversation, but he does not want to give too much away to the inhabitants of Oldtown.




He goes to her, later, when he thinks she's had enough time to cool her temper. He knocks at her door – Ser Lorent is guarding it, which against his will brings forth a sardonic twist of his lips – and waits with bated breath for her reply.

"Who is it, Ser Lorent?" she asks. There is a coolness in her tone that suggests she already knows the answer, and he winces to hear it.

"It's me," he says.

A beat of silence passes.

Ser Lorent sends him a look , half pitying and half "what in the hells did you do to make her upset?"

Criston will find a suitable chastisement for his nosiness later.

More silence passes, and for a long, dreadful moment he thinks that she'll bar him entry.

Then: "Enter, Ser Criston," Rhaenyra says. He resists the urge to heave a sigh of relief and pushes the door open.

Rhaenyra is not waiting for her in the main room to her chambers, but instead a little room to the side. Good. It will provide them with a little more privacy, at least. She is seated in a chair, carved of dark oak wood and draped and cushioned with fine, downy pillowing.

Criston takes the seat across from her. He feels his chest tighten as he does so and wills it to ease. It stubbornly does not and only grows tighter instead. He shifts in his seat. Inhales deeply. Exhales deeper.

"Decorum dictates that you should wait to sit until I invite you." Rhaenyra's tone is dry and aloof, but not quite as furious as it was before.

Criston doesn't feel like testing his luck with a smile yet. Instead, he raps his knuckles against the arms of the chair. "My apologies," he replies.

She stiffens at that. "For what, Ser? I don't care one whit for the decorum of where you place your ass–" he feels a familiar wave of exasperation wash over him at the language she's picked up over the last couple of years, from Laena, more than likely – "but what I do care about is your disregard for my concern. As if it was a hindrance to you and nothing else."

The tightness in his chest curls into a fist. Said fist goes drumming against his ribcage once, twice, a third time for good measure. An emotional pounding against his heart that he can't do physically.

"Hurting you was never my intention," he says lowly, softly. Both to prevent being overheard and because if he raises his voice anymore, he thinks it will crack.

"Then what was ?" she whisper-hisses back.

He swallows hard. Here it is, the moment of truth. "I was afraid," he says honestly, all too aware that as he says this he is baring a piece of his soul. "I thought that maybe you had lost your respect for me, that I was weaker, I suppose. Worse than when you'd seen me that morning."

Rhaenyra is quiet for a long moment. She keeps eye contact with him, her amethyst eyes blazing with something unreadable. Then, in a tone that is aggressively gentle, she says, "Do you truly think so little of yourself, Ser Criston? You taught me to be kind, to be good to my people. Why would that suddenly not apply to you? Why in the name of the Seven would I think less of you for weeping in my arms when I have wept in yours a hundred times at least? You are still the brave, noble, and great knight that I have always known."

Something in Criston breaks, then. Breaks and then heals over in an instant. Rhaenyra rises from her chair. She walks over to him. Mayhaps sensing that an embrace is too raw, given the circumstances that have led them to this moment, she rests her head on his shoulder instead.

"I am not a little girl anymore, Ser Criston," she says, "you can trust me to carry at least some of your burdens."

And in that moment, he knows she's telling the truth. He reaches to stroke her hair. Then, after a second, he stands. He sets his hands on his shoulders and smiles.

"I know," he says, and before the words leave his mouth he also knows that he will never ask her to carry those burdens. She still loves him, still trusts him, but he cannot and will not risk another episode like this. He cannot have Rhaenyra coddling him, treating him too kindly, and then not being able to help her because he decided to be selfish and not bear his troubles as they are: his own, wholly and completely.

"So you will trust me more now, with these things?" Rhaenyra asks.

"Aye, princess, "I will."

The lie is heavy on Criston's tongue, clumsy as if it itself senses how wrong it is.

He hates how much she brightens at his words and lets the guilt lash at him.




It is early the next morning that he speaks with her about her behavior toward the Hightowers. She is grudgingly accepting of his advice, much to his relief – his influence hasn't been lost either, alongside her esteem. She does insist, however, on a public oath of fealty by Lord Hightower, not in his keep, as Lord Borros and Lord Dondarrion renewed their vows, but in the streets of Oldtown, in public.

Lord Hightower is furious but has little choice but to oblige. He kneels before Rhaenyra in the city his ancestors built, before his own people, surely howling on the inside, burning with humiliation, and Criston allows himself to feel a twisted sense of satisfaction from the sidelines.

He can see why Rhaenyra got such a thrill out of needling him.

 

[Dawn_Star]

Criston Cole must be the most bemusing, charming man Laena has ever met. She isn't blind – her eyes can see perfectly well why the ladies at court swooned over him, why the ladies of Storm's End did as well. He is handsome, tall and broad-shouldered in his armor of the Kingsguard. He wears his hair relatively long for a non-Valyrian man, and the midnight black strands frame his face like a lion's mane. They bring out the green of his eyes, which in turn accentuates the symmetry of his face, his full lips and high cheekbones.

There is a certain kind of sadness to him, as well. A solemness that clings to him, trailing after him like his white cloak. That only adds to the appeal for some, Laena figures; the fantasy of soothing the somber, dutiful Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, of coaxing a smile out of such a clearly tormented soul. Laena cannot say she blames them for that; she would be lying if she said she didn't find his smile charming. It brings out a certain warmth from him, a gentleness that she finds entirely too attractive for reasons she can't quite place.

Daemon was the most beautiful man she ever laid eyes on, but Criston has his own kind of allure. Mayhaps, she thinks to herself, the idea of a forbidden fruit adds to the enticement. Laenor would have half a mind to strangle her if she let that leave her lips, but in the confines of her own mind, at least, she can be honest.

As charming as he is, Laena has become almost frustrated with him. She would be more irritated if she actually hoped to fuck him, she supposes, and if it didn't amuse her so much to see her flirtations going right over his head. How can one man be so oblivious, she wonders. Is he so occupied by duty that he does not stop to wonder whether or not a beautiful woman is flirting with him? Laena has been accused of being arrogant before, but knowing that she is comely stems less from arrogance and more from fact than anything else.

That should be the way she flirts with him next, she decides. She'll ask him what he thinks of her, or something along those lines.

Her plotting is interrupted by Vhagar's low rumbling. She pats her on the side. Her hand might as well be a speck along the vastness of her scales. The realization makes Laena's chest puff with pride, as it always does. The greatest dragon in the world lets Laena ride her. Her hair is still tussled by the wind from their flight, and her cheeks sting, but she smiles from ear to ear.

Just then, she hears two sets of footsteps. The first is easily identifiable, light and graceful. It belongs to Laenor, as familiar to her as her own gait. The second is heavier, and steadier too. This is also easily identifiable, though not as familiar as Laenor's. Laena feels her smile grow. She turns around to face her visitors.

"Hello, brother," she says, smiling at Laenor. Her eyes flick to the man beside him. "Hello, Ser Criston."

Criston inclines his head. "My lady," he says in acknowledgment.

"Laena," Laenor says, mischievous, "I had a feeling we'd find you here."

Laena feigns a haughty sniff. "If you did not know that, at least, by now, I would question whether or not you truly loved me."

Criston's laughter is low and soft. If she were a lesser woman, she would be blushing. As it stands, she only grins a little wider. He's charming indeed.

"You must forgive my appearance, Ser Criston," she apologizes, "I didn't realize I would be in such esteemed company, else I would have asked for time to clean up."

He cocks his head. "I didn't think you were one to care about what you looked like after riding a dragon," he says.

Laena winks. "So I don't." Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Laenor's expression flicker. His patience is running thin, she can feel it already. Taking a little pity on him, she adds, "Why have you come searching for me? Has Rhaenyra come searching?"

Laenor shakes his head. "No," he replies, "it's your little terror of a son."

Laena scoffs. "'My little terror of a son,'" she tuts, "as if your Baelon is not trailing after him and getting up into equal trouble."

Laenor's glare lacks heat. He extends a hand toward her, patronizing, and she slaps it away lightly. "Alright then," she says, "let's reconvene with the rest of the party."




Jae throws his arms around her legs when she sees her. She lowers to her knees, runs her hand through his hair and presses a kiss to the crown of his head, relishing in the embrace. Soon enough, he will deem himself to be too old to run to her and will get it into his head, as all boys do, that he must be strong. And of course, a strong boy cannot race to his mother.

"Will you take me flying on Vhagar again soon?" he asks. She pats him on the head and smiles. He is truly her son through and through, not only in his looks – she finds only traces of Daemon when she looks at him, and finds mostly herself – but in his love of flight as well. A burst of pride burns through her.

"Of course," she assures him, "We'll be arriving at Highgarden soon; I'll take you flying all you want once we get here, little one."

His nose wrinkles, the lines of his face going taught with indignation.

"I'm not a baby, Mama," he says.

She withholds the urge to laugh and cups his face instead. Cradling it in her hands, she presses a kiss to his brow. "Of course not," she says, "my apologies, Jae."

Suitably satisfied by her apology, he presses his face into the crook of her neck.




Before they arrive at Highgarden, Laena flirts with Criston one more time. Fine, twice. Never in front of Rhaenyra – she doesn't know how she would take it, exactly, but she isn't willing to risk her wrath over a bit of harmless flirting – but she doesn't bother to hide her games from Laenor. She can sense his frustration reach a boiling point the day before they arrive at Highgarden.

She raises an eyebrow as the door to her wheelhouse slams open, then slams shut. Jae has gone out to play with his cousins, and she's taken the time to rest a little. Or at least that's what she hoped to do, before someone so rudely barged into her space.

Laenor's expression is darker than she's seen it in a long time. A scowl mars his face, makes his lips twist with anger and his brow knit and his eyes flash with fire. Laena clicks her tongue, unable to resist the urge to needle him a little. He's her little brother, after all.

"That was rude," she says. He ignores her and practically throws himself into a nearby chair, folding his arms across his chest. She grows more serious at that. "What are you here for, Laenor?"

"You know what," he grits out.

She takes a sip of her wine. "No, I'm not quite sure that I do."

His scowl only worsens. "Ser Criston," he spits out then.

"I wasn't aware you had so much animosity toward your wife's worn shield."

"Damn you, Laena, and listen to me. Stop this game you're playing with him. It can only end in tears."

Laena stiffens at the harshness of his tone. Against her will, hurt jabs between her ribs at the way he's phrased his words. He's spat them out like she's toying with Criston to hurt him, like she's being malicious.

"What's the harm?" She raises an eyebrow. It's a sloppy attempt to cover the hurt that she knows must have flashed across her face, if only for a second. "It's not as if I'm trying to fuck him, Laenor, I have an actual brain between my ears.I just want to see how long it will take him to realize I'm flirting, that's all."

Laenor lets out a hissing of breath. "It will start rumors, Laena, the kinds of rumors that will damage his reputation, and possibly Rhaenyra's by extension. I will not have the mother of my children damaged by your recklessness." His face softens a little, then. "And I would not have you hurt as well. Mother and Father have not asked you to remarry yet, but if such whispers start arising, they might just decide to give away your hand again."

Laena scoffs. "I would like to see them try. The moment they made a match for me, they know I would fly away on Vhagar and never return."

"You would leave Jacaerys?"

"I would bring him with me," she replies sharply, "by the Seven Laenor, what kind of mother do you take me for?"

To his credit, her brother does look chastised at that. "You would deny him a dragon," he points out, "and deprive him of the greatest joy one of our people could experience."

Something in Laena twitches. "You're speaking in theory," she says, "far-off possibilities that I doubt would come from a bit of harmless flirting. If I brought him to my bed, that would be another story."

"Are you willing to take the risk?" Laenor pushes.

The same thing in Laena twitches again. Wavers, and then crumbles. She lets out a deep sigh, and now it's her turn to scowl as Laenor smiles. He knows he's won.

"This is for the better," he assures her, patting at her leg. "If the flirting had gone on, what if you had fallen in love with him?"

That is, in Laena's experience, a non-issue. She's never been in love before, has only come close to it once. If Daemon had lived, then maybe she could have loved him, with all of his fire and tenacity and daring. But he didn't, and so all she felt for him was a passing fondness. As for the lovers before or after him, well, they haven't left a particular impression one way or the other.

"I wouldn't have fallen in love with him," she retorts, "honestly, Laenor, what do you take me for, a green girl?"

Laenor shrugs. "It's better than the alternative of him falling in love with you. If he had, and you had broken him, then we both know Rhaenyra would have broken you with a vengeance. No one, not even he, would have been able to stop her."

Laena grows more solemn at that. "I would have never hurt him," she says, "I do consider him a friend, Laenor. And you know I don't hurt my friends."

Laenor sighs. "Maybe," he says, "but maybe not. Either way, it's no longer an issue. Go pursue a landless knight if you're bored, or a handmaiden. Just keep your eyes away from Ser Criston."

It's a suggestion, not a command – he knows better than to command anything of her – and she thinks she'll take it.




They arrive at Highgarden not two days later. Within the first five hours, Laena is convinced that Lord Tyrell's sister is sweet on her. She can scarcely keep her eyes off of her, and she blushes prettily whenever their gazes meet.

She's no low-ranking handmaiden, and no one will be overly pleased if Laena pays her attention, but she's already agreed to one compromise; now, she'll do what she wants.

Laena smirks and asks her if she's ever seen a dragon up close.

"I haven't, my lady," she admits.

Laena tuts. "We'll have to fix that, then."

She leaves the politics up to Rhaenyra and Laenor, as always, along with Ser Criston, and whisks this pretty flower away to court her. She knows that she can; she's practically wrapped around her finger already. Laena brings her to her bed, all gallant and gentle, and her eyes are brown, not green, but they're warm and kind and that's close enough to intoxicate Laena. She sets Criston Cole out of her mind. She can be reckless, sometimes, but she has no intention of breaking her promise to Laenor.

(She will break her promise, eventually, and fall in love with Cole. Fall more than in love. But for now, there is a beautiful lover in her arms, and, unaware of what the future holds, she drifts off to sleep, smug and satisfied)

 

[Dawn_Star]

At four-and-twenty, Arthur Tyrell is a young man, older than Rhaenyra by less than half of a decade. He's handsome, too, with warm brown eyes, tumbling brown curls and a neatly trimmed beard to go with a pleasant, heart-shaped face. As they walk through the gardens of his seat of power, he points out specific flowers to Rhaenyra and Laenor, naming them and what their purpose is. The fine silks he wears are fine and expertly embroidered, the sigil of House Tyrell placed at his left breast, above his heart.

This, Criston thinks to himself, is a man who is used to getting what he wants. Who perhaps has always gotten what he wants. One should always be wary when negotiating with such a kind; they can be quite a thorn in your side.

"Highgarden is quite beautiful, my lord," Laenor says, and Lord Arthur beams.

"Yes," he says, "I do agree. It is the second most precious thing in my life."

"And the first?" Rhaenyra asks.

"My daughter, the Lady Alysanne."

Rhaenyra's own mouth twitches at that. "Ah," she says, "yes, I would agree with you there, my lord. Nothing sits in your heart quite the way your children do."

Lord Arthur hums. Criston tries not to stare too hard at him; he already knows where this is going. Judging by the way Rhaenyra's gaze has sharpened ever-so-slightly, so does she.

To Criston's surprise, Lord Arthur turns to him.

"I had hoped for a son, ser," he says, "to one day train under you. Mayhaps in time that could still happen."

Between Aemond, Borros Baratheon's future son, and possibly Jacaerys as well, Criston will not have the time for another squire. Still, he smiles pleasantly, very wisely doesn't mention this, and says, "You honor me, my lord."

Lord Arthur pats him on the shoulder. "I speak only the truth, good ser. You are the most famous knight in the Seven Kingdoms, after all, and the Lord Commander of His Grace's Kingsguard. It is every man's dream to have a son trained by you."

Another plant catches Lord Arthur's eye. He makes a cheerful noise and reaches for its flower. It is a soft yet vibrant lilac, and he twirls it between his thumb and index finger. "The bellflower," he says, "'tis a common type of flower, princess, and I'm sure you've both seen and heard of it before. I have a soft spot for it despite its commonness, nonetheless. Last year, on Alysanne's name day, she demanded a flower crown made of these things, and ever since they have had a special place in my heart."

Ah–

Criston can sense it, this is where the transition to politicking will begin.

"Mayhaps," Lord Arthur says breezily, "she might have another crown, in time."

Rhaenyra's eyes narrow. Laenor's smile grows a bit more tense.

This, Criston thinks to himself, might be a problem.

"You are bold, my lord," comes Laenor's wry reply.

Lord Arthur's smile turns a little sharper, the pretense of unworried cheer straining at the edges. He lets the bellflower drop to the ground.

"I would hardly count it as boldness when you have come to Highgarden to gain my support. Would you?"

Rhaenyra has gone to twist at her rings, and he thinks he catches a muscle in her cheek twitch. Still, she maintains a pleasant smile. Pride settles warmly in Criston's chest.

"Fine then," she says, "let us discuss politics."

With all pretenses of a pleasant walk gone, Lord Arthur stops walking. He turns to face both Laenor and Rhaenyra fully, face on.

"I want a prince for my daughter," he says. "Prince Baelon is already betrothed, I have been made aware, to Lord Borros' Lady Maris. That leaves Prince Aemon free to wed still, however."

A beat of silence passes.

"I'm afraid that might not be possible, my lord," Rhaenyra says.

Lord Arthur's smile flickers. "However so?"

"We have already begun discussions for Aemon's hand," Laenor replies.

"Discussions are not finalities." The Lord of Highgarden is still smiling with his mouth, but not with his eyes, as he was ten minutes ago. Criston finds that he dislikes him. Strongly. "Think of it," he pushes, "my daughter is a clever, happy girl. The Seven Kingdoms could have a second Good Queen Alysanne."

Rhaenyra shakes her head, firm but not hostile.

"There are many things I am willing to negotiate on, my lord, but this is not one of them."

Lord Arthur's eyes practically turn to slits. He clasps his hand behind his back, his smile growing too wide to be genuine. "Go on," he says, "tell me what you have to offer, then, that would be worth my support, princess."

There is a curtness to his tone that makes Criston want to punch him across the face. He resists the urge to do so and wonders if Rhaenyra's temper has rubbed off on him more than he thought.

Rhaenyra's smile grows stiff. Her velvet mask is slipping, the steel beneath unveiling itself. "I would remind you, my lord," she says softly, "that I am the Princess of Dragonstone and my father's chosen heir. You swore an oath to me when he first made his intentions known. You already owe me loyalty."

Lord Arthur shrugs easily. "One could argue that the vows I made as a boy, before my majority, hold no weight now. That I should not be held down by them any longer."

"One," Rhaenyra replies, and now her voice borders carefully on a snarl, "would be wrong in making such an assumption. And I did not think you would be over eager to subscribe to the Hightowers' claims, my lord, given your position."

Laenor takes a step closer to her. He smiles at Lord Arthur, though the expression is tinged by wariness. "There is no need for ugliness," he says, "come, why don't we discuss how we can help each other?"

Lord Arthur is not affected by his attempts at peacemaking. He stares Rhaenyra dead in the eyes. "My position , princess?"

Rhaenyra hums. "We all know of your house's… delicate status. I would have thought you would be the first to leap at a chance to curb the ambitions of House Hightower. Who knows what they could do, with my brother Aegon on the throne? He is a sweet child, but his mother is certainly not. She would have her son's ear, and of course, she would want to further the ambitions of her family…"

Lord Arthur's eye begins to twitch. Laenor looks very much as if he would rather not be here. Neither of them matters, though. Criston's attention rests solely on Rhaenyra as he silently wills her to strike the balance between an open hand and a closed fist.

"Having a sitting queen for an ally, of course, would be much more advantageous than a hostile Hightower dowager," she continues, and he has to fight the smile about to spread across his face. "Would it not, my lord?"

Lord Arthur looks as if he's swallowed a lemon. Then, almost grudgingly, a smile begins to tug at his mouth. He's still scowling, so it looks like more of a grimace than anything else.

"You have some cheek," he says, "to come to my seat and threaten me with the machinations of my own vassals."

Rhaenyra lifts her chin proudly. "Is it a threat if it's true? Support me and I will help you. Do not, and you only make your enemy stronger."

Lord Arthur hums. Looks at the sky and around the gardens. Makes her wait for an answer. Then, slowly, he says, "I want my sister – the younger one, not the elder – as your lady-in-waiting. She will be given respects and honors and you will connect her to suitable men who might marry her. When the time comes, my daughter Alysanne will join your court as well. I'll have a pick for your Small Council as well – the Master of Coin will do fine. And lastly: when you take the throne, you will crack down on those Hightower bastards like the roaches they are."

Criston feels a surge of relief. These are acceptable terms, considering the circumstances. Two ladies-in-waiting and sternness with a house that seeks to usurp her is a good deal. The Master of Coin is the only potential issue, but Lord Arthur is a snake, not a fool. He will appoint someone competent, even if they will have his interests in mind.

Rhaenyra and Laenor glance at each other for a long second. Then Rhaenyra's eyes find Criston's. She doesn't search for approval – but something in his expression seems to ease the tense set of her shoulders.

"Done," she says, and Lord Arthur's responding smile is thin.

He presses a kiss to the back of her hand, accompanied by a shallow bow.

"I look forward to us aiding each other in our future endeavors, princess," he replies.

Rhaenyra smiles. "As do I."




"I fucking hate him," Rhaenyra complains later, stalking to Syrax for a flight, "what a bloody rat of a man."

Criston laughs, deeply and truly. "I don't blame you," he says, "luckily you've gotten what you wanted from him, and you'll be leaving soon."

That doesn't soothe her in the least. "I'll still have to deal with him when I'm queen. And it will be far worse then, no doubt."

"Such is the price of politics."

Rhaenyra scoffs and readies Syrax's chains and saddle, then clambers on her back.

"The things I do to get on a lord's good side," she says, "thank the gods I have a dragon, otherwise it wouldn't be worth it, this Targaryen business. If he annoys me too much, I can always just burn him at least." Criston gives her a look. She feigns innocence. "What? I'm just telling the truth."

He shakes his head, partly because he's exasperated and partly to hide his smile.

"Go on your flight, princess. I'll be waiting for you when you land."

She nods, a little more solemn. "I know you will," she says, "you always do."

And with that, she's shooting into the skies. Criston watches her go, pride and amusement intertwining as he finally allows himself to smile at her antics.

 

[Dawn_Star]

There is blood in Criston's eyes. It's slipped beneath his helm, somehow, and blurs his vision at the edges. That won't be enough to stop Criston, though. He shifts the morningstar in his right hand and braces the shield in his left hand as another knight slashes at him with his sword. He blocks the blow easily and pivots. His morningstar goes singing through the hair and strikes at his opponent's helm. He goes crumpling to the ground, knocked unconscious, and the crowd roars as he's dragged off to the side.


Criston hasn't fought in a melee in a while. He is glad to know that his skills are as sharp as ever. Years of non-stop sparring will keep a man sharp, he supposes. He scans the area quickly. Of the seventy competitors they started with, there must be twenty left, including himself. He should try to finish this as soon as possible. At five-and-thirty, he's not old. He takes good care of himself and most would argue that he's still worthy of his title as the best fighter in the realm. But some of the men here are younger, more durable in the way someone in their early twenties is, and he's lost that benefit.


There's a knight favoring one leg more than the other. It's barely visible, but it is there. Criston stalks toward him. He would normally feel a flickering of pity, some kind of guilt for going after someone already weakened. But he's angry and vindictive, and he has a point to prove. The man visibly flinches when he sees Criston approach but nothing stirs in his chest. No semblance of hesitation, just pure determination. Spite solidifies when he spots the sigil of House Lannister on his breastplate. Lord Jason will regret not paying Rhaenyra the respect she is due. His own vassals were more respectful than him when she stopped to visit.


He aims a blow at his side, at his shoulder, at his arm. His sword slips from his hands and he falls to the ground. Criston stands over him, morningstar raised above his head.


"Yield," he growls.


"I yield," the knight gasps, "I yield."


Criston smiles grimly. That's one down. Now just eighteen more to go.






There's a strange kind of… comfort in battle. Criston won't try to claim that it's beautiful, because it's not. It's bloody and brutal and ugly, and it probably says something about him that he gets something close to a thrill out of it. Because as awful as it can be, there's a certain kind of satisfaction he gets from the aching of his muscles, from the burning of his lungs and the clanging of steel. He can't exactly say why – because he's good at it, perhaps, but it feels like more than that.


As Criston carves through his remaining opponents, a sense of nostalgia overtakes him. Ser Harrold Westerling's face flashes across his mind. He owes that man everything, for helping him regain his talents in fighting. They were useless when they were dormant, buried beneath the fragmentation of his memories. He brought them out again, made Criston part of who he is now.


He slams his shield into another knight and practically hears Gwayne laughing.


"Good hit, Cole," he says in his mind, and suddenly Criston misses him more than ever. It's been a long time since he last spoke to Gwayne outside of the occasional polite conversation. Their paths have thoroughly split. He can only hope that they rejoin at some point, but well, how likely can that be, given the circumstances?


Another man squares up against him, and he casts the thought out of his mind. There are more important things at hand at the present moment.






And then, there were two.


One last man stands before Criston. His armor is gold – or painted with gold, at least, he doubts he's wearing actual golden plate – and crimson, with his helm fashioned with the likeness of a lion. A snarling lion has been engraved into both the blade of his axe and his shield. Criston has seen him without his armor, saw him laughing with his cousin, the great Lord of Lannister, when Jason had stated that unfortunately, he wouldn't be participating in the melee as his line of succession was not yet secure – he had only daughters, after all.


There had been other things, too, other signs of disrespect, but that had been the straw that broke the camel's back. Rhaenyra had narrowed her eyes, and said to Criston, in the middle of Casterly Rock's great hall, "Win for me, Ser Criston. Lord Jason forgets himself."


She had brought Syrax, Vhagar and Seasmoke closer to Casterly Rock, then, to remind Lord Jason of his place.


Criston has half a mind to charge at Tybalt Lannister straight away, but he doesn't. Adrenaline can be good, but anger will only cloud his judgment. Instead, he waits and lets the younger man come to him.


Ser Tybalt prowls toward him, energetic. He has all the eagerness of a young man jumping to prove himself, Criston thinks. It is a weakness, something to be easily exploited, and it will be his downfall.


The first slice of the axe comes earlier than he expected. He has the time to duck but decides to block the parry with his shield instead. He wants to see just how much force Ser Tybalt throws behind his strikes.


He finds his answer as pain lances up his arm. He hisses sharply, his grip tightening on his shield. A lot of force, then. He'll have to end this fight soon unless he wants to spend the rest of his energy dodging and searching for a counterattack.


Criston allows his shoulders to sag ever so slightly. He drops his left arm, the one holding his shield, a little. A grin spreads beneath his helm as Ser Tybalt perks up at these apparent signs of weakness. Emboldened, he steps forward and swings at him again. Criston spins away, making sure that his foot drags across the ground. If he can make it look like he's limping, all the better.


They go on like that, dancing back and forth, and it grows glaringly obvious to both Ser Tybalt and everyone watching that Criston is on the back foot. As he dodges again, letting his movements be as sluggish as possible without being struck too badly, he sees Rhaenyra sitting in the box of honor stiffly. She scowls at the melee grounds, twisting the rings on her fingers furiously.


"Come on," he sees her mouth, "win."


He wants to tell her that he will, but resists the urge to do so.


His actions will show that soon enough.


After another minute or so, Criston seizes his chance. Ser Tybalt, overambitious and cocky now too, throws too much of his weight into an attack and leaves an opening for him to slip through. Criston pounces. He unleashes a flurry of fast-paced, furious blows that splinters his shield into pieces. He attacks again, his own shield raised this time, and uses its weight to give him extra leverage. He strikes at where Ser Tybalt's right forearm connects with his elbow. In the same breath, he pulls back and strikes again, and again, and again. His opponent tries to gather himself, snarling as he swings at his head, but the element of surprise is on Criston's side.


He knocks Ser Tybalt down and says, "Yield."


He's met with a refusal and an attempt to struggle so he slams his morningstar into his chest and beats him bloody until a weak surrender is wheezed past his lips.


The crowd practically deafens him, that's how loudly they cheer. Well, everyone except for the Lannisters, though a few of them force smiles.


Criston backs away from him, his chest and shoulders heaving. He removes his helmet and the screams only grow louder. He's sure he looks a mess, with his sweat-slicked hair, early signs of bruising, and bloody smile from an unfortunate blow he took earlier. It's taking everything he has not to slump from exhaustion and agony both because by the fucking gods he's hurting all over.


Lord Jason is sour-faced as he presents him with the victor's circlet, not quite a crown yet not quite not. The crowd holds its breath. It's as if everyone knows what he's going to do already, but they can't help the anticipation regardless.


Criston approaches Rhaenyra slowly, with an ease that he doesn't feel. Impatience beats at his chest like a drum, but he needs to get this particular piece of theatrics right.


"Princess," he says, loudly and clearly for all to hear, "allow me to present you with the victor's circlet."


She grins widely. "You honor me, Ser Criston."


"Think of it as practice," he says slightly, "for the crown that you'll actually wear in the future." He sets the circlet on her head, then, and feels it fit into place along her brow. He falls to one knee before her. "A beautiful circlet," he says, "for a future queen whose reign will be just as golden."


It's a blatant statement, an unspoken challenge for anyone to say otherwise. No one breathes a word. The look on Jason Lannister's face is almost worth the disrespect from earlier, especially as, in the distance, Syrax roars.






"Did you see Lord Jason?" Rhaenyra laughs later, when they're gone from Casterly Rock and the sting of his disrespect has waned. "He looked so stupid, just standing there gaping. It's what he gets, for the stunts he pulled."


Criston smiles wryly. "Perhaps I shouldn't have antagonized him," he sighs, waiting for her reaction, "now we'll never get him onside."


She snorts. "We'll never get him onside regardless," she replies, taking a bite of her apple. Her countenance grows more grim. "There are some we'll never get onside regardless of their rekindled oaths, and he's one of them. Why risk looking weak trying to appease them?"

Criston pauses. Smiles. "Well spoken, princess," he says, and she grins, her chest puffing with pride.


"I had a good teacher," she says.


He ruffles her hair at that and she protests only mildly.


"You've kept up writing to Lady Jeyne since we left for the tour?" he asks.


She nods. "Aye, even if it's harder to stay in contact nowadays with all the traveling."


He makes a noise of approval. "Good. Make sure that you stay in contact no matter what, even as we pass through the Riverlands. Don't let up now that we're in the final stretch."


"I will," she swears, and he smiles.


They've made good progress on their tour so far, the Lannisters aside. Now they just need to keep it up.