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

[Dawn_Star]

Here is the thing about Criston: he does not like Larys Strong. Not at all. Not from the first time he read about him in Fire and Blood, and not from the first time he saw him in his second life. The man is simply off putting, as slippery as an eel, with the cold eyes of a snake and all of the twitchiness of a rat. There is simply something about him, past even Criston's foreknowledge, that makes him mislike him. It is a kind of rot, woven into the fabric of his soul.

"Ser Criston," Lord Larys greets, smiling a small, slimy smile. Criston's hands twitch at his sides, eager to wipe the expression off his face. The hair at the back of his neck rises.

"Lord Larys," he says, lips twitching into what he hopes looks like a smile, "I do hope you are enjoying the festivities."

Lord Larys hums, his fingers drumming against his cane. "I find feasts to be disagreeable with me," he says, "though I do enjoy the company they bring, from time to time." His eyes slide to Ser Joffrey, who has stormed back to his seat. "I find that men do tend to say much, in these circumstances."

Criston's entire body goes tense. He can feel his shoulders lock into place, his back go rigid, and his jaw clench. He tries to relax his jaw, to not grit his teeth. "A man will say anything at these functions," he replies, proud of how his voice does not waver. "Especially when he is drunk."

Lord Larys' smile turns into something sharper, something more resembling a smirk. He leans in slightly, so that his mouth is close to Criston's ear. "Mayhaps," he agrees, "but I do believe that most men are not arguing with the sworn shield of their lover's wife."

Criston has never felt the weight of his sword more than he does at this moment. He inclines his head and motions for a cup of wine to be brought his way. He takes a sip, because he will not be able to get through this conversation if he does not, but does not chug it down. He must have his wits about him, after all.

"I would be impressed by your spy network, my lord," he murmurs, "if you were not using it to spy on me."

Lord Larys feigns innocence. "Ser," he says softly, "I would never presume to spy on the Lord Commander of the kingsguard. It is simply that, well, the walls have ears, and I like to listen."

Criston has half a mind to strangle him. In this crowd full of people, however, this would not be wise. He manages to contain himself.

"What is it that you want, my lord?" he asks. This time, he is not able to keep his voice so level. A hint of sharpness reaches the surface and something smug flashes across Lord Larys' face.

"I can only think that it would be a great shame if news of your altercation with Ser Joffrey were to come out. And an even greater shame if the cause of it were discovered. How terrible, for Princess Rhaenyra to be shamed on her own wedding day by her husband's lover. How could a healthy marriage ever spring from that? How could she bear to carry his children?"

Criston's arm seizes out to grip at Lord Larys' forearm before he can stop himself. He squeezes tightly, fingers digging into flesh, until he knows he will have bruises. Already in a foul mood, it blackens evermore at this threat to Rhaenyra. "Are you blackmailing me, Lord Larys?" he asks lowly. "Are you blackmailing the princess?"

Lord Larys winces a little, but he covers it up with another deceptively polite smile. Criston wants to ram his fist into his face until there is nothing left but blood and broken bones. He pictures it, for a moment, images staining the Red Keep's great hall with the crimson belonging to this worm.

A few glances stray their way, raised eyebrows at the sight of Criston grabbing at Lord Larys, and he releases him. No matter how furious he is, he cannot do anything that could potentially sully his reputation. Not here, at least.

"It was not a threat, ser," Lord Larys says, his voice silky soft. "Simply a thought. One that, I hope, you will keep in mind." With an incline of his head and the pursing of his lips, he sinks back into the crowd.

Criston watches his retreating form, bloodlust still clouding his vision. He can feel the wild beating of his head against his ribcage, can feel the throbbing of fury in his veins, and releases another breath.

He is angry with himself. How could he have been so careless to approach Ser Joffrey here? He should have been more cautious, should have waited, should have–

"I do not suppose that this spot next to you is taken, ser?"

The question disrupts his spiral of self-loathing. He blinks, his vision swimming for a brief moment as he recollects himself. Then he blinks again, to make sure that his vision is not failing him.

Lady Laena stands before him, silver hair glowing beneath the torchlight. She is dressed in a gown that is dyed in navy and gold. Golden earrings hang from her ears, and beautiful sapphire jewels have been cinched around the smooth skin her throat. Her violet eyes glimmer with mischief as she stands before him.

Criston bows at the waist, baffled. "No, my lady," he says, "it is not."

Her bowstrung lips curve upwards into a grin. "That is perfect," she says, "I needed some respite." She moves to sit, summoning a servant for an extra cup of wine and food. Criston simply stands for a second, unsure of what to do.

Then he decides to simply ask. "If it is not presumptuous to ask, my lady," he says, "what is it that you need respite from?"

Laena waves a hand, gesturing to the feat before them. "All of this. It is dreadfully boring, is it not?"

Nothing about this night has been boring , Criston thinks, but he keeps that to himself.

"I would much rather be in the yards," he says instead.

Lady Laena's eyes light up. "You are like me, then," she says, "I would much rather be riding Vhagar than entertaining this nonsense and all of these suitors."

And there it is, the real reason she is here.

"My lady," Criston says, feeling amusement beginning to replace his fury, "are you using me as a buffer between yourself and the men who would seek your hand?"

Lady Laena's grin is positively impish. "If I were, ser, would you be offended?"

Criston shakes his head, a huff of laughter escaping him. "Not at all, my lady. I should be glad to serve as your shield for this night, so long as I might know why I was chosen rather than any other man."

"Well," she says, her chin resting against her palm, "I could not go to my father, for he is the one encouraging these matches, and I could not go to my brother, for this is his wedding day, and he is the center of attention. So I was left to find another man, one who would not call my integrity into question, and who better than the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and Princess Rhaenyra's most leal supporter?"

Criston feels a surge of respect at her honesty. Another woman might have tried to lie, or to flatter him, or both. She did not. Then again, he supposes, you can afford to be blunt when you ride the greatest living dragon in the world.

"So I see," he says, flashing her a faint smile.

At two-and-twenty, Lady Laena is ten years his junior and widowed already. In her eyes, she performed her duty to her family, and played a role in her father's ambitions. He can imagine that she has no intent to any longer, and does not blame her for it. If she wishes to hide behind his white cloak, then so be it. It will harm no one.

And besides, he finds that he rather likes her sharp and playful wit.




Even after the feast, even after Criston's temper is soothed by Lady Laena's company, the problem of Lord Larys still remains. He has all but threatened Rhaenyra, and that cannot stand, especially not when he was an adamant Green in Fire and Blood. Not when it is strongly possible that he murdered his own brother and father. Who knows what else the man is capable of?

There is only one solution. He has to die. Criston was willing to consider the murder of Prince Daemon many years ago, upon his return to King's Landing, but he did not do it. Mainly out of doubt that he could get away with it, but still. Now, as Criston stares at himself in the mirror, he thinks that he has gone soft. All these years of trying to make Rhaenrya a better person, of trying to shape her into a wise and just ruler, has made him flinch. Not to the thought of killing Larys Strong, no – the man is a worm, less than a worm. But taking a life in cold blood? Murdering him? The damage to his reputation would be irreversible, and Rhaenyra would never look at him the same, should anyone discover the truth. The thought of losing her esteem breaks his heart.

No, Criston decides, he cannot murder Lord Larys with his own hands. But there might be someone else, someone with enough connections to get the job done and keep his involvement undiscovered.




The next day, Criston visits Lord Corlys Velaryon with a warm smile and polite courtesy, and informs him of an unfortunate incident occurring at the king's feast. Of the threat to his son, and his gooddaughter, and his future grandchildren.

And if he leaves with the Sea Snake's thanks and good graces, and if Lord Larys is found dead at the bottom of the stairs within the week – such an unfortunate accident – well then, that is simply the most interesting of coincidences, is it not?

 

[Imperator Janus]

Ah, nothing like some good, old-fashioned intrigue to take care of immensely irksome annoyances.

 

[mickeysofine]

Amazing. I love a MC with some bite to back up their bark.

 

[Dawn_Star]

A/N: This is a day late because of Father's Day. Hope y'all enjoyed the holiday with your families!

.

Princess Rhaenyra leaves King's Landing shortly after her wedding to her new husband and consort. Aegon is beside himself at the thought of her leaving, and Aemond is no better. Helaena is a sweet, quiet girl, but she has grown forlorn in a way that is not simply her nature. Gwayne's heart hurts for his nephews and niece.

"I want 'Nyra!" Aegon screams for his sister, his face glowing red from the effort. His foot rises and then falls against the floor in a temperamental stomp, and Gwayne resists the urge to rub at his forehead.

He says, "Pick the training sword up, Aegon." His nephew refuses, his lip jutted out, jaw clenched and hands trembling.

Gwayne sighs and sheathes his own blade.

"Sit down," he says, and the boy listens to him for the first time today. Criston is not with them, occupied with escorting Princess Rhaenyra to the Dragonpit today, and it is just them in the training yards as of this moment. "I know that you miss your sister, but you are a prince, Aegon, and the eldest son of the king. You must act according to your station."

It is the wrong thing to say. Aegon's face twists up into a scowl and his hands ball to fists at his sides. "'Nyra will be queen," he says, "why do I have to be good? She's the heir." After a moment: "It's not fair. Why does she have to leave me and go to Dragonstone?"

Gwayne thinks of Alicent, and wonders what the look on his sister's face would be if she heard the words that her son just spoke. His hand hovers at Aegon's shoulder. He pats it after a moment's hesitation.

"You are young," he says, "too young to understand what is going on around you. Princess Rhaenyra goes to Dragonstone because that is what has been commanded of her, and because that is what she believes her duty to be."

Aegon huffs, still unappeased. "Why can't I go with her?" The question comes out as a whine, with all of a child's petulance. There is hurt there as well, however, a woundedness that makes Gwayne's chest tighten.

"You are too young," he repeats. Then, to soothe the boy, he adds, "I am sure that your lady sister will miss you just as much. If you write to her, she will write back."

Aegon's sullen disposition brightens. "You really think so, Uncle?"

"I know so," Gwayne says, and hopes that he is proven right.




Before Princess Rhaenyra leaves for her seat, Gwayne pulls Criston Cole aside, a strange sort of sadness echoing through him. It has been sitting in his chest since they first trained Aegon together, and has only grown worse since his conversation with his little nephew. He looks at this man, who was once his most respected friend, and feels the loss of their friendship like a sharp, hot knife.

"From the little girl you met all those years ago to a woman grown and married in her own right," Gwayne says, "how times have changed."

From my best friend to a near stranger, he thinks but does not add, how times have changed.

Criston shifts, fingers touching at his white cloak. It is a tick he has developed over time; Gwayne knows it well. "The years have flown by," he says, his voice suspiciously flat.

Gwayne resists the urge to flinch. "It might do well," he says, "to keep the princess and her little brothers and sisters connected after her move to Dragonstone. They are most distressed to see her leave."

Criston's mouth twitches. "Princess Rhaenyra already plans on writing to them," he says, "it hurts her to leave them as well."

Gwayne nods. Once. Twice. Shuffles on his feet. An awkward silence hangs over them like a shroud. "It has been too long," he says, "since we had a proper joust, Cole. Maybe we ought to spar again sometime."

It is an olive branch, a peace banner. More obvious than training Aegon together, yet somehow more tentative. Criston pauses, his eyes widening by a fraction. Then he nods, something warm flashing across his face.

"I would like that," he replies.

Gwayne grins. The tension in his chest eases. "Don't complain when I knock your ass into the dirt, Cole," he warns.

Criston scoffs. "I would like to see you try, Hightower."

For the briefest of seconds, it is as if they are young men again, unburdened by the weight of the world. By duty to a queenly sister, and the grief of–

Well. Gwayne knows better than to mention such things aloud. He was not a fool, back then. He had eyes, and he had ears, and Criston was his best friend. Mentioning it now would do no good to anyone. Not to him, and certainly not to Criston, and not to a dead woman either. Oh, Gwayne's father would be most pleased to have a weapon to use against Criston, and so would his sister. But there are some things better left unsaid, and Criston was a friend once, and he is kind to Aegon and Aemond and Helaena, and so Gwayne will keep his mouth shut.

He claps Criston on the shoulder, lips curving upwards into a smile.

"Until then, Cole," he says, "may the gods guide you well."

"Likewise, Ser Gwayne," Criston replies.

It feels like a farewell because it is, but perhaps, Gwayne thinks, it is not a bitter one.




The letters begin to come in shortly after Princess Rhaenyra's departure. They come often, much to Alicent's displeasure. Gwayne sits as she paces across her rooms, fingers twisting in her hair.

"That greedy little child," she seethes, "first she seeks to steal my son's birthright, and now she poisons him and his brother and sister against me. Mine own children!"

Gwayne feels a tiredness seeping into his bones, even as their father tries to calm her. He misses Alicent before the crown, before her marriage. He misses his precocious sister, clever with a streak of mischief, not this bitter woman obsessed with succession.

"It is Cole," his father says, "he is the mind behind her. Her greatest protector, yes, but also her greatest influence. He would have told her to write to the children."

Gwayne thinks of the sincerity in Criston's eyes when he assured him that Princess Rhaenyra would have written to her siblings anyway, and doubts his father's words. He is wise enough not to question him out loud.

"Cole," Alicent snaps, "damn that man to the seven hells. He swore an oath to serve the king and the realm, and yet he seeks to put an aspiring usurper on the throne."

Gwayne is growing tired of this conversation. He will support Alicent because she is his sister, and while he does not particularly like her, he loves her all the same. If a war comes, gods forbid, she will have his sword and his word. But still.

"The princess can hardly be called a usurper," he says half-heartedly, his own chest twisting in disagreement at the decision, "if her royal father is the one to have named her his heir in the first place."

Alicent's head snaps toward him. "Gwayne," she bites out, "how could you say such a thing? Aegon is your own nephew, have you forgotten this?"

Of course I have not forgotten, Gwayne thinks bitterly, it has cost me a good friend.

"Enough, Alicent," their father says, as calm as ever. "Cool your temper. Cole is an annoyance and a hindrance, but he is of low stock, and out of the capital having followed his princess. With the two of them gone, Rhaenyra's influence in the capital will lessen, as will her influence over her siblings. It is only natural."

Alicent sits down, soothed by this.

Gwayne thinks of a decoration on a lance – "I had hoped to ask for your favor, Your Grace" – and swills the wine in his cup. Tips his head back and drinks it down deep.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and decides that he will go to visit his sister's children today.




Rumors among the highborn of the Seven Kingdoms are a dangerous thing. Rumors of bastardy, of adultery, of cheating in a joust, of murder, even, cloy to the tongues of the nobility. As such, Gwayne tries his best not to think too hard on them. For his own sanity, if nothing else.

But then, rumors come from Dragonstone, roughly a year after the wedding of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon. They slither within the Red Keep, leaving the king proud and Alicent apoplectic. They make Father grim and even more tight lipped than usual. The servants titter behind coy hands and shadowed eyes.

Gwayne bites at his lip and stares at the letter resting against his desk. He wishes to write to Criston, to ask him to extend his congratulations to the princess. At the same time, the urge to extend a comforting word – it will be alright, he almost writes, she is stronger than her mother – nearly overtakes him.

His letter goes:

Ser Criston,

Please extend my warm regards and congratulations to Princess Rhaenyra for me. Helaena is most excited to be an aunt, and Aemond does not mind the thought of being an uncle. Aegon is sullen, but I think that the excitement will strike him eventually.

Gwayne

 

[silentorphan]

Really, there aren't enough Gwayne Hightower POVs in Dance-era fics. Glad to see one here.

Hopefully Aegon will get over this phase. And/or his siblings will knock this resentment out of him before it festers.

 

[Dawn_Star]

When Rhaenyra tells Criston that she is with child, he is consumed by an existential feeling of dread. His heart sinks to his feet, and a ball of lead settles in his stomach. He should be happy for her, should be proud, because she knows better to have a bastard in this lifetime, and her child is without a doubt Lord Laenor's. He should be relieved, as well, because now that she has an heir on the way, her position grows more secure.

But all he can see, when he looks into her face, is her mother. Rhaenyra had six children in Fire and Blood. She should, by all accounts, be safe. She is strong and healthy, and young, as well. But childbirth is a risky endeavor, and Criston would rather face battle a thousand times than have to face the birthing bed. He feels sick just at the thought of it, of Rhaenyra, bleeding out, her head spinning from the pain, facing the same fate as Aemma.

Bile craws up his throat, and he feels cold.

Still, revealing his worries will be of no help to anyone, least of all her. So he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and forces the fakest smile that he has ever worn.

"Congratulations, princess," he tells her.

Rhaenyra's hand settles on her stomach. "Laenor will be pleased," she says, "that is one less duty we must fulfill, at least for the time being. An heir is a good start, but we will need a spare of course."

Criston startles. "You have not told him yet?"

She shakes her head. "I wanted to be sure," she says, "Laena knows, but only because I confided in her, woman to woman. I asked her how she knew she was carrying Jacaerys."

If there is one thing Criston is grateful for, it is the fact that Rhaenyra and Laena are best friends in this lifetime as well. They bonded shortly after the wedding, when Rhaenyra, feeling suffocated by the Red Keep and its celebrations, went to the Dragonpit to fly with Syrax. She had met Laena there, who was of a similar mind, and a few witty comments later, they had struck up a bond.

Laena is good for Rhaenyra, Criston thinks. He does the best he can, but he is not a woman, and he is of the strong belief that there are some things only women can understand about each other, and he is, obviously, lacking in this regard.

"So I was among the first people you told," Criston says, feeling a little faint. He can feel the blood rushing in his ears. His mouth feels dry, and his chest tightens. Something that he cannot name, delicate and tender and fearful all at once, forms like a knot in his ribcage.

Rhaenyra pauses. "Yes," she says, looking him directly in the eyes, "you were. Who else would come before you?"

And he wants to weep.




Criston does his best to mask his anxiety as Rhaenyra's pregnancy progresses. She is four moons along now, and at the end of her third moon, rumors reached the Red Keep of her condition. He keeps Gwayne's letter to him tucked in his desk, either unable or unwilling to discard it; he does not know which one it is.

The news is public now, and there are japes aplenty because Queen Alicent is carrying her fourth child as well. "Uncle and nephew will be the same age," people laugh, "I wonder, who will take the role of seniority there?"

No one speaks of the child in Rhaenrya's belly as a girl. If it is even a consideration, no one dares to speak if, for fear of the potential consequences. Criston, for his part, hopes desperately for a son. Not because he believes that women cannot rule – he is a Black, for the love of the Seven, and has supported Rhaenyra before she was even named as her father's heir – but simply because it will make life so much easier. If Rhaenyra has a daughter, and that girl is made her heir, the lords of Westeros will only be further inclined to side against her. If she has a daughter and that girl is not made her heir, it weakens her own position, and people will point to the fact that by her own logic she is unsuited to succeed her father. Besides, she will have to carry more children to get the heir and spare she needs. If she has a son, however, her problems are staved off, granted he survives.

More than anything, Criston wants mother and child to be safe and healthy. There is a term for a child who loses a parent, a wife who loses a husband, but there is no word for a parent who loses a child. The agony of such a thing, the grief, is incomprehensible to him, and he would not wish it upon his worst enemy, let alone himself or Rhaenyra.

He does his best to distract himself, these days, from the worries that plague him. He busies himself with trying to set the foundations for some kind of crop rotation, and bolsters Dragonstone's security. More often than not, he finds himself in the training yards, swinging his sword or his morningstar at everything he can reach. It is not exactly a healthy way of coping with Rhaenyra's possible imminent death, he knows, but it is all he has, and so he clings to it.

He finds himself sparring now against Ser Jon, Dragonstone's master at arms. He's an experienced man, only a few years older than Criston, though he doesn't look like it. He is a hard man, with a stern face and gray already touching at his temples. They exchange blows with a vicious ferocity, Ser Jon wielding a sword and shield. Criston himself holds a shield in his left hand, but in his right rests the familiar weight of his morningstar.

When singers write their songs, they tell stories of combat that look like dances, of graceful knights and beautiful battles.

Criston can confidently say that their songs are full of horseshit.

As he raises up his shield to block Ser Jon's blow, pain lances up his arm. He pivots on his feet and strikes at him with his morningstar, which Jon blocks deftly. They go at this for a while, trading and blocking blows, alongside the occasional dodge. Criston's entire body is ablaze, with adrenaline and some pain, and no small amount of eagerness. Eagerness to fight or to forget, he does not know. Perhaps both, if he is being honest with himself.

Eventually Criston manages to gain the upperhand. He feigns particularly well with his morningstar, bringing his entire body with the movement so that it looks especially convincing. Then, at the last second, he yanks his entire body back, feet settling into the dirt to keep him balanced. He swings at Ser Jon's side. Not his ribcage – he does not want the man to puncture a rib, after all – and not his head or his shoulders either. He strikes at the flesh of his stomach, and with a relatively small amount of force behind the blow.

Still, Ser Jon lets out a pain gasp, and his knees buckle as he falls to the ground. Criston raises his morningstar up, the weapon hovering in the air. "Do you yield," he asks.

"Aye," Ser Jon says, clutching at his side, "I do."

And that is it. The fight is won. Criston sets down his shield and helps the man up. They shake hands and exchange a few words. Then Ser Jon takes his leave. That is when Criston hears a slow clapping echo throughout the training yards.

He turns to meet the sly smile of Laena Velaryon. "Well fought, ser," she says, her tone sincere. "I do not think I have borne witness to such a fight in a long while."

Criston discards his morningstar and offers her a slight bow. "Lady Laena," he says, "I was not aware that you had returned to Dragonstone. My apologies, we would have welcomed you."

She waves a hand, nonplussed. "There is no need to worry, Ser Criston," she says, "all of that fanfare irritates me anyhow."

Criston remembers her actions at Rhaenyra's wedding and feels his lips curve into a thin smile. "So it does, my lady."

Lady Laena hums. "I think, Ser Criston, that this might be the first time I have seen you fight with such tenacity. Even at the celebrations after my brother's and Rhaenyra's wedding, you did not seem so ferocious."

Criston feels himself flush. Not from anger, or from embarrassment, per say, but instead a kind of sheepishness. He does not like to think of himself as a particularly vicious fighter, but he knows that, like it or not, that is what he can be.

"I apologize if it disturbed you, my lady," he says, though he knows her better than that.

She laughs, the sound slightly chastising. "Ser Criston," she says, "surely I do not seem like the kind of woman to faint at the sight of a little violence."

A pause.

"No, my lady," he replies, "you seem quite the opposite."

And he is not lying when he says those words. She has Corlys Velaryon for a father, and Rhaenys Targaryen for a mother, and she rides the most dangerous dragon in the world. She is bold and free-spirited, and seems to have little care for anything that is not her family or her dragon. He thinks that she would laugh in the face of danger whenever given the chance, and respects her for it, even if he hopes that that particular habit does not rub off on Rhaenyra.

"Tell me, ser," Lady Laena says, "why is it that you have trained so hard recently?" Given her tone, she already knows the answer to her own question. Criston tenses, viscerally uncomfortable. She must see this on his face, because something in her eyes softens. "I worry for her as well," she says in a tone more gentle than he thinks he has ever heard before.

"It is difficult not to," Criston says. He thinks of Aemma, of the pain she must have felt and the hole she left behind when she died. "Childbirth is a wretched thing."

He regrets the words, fueled by bitterness and grief, as soon as they leave his mouth.

"Wretched?" Lady Laena asks, raising an eyebrow.

The set of his shoulders grows more rigid, if that is even possible. "I meant no offense, my lady."

A second passes. She studies him carefully, as if searching for something. He does not know what it could be. Then she shrugs in a single, fluid moment. "I love my son," she says, "but yes, I would agree, Ser Criston. The act of childbirth is indeed unpleasant."

He lets out a slow breath. "Maester Gerardys says that she will be fine," he says, "that she is young and healthy, and that there is no cause for concern."

"There is always cause for concern," Lady Laena says brusquely, "this is the way of things, and Maester Gerardys is a fool for saying otherwise. But Rhaenyra is a strong, brilliant woman. If anyone can survive childbirth, it is she."

Criston looks her right in the eyes. The words serve as a comfort, as a balm. Her matter of factness is blunt, but combined with her comforting words, it is more of a reassurance than any empty platitude a maester or courtier could have given him.

"So it is," he says.

"So it is," she repeats.

There is a mighty roar off in the distance, and Lady Laena shakes her head with a breathy laugh. "I'm afraid I must be off, Ser Criston," she says, "I have only just arrived, but Vhagar grows impatient for another flight with me, and duty calls. I must visit Rhaenyra and then take my leave."

Criston inclines his head. "May you enjoy your time in the clouds, my lady," he replies.

Lady Laena's smile grows toothy as she turns away.

As he watches her leave, he realizes that he has grown less tense. There is still worry, of course, but he is – at least slightly – more at ease.




This ease dies a brutal death when, moons later, Rhaenyra's labors begin too early.

 

[Dawn_Star]

A/N: Sorry this got here like three weeks late, I had some family stuff going on.

.​

Rhaenyra's water breaks when she has just begun the eighth moon of her pregnancy. She has been complaining about discomfort all day, and Criston's heart goes out to her. She plays cards with Lady Laena and Ser Laenor in her chambers, huffing as she loses each time.

"You are cheating," she accuses, jabbing a finger at Lady Laena, "no one could have won that many rounds in a row."

Lady Laena's eyes sparkle with mischief. "Goodsister," she chirps, "I am positively outraged by your accusation."

Ser Laenor snorts, sprawled out across his chair. "Do not believe her false innocence, wife," he says, "she has always been a cheat, even when we were young."

Lady Laena smacks him on the head for that. "Are you saying we are not young now?" she retorts.

He rubs at his head sourly and Rhaenyra bursts into laughter. Lord Laenor leans over to place his hand over her belly. "Listen here, whelp," he says, ever cheerful, "if you must choose to have a favorite aunt, let it be Princess Helaena. Your Aunt Laena is a vicious, bitter harpy."

"We already know that I will be his favorite," Lady Laena says, "there is no use in poisoning the child against me."

"How do you know you will be favorite?" Rhaenyra's voice is laced with amusement. "My sweet sister is a good and gentle girl. She will charm my babe right out of my arms, if given half the chance."

"Your sister is as sweet as can be," Lady Laena acknowledges, "and the strangest little child I have ever met." Rhaenyra's brow furrows at that, and she opens her mouth to defend Helaena. Lady Laena must be aware of the oncoming danger, Criston thinks, because she quickly adds, "Peace, goodsister, I meant no offense by it. In any case, she lacks something that I do have: Vhagar. How can I not be the favorite aunt when I take my new nephew flying on the largest dragon in the world?"

Ser Laenor blanches at that. "You are not taking my newborn son flying on Vhagar, Laena," he says.

Lady Laena rolls her eyes. "Come now, brother. I did the same for Jacaerys. It will cause no harm–"

"I am in agreement with my husband," Rhaenyra says firmly, "there will be no flights after the birth."

Lady Laena meets Rhaenyra's eyes, and whatever she finds there makes her sigh and slump back in her seat.

"A pity," she says. Her eyes cut to Criston. "You have raised her to be far too careful, Ser," she tuts, "I daresay that sometimes she is no fun at all."

The words are teasing and lack heat. Criston feels his mouth curve up into a wry smile. "Apologies, my lady," he says, dipping his head, "I was not aware that the Princess of Dragonstone lived for your entertainment."

There is a beat of silence whilst everyone absorbs his words. Then Ser Laenor barks with laughter. "Would you look at that!" he says. "Ser Criston has a bite beneath all of his chivalry!"

Rhaenyra erupts into full-bodied giggles, and delight flashes across Lady Laena's face.

"My, my," she says, "and here I thought knights of the Kingsguard were supposed to be chivalrous."

"I am most chivalrous, my lady" Criston says with a straight face, and a smirk cuts into the side of her mouth.

Ser Laenor turns to Rhaenyra, his fingers glancing against her belly once more. "Did you hear that, whelp," he says, "that was the sound of your aunt being bested."

He has taken to fatherhood like water, Ser Laenor. In the year after their wedding, he and Rhaenyra grew closer, to the point of being not only tenuous allies, but also friends. And now, perhaps because he is not grieving the murder of his beloved Joffrey, he is most eager to meet his son. Or his daughter, though he is confident that the child will be a boy, and will tell this to anyone who listens. The pregnancy has only lifted his mood and drawn him and Rhaenyra closer, and now Criston sees him for the man he did not, initially: a cheery, somewhat frivolous man with a love for betting and sailing and flying, with a good heart and a quick wit.

Though still not as quick as his sister's, for she says, "I swear, Laenor, I will tell the little prince all of your most embarrassing stories from when we were children, and he shall never respect you," and he balks visibly.

Rhaenyra laughs and stands to stretch. "Come now, Lady Laena," she says, "my son will need to respect his father. You cannot go telling him tales which diminish him."

She winces as she rises and rubs a hand across her lower abdomen.

Some of Lady Laena's amusement fades. "Are you quite alright, Rhaenyra?" she asks, and Criston stiffens. His entire body goes tense.

Rhaenyra waves a hand. "I'm fine," she says, and then her knees give out.

Ser Laenor springs to his feet, knocking his chair back, and Lady Laena rushes to catch her. Criston is by her side in an instant. He loops his arms around her waist to support her weight and take some of the burden off of Lady Laena.

"That," Ser Laenor says, his hands fluttering anxiously at his sides, "does not seem 'fine' to me, wife."

Rhaenyra's jaw clenches, and she looks as if she might snap at him, before her face goes as white as a sheet, totally drained of color. Her head lolls against Criston's shoulder as she sucks in a deep, ragged breath.

He feels panic claw at him, lighting a fire beneath his skin. His heart is in his throat as he asks, "Rhaenyra, what is it?"

Terror seizes him when she fails to respond immediately. He wants to take her by the shoulders and shake her, demanding an answer. He wants to lift her up in his arms and spring throughout Dragonstone, screaming for Maester Gerardys. He wants to hold her and stroke her hair until whatever is wrong has passed.

"My water," Rhaenyra grits out after a moment, "it's broken."

Criston stares at her numbly.

"What?" he rasps.

"What?" Ser Laenor yelps beside him.

"Oh, stop gasping like two useless fish," Lady Laena snaps. "Laenor, go fetch the bloody maester. Ser Criston and I will support Rhaenyra until he gets here."

Ser Laenor does not need to be told twice. His face alight with panic, he turns on his heel and runs for Maester Gerardys.

Criston feels as if he's going to be sick as he holds onto Rhaenyra.

"Help me lower her into a chair," Lady Laena commands, and he hastens to do so. Rhaenyra lets out a pained groan. Her entire body spasms, and Criston feels his breaths begin to come quickly. He wants to vomit. He needs to. You are only making things worse. Help me, or leave."

He sucks in a deep breath, forces the bile back down his throat. Meets Lady Laena's gaze and sees the frustration and determination there. "I'll help," he gasps, and her eyes flash with rueful approval.

She gives the instructions, and he follows them to the letter. Rhaenyra curses all the while, her hands balling at her sides.

"Give her a pillow to support her back," Lady Laena says, and he does so.

"Don't let her slump, keep her upright," she demands, and he does so.

This goes on and on until Ser Laenor returns with Maester Gerardys, a stream of servants and midwives trailing behind them. "Keep her and yourselves clean, for the love of the Seven," Criston finds the strength to snap. He does not find it within himself to care about the dirty looks sent his way.

Lady Laena smoothes back Rhaenyra's hair and kisses her forehead. "You are strong," she says, "so strong. All will be well."

She is still speaking to Rhaenyra when she says the last part, but her eyes are on Criston. He suddenly feels the urge to curl into a ball and weep.

"You must leave, m'lords," one of the midwives says, "this is woman's work, barring the Maesters."

Ser Laenor scowls, his expression thunderous. "It is my son being born," he insists, "I will stay."

The midwife looks as if she wants to protest, but thinks better of it. Rhaenyra wails in pain nearby.

Criston has no such excuse as being the father of the child, and so he is swiftly evicted from the room. He cannot say that he is complaining. Still, he paces back and forth from the other side of the door and gnaws at his lower lip. Something inside him is unable to leave Rhaenyra at a time like this, no matter how much it upsets him.

And it does upset him. Desperately. For every scream that tears from her throat, one rises from his own in sympathy. Every wail cuts a gash deeper into his heart, and when he hears her begin to sob, his own eyes burn hot with tears.

Criston is not a religious man, but he goes to his knees and he prays to whatever gods may be listening to spare her. If she dies here like Aemma did, he will not be able to survive it.

Hours pass, and he receives word that Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys have arrived on Dragonstone. He does not move from his place outside the door.

At last the screams come to a stop, early the next morning, replaced by the wails of a babe. A midwife comes to open the doors. Criston shoulders past her as soon as he can fit through, his eyes wide.

Rhaenyra is lying on the bed. She looks exhausted, her hair a rat's nest, her face red from exertion, and her eyes drooping, but she looks safe and healthy and happy, and there is a squirming bundle in her arms. Criston nearly collapses then and there.

He really does collapse when he sees Ser Laenor, who is seated at the side of the bed, holding another bundle. He forces himself into a nearby chair before he falls to the floor, his eyes wide.

Lady Laena chuckles. She is seated herself and looks worse for wear. Dark bags hang beneath her eyes, and her hair is a mess. A vein throbs against her neck and she rubs at her eyes tiredly. Gratitude wells up in Criston's chest at the sight of her; gratitude and admiration and something else he cannot describe.

"That second one," she says, nodding at the babe, "well, he gave us quite the scare. We were not expecting him."

"He?" Criston says, feeling faint, his head spinning.

Laena smiles softly. "Aye. Rhaenyra has two healthy lads now. Two little princes of her own body."

"Come, Ser Criston," Rhaenyra beckons, "look at them."

He rises from his chair on wobbly legs and sits at her other side. The child she holds is so small and tiny, so delicate. His eyes are closed, but his hair is silver-gold, and Criston can already see Ser Laenor in his brow and the shape of his nose. He smiles gently at the boy, something in him close to breaking. His eyes drift to the other babe. Ser Laenor shifts so that he can see him better. This child's eyes are open. He is not fast asleep, like his brother, and his light violet eyes are wide and unfocused. His hair is not silver-gold, like either of his parents', but rather a deep, dark shade of black, like his paternal grandmother's. Despite his coloring, all Criston can see in the boy is Rhaenyra. If the silver-haired lad is his father's copy, then this one is his mother's.

"What are their names?" he asks, his voice shaky.

"This one," Rhaenyra says, gesturing to the son she holds, "is Aemon, after Laenor's grandfather. That one," she says, nodding to the child in her husband's arms, "is Baelon, after my grandfather. They are fitting names for my heir and his future Hand, I think."

A lump wells up in Criston's throat. "I am sure they will be just as close as their namesakes," he says, "and just as brilliant as well."

Rhaenyra's smile is warm. "Would you like to hold one of them?" she asks.

Criston startles. "I could not possibly–"

"Nonsense," she scoffs, "here, you will hold Baelon, since he is awake."

Ser Laenor does not look over eager to part with the boy, but he acquiesces. Little Baelon is placed into his arms. He twists and blinks up at him, his little cap of Baratheon-black hair flying everywhere, and Criston promptly bursts into tears.

 

[RaptorusMaximus]

I'm not incredibly knowledgeable about the time of the Dance, but I'm pretty sure Rhaenyra had twin bastards as her firstborn in the canon timeline; interesting that the trueborn are twins here as well.

 

[silentorphan]

Her eyes cut to Criston. "You have raised her to be far too careful, Ser," she tuts, "I daresay that sometimes she is no fun at all."

Click to shrink...

If this isn't a figure of speech, that makes me curious about two things:
1) Does the royal court view Cole as a truer father to Rhaenyra than Viserys?, and
2) How does Viserys feel about that?

 

[Dawn_Star]

I'm not incredibly knowledgeable about the time of the Dance, but I'm pretty sure Rhaenyra had twin bastards as her firstborn in the canon timeline; interesting that the trueborn are twins here as well.

Click to shrink...

While Jace and Luke (her eldest sons) weren't twins, they were born within two consecutive years, so you're not too far off!

If this isn't a figure of speech, that makes me curious about two things:
1) Does the royal court view Cole as a truer father to Rhaenyra than Viserys?, and
2) How does Viserys feel about that?

Click to shrink...

It wasn't a figure of speech, Laena meant it quite literally. But while I'd say that the court knows that Criston has significant influence over Rhaenyra and is her loyal protector, they don't fully understand the depth that goes to. Laena picks up on it because she's in a position to be closer to them than the average courtier.

 

[Dawn_Star]

Rhaenyra is returning to court soon, that is what everyone is saying. She is bringing her husband, her goodmother and goodfather, and her sons. Helaena is excited to see her sister – Rhaenyra writes often, but she has missed her terribly, and has not seen her in person since her wedding over a year ago. She can tell that Aegon is happy as well. He has stopped sulking as much, and actually listens to Uncle Gwayne. Even Aemond seems happier, though he always seems to be frowning.

Only Mother, who does not like her sister for a reason Helaena does not understand – Rhaenyra is amazing – and little Daeron, who has never met her, do not seem excited by her return.

In her most recent letter, Rhaenyra promised to bring gifts for them all, and what kind of sister does not do the same? This is how Helaena finds herself in the gardens with her brothers. Well, the ones who can walk anyway. Aegon looks bored as she sifts through the grass, but he helps her all the same, albeit half-heartedly. Aemond is more useful, his cheeks flushed from the summer heat as his eyes flit across the area, looking for the prize they seek.

"This is stupid, Helaena," Aegon grumbles, "Rhaenyra isn't going to want a stupid butterfly that you saw from your dreams."

Helaena feels a prickle of irritation. She says, "She will."

"If you're just going to complain," Aemond adds, "then go away."

Aegon scoffs. "As if you would get anything done without me."

Sometimes, Aegon confuses her. He can be so lazy at some times – Uncle Gwayne has to drag him to the training yards half the time – but other times, when he actually cares, he can be startlingly determined. Now, when it comes to impressing their sister, he is giving his all, his thinking it 'stupid' aside.

There – movement, at the corner of her eye. Helaena spins on her heel to face a magnificent butterfly. It is pale yellow, like Syrax, its wings patterned with delicate blue swirls. It sits upon a tall, thorned flower. Helaena narrows her eyes, intent on getting her prize.

Aemond sucks in a sharp, surprised breath, his own body tensing.

Aegon beats both of them to the butterfly before they can move. He rocks on the balls of his feet and springs forward with surprising speed, sunlight flashing off of the glass jar he holds his hands. Sensing danger, the butterfly's wings flutter as it prepares to take flight. But Helaena's brother is faster, for once in his life, and he manages to trap it in the glass. He slams it down to the ground. The flower's thorns prick at his skin and blood drips down his hands, but he does not seem to care. Pride flashes behind his eyes as he whoops victoriously.

Suddenly Helaena feels an ache form between her eyes, sharp and stabbing. Her mouth feels dry and her tongue is too swollen in her mouth. She stumbles into Aemond, who yelps in surprise – despite all her baby brother's denials, boys do yelp – and squeezes her eyes shut, her hands balling to fists.

A scene flashes across her mind, then: Aegon, taller and older, with a scruff of a beard. He wears armor and an actual sword, draped in the colors and symbols of their house. Instead of a trapped butterfly in a jar, he holds a crown; a simple gold band, set with seven gemstones of different colors. The Old King's crown, she remembers faintly. Older Aegon is not smiling in this scene. Instead his expression is set into a grim, fierce frown. He begins to speak and a wreath of yellow laurels bursts from his mouth. They weave around his entire body, turning red and black at his wrists as they extend outward, almost like a branch.

Spots dance across Helaena's vision. Distantly, she can hear Aemond's panicked voice and Aegon's shouting. Her headache gets worse. Then her vision goes black.




Helaena wakes to the sound of her mother's voice. "Will she be alright, Grandmaester?"

There is a shuffling, a ruffling of paper. Then Grandmaester Mellos' voice rings out. "There seems to be no obvious harm," he replies, "all signs point to a healthy recovery."

There is a soft exhale. "Leave me with my daughter," Mother says. The sound of a door opening and closing reaches her ears. Then, the weight of a hand on her head, the feeling of fingers threading through her hair. Helaena does not usually like touch, but she can tolerate it from her mother. Sometimes, very rarely, she can actually like it. Though that privilege is usually only given to Rhaenyra. In quiet moments like these, soft and tender, she understands why Aegon likes it so much. "I know you are awake, sweet girl," Mother says.

Helaena cracks her eyes open to meet her mother's gaze. She does not look well; there are bags beneath her eyes, and her skin is pale. She has not looked well ever since Helaena's father dismissed her grandfather as the Hand of the King and replaced him with Lyonel Strong, shortly after Rhaenyra had her children, unhappiness shrouding her like a veil.

"You gave me such a fright, child," Mother says, scolding now, "you are my only daughter. Do you understand the grief of losing such a thing?"

Helaena shakes her head, because she does not. Her mother's expression eases. She cups her face with her hands. "Be careful, child," she says, "when you play with your brothers. They are stronger than you, and sometimes forget themselves."

"It was not their fault," Helaena wants to say, but she does not know how to explain what happened to her, so instead she simply nods.

Her mother makes a satisfied noise.

The vision still hangs at the back of her mind.




Rhaenyra arrives at court with great ceremony. She descends over King's Landing on Syrax, accompanied by Ser Laenor and Lady Laena and Princess Rhaenys. Helaena does not have a dragon yet, but something wondrous and yearning worms its way into her chest as her sister lands in the dragonpit. She is dressed in classic red and black, adorned with expensive silks and jewels.

Rhaenyra beams to see her. "Helaena," she laughs, "you have gotten so big since the last time I saw you!" She lifts her and spins her around, huffing with the effort. "Soon I will not be able to pick you up anymore!"

Helaena presses her face into the crook of her sister's neck and breathes in her smell; parchment and perfume and dragon. Something bittersweet echoes in her chest, sad and happy at the same time. She had not quite realized just how much she missed her until seeing her again.

Suddenly hands are tugging at her, and Aemond shoves himself into Rhaenyra's arms too. She laughs and strokes at his hair tenderly. There is a jealous, displeased sound from behind them, and Helaena knows in her heart that it is Aegon. At the grown age of eight, he is too proud to throw himself into his big sister's arms, as much as he wants to. Helaena thinks that's stupid. If he wants to hug her, he should.

"Aegon," Rhaenyra says softly, "I have missed you."

She beckons him over and he hesitates. Hurt flashes across her face. "Do you truly not have it in you to embrace your beloved sister?" she asks.

That seems to soften him, because a second later he has his arms wrapped around her. It is, Helaena thinks, the perfect cover for the fact that he wanted to hug her anyway, but she keeps her mouth shut.

Then Aegon says, "Where are our gifts?" and Rhaenyra is laughing, and the moment is over.




Rhaenyra's gifts to them are this: For Aegon, a fine new dagger, embedded with jade. For Helaena: a book on insects, the sides of its pages painted in a thin coat of gold. For Aemond: a finely crafted toy dragon, crafted of real silver with emeralds embedded in its face for eyes. And lastly, for Daeron, a golden rattle.

Rhaenyra is pleased when they present her with the butterfly jar, poked with holes to give it fresh air. She kisses Aegon, Helaena and Aemond each on the forehead, her smile wide across her face. "Oh, my darling siblings," she says, clapping her hands, "this is the most perfect gift that I could have ever been given."

Helaena throws Aegon a small, victorious glance. "See," she wants to say, "I told you she would like it."

She holds Daeron in her arms, smiling down at him, and says, "Beloved brothers, sweet sister, there are those I would like you to meet," and guides them to her children.

Aemon and Baelon are small, or at least smaller than Daeron when he was their age. Rhaenyra says it is because they are twins, and had to share a womb. Aemond is friendly enough to them, quickly loses interest.

Aegon sniffs, unimpressed, but when Rhaenrya says, "These are your nephews, your kin, and I expect you to be kind to them and to protect them, as a good prince should," he squares his shoulders. "Can you do this for me, Aegon?"

Perhaps, because he cannot bear to disappoint her, he nods solemnly, no longer sulking.

Rhaenyra smiles and kisses his brow.

Helaena, for her own part, is oddly fascinated by the babes. They are so tiny, so fragile. There is something so precious about them, so delicate, that causes her to stay with Rhaenyra even after her brothers lose interest in their nephews.

It is during one of these instances that Rhaenyra gets an odd look in her eye. A furrow forms between her brows. She becomes templative, watching on as Helaena watches Aemon and Baelon.

"Sweet sister," she says after a moment, "I have already given you a name day present from last year, but how would you like another one? For this year, mayhaps"

Helaena looks up from her nephews. She tilts her head. She is not Aegon, greedy for gifts, or like Aemond, who is almost desperate for them, but she is curious all the same. Her name day, after all, is not for another two moons. "

What present?" she asks.

Rhaenyra kneels so that they are eye level. She touches her cheek gently and lets her hand drop when Helaena pulls back, not in the mood to indulge any touch today.

"Sweet sister," Rhaenyra replies, "I would give you the thing that every young girl in the Seven Kingdoms covetes. I would give you a crown."

And for whatever reason, Helaena is reminded of the laurels which grow in the gardens of the Red Keep.

 

[Dawn_Star]

There is no one who Alicent Hightower hates more at this moment than Rhaenyra Targaryen. She stares at her step-daughter across the table, who smiles at her husband with an innocence that makes her want to rip her face off. How dare she play the part of innocent little lamb after she has just tried to seize Helaena in her grasping hands? Alicent's sweet, truly innocent daughter who is shy and quiet and so very delicate, has no place at the side of Rhaenyra, who has tried to turn Helaena against her for years. She has never been more grateful for refusing to vacate a room than she is now.

The words she has just uttered echo in Alicent's mind over and over again. "It is my hope that my sweet sister, Princess Helaena, might be betrothed to my son and heir, Prince Aemon."

Alicent's blood boils. Her vision flashes red. "No," she snaps out before Viserys can respond. He frowns at her disapprovingly and she resists the urge to claw his eyes out. Is he truly so much of a fool that he cannot realize what is playing out before him? Yes, she thinks darkly, reflecting on all of his blind eyes throughout the years, he is. He is weak, and spineless, and can barely be called a man, let alone a king. She resents him, then, more than she ever has before. She has gotten a crown, as her father wished, but at what price, for all her troubles? Her husband is insistent that Aegon will never be king, that he will deny their son his birthright. Gwayne is withdrawn and distant, these days, and he looks at her with a quiet sort of contempt that wounds her more than his shouts ever could have. Her father has been sent back to Oldtown and stripped of his title as Hand of the King for daring to push for Aegon one too many times and ruining Viserys' jubilation at the birth of his grandsons. Alicent's family has fallen apart and it is all because of one stubborn man and his equally stubborn daughter, and by the Seven she hates them both for it.

"My love," Viserys says, "Rhaenyra's proposal has some merit. Let us hear it."

Her lip curls. Her eyes cut to Rhaenyra across the table again, and her step-daughter's smile turns smug. Alicent's hands twitch at her sides. She clasps them together. Fury curls in her chest like a cold fire, like the great beacon of Oldtown.

"Very well, husband," Alicent says through gritted teeth.

"A union between Aemon and Helaena will do House Targaryen well," Rhaenyra continues, "it will make a queen out of Helaena and unite our house in blood and oaths both."

Alicent's rage grows tenfold. Viserys frowns. "Our house has no need to be united, daughter," he says gently, "for we are such already."

Something in Rhaenyra's face twitches in tandem with Alicent's. For a split second, she feels a sense of kinship with her when it comes to their mutual exasperation with the man who, by all accounts, is their lord and master. It is, she thinks, a shared wish to shake him until he sees sense, albeit for different reasons.

"Of course, Father," Rhaenyra hastens to correct, and then the moment is gone. "I only meant that this would strengthen our bonds. I only want the best for my children and siblings is all."

This softens Viserys; Alicent can see how the lines of his face physically ease. She scoffs. "By the time they wed, Helaena will be twenty at least," she says, "would you make my daughter some old crone and deprive her of a life with a husband who will keep up with her?"

Rhaenyra's eyes could bore holes into her. She waves a hand flippantly. "Aemon is a babe now, but he will grow. Twenty is not so old an age for a woman to be wed – I do recall, Your Grace, that you were only a year younger when you married my royal father – and by the time he is a man, Helaena will still have her youth."

"She will be his glorified nursemaid for years," Alicent hisses back, "and be taunted for it by the entire realm."

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow. "Who would taunt a princess; the daughter of a king, the sister of a queen, and the wife of a future king?"

"You are no queen yet, princess ," Alicent replies sharply.

"Alicent!" Viserys booms, and Alicent howls internally. This, he has the strength to respond to, but not the blatant attempt of his favorite child to take her daughter hostage. She keeps her eyes fixed on Rhaenyra, not trusting herself to look at him. She does not know what he will find in her eyes.

I was kind to you, she thinks, I was patient and understanding and soothed you in the face of Aemma Arryn's death, and you repaid me by turning against your own blood and usurping your brother, the rightful heir.

Rhaenyra must see something of this in her face, because a muscle in her cheek jumps beneath her skin. There is no shame in her gaze, only a stubborn determination. Her eyes glimmer with victory. She thinks, Alicent realizes, that she has already won.

That is the last straw.

Alicent pushes herself up from the table, the chair screeching behind her. This, she knows, will get her husband's attention. "I will not sit here," she declares, "and be party to a conversation that clearly has no interest in my insight." She kisses Viserys on the cheek. "Husband, you and I shall discuss this later. In private."

Viserys looks confused and frustrated – the irony of that is not lost on her at all – but nods. "Farewell, my love," he says.

Rhaenyra dips her head, not even deigning to rise in acknowledgement. "Farewell, Your Grace," she says.

Alicent's skin burns hotly. She storms out of Viserys' apartments, her skirts whirling behind her.




She finds Gwayne in the training yards as he teaches Aegon how to swing a sword. Or at least as he tries to. Aegon is not naturally gifted with a sword, Alicent is loath to admit, but it is alright. He will train until he is at least proficient. A good king must lead by example, after all.

Unfortunately, she also stumbles into Ser Criston, who is teaching him as well, during his time at King's Landing. Alicent's mood only worsens at the sight of him, his white cloak wrapped around his shoulders.

He has an oath to protect the king and his family, and yet he is actively supporting a blatant usurpation. More than actively supporting it, mayhaps. Alicent reflects, darkly, that Rhaenrya had been a sweet child before Ser Criston was named as her sworn shield. It is possible that he saw opportunity in her, and realized that her rise would equal his own. He could have poisoned her just as she has poisoned Alicent's own children.

She meets his eyes and thinks that the rot is very likely to have started at the root, his sterling reputation — and that infuriates her to no end – be damned.

"Your Grace," he says, bowing, "we were not expecting you."

"Must I ask permission to see my own son now, Ser Criston?" she asks waspishly.

She sees Gwayne tense out of the corner of her eye and her mood only worsens.

"Of course not, Your Grace," Ser Criston replies smoothly, a polite smile fixed on his face, "I simply made a statement of surprise. I ask that you forgive me, if it offended you."

Alicent makes a hum of acknowledgement at his statement. She gestures to her brother and son. "I had wished to visit my family, ser," she says, "I understand that you are training my son the prince, but I will steal my brother for a moment."

His head dips courteously. "Of course, Your Grace."

She kisses Aegon on the forehead, tells him how proud she is of him, and then promptly guides Gwayne away. Her brother frowns at her deeply. "Alicent," he says, "what is this?"

She fills him in on the situation quietly as they watch Aegon train. Gwayne winces as she recounts Rhaenyra's proposal, fury still lacing her tone. "A union between Aemon and Helaena would not be the worst match," he hedges cautiously, "if one were to sue for peace."

Alicent stares at him, betrayed. "What?"
Gwayne rubs at his temples. "Ali, Aegon doesn't want the throne, that much is clear as day."

"Aegon is a boy of eight," she snaps back, "he does not understand what sitting on the Iron Throne even means."

Gwayne lets out a harsh breath. "Whether he grows to understand it or not, he loves Rhaenyra, of that I am certain. As do Aemond and Helaena, and Daeron might learn to as well, as he grows. They are not likely to move against her. She has two trueborn sons, with the blood of both Prince Aemon and Prince Baelon. She is the Realm's Delight, beloved by the smallfolk for attending her to her holdings and the lords have sworn oaths to her."

"You sound as if you want her to be queen," Alicent replies, stricken.

"I want my nephews and niece to be safe," he says firmly, "and happy. Can you say the same?"

"Of course I can. That is the entire reason I fight tooth and nail for Aegon. It is for all of our sakes, Gwayne."

"Do not lie to me, Ali," he says heavily, "and do not lie to yourself either, for that matter. This is for our father's sake, and no one else's."

"What?" she gapes at him, reeling. "Gwayne, are you with me or not? If our banners are raised, will you heed the call or not?"

"Of course I will," he says sharply, "may the Seven help me for it. My sword will always belong to our house and our family."

"Then why do you say these things?"

"I can see the lines being drawn, Alicent," he says firmly. "If war does come, it will bleed the realm dry. And I would rather Helaena wed Aemon and see Hightower blood on the throne that way rather than rest a crown of bones upon Aegon's head." He kisses her brow gently. "I hope that, in time, you will see this too."

He leaves her, then, to rejoin Aegon and Ser Criston, without so much as looking back.

Alicent seethes as she watches his retreating back, feeling more alone than she ever has before.

 

[RaptorusMaximus]

Fuckin' psycho bitch. She gets offered a blatant olive branch and it so far up her own ass that she slaps it away without a second thought.

 

[Dawn_Star]

Rhaenyra is more furious than Criston thinks he has ever seen her, save the exception of when King Viserys told her she was to be betrothed to Ser Laenor. She spins a quill between her fingers, not saying a word. The room is tense with her silence and Criston regards her warily. He knows that she is angry because her eyes are narrowed and her nostrils are flared, because her jaw is clenched so tightly that he can see the muscle jumping in her cheek and she has just gotten out of a meeting with her royal father, and all the hints are there.

"Princess," he says quietly, "what is wrong?"

The quill Rhaenyra is holding stabs into the parchment on her desk. The sound of it tearing through the parchment and striking at wood sounds through the room and he jumps. "I do not understand," Rhaenyra says, her words ripping from her mouth like a half-scream, "is he not a king? Does he not sit on the Iron Throne and wear the Conciliator's crown? How does he allow that Hightower bitch to rule him so?"

And suddenly, Criston knows what this is about. He can feel the telltale signs of the headaches that usually come with soothing Rhaenyra's temper. For all she is more responsible than she ever was in Fire and Blood , for all she actually strives to be worthy of her titles, she is still, fundamentally, Rhaenyra. All spiky and foul tempered and prideful.

He would not change her for it.

"He rejected the match between Prince Aemon and Princess Helaena?" Criston poses it like a question, but he knows the truth.

Rhaenyra nods, her expression growing even more thunderous, if that's possible. Criston has to admit that he is taken aback by King Viserys' decision. The man can scarcely deny anything to Rhaenyra, and what man would not want to give both his daughters a crown?

This has Alicent Hightower's work written all over it, though he does not know how.

Criston bites back a sigh. "Did he explain why?"

Rhaenyra twists at her rings. "He repeated his lady wife's words," she spits out, "to the damnable letter. 'Aemon is too young, daughter,' and, 'Helaena is too old, she will be a woman grown by the time they are wed.'" She scoffs in disgust, shaking her head. "He is simply a craven who does not wish to live with Alicent's anger."

Criston winces. "He is your father, Rhaenyra," he says softly, "and your king. He is owed more respect than that."

Rhaenyra's lip curls. "I love him well as both of these things," she says, "but you were the one who taught me that respect is not given, it is earned, Ser Criston. Do not tell me falsehoods now simply because of what chair one sits on and whose loins one sprang from."

Criston gapes at her, taken aback. Blood rushes to his face and his cheeks sting with heat. He is embarrassed and the chastisement bites at his ego, but he feels a flickering of pride strike in his chest as he holds her eyes. Approval warms his skin and soothes the burn her words have left behind.

"You have grown into a better woman than most could ever hope to be, young one," he whispers, his voice so low that Rhaenyra has to take a few steps closer in order to hear him. "I am prouder than words can describe to have been able to be by your side."

And just like that, Rhaenyra's anger melts away. She deflates, sliding back into her chair. Reaches for his hand and squeezes it once, twice, before letting go. "You are more than my sworn shield, Ser Criston," she says, "you are my–" here she pauses for a second, as if searching for words, "my mentor. You taught me how to be kind, how to be firm, how to rule. I am prouder than words can describe to have been your charge throughout all these years."

Criston shuffles into his own seat, feeling altogether too overwhelmed. His throat feels too tight. "Is there any hope of securing the match," he asks, "or are those ambitions completely dashed?"

Rhaenyra goes back to twirling her quill. He dearly hopes that she will not stab at something with it again. "He said to give it time, and that when Aemon is older, he will see. But with Alicent whispering into his ear, I know that it will never happen. It is as good as any rejection."

"He will not want to cross you by turning down the betrothal," Criston points out, "just as much as he will not want to anger her by accepting it."

She shakes her head ruefully. "He does not have to see me each day, every day for the rest of his life. Alicent is his wife, his queen. She lives here in the Red Keep with him, and it is her nagging that he will have to hear most, not mine."

Criston sits up straighter then, brought to attention. He smiles as an idea begins to form in his mind. "That," he says slowly, "does not have to be case, princess."

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting that I abandon Dragonstone in favor of court politics? That will never work; it will damn me."

"Of course not," Criston says, "I am merely suggesting that you… split your priorities a bit more."

Her stare demands explanation and he is happy to oblige.




Aemon and Baelon, Criston has come to find, are two very different babes, even at their early ages. Aemon is a quiet, well behaved boy. He does not often throw tantrums and only cries for food and the like. The servants call him a wonder to be around.

His twin brother, on the other hand, is a little terror already.

Baelon has lungs on him, that boy, and Princess Rhaenys jests that it is an ode to his Baratheon heritage. He wriggles constantly when anyone tries to hold him, screams at the most miniscule of things, and is often pink in the face from all of his tantrums. The servants do not prefer him to his brother in the least. Criston himself doesn't blame the lad for his attitude – he is only a babe, after all – but sometimes he can't help but feel bad for his nursemaids.

He approaches the nursery now with King Viserys, who wishes to visit his grandchildren. He has chosen Criston to accompany him. For all that Criston is often on Dragonstone, he is still the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard, after all. The twins and their cousin, Prince Jacaerys, are in a separate nursery than Prince Daeron – undoubtedly due to the hostility between Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent. Laena took her son out flying this morning, and so it is just the four of them as the door clicks shut behind them and the servants are dismissed.

King Viserys looks worse for wear than when Criston saw him last. He has gained more weight, his stomach protruding well past his belt, now, and his silver-gold hair is thinning in a tell-tale sign of male-patterened baldness. His face is puffy and swollen and his eyes grow bloodshot from all his wine. Still, he looks happier than Criston suspects he would have in canon at this time. Most likely because of the lack of scandals surrounding Rhaenyra and the comfort that his children love each other well.

Aemon and Baelon are both sleeping soundly for once, curled up in their cradles. King Viserys beams at them. "Aren't they the most beautiful children you've ever seen, Ser Criston?" he asks. "My daughter's sons are simply perfect in every way."

Baelon's eyes have cracked open at the sound of his voice. He reaches for him, lifting him up and tucking him against his chest. Baelon's tiny little hand reaches out to try to grip at his grandfather's mustache. King Viserys cranes his head so that he can reach it. He holds onto it and yanks with all of a babe's surprising strength and he laughs. "He's a lively one, our Baelon." His eyes glimmer with something close to tears and his voice takes on a sadder tone. "Like his great-grandfather was. Like his uncle should have been."

Criston twitches in discomfort, unsure of how to soothe a grief as huge as this. He is lucky enough for his father to still be alive, though they are hardly close, and Rhaenyra is alive and well. He has no loss as great as a parent or a child.

Aemon shifts at the noise, stirring just as his brother did. Something close to weeping draws from his mouth and Criston lifts him up without thinking. Too late, he remembers that this is not Dragostone's nursery, where he might do so with impunity.

King Viserys smiles bemusedly but only says, "You have my thanks for comforting the boy, Ser. I know that you are trained to be a fighter, not a nursemaid."

Criston smiles politely.

His liege sighs, then, continuing to rock Baelon. "I am at an impasse, Ser Criston," he says. "I have chosen Rhaenyra as my heir and I know in my heart that she will make a good queen. She is sweet and clever and charismatic, and Dragonstone loves her. But there is still unrest in my court, even for all her virtues, to the point where my own lady wife will refuse to give our own daughter a crown, purely out of refusal to wed her to Rhaenyra's heir. I worry that this unrest extends outside of court to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. What would you do, I wonder, were you in my shoes? Were this your daughter's crown at stake?"

Criston's grip on Aemon tightens ever so slightly. He forces himself to relax and keep his face impassive as he regards King Viserys. He has just been presented with an amazing opportunity, but he cannot appear too eager.

"May I be frank, Your Grace?" he asks.

King Viserys nods. "Please," he says.

Criston takes a deep breath. "The lords swore vows of fealty to Princess Rhaenyra," he says, "but recency is a novelty. Many of those lords were old and have died or will soon, and their children are beholden to no such words. I am not a statesman, Your Grace, but I would have the princess go on a tour, show the realm the power of House Targaryen and your dragons. And then I would have not only the lords renew their oaths to her, but also their heirs."

King Viserys regards him for a moment. "You are a good man, Ser," he says, "devoted to protecting Rhaenyra, and giving honest counsel whenever asked. What's better, good counsel. I can see why Aemma spoke so highly of you."

Criston thinks that hearing Aemma's opinion of him from her husband might be the most bitter irony in existence.

"I think that you are correct," King Viserys continues, "I will speak to my small council and make preparations."

He sets Baelon back down and Criston does the same with Aemon, smiling as the boy makes a small noise of complaint at the loss. He follows King Viserys out of the room, and thinks that even if Rhaenyra has lost one battle today, he has won her another.




A/N: Sorry this took so long to get out, I've been crazy busy with college. Hopefully this is the start of me getting back on the regular update schedule again.

 

[Dawn_Star]

Criston thinks, sometimes, that Dragonstone's reputation as cold and dreary and ominous is undeserved. Yes, the seaspray feels like ice in the morning and it is foggy and its gargoyles are quite hideous indeed, but it is so much more than that. Mayhaps his fondness for the island comes from the fact that it is Rhaenyra's seat, that it is where she established her first threads of real power and where she bore her sons. Mayhaps it has to do with the fact that she is obviously well loved by her people. Either way, Criston finds the weather and bad architecture tolerable, an almost pleasurable backdrop for the peace that being out of King's Landing brings him. He almost regrets suggesting to Rhaenyra she should stay in the capital for half of the year, to ensure that both her influence over her royal father and her influence over court stays secure. And, privately he adds to himself, influence over her siblings.

Speaking of her siblings, Criston's eyes dart to the boy who shifts from side to side beside him. He sticks closely to Rhaenyra's side, his violet eyes wide and round. She holds his hand in hers and smiles at him comfortingly as she guides him around the castle, her hand patting his silver head. He relaxes, a little, at her touch, and her smile widens.

Prince Aemond is only five years old, half the age he would have claimed Vhagar in the original timeline – would have , Criston stresses, because Laena is a good woman and as much fondness as he holds for them, over his dead body will any of Alicent Hightower's children claim the most dangerous dragon to currently live – and does not quite seem to know what to make of Dragonstone yet. The fact that he is even here is of great wrath to his lady mother, and Criston pities Alicent Hightower a little for it. No matter the eruption she unleashed upon her husband after his announcement of Rhaenyra's tour – nothing is confirmed, but this is what the rumor mill whispers in the Red Keep – no woman should have her child ripped from her. It was ill-done by King Viserys and leaves a bitter taste in Criston's mouth.

That being said, he is a hypocrite, because Prince Aemond becoming Rhaenyra's ward – regardless of whether or not it was done to punish the queen – only helps his relationship with his eldest sister and he cannot help but be grateful for that.

"Chin up, boy," he says, careful to keep his tone gentle, "this is the seat of your ancestors, where they built themselves back up from the Doom of Valyria. You belong here; it is your home."

Prince Aemond straightens a little at his words. He still looks frightened and his lip trembles, but something close to pride flashes across his face for the briefest of seconds. Criston pats his shoulder. The boy will be his squire, when he is old enough – there is no other option for a princeling such as he – and it would be best to have some kind of warmth between them beforehand.

Criston pushes away the uncomfortable thought that the boy is all but a hostage.

Rhaenyra would never so much as raise her voice at her beloved little brothers or sister, much less hold a knife to his throat, metaphorical or otherwise. Still, his presence here on Dragonstone is being hung over his mother's head, and, setting his feelings for her as a person aside, Criston's stomach twists at this fact.

His discomfort does not ease for the entire day, not even as Rhaenyra takes him flying on Syrax and musses his windswept hair as he giggles.




Lately, Criston has taken to walking the halls late at night. He finds himself pacing restlessly throughout the day, the constant anxiety of politicking beginning to wear at him, more than it had before. He does not know if it is because of the upcoming tour, but he finds that he does not like it one bit. The hours between the sun's rising and setting, when the world is still and stagnant, he finds to be strangely peaceful. A quiet sort of bliss compared to the incessant noise of the waking world.

It is during one of these walks that he hears something out of the ordinary. A pattering of feet and a muffled curse beneath one's breath. "Jacaerys." A hiss cracks like a whip in the darkness. "Jacaerys, what in the seven hells are you doing out by yourself this late?"

Criston recognizes the voice instantly – it belongs to no other than one Ser Joffrey Lonmouth. There is a mumbled, "Uh oh," in a voice that sounds distinctly younger, and Criston is ducking behind a nearby curtain as Ser Joffrey and Prince Jacaerys round the corner. The elder looks tired, his hair in knots, bags beneath his eyes. The younger looks as if his hand was caught in the cookie jar, something close to sheepishness painting his face. The little prince makes to flee, but the knight catches him by the collar and hoists him up into the air.

"'Wasn't doin' anything," Prince Jacaerys squeaks, "I promise!"

"You were sneaking out, weren't you?" Ser Joffrey accuses. There is a beat of silence and he sighs. "How did you even get past the nursemaid?"

"... She fell asleep."

"She fell asle–" Ser Joffrey scoffs, the noise one of disbelief. "What would your mother say if she knew you were sneaking about like this, boy?"

"Mama'd think it was funny."

A snort. "Aye, I suppose she would, and then she'd still not let you fly with her for a moon. I'll set you down now, boy, and you won't run. We'll walk right back to the nursery and you'll go back to sleep, and I'll have a talk with that damnable nursemaid and the Lord Commander about making sure this doesn't happen again."

Criston almost feels as if he's interrupting something as he follows them back to the nursery. He makes a mental note of suring up security – it is inexcusable that a boy who hasn't yet seen his fifth name day can sneak out of his nursery – and watches on as Ser Joffrey ruffles his hair before he falls back asleep.

That is when Baelon begins to stir from his slumber. Criston tenses, preparing to go to him by instinct alone, but Ser Joffrey lifts him up before he can get very far.

"Hush, little one," he says, almost cooing, as the babe begins to weep, "you're alright, go back to sleep." He rocks him against his chest, cradles the back of his head and sways from side to side, and slowly, Baelon begins to quiet.

After a bit, Ser Joffrey says, "I know you're there, Ser Criston."

Criston hesitates, still standing halfway in the shadows. Then, shaking off his indecision, he approaches, refusing to feel guilty or chastised – he is the bloody Lord Commander.

"You're good with them," he says, his head tilting to the babes and the toddler who sleep soundly. Ser Joffrey sets Baelon back down.

"I am the eldest of many siblings. I'm well experienced in soothing little creatures."

"You soothed Baelon when you could have turned to the nursemaid."

"Aye." Criston watches on as Ser Joffrey's features twist. He shuffles on his feet, staring at the twins with a sort of sad solemness that Criston knows all too well. "I wanted to hate them, you know. I wanted to resent Aemon and Baelon – I don't know why. Because they were the princess', I suppose; because they were Laenor's but not mine, as foolish as it sounds.

"But looking at them now, up close for the first time, holding them and feeling just how small and delicate they are, I think I realize how hopeless that was. They are half of Laenor, a part of him, and anything that is a part of Laenor is something I will have no choice but to love." He lets out a low, bitter laugh. "I think that if I had to fall on my own sword right now if it meant I could avoid them being hurt, because Laenor would break into a thousand pieces if anything were to happen to them, and I would rather die a thousand deaths than witness his heartbreak."

Criston feels his body slacken and the breath leaves his lungs. An understanding, sharp and pervasive and painful, pierces his chest and he nearly staggers with the force of it. Lilac eyes, so lovely and heart wrenchingly sad, flash across his mind. An ancient, dull sort of pain echoes in his bones, where Aemma has carved her name. Even now, all these years later, he lives for the promise he made to her. He would never wish to be free of it, but its shackles have never felt heavier than they do now.

Criston meets Ser Joffrey's eyes. Green meets brown. "I understand," he says softly.

Ser Joffrey shakes his head. "No," he says, "you don't. How could you? There is no need to pretend, Ser Criston. Do not treat me like a fool."

Criston wants to scream. Wants to seize him by the shoulders and shake him, and scream about his grief from the rooftops. Wants to tell someone, anyone, and lessen this burden.

He swallows the urge down tightly.

"I meant no insult," he says instead.

Ser Joffrey grunts. "You asked me, once, to check my behavior, for the sake of your princess. I refused." His eyes flick to the sleeping Aemon and Baelon. "I still won't do it for her, but I think I might be able to do it for her sons."

With that, he dips his head and walks away.

Criston watches his retreating form, waits until he's rounded the corner, and then crumples to the floor. He allows himself a few minutes of agony, his head resting against his knees and his cheeks wet, and then wipes at his face and sets out to create a new method of security.

Grief and tears and rest can wait for when his duty is done.




It is decided, in the following moons, when and where the tour will take place. Rhaenyra plays a crucial part in organizing it. "I wish to bring Aemon and Baelon with me," she declares, "but I will not do this when they are still so young. The tour will have to wait until they are strong enough that travel is not an issue."

That makes sense to Criston, he has no objections. "And where will you go?" he asks. "Who will you visit?"

Rhaenyra rests her chin against her thumb. Moves around the painted table with narrowed eyes. "The Vale – I wish to see my lady cousin again after so many years. Mayhaps I should visit Runestone as well; they are a powerful house in the region, and have been spurned since my uncle's disastrous marriage to the late Lady Rhea."

Criston twitches at that, but does not object. It might very well be a necessary evil. "Where else?"

"For the Stormlands, most definitely House Baratheon. It has been too long since our ties were strengthened once more, and the boys have Baratheon blood through Rhaenys. I suspect that Lord Borros will be most pleased to see Baelon in particular."

Criston's lips twitch. "Whatever gave you that impression, my princess?"

Rhaenyra shoots him an amused look. "Is that cheek I detect from you, ser?" [

"Of course not," he replies.

She laughs.

They continue on like this for hours, and then days, and then weeks, until they have the perfect route for a tour. Rhaenyra sends a raven with her plans to King Viserys, and he replies with his approval.

Criston cradles it in his hands, feeling both elating excitement and dreadful anxiety. There is no better chance for Rhaenyra to prove her worth as her father's heir than this, and no grander stage for her to publicly fail on either. She will strengthen her position astronomically, or there will be no coming back from it.

Watching as she twists at her rings, he can tell she is thinking the same thing.

Their eyes meet.

He smiles grimly. She stops twisting at her rings.

 

[silentorphan]

He almost regrets suggesting to Rhaenyra she should stay in the capital for half of the year, to ensure that both her influence over her royal father and her influence over court stays secure. And, privately he adds to himself, influence over her siblings.

Click to shrink...

I had been wondering just what his suggestion to Rhaenyra had been in the previous chapter. It couldn't have been the Grand Tour he raised with the king, because that was just an opportunity which Cole immediately seized upon, right?

And here in this chapter the revelation gets almost immediately overshadowed by the fact that Aemond is now stuck on Dragonstone.

 

[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.

 

[TuscanKB]

Quite the deal Borros has wrangled, great chapter! Also, did SV break for like 5 minutes for anyone else or just me?

 

[RaptorusMaximus]

Hm. It kinda feels like they blew just about everything they had to offer on the Stormlands, but I suppose that makes sense. They are the kingdom which would have the greatest ability to directly and rapidly militarily support either the Blacks or Greens should a succession crisis break out

The North will likely side with the Blacks, the Vale might stay out of things entirely, the Westerlands probably aren't going to be dragged out of the Green camp no matter what you offer, the Riverlands don't really count, the Reach is probably in Otto's pocket (tho maybe they could split things up there by trying to get the Tyrells on-side, since they hate the Hightowers as best I remember) and Dorne isn't even a part of the Seven Kingdoms yet I believe.

So...yeah, actually, getting the Stormlanders on Team Rhaenyra should give the Crownlands enough clout to survive a combined conflict with the Westerlands and the Reach until the Starks can get down to kick some butt, assuming the Riverlanders just try to survive and the Vale stays out of things.

 

[silentorphan]

Should this chapter be threadmarked as an interlude? Prevoius chapters which had non-Cole PoVs were marked as such.

 

[Imperator Janus]

Should this chapter be threadmarked as an interlude? Prevoius chapters which had non-Cole PoVs were marked as such.

Click to shrink...

Oh but it is a Cole POV, right at the start.

 

[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."

 

[silentorphan]

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.

Click to shrink...

Is there a mis-used word here? Either he wonders or he doesn't. (Or is he still dazed from the revelation and keeps bouncing from one end to the other?)

 

[TuscanKB]

Criston and Rhaenyra working through their problems like normal well-centered people is great. This answers some questions I had from the last chapter considering the Baratheons did get too good of a deal. Criston's anger is understandable, but this is only one of many steps on their journey.