Criston Cole

The feast spilled across the great hall of the Red Keep like a flood of color and sound. Banners of House Targaryen hung from the high rafters, their red-and-black silk stirring faintly in the warm draft from the braziers. Candlelight shimmered against goblets of gilded wine, glinted off the polished helmets of guards posted at each entrance. Platters groaned with roasted boar, pheasants stuffed with herbs, baskets of steaming bread, bowls of figs and pomegranates brought from Dorne. The air was thick with the smells of spiced meat, smoke, and the tang of sweet Arbor wine.

Laughter ricocheted between the stone pillars, blending with the music of lutes and pipes. Lords and ladies swirled in silks, voices weaving in currents of gossip and flattery, each word caught in the hum of the hall. You sat at the high table beside the King, the crown’s weight more in expectation than in gold. The carved chair beneath you felt far too large, as though it had been made for another woman, a truer queen.

At your side, Aegon had wriggled free of his nurse again, slipping beneath the table like a fish darting from a net. His golden curls flashed in the candlelight before vanishing into shadow. You reached instinctively to rise, but your hand stopped at the swell of your belly, heavy and restless with the babe inside. Three years had passed since your marriage, since your coronation, and still the keep felt more a cage than a home. Rhaenyra had not spoken to you in moons, save for the obligatory courtesies in council, her silences sharper than any blade.

And yet here she was, rising from her seat with a smile so radiant it cut through the hall like firelight. Her laughter—loud, practiced, triumphant—rose above the clamor as she dipped her head toward her father. The King beamed at her, too blinded by affection to hear the edge beneath her words. Then her eyes found you.

“Your son is spirited, Your Grace,” Rhaenyra declared, her voice carrying easily over the music, her hand sweeping toward the shadows where Aegon was hiding. “He shall make a fine fool for the court when he is grown. Just as lively as a jester.”

Laughter followed like ripples spreading in a pond. Not vicious, but indulgent, the kind that stings worse than cruelty because it wears the mask of humor. You kept your face still, though your nails dug crescents into your palm.

“A lively spirit is better than a dull one, Princess,” you said smoothly, forcing a smile. The words dripped with courtesy, yet your throat burned as the chuckles continued. Rhaenyra’s lips curved in a victorious smirk before she swept away, Harwin Strong close at her side.

The hall did not dim. The music played on, the dancers spun, the courtiers drank. But to you, the chamber seemed airless, the laughter still echoing sharp as glass. You touched your belly again, steadying your breath.

Later, when the torches sputtered low and the guests spilled into chambers or courtyards, you slipped from your solar. The Red Keep was transformed at night: long corridors painted in moonlight, narrow windows spilling silver across the stone floors. The silence was not peace but vigilance; the stillness carried the weight of secrets. You moved swiftly, your cloak drawn tight against the lingering chill of spring air seeping through the walls.

The training yard lay quiet save for the rasp of steel. There, alone in the torchlight, was Ser Criston Cole. His breastplate caught the flicker of fire, casting bronze shadows over his face as he dragged whetstone against sword. He looked up at your approach, startled, then bowed low.

“Your Grace.”

You studied him for a long moment. His dark hair clung damp with sweat, his jaw tight, his eyes shadowed. Not merely tired, but haunted. Haunted by the weight of his confession months ago, when his shame spilled forth in the quiet of your solar—that he had broken his oath, that he had lain with Rhaenyra. He had begged for absolution then, like a penitent before the sept’s altar. You had given him only silence. Until now.

“Ser Criston,” you said softly, stepping closer. “I have need of you.”

His brow furrowed, suspicion flickering. “I am sworn already, Your Grace. To the King. To the Princess.”

At the mention of her, the steel rasped again beneath your ribs. You laid a hand on your belly, the gesture both weary and deliberate. “And what has that oath given you? Shame? Guilt that rots you from within?”

His jaw clenched. He looked away, toward the shadows pooling at the edge of the yard. “I broke my vows. I am unworthy of my cloak.”

“You are unworthy only if you cling to sin,” you replied, your voice low and even. “You confessed what you did, Ser Criston. You laid bare your weakness. That is the first step to salvation. And yet you remain bound to her. To the one who tempted you to betray your vows.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, dark and sharp. He said nothing, but the silence itself was answer enough.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “Swear yourself to me instead. To me, and to my children. You seek a life of duty? Here it is. I will give you salvation, Ser Criston. I will shield you from disgrace. In return, you will guard not her, but me. Aegon, and the babe I carry. For the rest of your life.”

The night air hung heavy. You could hear his breath quicken, see the war within him writ plain across his face. Honor battled shame, loyalty battled resentment. And at last, something broke.

He sank to one knee before you, sword laid across his palms, head bowed. “Then I am yours, Your Grace. Your shield. Your sword. Until my last breath.”

A slow, steady breath left your chest. You placed your hand upon his bowed head, the gesture almost priestly. “Then rise, Ser Criston. Rise in service not to sin, but to salvation.”

When he lifted his gaze again, the haunted look was gone, replaced by something fiercer. Devotion. Vengeance. A man unmoored, now bound anew.

And in that moment, you knew: you had taken from Rhaenyra not just her sworn shield, but her confessor, her comfort, her anchor. He was yours now. Entirely.