83

Chapter 83: Interlude: Cole INotes:

Sorry for the delay. I had to do some modelling work last week, and wasn't free to write. You have no idea just how effort goes into making even a single photo. I swear I will never take photographers for granted ever again.

And funny story about that, actually. An old friend of mine literally called me the other day to demand why I was on her Christmas advent calendar.

I countered by asking to know why she— a high school teacher—had a Christmas calendar filled with pretty boys all gazing out with smouldering eyes and flirty smiles.

She has yet to answer that question.

Well without further ado… onto the chapter!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

"Make no mistake, taking the White is as much of a life sentence as the Black once was. From the day you put on your white cloak, your life is forfeit. All that is left is your duty."

-Ser Bell the Beast, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard under King Rhaenyra I Targaryen

113 AC, Red Keep,

The knife blow would have taken Ser Gwayne Hightower in the eye had Ser Criston not caught the assailant's wrist. And his other hand immediately shot out, blocking the pommel of the Hightower knight's sword before he could fully draw the blade.

"Both of you, desist!" The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard commanded, though neither knight seemed inclined to listen. But thankfully, the other members of his sworn brotherhood proceeded to move in, two grabbing the arms of each fighter and pulling them apart from each other.

"This harlot bares steel on an anointed knight!" Ser Gwayne snarled, pulling against his bonds. "This cannot stand!"

"You're right. It can't." Ser Jessamyn snarled, angrily rearing forwards as well. "I shall not tolerate such insults on the dignity of my Prince!"

"Your Princess is—"

"Both of you still your tongues and sheath your blades!" Ser Criston ordered once more. "Now!"

"But—"

"If I must ask a third time, then I swear to the Seven that I shall drum you all out of the Kingsguard in dishonour!" The Lord Commander threatened, and that made both of the feuding knights pause.

A heartbeat later, and Ser Jessamyn returned her dagger to it's sheathe, and Ser Gwayne's sword returned to the scabbard an instant later.

"Shame on you." Ser Criston chided. "Shame on you all. We are members of the Kingsguard, sworn siblings to duty and honour. To brawl among ourselves like unruly children is not just shameful, but beneath us."

"She—"

"Silence, brother." The Lord Commander commanded, making a chopping motion with his hand. "I care not whom is in the right here, for you all were wrong the moment you drew live steel on another."

It was a truly unfortunate fact that not even the Kingsguard were able to escape politicisation. For all that the Kingsguard was supposed to stand for incorruptibility and impartially, the truth of the matter was that both Queen Alicent and Prince Rhaenyra's divisions had rent even this exalted institution.

Three members had fallen during the Trial of Seven, and while Rhaenyra may have won that Trial, she'd lost the ensuing vacancies. Ser Alys Royce and the Cargyll Twins were—if not loyalists—at the very least friendly towards the Crown Prince's agenda.

To refill the Kingsguard, white cloaks were offered to the winners of the joust, melee and archery competition held during the tourney celebrating the fifth anniversary of the royal couple in Lannisport. And here, Queen Alicent had won the fight.

Ser Adrian Redfort had won the melee. The man was Ser Jessamyn's younger brother, and had clearly learnt from his older sister when it came to fighting. Unsurprisingly, he was a staunch Black loyalist.

Ser Lorent Marbrand had won the archery tournament. The man was honestly a bit thick, and not the sharpest sword in the shed. He went along with the flow more oft than not, and in the family feud, would most likely side with whichever royal he was assigned to. Which was probably why Queen Alicent had named him Prince Aegon's sworn shield.

But by far the most problematic addition to the Kingsguard was the winner of the joust; Ser Gwayne Hightower. Queen Alicent's younger brother was rather opinionated, quick to take offence, slow to forgive. And he had quite the… traditionalist view, even among Greens. That would have been bearable, had the man not also seemed to have no concept of the idea that sometimes, it really was just best that you kept your damn mouth shut.

The addition of two Greens into the White Knights had caused the Kingsguard to see previously ignored divisions come to light. A situation best surmised by the division Ser Criston saw before himself.

Ser Jessamyn stood to his left, held back by Ser Steffon Darklyn and Ser Adrian. While Ser Gwayne stood on Criston's right, with Ser Lorent and Ser Willas Fell restraining his arms.

Three Blacks and three Greens, with Lord Commander Criston Cole in the middle, desperately trying to keep either faction from tearing each other apart.

Things had not been so bad when the Kingsguard had been split, with the Redfort siblings guarding Rhaenyra as Cole and the remaining four white knights stayed with the grand retinue of King Viserys on royal progress. But that progress was now done and complete. All Seven Kingdoms and more had been toured and visited. The King had returned to the capital, and all of the royal family once again lived under one roof.

Seven Hells but the Lord Commander was tired. Tired of all this infighting and bickering among the Kingsguard and the Royal family at large. He missed the days when he was a fresh recruit to the white knights. When neither Blacks nor Greens existed, and Lord Otto Hightower doted grandfatherly on young Prince Rhaenyra. Things were simpler then. Lord Commander Westerling had led a unified and meritorious Kingsguard, which saw no divisions or infighting.

The old man would have turned in his grave, had he seen the sorry lot Ser Criston was stuck commanding.

Oh it wasn't that any of them were poor fighters. Far from it. But neither Cargyll twin would have even thought of baring a blade on a fellow Whitecloak, and Ser Alys Royce was nothing if not thick-skinned. The woman had resisted years of insults from Ser Willas, whom repeatedly insinuated favouritism— sometimes of a sexual nature—over how Ser Alys got the job over better-qualified candidates.

"Brothers, and sister. I will remind you all for the umpteenth time; We are Kingsguard. We take take no sides and stand impartial between the Queen and Crown Prince." Ser Criston fervently beseeched. "As the Kingsguard we are the pinnacle of knighthood that thousands of boys— and girls— aspire towards. To argue among ourselves is beneath ourselves."

"Prince Aegon is the rightful heir." Ser Gwayne grumbled. "By the laws of Gods and Men, women do not get to inherit over men."

"Our duty is to the King, not to the Queen, and not to the Prince. It is our solemn charge and burden to serve and protect him, and his word is law. King Viserys has decreed that Prince Rhaenyra is his heir, and to gainsay his command is not just disobedience, but treason." The Lord Commander insisted.

"But the Gods—"

"We are the Kingsguard." Ser Jessamyn spoke simply, like a judge passing a sentence. Without even the slightest speck of doubt to mar her iron conviction. "If the Gods dare to defy or deny the orders of our King, then we will slay them where they stand."

Let it not be said that the lone woman in the Kingsguard brotherhood lacked balls. Ser Gwayne seemed perturbed at how easily Ser Jessamyn professed deicide, but the other five members of the White Knights seemed to thrum in pride at her words, backs straightening and grins spreading.

Still, at least the tension in the air had vanished thanks to Ser Jessamyn, and anyone potential conflict had been averted. Ser Criston took the opportunity to lay down disciplinary measures before either knight could protest.

A week of overnight shifts would make even the most stalwart knight blanch, but to their credit neither Kingsguard flinched at the notion.

———

Ser Criston believed that a commander should not order his troops to do anything that he himself wasn't willing to do. Hence he too was staying up with the two punished Kingsguard on watch.

Every night, as per security measures enacted since the time of Aegon the Conqueror, the drawbridge of Maegor's Holdfast would be raised, and all nonessential staff dismissed from the premises.

Apart from the sleeping royals, the only inhabitants of the castle-within-a-castle at this late hour was Queen Alicent's septa, a pair of nannies for the children, three serving girls, the Kingsguard and sixteen men-at-arms on night shift.

Ser Criston walked the halls of Maegor's Holdfast, noting that the men posted at each door were awake and attentive, keeping an eye out at all times for any potential threat. A pair by the chambers shared by the King and Queen, a pair by the nursery shared by the three younger royal children, and a pair by Prince Rhaenyra's quarters. The last pair were atop the battlements of the holdfast, and keeping a watchful eye on any movement outside in the greater Red Keep.

The remaining eight guards were sleeping, awaiting the hour of the wolf, when they would be roused and sent to relieve the men currently standing watch.

Ser Criston walked down a flight of stairs, and into the gatehouse of Maegor's Holdfast, where Ser Gwayne had first watch.

"How are you feeling, brother?" The Lord Commander asked, sitting down beside his fellow sworn sword.

"Sleepy." Ser Gwayne admitted. "They left this part out when they mentioned the duties involved in guarding the royal family."

"A thankless task, to be sure. But one no less important than any of our other duties."

"I would truly like to see any assassin penetrate this far into the Red Keep, and through so many layers of defences."

"It has happened, on occasion. One of your predecessors, Ser Jonquil Darke, was slain defending Prince Rhaenyra from an Dornish assassin not twenty yards away from where we sit right now." The Lord Commander recalled. "The Crown Prince was having a midnight stroll along the battlements, and was would have been shot by a poisoned arrow had the Serpent in Scarlet not shielded her with her own body."

"Yes, I have heard the tale. Was it true that the assassin was a Faceless Man?"

"We don't think so, though the man was most certainly no normal cutthroat. He could scale walls barehanded, and somehow outduel Ser Jonquil, though admittedly that might have been due to the poison on the arrow weakening her."

"She was an old woman, how hard could it have been to defeat her?"

"An old woman whom I never once defeated on the sparring yard. Underestimate her at your own peril."

"If you say—" Ser Gwayne's words died mid-sentence as he yawned, eyes drooping in exhaustion.

"Here, this helps." Ser Criston said, sliding over a hip flask.

"Wine?"

"Better."

Shrugging, the Hightower knight took a pull from the flask, eyes lighting up as he considered the drink.

"By the Seven, what concoction is this?"

"A Summer Islander drink called Coffee." The Lord Commander informed him. "Prince Rhaenyra is fond of it, and has gone to quite a few lengths in order to import the beans used to make it."

An understatement, that. Prince Rhaenyra had abused her rank and basically ordered the Dragonseeds to routinely bring back entire skycarts worth of coffee beans back for her consumption. It was a rather… inglorious use of dragons, but Ser Criston supposed that it was her prerogative to do so as Heir to the Iron Throne.

"It is a rather invigorating brew, I must give you that. Moreso than tea."

"Indeed it is, but it is a luxury few can enjoy. One cup of coffee costs more than a glass of good wine. Importing costs are murder these days."

"Can these beans not be grown on Westerosi soil?"

"Prince Rhaenyra has summoned the most experienced coffee farmers in the Summer Islands to perform a survey to try find local growing sites, but so far only Dorne and the southernmost stretches of the Reach have climates feasible to grow the beans. Her companies are now trying to puzzle out the practicalities of the matter."

There a sudden and sour silence.

"Ah, you mislike the Hand's companies?" Ser Criston asked the other knight.

After the War of Four Directions, the Rogare Bank of Lys had set up shop in Westeros. A dozen branches of the Royal Bank of Westeros had been opened across the breadth and spread of the Seven Kingdoms, with their headquarters in Harrenhal. Though it had admittedly taken quite a bit of time, a few favourable laws and even a couple of daring robberies before the wealthy highborn realised that mayhaps keeping all their gold in the impregnable vaults of Harrenhal instead of less secure local vaults was a good idea.

With the influx of gold into the bank, Rhaenyra then proceeded to summon the twenty most successful merchants in Westeros. Each of whom ran massively profitable companies and businesses, boasting wealth and assets that rivalled or even surpassed those of lesser lords. She then proceeded to give them even more capital.

Ser Criston had been on duty that day, and was present when Rhaenyra addressed the twenty merchants in Harrenhal.

———

113 AC, Royal Bank, Harrenhal

"The twenty of you are the most successful businessmen on the continent, and run massively profitable companies and businesses." The Hand of the King smiled. "I like that, I like that a lot. So I'm offering patronage and sponsorship to you all.

"Should you accept my offer, you would be able to reap many benefits. As much credit and capital as you desire, from the Royal Bank, at a competitive interest rate. You will receive tax breaks and stand exempt from a great many rules and regulations. Whatever you need, be it lands, ships, mining rights or trained personnel, I shall provide. And any laws you deem too restrictive or close-minded, you need but ask and… Well I make no promises on repeals, but you will find that I'm willing to be flexible on the subjects."

"Oh, and what's the catch?" One merchant asked.

"Simple. You will sell me the majority of your companies. A share of six-in-ten seems reasonable. Though I can and will impose greater… quality control and oversight over you all, by and large I shall endeavour not interfere in your work and leave the majority of the day-to-day running of the companies to you all. But like how the Iron Throne is overlord of all the lords paramount, I shall stand as the authority above you all. There shall be no infighting or corruption of any kind. Instead, we shall all pool resources to accomplish… greater goals."

"The Free Cities have dabbled in state-run companies, and they are all synonymous with corruption and inefficiency. How is this any different?" Another merchant asked.

"Simple, I care not about ideology or principle. Your one and only duty is to turn a profit. Should any of you fail in that duty, I shall sack you and replace you with more competent individuals. Should any of your companies go bankrupt, I shall not spend taxpayer coin to bail you out. Instead, your assets would be seized and liquidated, then divided up between the remaining companies."

"Hmm, I can get behind a deal like that." A third merchant mused. "How shall we split the profits then? Sixty-forty in your favour?"

"Indeed, but I'm willing to reinvest a third of my cut into the company, in order to facilitate greater growth and expansion, as well as fund research and development into new or improved products." The Hand of the King smiled. "Who's interested?"

The assent could only be described as unanimous.

———

113 AC, Red Keep

"It is beneath a royal of her stature to consort with merchants and tradesmen." Ser Gwayne protested. "It is uncouth, and demeans her in the eyes of Gods and men alike. A well-managed land, with productive smallfolk and good taxes is the only proper manner for nobility to earn coin. Not… this trade with merchants."

"Rhaenyra has multiplied the incomes of the crown tenfold ever since she began patronising companies." Ser Criston pointed out.

"Just because something is better, does not mean that it is right." The Hightower knight stiffly insisted.

The two men spent the rest of the night in silence, with an unspoken agreement to agree to disagree. Eventually, a couple of patrols and few hours later, Ser Criston sent Ser Gwayne to rouse the second shift to relieve them, and before long, Ser Jessamyn sat by his side in the guardhouse, sipping at her own mug of coffee.

"You sure you don't need to sleep?" The Redfort knight concernedly asked. "I can handle this watch by myself."

"I shall rest later, in the day." The Lord Commander replied. "Prince Rhaenyra is due to fly to Nordos anyway. I can catch up on my sleep in the skycart."

"Yeah, the flight is about eight hours." Ser Jessamyn admitted. "And we knights are useless up there."

The lone woman in the Kingsguard chuckled.

"Mighty warriors though we may be, no amount of training can see us grow wings." She quipped, sipping at her coffee.

"We serve for life, sister. Appreciate whatever breaks we can get."

"I hear you. Though we'll be safe up in the air, Nordos is unfamiliar territory. We'll have to double our guard while we're on their lands."

Ser Criston hummed in agreement.

"We'll have plenty of backup for this trip, at least." The Lord Commander nodded.

"Yeah, remind me who's coming again?" Ser Jessamyn asked. "You, me, Adrian and Bell. The rest?"

Three members of the Kingsguard. Arguably four, if one counted Bell. Prince Daemon's secondborn had squired under most of the Kingsguard for years, becoming a prodigiously strong and skilled warrior capable of besting veteran knights twice her age with ease. With the depletion of their order after the Trial of Seven, Bell Fyre had picked up the slack, aiding them tirelessly in their duties. It was to the point where most of the Kingsguard considered Bell an honorary member, and it was well known that she was slated to join their order whenever another vacancy opened.

Tellingly, Queen Alicent didn't bother put up even a token resistance to the idea, clearly seeing it as a lost cause from the get-go.

"Laena, Shaeterys, Rhaegar, Daenys and Haegon."

"That's quite the lineup." Ser Jessamyn muttered impressedly.

An understatement, that. Vhagar and Silverwing brought enough firepower to annihilate a small city. Bell provided a solid shield, while Shaeterys was a swift-footed slayer. Rhaegar and Daenys brought a solid backline of magic and had the brains to counter anything unexpected the New North could throw at them. And if everything went to the dogs, Haegon could keep them in the fight with his healing.

But something nagged at Ser Criston. Why did he keep feeling like he forgot something? Another dragon and it's rider, one to do some covert sneaking and reconnaissance in the background.

"Will Daena be there?" Ser Jessamyn asked.

"Ah, I'd forgotten." Ser Criston nodded, even though he couldn't help but feel that he was thinking of a different Dragonseed. "Daena and her band are to tour Naeros with a few local guides. Rhaenyra has tasked them to see if any the countries down south are open to maintaining friendly relations with us."

"There are three big ones, if I recall correctly, and over a thousand lesser tribes and clans." Ser Jessamyn frowned, ticking them off on her fingers. "The Serpent People in the north."

"By far the strongest of the three, militarily speaking. Particularly violent barbarians, whom practise ritualised human sacrifice. They're rumoured to have a certain sense of honour though."

"The Star Peoples in the middle of the continent."

"Supposedly the most enlightened and well-learned of the three, but also the weakest, given their proximity to the Serpent People."

"The Llama People in the south."

"The New North claims that they're by far the most friendly and civilised of the three."

"And over a thousand smaller lesser clans and tribes."

"Most use stone, with only a handful apart from the big three wielding bronze. And reports from Lord Corlys claim that while the New North may use iron, but lacks any steel."

"So even discounting our dragons, they have nothing that can seriously threaten us."

"Yes, but that's still no reason to let our guards down. A knife can kill, be one of stone or Valyrian steel."

"Of course."

There was a brief bit of contemplative silence, as the conversation lulled.

"Do… do you ever feel lonely?" Ser Criston suddenly asked, turning to face his sworn sister.

"In what sense?"

"You're the only woman in the Kingsguard now."

"Yeah, I'll admit that I get lonely from time to time. Ser Jonquil was great. Man I miss that cantankerous old woman. I honestly expected her to outlast us all."

"Beware an old man, in a profession where men die young." Ser Criston quoted.

There was a hum of agreement.

"Pity, her death."

"There is no shame in dying for another."

"Still doesn't make it any less of a pity."

The Lord Commander paused, then conceded the point with an incline of his head.

"True that, I suppose. And what of Ser Alys?" He asked.

"I knew her from the Vale, before everything." Ser Jessamyn fondly recalled. "We used to be sparring partners. Joked that we'd only marry men whom could beat us in the training yard. But for all that… we were hardly close."

"Is that so? I would think that as two friends, being bound together in sworn duty should have strengthened such a bond."

"In a way, it did. But still, we were hardly ever on duty together." She replied. "It was always her on the Prince, me on the Queen. Or vice versa. Then the whole progress happened, and we didn't see each other for months on end."

"I suppose that makes sense."

Ser Jessamyn hummed in agreement, and the two knights spent the next five minutes in comfortable quiet, with only the sipping of their coffee to break the silence.

"We shared a bed, once or twice, you know." The Redfort knight suddenly said.

"Uh, what?" Ser Criston blinked at the non-sequitor.

"Ser Alys and I." Ser Jessamyn admitted. "We fucked a couple of times."

"Together?" The Lord Commander muttered, turning away to avoid his blush being seen. "Well I suppose as long as you were discreet about it…"

"It won't compromise my duty, don't worry about it." Ser Jessamyn reassured him. "It was just a physical thing. There was no love or anything between her and I."

Criston blinked.

"I beg your pardon, but you've lost me. What happened to the man?"

There was a long and baleful pause as Ser Jessamyn stared back in confusion at Criston.

"There was no man involved."

"But, I thought you two had bedded someone together?"

"Seven Hells, we bedded each other!"

"But, you're both women!"

There was yet another long and disbelieving pause as Ser Jessamyn stared at Criston like he'd grown another head. The Redfort knight's mouth opened and then closed half a dozen times in short succession as she clearly contemplated what to say.

"What do you know of buggery?" She finally asked.

"Huh?"

"Pillow-biters? Sword-swallowers? Jousters? Laenor's preference?" The Redfort knight listed off. "Any of those ring a bell?"

"Um, I suppose."

Ser Criston was a man from the Stormlands, from the Marchers. His old septon had filled the heads of every boy in the holdfast on all the vile devilries the Dornish would inflict upon them should they be captured in battle.

"Yeah, we women have a version of that among ourselves."

There was a long beat as Ser Criston tried to imagine how that would work between two women before giving it up as a lost cause. He couldn't picture the image at all.

"So what about you?" Ser Jessamyn asked.

"Huh?" Ser Criston blinked.

"Any pretty maidens you bedded?"

"Well… that's… um…" The Lord Commander stammered. "I'm a Kingsguard. My vows include one of chastity."

Silence.

"Wait, don't tell me you haven't yet lost your maidenhead." Ser Jessamyn incredulously asked.

"Um, I…"

"Gods be good man, you're nearly thirty-two!"

"Can we please change the topic?" Ser Criston frantically asked.

———

She didn't change the topic.

The Kingsguard had a tradition of rising at the crack of dawn, before the Royal family woke, in order to discuss the day's assignments. But alas this solemn and serious affair was disrupted when Ser Jessamyn began the meeting by informing the rest of their sworn brotherhood on Criston's level of intimacy— or more accurately the lack thereof— with a woman.

And however bad it had been when it was just the two of them, it was worse when every single member of the Kingsguard began earnestly debating the best way for their Lord Commander to lose his maidenhead.

"The Red Lantern? You cannot be serious!" Ser Adrian hissed, wringing his hands. "The price aside, Sylvie works there! She'll tell her daughters, and before you know it, half the castle would find out that the Lord Commander was fool enough to visit the place."

"And where else? The House of Kisses? I know it's cheap, but good luck finding a good lay there." Ser Lorent scoffed back. "The Lord Commander needs someone to show him a good time, not just spray and pay."

The two new recruits was one thing, but Ser Criston did not expect the madness to have spread to the older hands as well.

"I'm thinking some young maiden, probably a sweet and pure girl that's really kind. Best person to lose one's maidenhead to." Ser Steffon insisted. "Someone whom wouldn't judge a two-and-thirty year old man for being a virgin."

"No, no, no. You want purity in a daughter, not a woman. Now, I'm telling you, an older woman, with teats the size of melons and the ability to outfuck twenty men. Now that's quality and a good lay, right there." Ser Willas countered.

Even Ser Jessamyn and Ser Gwayne, whom normally butted heads like Marchers and Dornish, were intently pouring over their shift schedules to determine when was the best time for one of their brotherhood to sneak Ser Criston out of the castle and into the Street of Silk.

"We could do it in two months, after the new year." Ser Gwayne suggested. "He has the whole night off."

"No, no, no. Too long." Ser Jessamyn denied. "He's still a virgin. Quite frankly, he won't last the whole night. We just need to slip Ser Criston out for an hour or two. That's more than enough time to do the deed."

"No, for the last time no! I'm not interested in bedding a woman!" The Lord Commander shouted.

"You sit down and shut up! This is a matter of gravest importance!" All six of them shouted back.

The Lord Commander was actually rather disturbed at how quickly the rest of the White knights stopped fighting, as both Blacks and Greens set aside their differences and began outright cooperating. All in order to get him laid.

It was an amazing display of bipartisanship for the worst possible reason.

———

By some miracle, Ser Criston managed to corral the Kingsguard into some semblance of order and have them depart to their assigned duties.

There was history in the making this morn, and such demanded the appropriate pomp and ceremony.

King Viserys sat the Iron Throne, with Ser Criston standing at the foot of the steel ziggurat to the King's right while Queen Alicent stood to his left, her children fanning out being her in a row.

The remaining six white knights stood in a row, atop the raised dais upon which the Iron Throne rested.

An additional two rows of guardsmen stood at attention, flanking the red carpet which cut straight through the throne room like a sword, splitting the court like a sea.

"Announcing her grace, Prince Rhaenyra Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and Hand of the King." The herald announced, and the doors opened, revealing the most beautiful woman that Ser Criston ever knew.

Nearly seventeen, Rhaenyra was a maid in the prime of her youth and splendour. Her eyes shone like indigo gemstones and her hair seemed spun from electrum.

The Crown Prince was a known fashion icon and trendsetter, with dresses in the styles and cuts she wore often exploding in popularity even as maidens across the realm arranged their hair in imitation of the Prince of Dragonstone's unique and eye-catching hairstyles.

At a glance, it was admittedly difficult to tell if Rhaenyra was male or female today, for the Hand of the King had braided her hair such that it appeared far shorter than it actually was, tying the two pigtails up above her head, such that the electrum hair looked almost like a crown.

Rhaenyra's clothes were equally androgynous, hiding her curves while making her look even more lithe and slender than she already was.

The Crown Prince wore long black wool trousers that stretched from ankle to waist, fastened by a black leather belt with brass buckles. Above, Rhaenyra had donned an elegantly designed brigandine, with a black wool exterior. The straps on the side bore gilded buckles, and the shoulders dripped with gold tassels. A gold braid coiled itself around her left arm, sewn onto the fabric. A pair of snug-fitting leather boots, polished to a mirror sheen, covered her feet, while elegant white gloves covered her hands.

A rigid black cap, made of polished black leather and embroidered with plenty of gold thread, sat atop her crown-braid, completing the look.

With Dark Sister by her side, Rhaenyra looked every part the young military officer, ready to either dance the night away in a ballroom or run a campaign from a war tent.

A beautiful boy, or a handsome girl? She could have been either or both. And somehow that made her even more beautiful and appealing. So captivating was Rhaenyra, that both men and women were attracted to her.

And as her indigo gaze, eyes shining like brilliant jewels, swept over him, Criston felt himself smile as his heart fluttered and his breath hitched in his throat. He wasn't alone, the entire court seemed to turn to face the Crown Prince like sunflowers towards the sun, more than one lord or lady sighing longingly at her beauty.

It was days like this that made suffering through all the nonsense his fellow white knights got up to worth it. To be in the presence of someone as radiant and captivating as Rhaenyra Targaryen was a reward in itself. There was a reason why Criston had always assigned himself the duty of guarding the Prince of Dragonstone as much as possible.

The Heir to the Iron Throne stepped up the dais and knelt smoothly before her father.

"My King, I serve at your pleasure." She spoke softly, and yet every single person in the grand throne room heard her melodious voice clearly.

Ser Criston tuned out the rest of the admittedly boring ceremony. King Viserys reiterated the announcement of the discovery of new lands across the Sunset Sea, two continents of Nordos and Naeros, to great cheers and enthusiastic applause. He then revealed that his intent to swear vows of friendship and brotherhood with King Eddard Stark of the Kingdom of New North.

The latter announcement garnered a distinctly less raucous response, however. It was the prevailing view among quite a few lords and ladies—Greens mostly, but there were a few Blacks as well— that the lands across the Sunset Sea were ripe for the taking. Apart from the Kingdom of New North, most of Nordos and Naeros was made up of tribes using stone tools, and even the three great nations of the southern continent had only bronze at their disposal.

And none of them had any significant navy or war fleets.

Steel-clad Westerosi men-at-arms could easily sweep through such barbarian hordes, clearing them out such that their lands could be put to more… productive use. And with dragons behind the knights, conquest of the Kingdom of New North, preeminent power across the Sunset Sea was more than feasible.

However, King Viserys had made his staunch opposition to such expansionism clear, and Rhaenyra had gone a step further to declare that anyone whom dared to violate his decree and invade either Nordos or Naeros would see themselves executed for treason and their entire families cast down from nobility.

It was rumoured, however, that Otto Hightower had been using the promise of a potential conquest to the west as a means of getting more people to back Aegon's claim.

Regardless, King Viserys used a ceremonial quill to sign a declaration of friendship and peaceful coexistence with the Kingdom of New North, before rolling up the document and handing it to his kneeling daughter.

"The future of our two nations, now rests firmly on your shoulders." He proclaimed. A tad dramatically mayhaps, but much of the assembled royal court looked pleased by his actions.

"On my honour as your Hand, I swear I shall not fail in this duty." The Prince of Dragonstone replied, rising to her feet with the peace treaty in her hands.

———

113 AC, Wolftown, Nordos

For all of their concerns, the people of the New North were nothing if not hospitable.

The royal retinue spent much of the first day on Nordosi shores as essentially high-profile tourists. The youngest child of King Eddard, Princess Alanna, showed them all around the sights. She jabbered on excitedly in that Nordosi dialect of the Old Tongue, Daenys eventually growing tired of having to constantly translate and just outright slapping a translation spell onto the girl.

Vahalla Mausoleum, where the remains of every Stark and direwolf was interred after death, alongside the bodies of fallen heroes and champions of the New North. Vanaheim Forest, private grounds of the royal family, wherein the wild Direwolf pack roamed and hunted and bred with minimal human interaction.

Asgard Citadel, a seamless combination of fortress, courthouse and government building. Built first by the Starks as a stronghold to withstand the native hordes, but later revamped to serve as the seat of executive, legislative and judiciary power in the Kingdom of New North.

They toured all these sights, and more, before they returned to Folkvangr castle for the night.

It was strange, Ser Criston felt, that the official throne of the nation was separate from the royal residence. Folkvangr was sufficiently defensible, he supposed, but it was clearly built more for comfort than function.

He'd asked Princess Alanna about the situation, but she'd only given inconclusive answers. Just another oddity in a truly odd Kingdom, Ser Criston supposed.

Like how a beautiful princess saw no cause for concern, striding the streets without even a single bodyguard by her side as though that were not rank bloody madness. Naively believing that there weren't hundreds of vagrants and street rats just lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce on the well-dressed highborn lady, raping her bloody before stealing all her coin and jewellery.

Even Queen Alysanne, beloved by all as she was, never went anywhere without at least Ser Jonquil at her side. And even then she had more than her fair share of close calls with assassins and robbers.

Regardless, at the end of the first day, the Westerosi were invited to dine with King Eddard and his family. All of the Westerosi wore translation spells, bound onto amulets, so the language barrier was nonexistent.

Dinner was a pleasant enough affair, Ser Criston supposed. There were many strange foods, but Rhaenyra tucked into them with gusto, as though she'd eaten them all her life. That helped assuage fears among the other members of their delegation on the edibility of the food.

The meal was only disrupted halfway, when the King's son-in-law dragged a Dragonseed into the room. A grey-haired boy whom had apparently been caught sneaking around.

"Your forgettability is a nice gimmick." Magnus smirked. "But one that doesn't work on me."

"I was just lost!" The boy— Oh, it was Erik. Yes, Erik Fyre!— protested. "You guys forgot to call me down for dinner, honest."

"He's lying." Magnus protested. "My king, I found him outside of your solar, trying to gain entry."

"I'm not lying!"

"Yes, you are." Magnus replied. "I'm a truthteller. I can smell lies."

Was he? Ser Criston's knowledge of magic was essentially nonexistent, so he genuinely didn't know if it was possible to know if magically someone was lying. However, from the looks of Rhaegar and Daenys, he surmised that they at least believed such an idea plausible.

"No, we really forgot to call him down for dinner." Rhaenyra interjected, before the accusations could go any further. "Is it unbelievable that he really got lost, in such an unfamiliar place?"

"Is she lying?" King Eddard sternly asked, without even a mote of his previous merriment. Ser Criston was somewhat perturbed by the change in demeanour.

Magnus was silent for a long beat, staring at the Prince of Dragonstone.

"I can't tell." He finally admitted. "She's got no tells."

"I'm telling the truth." Rhaenyra smiled. "We really did forget to call Erik down. He's very forgettable, after all." 

There was a long and tense pause, before King Eddard waved at his son-in-law in a placating manner. Magnus grimaced, clearly not liking the order, but he still obediently released Erik from the chokehold.

"Fine, but there won't be a second time." He growled out, retuning to his seat with a scowl.

A heartbeat later, drinks were served, and all the tension previously in the room was forgotten.

Ser Criston himself found that he could not take his eyes off of Rhaenyra, as her face lit up in girlish glee at the drink, happily chugging down the entire cup with a lack of decorum that perplexingly seemed charming instead of rude. Her happy sigh, at the very end, was a beautiful sound that musicians around the world would weep at their inability to reproduce.

"Well, I see someone likes hot cocoa." King Eddard smiled indulgently.

"If you'd like, we can gift you with crates of cocoa to take back home." Queen Sophia offered.

"Are you trying to bribe me?" Rhaenyra asked with mock scandalousness.

"No, we are not trying to bribe you." King Eddard quipped. "We are succeeding at bribing you."

There was a long beat of silence before Rhaenyra conceded the point with a nod.

"Yeah, fair enough." She sheepishly admitted, to general laughter.

———

The second day of their visit saw the official business be conducted.

The signing of the peace treaty was to be held in the Sacred Valley, where two thousand years ago, King Brandon the Shipwright had signed the Declaration of Reconciliation with the native tribes of Nordos. Ending their long and bloody conflict and pooling their resources and knowledge in order to survive the winter.

While the city of Wolftown had sprung up around this historic place, until it had been enveloped completely by all sides, this beautiful valley of streams, rolling hills and small groves was looked after by the Green Men. Keeping it perfectly preserved the way it was during the historic signing.

The two parties entered from the opposite ends of the valley. With House Targaryen from the west, and House Stark from the east, meeting in the middle, near an old and withered Weirwood heart tree.

And underneath the red canopy of the tall tree, stood a weathered old table. Carved from granite, the stone had supposedly come from the same quarry as Winterfell's old keep, and had been brought all the way across the Sunset Sea by Brandon the Shipwright.

The signing of the peace treaty was a quick affair. Rhaenyra spread the document out on the table, and turned it around for the King-in-the-New-North. He perused the terms quickly, before using a quill to sign his name on the document.

With King Eddard and King Viserys' signatures on the parchment, the peace treaty between their two nations had been formally ratified.

Then, to their surprise, King Eddard produced a long pipe, before stuffing it with leaves. He struck a match and lit the pipe, taking a long draw from it before offering it to Rhaenyra.

Smoking was not unheard of in Westeros, with sourleaf being the most common vice of choice. Rhaenyra in particular, had made it clear she despised any form of smoking, calling it a 'filthy habit' and mentioning that she loathed the smell. But to her credit the Crown Prince did not hesitate, clearly seeing peace as more important than her own personal objections.

She took a long draw and spat out the smoke smoothly, without any hint of discomfort. There was some audible disappointment among the onlookers, with several of them exchanging coin. Clearly some of the Nordosi had been placing bets on whether Rhaenyra would cough or choke on the smoke.

"You alright?" Ser Criston asked, taking the first opportunity he could to privately talk to Rhaenyra as they walked back to the city. "I know how much you despise smoking."

"I'm fine." The Crown Prince replied. "I managed to use wind magic to fake the whole thing. None of the smoke actually touched my lungs. Never thought that I'd ever have to use this spell, but hey, it pays to be prepared."

The Lord Commander nodded, satisfied at her explanation. As expected, Rhaenyra was clever, and always had an out for every scenario she encountered. It was a truly admirable degree of preparedness that Ser Criston just couldn't help but appreciate. It made his life as her bodyguard just so much easier.

———

The rest of the night was spent in a raucous celebration, with much ale and food to celebrate.

Daenys drank an entire mug of vodka and promptly tried to snog Rhaegar, before passing out on her feet and keeling over like a sack of apples.

Rhaegar and Magnus both got drunk and started skinchanging into animals, making them do all sorts of tricks in a strange competition to one-up the other. A contest Magnus eventually won, by making ten ravens stand side-by-side and chorus out the New North's national anthem. Only to find King Eddard and Princess Alanna triumphantly proclaiming him a Tenskins.

The look on the boy's face could only be described as pure and complete horror, and he immediately dashed off like all the hounds of the Seven Hells were nipping at his boots.

Shaeterys accepted the offers to dance by a few Nordosi girls, but soon found himself having to run away when he realised that their idea of dancing involved a lot more… physical contact than he anticipated. Ser Criston's squire was reduced to cowering behind his older sister, Bell sweeping away the giggling girls and warning them off of her brother.

Haegon was reciting prayers and trying to convert the people, but the only audience he found was King Eddard's young grandson Mark and a couple of direwolves, whom seemed to think that Haegon's preaching was some sort of interpretive dance.

Regardless, after he'd eaten his fill, the Lord Commander signalled Bell and the two of them went to relieve the Redforts, whom had the first shift.

"You two get some food. We'll stand guard behind the Prince now." He told them both.

"Thanks, I'm famished." Ser Adrian said. "Any recommendations?"

"The mushroom soup is good. Very earthy." He replied. "And for the love of your white cloak, don't accept any invitation to 'dance'." 

"Eh don't worry, I'll keep my brother in line." Ser Jessamyn chuckled, patting her brother on the back.

The two white knight disappeared off into the crowd, and the Lord Commander resumed his favourite duty; bodyguarding the Crown Prince.

Rhaenyra was engaged in an animated conversation with Princess Alanna, the two of them chatting about Winterfell.

"A stout keep. Old, but that has a charm in and of itself." Rhaenyra radiantly smiled. "Though I've admittedly never stayed for long. My duties as Heir to the Iron Throne keep me too busy."

"Understandable. I would like to visit one day, you know." Princess Alanna sighed.

"Why not?" Rhaenyra giggled. "You could do what no member of your branch of the family has done in two thousand years; get married before the heart tree of Winterfell."

There was a long pause as Princess Alanna froze, contemplating the idea in her head.

"That actually sounds quite good." She muttered, cupping her chin in thought. "I actually like that idea, you know. Thank you for the suggestion."

The two girls laughed most melodiously.

"And what about you?" Princess Alanna asked.

"I beg your pardon?" Rhaenyra replied.

"How are you going to get married?"

The word 'married' was as a gut punch to Ser Criston. He'd forgotten that as Crown Prince, Rhaenyra would be expected to marry and birth children to inherit the Iron Throne after her.

"In the Great Sept of Aemma, before the Seven. I'm not the biggest believer, but needs must, you know." Rhaenyra sighed.

"I understand perfectly. To who?"

For one glorious moment, Ser Criston imagined himself standing beside Rhaenyra before the altars in the Great Sept, speaking the vows of holy matrimony.

"Laenor Velaryon. We'll marry at the start of next year, in a couple of months from now."

That glorious moment died an ugly death, as Ser Criston came crashing back to earth. Stupid, stupid. He already knew that Rhaenyra was betrothed to Laenor. His heart clenched at the very thought of them together.

It was like some horrible scaly demon had burst to life in his chest, screaming and wailing in burning rage and denial.

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard tuned out the rest of the conversation, unable to bear hearing another man's name on the lips of his love. He didn't remember much of what happened next, but before he knew it, he had a tankard of vodka in his hands, and a heartbeat later it was empty.

In his drunken haze, Ser Criston found a pretty girl, and accepted her offer to dance.

He woke up the next morning in the stables, spent and sore, with the worst and most horrible throbbing in his head. But none of that dulled the demon in his heart. It remained unsated, and ever-hungry for more.

Notes:

Phew, that was a tough cookie to write.

I was trying to convey a certain stalker-esque vibe with Criston Cole. Like the rabid fans whom are madly in love with J-pop idols and do all sorts of horrible things in their obsession. I really struggled with this, and would like some feedback on how to improve.

Also can I get some suggestions for what I should call Rhae's new conglomerate? Preferably one that has a funny acronym like NTR, WTF, OMG etc…