87
Chapter 87: Chapter 54/Interlude: SuccessionNotes:
I fucking hate writer's block.
One month. How the fuck did it take an entire month to write one freaking chapter?!
…
…
Anywho, this is the first time I'm alternating between a first and third person perspective. It was the only way I could make this work.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"You will be my squire and apprentice. You will sharpen my sword and polish my armour, saddle my horse and fetch my meals. I will train you in everything I know, from tactics to the sword. And one day, you will challenge me for my white cloak. You will either triumph and replace me on the Kingsguard. Or, I will kill you, and find myself another apprentice to replace you."
—Lord Commander Bell the Beast, starting the tradition of Kingsguard too old or weak to serve being slain in single combat by their replacements
113 AC, Red Keep
"Name your price." Ser Criston Cole answered.
"Oh, it's nothing much." Larys Strong tittered. "We just want you to kill—
———
114 AC, Tourney Grounds, King's Landing
Laenor Velaryon was dead before he even hit the ground.
Ser Criston had done as requested.
He felt anticipation bubble up in his chest, like a tide rising to flood the lands. At long last, Rhaenyra would be his. She would love him and only him, look at him wantonly in bed and bear him many beautiful children.
He could already picture it.
A nice cottage in the southern mountains of Naeros. Far away from any civilisation and anyone that knew them. They would grow wine and raise horses. Laugh as their three children grew up in the sun, enjoying a golden land of peace of plenty.
———
I could not save Laenor.
Resurrection magic was very tricky business, even on the best of times. And I got the distinct feeling that if I tried to bring Laenor back from the dead, I'd wind up with a result that looked a lot more like Beric Dondarrion or Lady Stoneheart than Jon Snow.
But the thing about magic, you see, was that it was a trick of perspective.
I could not fly, but I could nullify gravity and use telekinesis to move myself in the air.
I could not teleport, but I could warp distance and dramatically shorten the distance between two points from yards down to the millimetres.
And while I could not perform resurrection, I could rewind time on a subject, bringing them back to life as a side effect.
I did none of that for my husband.
Our wedding was to be the single most high-profile event in a decade. Hundreds of highborn had shown up for the ceremony, perhaps even thousands. And however many nobles were in attendance, the smallfolk outnumbered them a hundredfold.
There were easily two thousand people in the crowds today, seated on the great grandstands surrounding the tiltyard.
And generally speaking, I kept the fact that I was a sorcerer under wraps. I had to, when the Faith could easily whip up a zealous horde bearing pitchforks and torches to burn me at the stake.
Oh sure, the Kingsguard and the upper echelons of both the Blacks and Greens were well aware of my powers, but I'd been rather careful in concealing my traces and hiding the evidence. Any accusation of witchcraft by the Greens would have been taken as a partisan attack and not taken seriously by the general public. A fringe and deranged conspiracy theory in the leagues of QAnon or Pizzagate.
Were there only two dozen or even two hundred people in attendance, I might've just damned the consequences and rewound time anyway, but two thousand? Even with all the Dragonseeds present, there was absolutely no way we could wipe the memories of every single person here today. Which meant that I could not break our fragile masquerade.
Even if we somehow pass my husband's death off, by the time we rushed the corpse into a secure location for resuscitation, I would have run out of time anyway.
I could only turn back five minutes.
A flare of magic burned beside me, drawing my attention back to the people within the royal box.
Laena Velaryon had turned into a monster, a beast that was half man, half dragon. Recognisable solely by the teal dress she wore. Her pupils had turned slit-like, and her eyes glowed with eldritch yellow light. Her skin were now scales with veins of burning magma beneath. Her teeth turned into razor-sharp talons and fingers now twisted into needle-like claws.
Rage blazed around her entire draconic form, somehow visible. It tainted the surrounding a fiery red, wafting in the air like a heat haze.
My girlfriend let out a shrieking cry of rage and grief, wooden planks shattering beneath her feet as her legs bent and she lunged straight towards Ser Criston, moving so fast her slipstream buffetted everyone in the royal box.
Magic spooled straight out of my palm. A lasso of oily black shadow shot out, spinning around my girlfriend's neck before snapping tight, halting Laena before she could leap straight out of the royal box.
I flicked my other hand, telekinesis wrapping around the monster my girlfriend had mutated into and pulling her backwards.
She somehow turned around in midair and rammed her shoulder into me, throwing me backwards into the back wall of the royal box so hard I made a crater in the wood. I screamed in pain as I felt my spine snap like a twig from the impact.
A heartbeat later and I rewound time on myself, my spine immediately reforming as I restored my body to what it had been three seconds ago.
Mind lost to rage, Laena Velaryon struck out at me with a sinewy claw.
Acceleration and reflex booster spells spinning up around myself, I leapt to my feet in a tenth of a second. Concentrating reinforcement spells into my right hand, so much so that it appeared as though red scales had formed around my hand, I caught Laena's claw before it could punch straight through my heart.
Scorching wind laced with burning motes of magic diffused through the Royal Box from the impact, my family and Kingsguard screaming in belated response to the tussles between my girlfriend and I.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Daenys move, wand and glass candle in hand. I immediately let the rest of the world fall to the wayside, confident that my cousin would handle the coverup.
Screeching like a banshee, Laena's struck out with her other claw, but I reconfigured the reinforcement spells around my hand into a different spell and slashed out.
Laena's left arm fell onto the ground, bleeding boiling blood.
Roaring in rage and pain, my girlfriend reeled backwards and my left arm mercilessly shot out, seizing the taller girl by the throat and effortlessly lifting her off of her feet. A twist of will later and I rewound time on Laena.
Scales shot back into her skin. Fangs returned to regular teeth. Her severed arm flew backwards and reattached itself to her stump, all the blood flowing back like an explosion in reverse. The glow behind her eyes faded as her rage evaporated.
"Rhae, what—" My girlfriend began, blinking in surprise at her surroundings. I'd deliberately not preserved her memory when rewinding time on her. As far as she knew, Laenor and Cole had just lined up on either end of the tiltyard.
She never got to finish the sentence, for Daenys rapped Laena atop the head, and my girlfriend collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
———
This perfect vision was broken when Ser Criston was brutally thrown off of his destrier by a blow that struck him in the back. Tumbling head-over-heels across the soft sandy ground, the Lord Commander somehow managed to get his feet under himself and spring back to his feet.
Shaeterys' destrier wheeled around, the boy who had once been Ser Criston's throwing aside a broken tourney lance. The white stallion pawed the ground in anticipation as the Lord Arryn drew his sword, Valyrian steel leaving the scabbard with a smooth hiss.
A slender and almost delicate blade whose silver hilt was made from a sapphire-eyed falcon and dragon standing back-to-back, their spread wings forming the crossguard of the sword while the dragon's tail curled down around the knurled handle to form a grip for the fingers, ending in a pommel which was a great moonstone.
Peregrine, the blade was called. The very first Valyrian steel sword forged from scratch after the Doom of Valyria. A wedding gift by Rhaenyra to House Arryn.
Shaeterys bared the sword at Ser Criston, and with a shout charged straight at the Lord Commander. Ser Criston drew his own sword in response, levelling it at the charging horseman.
Only for him to notice a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.
The Lord Commander immediately threw himself to the side, as his own horse reared up and tried to kick him in the back.
And then Shaeterys was right on top of him, Peregrine coming down in a decapitating strike.
Ser Criston was barely able to parry the blow, but his parry was awkward, and Valyrian steel cleaved straight through the Kingsguard's sword like it was cheap tin.
The Lord Commander's horse attempted to kick him once more, but Ser Criston easily dodged the blow, ramming his broken sword straight into his mount's neck. There was a beat, before the horse collapsed, light leaving the animal's eyes as Rhaegar skinchanged out of the horse.
Unfortunately, Shaeterys had wheeled around once more, and was preparing to charge again.
As the horseman charged once more, Ser Criston raised his tourney shield and steeled himself as five hundreds of muscle and armour descended on him. Forty feet… thirty feet… twenty… fifteen…
When Shaeterys was a mere ten feet away— so close that Ser Criston could see the whites of the horse's eyes— the Lord Commander reached behind his back and drew his dirk, throwing it in one smooth movement.
The razor-sharp knife struck true, plunging hilt-deep into the mount's left eye, slaying it instantly.
The horse fell, and Shaeterys fell with it, both mount and rider crashing onto the sandy ground so hard a great plume of sand and dust was throw into the air, spiralling lazily in the breeze.
Unfortunately, the boy must have foreseen the death of his horse, for he'd leapt off his mount an instant before it crashed onto the ground and landed on his feet with almost catlike grace.
Ser Criston swung his tourney shield, aiming to smash it into his former squire's head, but somehow the boy dodged the blow.
Sliding under his shield, Shaeterys backflipped back to his feet in an instant, Peregrine in hand.
By some miracle, Ser Criston was able to turn around fast enough and catch Shaeterys' wrist before he could bring the sword down.
Even as Ser Criston swung his shield back around, Shaeterys dropped Peregrine, the sword seeming to fall in slow-motion before it was caught in reverse-grip by the boy's left hand. A heartbeat later, the blade shone blinding white as the boy layered magic onto the enchanted steel.
Both of them struck at the same time. Ser Criston's shield coming down from above even as Peregrine came up from below.
The world seemed to slow as the two of them closed, and Ser Criston saw his death coming.
The rim of his shield would bash Shaeterys in his head, knocking him down, but doing little else. Peregrine would take Ser Criston in the side, and Valyrian steel would cleave straight through his plate like it was paper, spilling his guts all across the tourney grounds.
But the promised death never came, for three things happened in quick succession.
First: A pair of gauntleted hands caught the rim of Ser Criston's shield before it could bash Shaeterys, wrenching it free from him.
Second: Another Valyrian steel sword was thrust into the ground an inch away from Ser Criston's side, blocking Peregrine before it could gut the Lord Commander.
Third: Several hands wrapped around both duellists and pulled them both apart.
Ser Criston was thrown to the ground none too gently, and as he stirred, found the points of five blades levelled at him. The five white knights surrounding him with faces that might well have been carved from unyielding stone.
———
Rhaegar rose from where he was kneeling beside Laenor's body.
"He's dead!" The Dragonseed announced, the crowd crying out in response. In shock, pain or horror, I could not tell.
Beside me, I saw Alicent's fingers tighten on her chair's armrests so hard her knuckles were white even as Viserys let out a rattling breath. My father slumped in his chair, looking twenty years older.
Daenys had taken Laena and the kids to the sickbay, and I'd sent the Kingsguard down to arrest their Lord Commander, so it was just the three of us in the royal box.
I drummed my fingers, magic sparking across my hands involuntarily. Wisps of flames and arcs of electricity dancing around my fingers.
Laenor and I were barely anything more than acquaintances. For all that I was close to his sister, I hardly even knew my husband.
Unsurprising, really. We had next to nothing in common. While I ruled the Realm, Laenor spent his days idling away in Driftmark with only token appearances as his father's secretary in the Small Council as his only job. Riding, hunting and sailing with all of his male favourites while I legislated and adjudicated.
And truly, was there not such a stark absurdity that two people whom had nothing in common and hardly knew the other were forced to marry and have children because of politics? Because a bunch of old men following old rules decided that we had to.
The death of a spouse should have been tragic. I'd seen some of the toughest people I'd ever known break down weeping when their wife or husband perished.
When Alice's old homeroom teacher Mr James died of leukaemia back in 2019, I'd seen his widow at the funeral. That woman— an unyielding and tough-as-nails teacher whom was feared and dreaded by the students as 'The Iron Lady', 'The Her-minator' and 'Mrs Discipline'—had broken down and was openly crying while holding her three children like they were her lifelines.
I was a widow too now, but I could not feel anything even resembling pain within myself.
I only mourned Laenor's death for what it would do to Laena, and for the political and social ramifications it would have on my rule. God, would my coalition even hold together now that Laenor was dead?
"Rhaenyra, Ser Criston has just murdered your husband in cold blood." My father growled, turning to face me, and for one moment I was struck by how angry he looked.
Viserys Targaryen was many things. A jolly man, a doting father, a loving husband and a man so peace-loving his first reaction to hearing that we'd been hit by preemptive strikes in the War of Four Directions was to ask the belligerents for peace terms so generous they might as well have been a capitulation for House Targaryen.
To see such anger, such rage bubbling beneath him?
It was like seeing Daena settling down to become a housewife, or Daenys cacklingly betraying me, or Boris Johnson looking prim and proper instead of like a perpetually rumpled cat. Anger was as anathema to Viserys' character as truthfulness was to Donald Trump's. Were it even an hour ago, I would have agreed that the sky would sooner turn green than my father turn angry.
"What would you have me do with him?" My father hissed viciously.
"The law is clear." I spoke, weaving a speck of magic into my voice to ensure it carried, the entire crowd falling silent at my declaration. "With such overwhelming evidence of his crime, there is no need for a trial. The punishment for regicide is death."
———
"Kill him." Rhaenyra Targaryen ordered, her face as stony as the Mountains of the Moon, the light in her eyes as icy as the Wall. Her voice devoid of even the slightest speck of mercy or humanity.
Ser Jessamyn pulled Dark Sister out of the ground, the best swordsman in the Kingsguard raising the famed blade of Queen Visenya above her head. In one swift move, she brought it down, only for the blade to strike Peregrine for the second time that day. Shaeterys' blade halting Dark Sister an inch before it could take Ser Criston's head.
"Bell?" Ser Criston confusedly asked, as he saw the oldest Dragonseed left on Westerosi soil holding her brother's sword. Standing between him and Ser Jessamyn.
What was she up to? As one of Rhaenyra's foremost loyalists, and her most prominent enforcer, Bell of all people should have been clamouring for Ser Criston's summary execution.
He wasn't the only one that was surprised. A susurration of whispers spread through the crowd as the squire stood against the Prince.
"Bell? What are you doing?" Rhaenyra called down, drumming her fingers threateningly against the railings of the royal box.
From the way the rest of the crowd shivered, he was not the only one whom felt the malevolence and killing intent radiating off of the Crown Prince. And more than that, the smell of ozone in the air, like a storm was roiling right behind the Hand of the King.
It felt like lightning was about to fall, and Rhaenyra the woman who would throw the thunderbolt.
And yet… Seven Gods Rhaenyra was beautiful even when she was angry. Like a burning inferno. So destructive and so dangerous, and yet such a mesmerising and beautiful sight.
"Rhaenyra." Bell called out, undaunted by the subtle pressure in the air. "Ser Criston is a knight. He should die sword in hand."
There was approval from the crowd, knights and lords murmuring their agreement on Trial by Combat.
"Trial by Combat is only valid when the defendant's guilt is in question." Rhaenyra hissed.
"Then I volunteer as executioner. Let me decide how he dies." Bell all but pleaded, kneeling down before their shared Lord and Saviour. "I have never asked anything of you before, but please, grant me this one request."
Something softened impeccably in Rhaenyra's face. A tiny crack in her angry visage. The Dragonqueen sighed, and all the tension drained out of her, many in the crowd letting out breaths they didn't realise they were holding until Rhaenyra's suffocating rage abated.
"I wash my hands of this matter." The Hand of the King declared. "I care not how he dies, as long as Ser Criston is dead by the end of the day."
And at that, she cast one last look at Ser Criston, before returning back to her seat and slumping in it in a most unladylike fashion. Uncaring of appearances.
Hope bloomed like a beautiful flower in Ser Criston's heart. As always, Rhaenyra's mercy and love were boundless things. A stay of execution, yes. But sometimes, that was more than enough. Great things had been done with smaller openings.
"I thank you, Bell." Ser Criston genuinely said, rising to his feet.
"You have taught me much." Bell gravelled back, turning to face him. "I will not let my teacher die without regaining some modicum of honour.
"Fetch him his weapons!" Prince Daemon's secondborn ordered. "He dies as a warrior; on his feet!"
The squires and footmen returned soon, and before long, both of them were fully armed and armoured. The rest of the Kingsguard formed a loose circle around them, and someone had rustled up Archsepton Eustace to officiate.
"Ser Criston, Lady Bell." The priest spoke. "Shall I administer a blessing from the Seven?"
"No, the Final Rites will do." Bell declared, squaring her shoulders.
"Agreed." Ser Criston nodded, lowering his shield. "One of us dies today."
"As you wish." The Septon nodded, beginning the prayer. For an entire minute the old man recited the holy words. And the instant the last syllable left his mouth, both warriors charged one another.
———
106 AC, Red Keep Training Yard
Lord Commander Westerling brought the hammer down. A massive beast whose head was a solid hunk of indestructible dragonstone, falling with the force of an avalanche.
Ser Criston took the blow on his shield, only to find himself being blown backwards from the sheer force of the swing. He backpedaled, and had just managed to get his feet under himself when Ser Harrold Westerling charged once more.
Holding his massive hammer like a battering ram, the Lord Commander rammed the black head of the hammer into Ser Criston's already battered shield.
Were Ser Criston at his peak, he might have been able to withstand such a blow, but the younger knight was still reeling from the first sledgehammer blow, and not able to properly ground himself. His guard was broken, and Ser Westerling surged in mercilessly.
With surprising dexterity, the man hooked the head of his warhammer on the edge of Ser Criston's shield and pulled, leaving the younger knight wide open for the next strike. A descending blow which would have caved his head in had the Lord Commander not stopped it an inch before it struck.
The young knight fell to his knees, feeling his strength leave him.
"You're doing good." The Lord Commander praised, hoisting Criston back to his feet and clapping him on the back enthusiastically.
"I can do better." Ser Criston replied.
"You can and you will." The older knight agreed. "You're still a young lad. You can only ever get better."
———
114 AC, Tourney Grounds, King's Landing
Bell's mace fell with the force of an avalanche, Ser Criston stoically taking the blow on his shield. Her next strike was to ram her own shield into his, the larger tower shield she wielded crashing against his smaller heater shield like a wave on a rock.
Ser Criston stumbled backwards, only to find that Bell had managed to hook the head of her mace around the side of Ser Criston's shield. She pulled, opening up Ser Criston's guard.
Time seemed to slow as Ser Criston saw the descending strike, and for one instant he could have sworn he saw Bell fade away, replaced instead by his predecessor.
The instant passed, and Ser Criston deftly sidestepped the descending strike. He raised his mace, and brought it down towards Bell's right wrist.
———
111 AC, Storm's End,
Ser Criston sidestepped the spear strike, then moved to counterattack, bringing his mace down towards the spearman's exposed wrist. But unfortunately, the Lord Commander's mace was deftly turned aside by the axeman, whom immediately ducked under his brother's viper-quick thrust.
The Lord Commander took the spear strike on his shield, nudging it aside and aiming to counter. Only to find the axe coming down and striking him in the helmet. Were it not blunted, it would have split his skull.
"I swear, it's unnatural just how coordinated you two are." Ser Criston complained, as a squire tossed him a waterskin to drink from. "Not one word spoken this entire bout, and yet you two seem to have no problem communicating."
"We're twins." Ser Arryk Cargyll laughed.
"It comes with the territory." Ser Erryk Cargyll agreed, both Kingsguard twins fistbumping at that.
"Well, keep up this performance tomorrow, and Borros Baratheon won't stand a chance." Ser Criston replied.
———
114 AC, Tourney Grounds, King's Landing
The edge of Bell's shield struck the handle of Ser Criston's mace before it could break Bell's right wrist, knocking it aside.
Immediately, Bell ducked low and stabbed out, viper-quick, with her mace.
The steel spike atop her weapon would have taken Ser Criston in the eye had he not blocked the thrust with his shield. Nudging the mace strike aside, Ser Criston aimed to counter, only for Bell to bring her shield around, whacking him with the edge before he could land a blow.
The blow was soft though, and the Lord Commander took it without flinching.
Had Bell been using an axe instead of a shield, it would have slain him right then and there.
Stepping back warily, Ser Criston raised his shield and mace once more.
"You've learnt." The Lord Commander declared, calmly circling as Bell did the same. The two of them treading the sandy ground in front of an audience of two thousand. For a crowd of this size, it was surprisingly quiet.
"From the best." Bell agreed.
For someone whom was seven feet tall and built like a bull, her voice was surprisingly delicate. It was serene and cool, like the deepest parts of a pond, never knowing sunlight even in the brightest days.
"How many tricks do you have?" Ser Criston asked. "How many of them have you learnt from us?"
"I have been a squire since I was four years old." Bell Fyre solemnly declared, rolling a shoulder to limber it. "How many do you think?"
"Not enough." Ser Criston replied, and with that the fight resumed.
He raised his mace, and she raised hers. Both of them bringing it down at the exact same instant.
A single thunderclap sounded as two maces hit two shields at the exact same moment.
A second thunderclap.
A third.
A fourth.
It was like fighting a mirror, Ser Criston found. Except that the reflection was both bigger and stronger than he was.
A fifth.
But this time Ser Criston reeled back, seemingly overpowered by Bell's brute strength.
The Lord Commander could already see her next move. A single step forwards, shield in front even as the mace was raised above her head. The exact same manner Ser Criston would have moved, had the opponent he was fighting seemed weakened and down.
Except that Ser Criston wasn't in fact, overpowered. Concentrating strength into his feet, the Lord Commander threw himself to the side, rolling under the wooden divider that separated the two jousting lanes of the tiltyard.
Dropping his mace, Ser Criston smoothly drew his sword and stabbed it through the wooden fence, aiming to strike Bell before she could recover.
Unfortunately, the Dragonseed had good reflexes, and was surprisingly agile for someone of her size. Bell immediately threw herself backwards, letting herself fall if it meant she could avoid getting skewered. Mace falling to the ground as Bell freed up her hand.
———
106 AC, Red Keep Training Yard
Ser Jonquil fell backwards in her attempt to avoid the blow, bending with surprising flexibility for such a withered old woman. But before her back could hit the ground, her hand— freed after she'd discarded her second weapon— struck the ground first. And with a great push, the Serpent in Scarlet sprung back/
———
114 AC, Tourney Grounds, King's Landing
/viper-quick onto her feet in an instant.
The two duellists stared at each other, both of them standing too far away to easily reach, and with a wooden divider preventing easy striking between them.
"I still have much to learn, it would seem." Bell gravelled, scooping up the mace she'd dropped.
"And I have not taught you all I know yet either." Ser Criston amicably agreed, sheathing his sword and picking up his own mace.
Seven Gods, but for all that they were fighting to the death, Criston Cole could not help the smile that tugged at his lips. The pounding of his heart, the heat in his veins.
Not even sex was this exhilarating.
When was the last time he'd enjoyed himself so much?
There was nothing here. No politics. No romance. No scheming and no backbiting. It was just combat, pure and simple.
A great weight was gone from Criston's shoulders now, and his footsteps the lightest it had even been since the day he'd put on his white cloak.
The Lord Commander was smiling when Bell lowered her shield and rammed/
———
106 AC, Red Keep Training Yard,
/the heavy shield into the quintain.
It shuddered under the blow, but the dummy of straw and wood took it largely unflinchingly.
"No, no, no." Ser Steffon denied, shaking his head. "You don't just use strength. You have to put your body behind it."
"How?" Bell asked. "I don't get it."
"I'll show you. Watch me." The Kingsguard knight instructed.
He picked up a heavy tower shield, getting into position before the quintain.
"Oy, you two. Point out to the lass what I'm doing!" The best defender in the Kingsguard shouted, the two knights watching on the sidelines hastening to obey.
"Watch his feet." Ser Wingood remarked, pointing it out to his stepdaughter. "He's bending his knees, taking power from the ground into them."
"And the way he has one leg behind the other." Ser Criston added. "The back leg is there to provide strength for the thrust."
Satisfied at their commentary, Ser Steffon lowered his shoulder and braced himself against his tower shield with deliberate slowness.
"Look at the way he curls his arm, and how he tenses his shoulders. He's bracing himself against the shield, can you see?" Ser Wingood asked.
"Oh, like you're about to block a blow!" Bell excitedly noted.
"Yes, same principle, using the trunk of your body to anchor the shield." Ser Criston agreed. "But this time he's bracing for the recoil."
"What's recoil?" Bell confusedly asked, frowning in befuddlement.
"You don't need to know today." Ser Wingood smiled, ruffling his stepdaughter's hair. "Just know that you have to brace for the impact."
Bell nodded, and a heartbeat later, Ser Steffon lunged forwards with the shield, striking the quintain with such force and power that it was smashed/
———
114 AC, Tourney Grounds, King's Landing
/apart instantly.
The divider had been made of soft green wood. Such that any unhorsed knight whom accidentally landed on the fence would have his fall broken instead of striking and/or bouncing off of the divider painfully.
Against someone as prodigiously strong as Bell? Ser Criston was unsurprised it didn't hold.
They both struck as one, but this time Ser Criston was just a little quicker.
Catching Bell's mace on his shield, Ser Criston was pleased to see the spikes on the weapon punch into the hardwood. Too deep to easily rip out.
Discarding his now-useless shield, the Lord Commander brought his mace down and decisively struck the long handle of Bell's own mace, successfully knocking it/
———
106 AC, Red Keep Training Yard,
/out of his hands.
Ser Criston moved to press the offensive, but without missing a beat Ser Wingood socked the freshly-minted Kingsguard in the face with a gauntleted fist. Even as Ser Criston reeled backwards, Ser Wingood mercilessly rammed his shield into Ser Criston's sternum. Knocking the younger knight backwards and creating space for himself.
Taking a single step back, Ser Wingood reached down and drew his backup sword, smoothly slashing/
———
114 AC, Tourney Grounds, King's Landing
/in the exact same movement.
Gritting his teeth from the heavy punches, Ser Criston parried Bell's blade, the two of them pressing against each other in a competition of strength that Ser Criston allowed to last just long enough before dodging to the side, Bell stumbling forwards as she overbalanced from the lack of force pushing back against her.
Spinning deftly around the large Dragonseed, Ser Criston scored first blood when he smashed his mace into Bell's back, the spikes on his weapon coming back red as it punched through Bell's backplate.
Snarling, Bell spun around on one heel, bringing her shield back between Ser Criston and herself. But she was wary now, deliberately keeping the large slab of heavy wood between them and not closing the distance aggressively like she normally did.
Uncontested, the Lord Commander took several steps back, before reaching down and picking up Bell's own mace, ripping it out from where it stuck, embedded into his shield.
"Dual wielding?" Bell asked.
"You're not the only one whom has learnt tricks from Ser Jonquil." Ser Criston simply replied, before immediately striking out.
Left, right, left, right.
Ser Criston battered rhythmically away at Bell's shield, like a bard striking a drum.
"You should have used a second mace as your backup weapon." Ser Criston declared, as he forced Bell back. "Your greatest advantage is your size and strength! And that sword doesn't let you generate enough power!"
Were her blade made of Valyrian steel it would be a different question. But as things stood, a regular longsword could not normally pierce plate. Even with someone as strong as Bell behind it. Bludgeons like clubs or maces on the other hand, could break bones even if they did not pierce plate. The same could not be said of a sword.
Ser Criston brought his mace down/
———
111 AC, Storm's End,
/only for Ser Alys to smoothly discard the shield with his blow. Freeing up an angle of attack for her to thrust her sword forwards viper-quick. Had Ser Criston been even half an instant slower, the tip of that sword would have punched through his gorget and opened his throat.
Quickly backpedaling, both knights separated from each other, before immediately lunging back.
Ser Alys twisted her wrist, her sword seemingly coiling around the handle of his weapon like a snake before a flick of her wrist saw Ser Criston's mace levered out of his hands.
Another flick of her wrist, and her sword came slashing down/
———
114 AC, Tourney Grounds, King's Landing
/and meeting Ser Criston's second mace in a bladelock.
Ser Criston stumbled backwards from the sheer force behind the strike. It was not brute force—through Bell had plenty of that— but simple leverage. Exquisite swordsmanship of skill that Ser Criston had never expected from the Dragonseed most fit for brute force.
"What was that about insufficient power?" Bell smirked, even as Ser Criston's off-hand joined his main hand on the mace. Grinning viciously, the second eldest Dragonseed continued/
———
113 AC, Red Keep Training Yard,
/pressing down on Ser Criston with but a single hand.
The white knight gritted his teeth as felt his knees start to buckle under Ser Jessamyn's absurdly heavy bladelock. It felt like he was trying to push back against a star fallen from the sky.
It was the slight twitch of her lips—the quick glint of triumph in his sworn sister's eyes— that gave it away.
Ser Criston immediately dropped his weapon, giving up the bladelock and hastily retreated.
And just in time too, Ser Jessamyn had palmed a stiletto and would have rammed it through the Lord Commander's right eye had been any slower.
A flick of her wrist and the knife/
———
114 AC, Tourney Grounds, King's Landing
/was flying straight towards him.
Ser Criston dodged to the side, letting the dagger glance off his paudron as he smoothly drew his sword and parried Bell's follow-up blow.
Sparks flew as the two of them crossed blades, going ever back and forth in this deadly dance of steel and wits.
Bell was larger and stronger, with a longer reach to boot. But Ser Criston was faster and by far and away the better swordsman. He was twice Bell's age, and had seen more combat than Bell ever had, squire from young or no.
Slowly but surely, the Lord Commander emptied out Bell's bag of tricks.
He batted aside Adrian Redfort's favourite trick-parry.
Parried Shaeterys' consecutive cuts.
Sidestepped Ser Willas Fell's signature counterthrust.
Swept aside the throwing knives Ser Lorent Marbrand favoured.
Evaded Daemon's favourite grappling holds.
"Is this all you've got?" Ser Criston finally asked, as they both stood back where the duel first started, panting and drenched with sweat. "For all that you've talked a big game, you've been unable to deliver."
"You underestimate me." Bell growled back, levelling her sword at him.
"No… I don't think I have." Ser Criston decided. "You've put up a good fight, I'll grant you that. But I am the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and you a mere fifteen-year-old squire. This was always futile."
"Futile?" Bell snarled, ripping off her helmet and freeing her sweat-soaked hair.
The Dragonseed crumpled the solid steel helmet in a single hand, rage wafting off Bell so intensely it was almost visible.
"I'll show you futile!" Bell roared, tossing aside the ball of crushed steel before charging straight towards the Lord Commander, feet striking the ground like small thunderbolts.
As she bore down on Ser Criston, Bell grabbed her sword by the blade and swung the hilt at him like a hammer.
Ser Gwayne's favourite half-sword strike. Discarding all defense for one single offensive strike. Just what the Lord Commander was waiting for.
Calmly, fearlessly, Ser Criston took three steps to the left, raising his sword before bringing it down in an overhead slash. It struck Bell in the exposed elbow joint of her armour, cleaving straight through flesh and bone in a single stroke.
Ser Criston smiled in triumph as Bell's right forearm and the sword it held fell, severed at the elbow.
He was still smiling in triumph when Bell's left fist slammed into his helmet so hard he spat blood and three teeth out.
Stunned, bleeding, Ser Criston was thrown onto the ground from the punch. Before he could even shout in pain, the breath was knocked out of him as Bell stomped down hard on his chest. Red-hot pain lanced through Ser Criston as he felt several of his ribs snap like twigs from the impact. She stomped down twice more, and the rest of his ribs broke viciously.
Even as he half-screamed, half-choked on his own blood, Ser Criston felt Bell stomp down on his elbow even as her hand closed around his right wrist and yanked.
Snap.
Ser Criston screamed in utter agony as his right arm was broken, his scream cut short as foot came down on his left elbow and her hand closed around his other wrist.
Snap.
Where did she learn such a move? Ser Criston thought as he felt his mind swim in pain and delirium. It was so obvious now. Bell was hardly the type to lose her cool in battle, so the rage was obviously a bluff. One meant to make Ser Criston overcommit and think himself triumphant, before brutally beating him down and ripping victory out of his hands.
Snap.
Daemon? Shaeterys? Aemon? No, Bell's sacrifice of an arm didn't fit any of them. None of them were the type whom would willingly take the crippling if it meant being able to go for the jugular. Daemon aside, they just didn't have that killer-instinct. And Daemon himself was too self-preserving to contemplate such self-sacrifice.
Snap.
His four limbs broken, and more than halfway to the grave with his wounds, Ser Criston was unable to resist being grabbed by the neck and dragged up to an upright position.
Even in such a sorry state, he could not fail to recognise the girl before him.
"Rhae…Rhaenyra." Ser Criston gurgled, blood and chips of his teeth falling out of his mouth as he spoke.
Here she was. His promised soulmate. His wife-to-be. Here to spare him from the headsman's axe. Here to take him away to a beautiful paradise. She would nurse him back to health, bear him his children, and they would live happily ever after. Growing old and dying together, surrounded by their children and grandchildren.
But why?
Why didn't she look at him with love? With adulation? With desire?
He'd slain her husband, making her free to marry him. So why?
Why did she look at him with those eyes of disgust and contempt?
It was just then he noticed Dark Sister at her belt. Returned after Ser Jessamyn had borrowed it.
And suddenly everything clicked.
Ser Criston suddenly remembered seeing Rhaenrya spar Daemon, allowing the young boy to smash his knee into her beautiful face if it meant her being able to land a killing stroke.
And that was hardly the first time. Rhaenyra willingly let Borros incite the court, willingly losing some skin and legitimacy if it meant being able to line up a killing stroke.
Rhaenyra sacrificing near the entirety of House Velaryon's armed forces during the Battle of Driftmark, if it meant her being able to take the entire Triarchy fleet by surprise.
And even before that. When Rhaenyra declared war against House Greyjoy, while Ser Criston and Shaeterys still stood within the seat of their power. Not even waiting for them to evacuate before she began levelling Pyke.
Sacrificing the queen to land a checkmate was Rhaenyra's favourite gambit, after all.
So focused had Ser Criston been on Rhaenyra thinking of her as his Maiden-in-the-flesh—epitome of beauty and femininity—that he'd forgotten that she was and always would be a warrior Prince. While she'd retired to the sidelines, letting catspaws and sorcery do her dirty work, it was gross negligence to forget that this was once the girl whom opened the throat of a highborn scion at the tender age of eight in order to claim her Princehood.
"There can only be seven members of the Kingsguard." The Dragonqueen proclaimed, her voice was little more than a whisper, yet it carried across the entire tourney ground. Such that every single audience member would not fail to hear her.
Rhaenyra Targaryen cast an imperious gaze down onto Ser Criston.
"Make it so."
———
And so, on the very first day of Year 114 After Conquest, fifteen-year-old Bell Fyre became the youngest person to ever join the Kingsguard.
Notes:
What do you think of this hybridised first/ third person format? I'm considering doing the same for next chapter.