Chapter Text
The Twenty-Third day of the Fourth Moon, 120 AC
Criston has faced many opponents over the years. He’s crossed blades with great fighters and bad fighters, grown men and green boys. He has decades of experience by this point, a whole life of it even. That doesn’t stop him from regarding Aemond carefully in the Dragonstone’s yards as he runs training drills. He’s gifted with a blade, Aemond. He certainly takes more interest in it than Aegon. That could be a dangerous thing, part of Criston murmurs. It could also very well be a boon in this life if the cards fall right.
“Aemond,” he calls, “stop.”
The boy lowers his wooden training sword, his brow furrowed. “Did I do something wrong, Ser Criston?” he asks.
Criston pauses. “No,” he said, “this isn’t something you did wrong, only something you could do better.”
Aemond’s glance at that reminds him very much of Rhaenyra when she is put out. “I did make a mistake then.”
Criston softens a little at his clear dejection. In the years that he has been his sister’s ward, he’s grown fond of the boy. It’s hard not to when he’s so genuine. The trauma of losing his eye to Lucerys Velaryon must have ruined him, but there must have been something else that fundamentally broke him in the events of Fire and Blood ; Criston cannot imagine the sweet boy who stands before him now committing war crimes in the Riverlands.
“Rest easy, lad,” Criston says to him, “you’re doing just fine. I was only going to tell you to hold your blade up higher. You’re doing well.”
Aemond’s expression lights up. “You think so?”
He ruffles his hair. “Did I not just say so, lad?”
They keep training for a while, and Aemond manages to get the hang of the drills after a bit longer. He’s tired by the end of it, sitting on the ground as he tries to catch his breath. Criston hauls him up, feeling a strange combination of pity and amusem*nt.
“Stand,” he suggests at the boy’s wheezing, “it will help you catch your breath.”
“Ser Criston,” comes a chiding voice, “I sincerely hope you are not trying to kill my brother.”
Aemond perks up to see its owner. “Rhaenyra!” he calls. He stumbles to his feet, dirt and sweat and grass clinging to his clothes, and rushes to embrace her. Rhaenrya wrinkles her nose at the state of him, a grimace flashing across her face, but wraps her arms around him all the same. Aemond is small for his age, but Rhaenyra is short for a grown woman. He reaches her ribcage. She drops a kiss to the top of his head, her lips pressing against his damp silver-gold hair.
“I am happy to see you too, fierce one,” she smiles, “tell me, how has training gone today?”
Aemond wriggles further into her hold. “It went well,” he said, “Ser Criston is a very good teacher.”
Criston smiles“I am flattered, my prince,” he says.
Rhaenyra hums in contemplation. “He is a decent enough teacher, I suppose,” she agrees, “though there is always room for improvement.”
Criston arches an eyebrow at that. “Should I be offended by that, my princess?” he asks.
She smiles at him sweetly. “Of course not, ser. After all, that is one of the lessons you taught me when I was about Aemond’s age.”
He squints at her. Crosses his arms over his chest. “If I were a lesser man,” he says dryly, “I would be hurt.”
“It is a good thing then that you are a giant among men,” Rhaenyra quips. She kisses Aemond once more on the head and drops her arms. “Go take a bath, Aemond,” she says affectionately, “you reek.”
Aemond’s face goes red. He goes to sniff at his clothing. “I don’t smell that bad!” he replies in a futile attempt to defend himself.
Rhaenyra levels him with an unimpressed look and Criston laughs. “My apologies, my prince, but I fear the princess is right.”
Aemond glares at the ground. Rhaenyra ruffles his hair and sends him on his way. As she watches him go, a smile stays fixed on her face. Criston eyes her curiously for that. When she returned to Dragonstone, she did not bring Ser Harwin or Lady Sabitha with her. Ser Harwin because, of course, he commands the City Watch. And Lady Sabitha because, though she is her lady-in-waiting, she had some business to attend to with her family. In the nearly two years since they started their arrangement, Rhaenyra has not been without the both of them at once for such a long stretch before. When she isn’t completing her duties upon Dragonstone, she’s been moping. Except for now.
“What makes you smile so widely, my princess?” he asks.
Rhaenyra’s eyes flicker to him. “I received a raven from my father this morning,” she says, “he tells me that he’s finally told the Hightower bitch –” he gives her a look at that and she rolls her eyes “the queen ,” she amends grudgingly, “of the betrothal between Aemon and Helaena.”
It’s about time, Criston thinks with no small degree of relief. He pushes down the twinge of discomfort and focuses on the practicality of it. After all the tap dancing around the issue that King Viserys had done for the last two years, he’s finally mentioned it to Queen Alicent. If he’s done that, he’ll be announcing it publicly soon. There will be no chance for revocation then. The match will be secure.
“That’s good,” he replies, “you must be pleased.”
She nods, one corner of her mouth quirking upwards. “I am. This is the best chance I have of uniting my blood with Otto Hightower’s. If a war breaks out now, I will know that I have done all I possibly can to prevent it. And Helaena deserves a crown. I am glad to be able to give her one. She and Aemon will make a fine match.”
Criston regards her for a moment. “I am proud of you, Rhaenyra,” he says, “you have grown so much from the little girl I first met all those years ago.”
She laughs. “When you first met me, I was a girl of seven. Now I am a woman of three-and-twenty. It seems only natural that I would grow.”
Criston’s smile is thin. She has him there, he supposes. But still–
“You have grown into a woman I am proud to call my future queen,” he insists, “both as a ruler and a person. Queen Aemma would be proud of you if she could see you today.”
Rhaenyra’s eyes meet his. There is something sad in her gaze, a sort of bittersweetness. “Thank you,” she says. Then, after a second, she adds, “I am glad that my mother could call you a friend at court. She bore a terrible burden; even as a girl, I could tell that you lightened her mood.”
Criston stares at her for a long moment. Feels a lump rise in his throat. Then he smiles and squeezes Rhaenyra’s hand. “It was my honor, princess,” he says. I loved her, he does not add. Instead, he says, “I would have done it any day.”
Rhaenyra’s good mood about the betrothal between Aemon and Helaena does not last for very long. The disruption to her mood comes in the form of two dragons swiftly approaching Dragonstone less than two nights later. It’s storming when the servants come to them with the news that two dragons have been sighted flying to Dragonstone.
Rhaenyra waves a hand at the servant as she plays her game of cards with Laena and Laenor. “Dragonstone has many wild dragons,” she says, “what’s the difference here?”
The servant hesitates. “It is difficult to tell, with the rain and the darkness, but your men believe them to be Sunfyre and Dreamfyre, my princess.”
Criston stiffens. Rhaenyra sets down her cards.
“What?” she frowns. “Why would Aegon and Helaena be here? Was there any news from King’s Landing that they would be arriving?”
The servant shakes his head helplessly. “Not that I know of, princess.”
Rhaenyra stands from the table.
“Rhaenyra,” Criston calls, “where are you going?”
“If my brother and sister are going to land anywhere, it will be in the great courtyard,” she says grimly, “they have flown to me in the middle of a storm; it could not have been for any small motivations. I will see them now, and not a moment later.”
“Put on a cloak at least,” he says, “it’s bound to be cold outside.”
To his immense frustration, she ignores him. He grabs one himself and hastens to follow after her; gods, she’s fast.
They walk out to the courtyard. Lightning cracks across the sky. The rain pours down on them, stings their eyes, and weighs down on their clothing. Criston’s teeth are chattering and Rhaenyra is shivering.
“Here,” he says, not even trying to hide his surliness, “put a cloak on. You’ll get sick otherwise.”
To his relief, she obeys this request. Her gaze, though, is entirely focused on the two great forms before her. And sure enough, Sunfyre and Dreamfyre have settled before Dragonstone. As lightning crackles again, their golden and blue-and-silver scales respectively flash in the dim lighting. The rain beats down harder.
“Aegon!” Rhaenyra’s voice is high with anger and concern. “Helaena! What are you doing here? By the Seven, it’s storming , you could have been hurt !”
Aegon and Helaena, who have clambered from atop their dragons, run to her. Helaena’s eyes are distant in that way they are when she’s lost to the world, preoccupied by things no one else can dream of or understand. Aegon’s eyes, on the other hand, are wild. Wild, Criston thinks grimly, and more than a little rabid.
“Rhaenyra,” he shouts over the wind, “please, you have to help us.”
Rhaenyra must see the distress on his face because she softens and goes to cup his cheek. “Help you with what, little brother?”
What happens next gives Criston an absolutely horrible headache.
Aegon wrinkles his nose and points to Helaena.
“I don’t want to marry her,” he says.
