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“I knew this task would have you seek the godswood. Tell me, Ser Cole, does the proximity truly bother you this deeply?” Queen Alicent’s jewellery announced her visit before her venom tolled in Criston Cole’s ears. No pure vessel of the Mother could be as dauntless as she was with her manipulation, yet Criston would rather blindly heed the Queen than admit his own sins.
His white cloak lay at his knees, the heavy clasps beside it. There was a brief suspension of the heaviness he bore at all times. The burdens felt even more solemn after he received his newest assignment. She grew suspicious of the Princess Rhaenyra, who, after three years of marriage, had not produced an heir. Criston was exceptionally aware. He spent his time overhearing the Queen’s ladies gossip. Across crowded halls and rooms, he would obtain glimpses of the Realm's delight. When she was not in her self-inflicted solitude, she would occasionally make an appearance to appease the sickly King. She was a woman, a wife, and entirely altered from the young Princess he once knew.
How could he accept patrolling her chambers again? To be wasted as a spy for the Queen, as the final blows of his vices return to torment him. The Princess was the source of his depravity. After swearing vows and dedicating his life to knighthood, a fraction of his soul was made dormant– abandoned for the prospect of elevating his status. If Rhaenyra Targaryen’s blood truly contained fire, it would explain her provocation.
“Your Grace,” he reached for his cloak and paused as she held her hand to motion him not to. “It is a blessing of the Gods, I seek.”
She spoke in a commanding whisper, “Ser Cole, you have the blessing of your Queen. Seek your blessings and make haste to your post. Permit the audiences she requests, but abide by your word to inform me immediately.”
“My Queen,” he acknowledged her as she exited the godswood. The deep olive cloak of her gown was the last of her he saw when she entered the shadows. He could not return to his prayer if she made him feel as if she was still watching. Despite having heard her steps fade into the distance, her presence remained as close as his promise of loyalty to her.
Criston retrieved his cloak, fastening the collar to his armour and resuming carrying the weight of his own vows. His arrival at the Princess’s chambers was perfectly timed as he ascended the staircase just a dozen steps behind her. She moved unhurriedly, unbothered by the clamour of metal behind her, used to the presence of guards. Her silver hair swayed with each step.
Her waist called to him as he watched her strut.
When she reached the final step, she peered over her shoulder with the same curiosity he had witnessed the dragons have on a battlefield. Her sharp nose raised as she identified Criston, the frown forming on her face. “This wing is no longer your post.”
“Princess, there is concern for your safety as your Lord husband continues to occupy separate chambers, thus splitting the guards assigned to you both. I am here to review the conditions of your current patrol and construct adjustments as they are called for.”
Her eyes narrowed as she asked, “Are these the concerns of my father’s or the Queen?” It was a test. If he lied poorly, she could tattle to her father and prematurely end the scheme. Unfortunately, age did not prevent Rhaenrya from pleading for what she wanted without having to earn it.
“It’s temporary. If that consoles you.” He offered her a piece of truth to divert her from uncovering the bigger truth at hand. It was enough to suffice that her expression returned stoic, and she returned to walking to her chambers. Not uttering another word to Criston as she entered her rooms and closed the door behind her.
There was plenty to revise when it came to the position and number of guards in the wing where Princess Rhaenyra’s chambers were. Possible entries were left vulnerable for hours. As the castle was noiseless with many nobles preparing for bed, some already asleep, Criston grew bored of waiting for the audiences that never showed. The chambers would occasionally have a servant enter and shortly exit with linens or fabrics.
In the dimly lit halls, Criston’s mind fell beneath the illicit reflections of being acknowledged by Rhaenyra Targaryen. Some women were cold and cruel, like Alicent. Transactional. Pious in standing and marginally existing. Then there was Rhaenyra, a rogue flame amongst the corpses. Tempting him with her rare source of warmth.
Criston relieved the singular guard in front of her chambers and directed him to station at the empty exit he found had no guard for the majority of the evening. With his back to her door, he listened as she prepared for bed. The aroma of her bath was potent enough to waft in the air when the servants left. After all these years, she still carried the same scent. It was enough to recall his moments of inhaling it directly off of her milky skin— the dread of it lingering on his own skin in the morning.
He cleared his throat and soon heard her approach her door. When she swung it open, he asked, “Expecting a guest, Princess?”
She quoted his words from earlier, “Adjustments as they are called for.”
Criston barely managed to nod before she shut her door. Then there was a ruckus in her chambers. The crash of a metal dish hitting the stone floors and all of its contents plummeting with it. Without hesitation, Criston entered the room, seeking the source of the nonsense.
The Princess stood before her mess, her eyes empty as she regarded it.
“Close the door,” she mumbled.
Forgetting his standing, Criston spoke, “What?”
“I said, close the door. If we are going to speak freely, I suggest you close the door.”
It was not until he shut the door to her chambers that she finally met his gaze with her violet irises. A shiver crawled under his skin and remained ensnared underneath his armour.
“Alicent asked this of you, didn’t she?”
“I cannot say.”
Rhaenrya clasped her hands behind her back as she drew nearer to Criston as if to refrain herself. She walked with perfect posture, her shoulders held back and every bit of her womanly frame on display with her form-fitting night gown. Pieces of her chest were tastefully accentuated by the golden frame of lace on the sky-blue velvet fabric. Divine collarbones and a neck fully exposed. “And you would let her waste your position on her whispers and entertainment?”
“I serve my Queen,” Criston’s voice failed his conviction as the proximity grew unbearable.
There was a tug at the corner of her lips as she admitted, “You once served me as faithfully.”
“I fear it was beyond my privileges and would have sooner ended with my death if the Queen had not interveined when she chose to.”
“Is that what it is? You feel indentured to her for saving your life?” A gimmer caught in her eyes as she pieced together what maintained Criston so strongly bonded to Alicent. To him, it was a surprise she would care to understand. Yet as she regarded him from this close, her face a mere breath from his, he could dismiss ever doubting her.
Rhaenyra was an exquisite curiosity. She, the offspring of an ancient and stagnant world, existed as the epitome of a rare beauty. Of course, the most forbidden of lures would be a Targaryen heir to the throne. A woman with the ultimate virtue to protect and remain unquestionable. This Dornishman had not only been privy to her in the past but also the one to steal her maidenhood.
To exist so lowly in Westeros and suddenly be worthy of a Princess’s company in bed was a conundrum for Criston. He had to prove nothing to her when she would have him. He was her first, and she was not his. Despite his lowly status, he had something she did not: years of experience with the enticements of flesh. As he looked at her, the woman she had grown into, but in the confines of her chambers, her gaze was still the same.
“Rhaenyra,” her name poured from his mouth as if it were cast out with a spell. Improper, forbidden, and extremely uncalled for.
She sighed gently as she circled him and stopped at his back. His shoulders grew tense as he felt her reach for the clasps that held his cloak. History had begun to repeat itself. Her slender hands struggled with the straps around his wrists, and he placed his hand above hers to stop her from attempting to undo them.
“I will only ask this of you once,” she whispered. “Then you are free to hate me as you please with your beloved Queen.”
Criston seized her face in his hands, peering deeply into her conflicted eyes. Buried in them was covetousness and the foreshadowing of regret. On the surface was lust and greed.
He spoke through gritted teeth, “You ask of me to betray my vows, on the threat of my life. Selfishly, you place your demands before well-being. Once again.”
“Seek your answers, leave me be,” she gripped onto his wrists and pulled herself closer to him, “or serve me.”
As his hold tightened on her, she repeated, “Serve me.”
Criston was determined to steal the air in her lungs when his mouth met hers. Her open mouth gasped, and he relished the entry to all of it. With fervour and control, he guided their kisses as they hungrily consumed one another. Their passion reeked of despair.
While their teeth collided and breaths grew shorter, Criston made work at the rest of his armour, dropping in a trail to her bed. Rhaenyra undid her gown before the backs of her legs hit the bedframe. Criston knew time was limited and dropped to his knees at the sight of the Princess fully nude. Her thighs were the first piece of flesh he sought after, his hands kneading into them as he trailed up her legs and forced her to lean against the mattress.
She was open to him, her legs spread to receive his offerings. For him to serve her. To cherish the honours of tasting the sacred Targaryen cunt. Proped on her arms, she glanced down at him with voracious anticipation. Criston's mouth was close enough that he could smell the need glistening on her folds, his eyes remaining on hers. He forced an exhale, and she moaned at the warmth of his breath. It was comforting how unchanged she was, still easily riled by his plays.
As for her flavour, the years of being starved of her made her taste more heavenly than he remembered. Her musk was intoxicating as he worked at her clit with his tongue. There was a shake of her legs when his nose swiped between her folds, and he moaned at the scent of her arousal. He pulled away from her cunt and surveyed it in its glory as he sucked and coated his first two fingers in spit.
Her walls behaved so well for him, stretching against his fingers as he curled them until it elicited a moan, and he knew he was exactly where he should be. With each pump of his digits, her eyes grew darker with impatience. Criston was already familiar with Rhaenyra’s restlessness. It was his forte to make her wait until it drove her mad.
Rising from the ground, he skated his wet hand up her thighs, past her abdomen and just below the curve of her breasts. His thumb brushed against the pebbled flesh, and he asked, “May I?” Rhaenyra responded by rolling her eyes, and he chuckled as he lowered his mouth.
With a hand against her aching cunt he stroked while he sucked on her breasts. His tongue traced circles when she began to whine with her cravings. When he felt her hips buck towards him, he released himself from his trousers, and his cock sprang against her needy cunt. Her hands reached for his cock, and he grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head as he pushed her onto the mattress.
Her body trembled beneath his, the weight of his cock on her lower torso. He was blessed with the muscle of a Dornish man. The intensity of a Dornish man. The natural equipment of a Dornish man. Her appetites were not just for sex but for him.
“Who else has been in this bed?” He asked.
Through a groan, Rhaenyra responded, “Only you.”
Criston’s grip tightened on her wrists, and she winced, “Don’t lie to me.”
“Fuck you,” she spat.
Freeing her hands, Criston positioned himself at her entrance, feeling her need moisten the head of his tip. When he thrusted into her, he called her a selfish bitch. It was one of several times between throes he insulted her. He pulled on her hair, dug his fingers into her skin, and cursed against her neck because nothing could justify how much pleasure he received from having her in this way.
Returning the spite, Rhaenyra clawed at Criston’s back. Her nails dragged until his skin tore and bled. She locked her ankles behind his waist and forced him deeper into her when she felt him grow tense with the potential of releasing himself. She laughed when he called her names and swore at her. It riveted her when her laughter taunted him to act further depraved.
Criston had fully lost himself when the matter of releasing himself became unavoidable.
“Do it,” she mocked him. “Impregnate me and end both of our lives.”
He saw red when he grabbed her neck and used her with the last of his might. It was a last-minute decision to remove himself and spill his seed on the mattress beside her. Ashamidly, he considered ruining her thoroughly.
Rhaneyra’s cheeks were flushed as her silver hair clung to her face and neck. She drank from a chalice conveniently beside her bed and offered it to him, almost as a truce. The bitter wine was enough to satiate the thirst he had developed.
“Did you find your answers?” she asked in a quiet voice as she watched him drink.
Criston shook his head.