Criston Cole stood before the solar chamber with his jaw clenched and hands hidden beneath the disciplined weight of his white cloak. Soon, the door would open. And by Alicent’s command, he would once again take up the post that had once been his by desire: the princess’s shadow and shield.

It felt strange to call her that now. Princess. The title remained intact, though everything else had crumbled.

She had returned to King’s Landing after the fire at Oldtown — a tragedy that, according to muffled whispers, had been a veiled attempt on her life and her daughter’s. Alicent feared the traitors might return to finish what they’d begun. And Criston, as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, had been tasked with guarding her closely. Too closely.

As he waited, the sound of his own memories rang louder than the footsteps in the corridor. The princess, still so young, had been promised to Daeron as part of a carefully stitched alliance. But before that — long before that — she had been his.

He had had her first. Not on parchment, but in the nocturnal silence of her chambers. He had been her first man. And for a long time, that filled him with pride. It wasn’t just desire — it was claim, it was scar, it was ego. She had chosen him.

And he had believed that would be enough.

He had once suggested running away — in a low voice, in the dark, after lovemaking beneath veils and shuttered windows. But she refused. Not harshly, but with that lucidity that had always unsettled him.

“A future needs ground, Criston,” she had said. “And all we have is flame. That doesn’t build a home.”

He hadn’t answered then. Just rose, dressed, and, little by little, closed himself off.

After that, she married Daeron, and he became legend. Became the Hand of the King.

Now, she had returned. With a daughter.

The child intrigued him not only for her quiet gaze. It was the face. The line of her nose. The shape of her eyes. The dark, thick hair — just like the one he saw in the mirror when he removed his helm. No one else seemed to notice, but he knew. That child was his.

Now, as he prepared to present himself again, he knew he was no longer the same man. Her rejection had grown thorns in his chest. And over the years, those thorns had turned to cynicism, to strategic silence, to power. Bitterness had refined him like iron scorched into steel. And that was what made him Commander. That was what made him untouchable.

The door opened. After announcing himself, he did not look at her with tenderness. Nor with rage. Only with the cold defiance he had adopted all these years.

He took his place by the door. A sentry. A dog once more. But now, a dog who knew the taste of flesh, the flavor of love and loss. He would not speak more than necessary. He would not yield to old shadows.

But he would know. Every time he looked upon her daughter, he would know.