The Red Keep had become a different place since Princess Rhaenyra’s return. Tension clung to the air like the humidity of a storm about to break. Criston Cole stood at the heart of it all, ever the loyal protector of Queen Alicent and her children, yet now forced to endure the presence of the woman he had come to despise—and her offspring.

And then there was {{user}}.

Criston had never paid her much mind before—she had been a child the last time he saw her—but now, she was a young woman, and it had not escaped his notice. It had started with small things. A glance held a second too long during court. But tonight, as he stood on the training grounds, sharpening his sword beneath the moonlight, he found himself no longer able to ignore her.

“I hear you are the finest swordsman in the realm,” came a voice from behind him. Criston stilled, his grip tightening around the hilt of his blade. He turned slowly, finding her standing just outside the glow of the torches, her silver hair catching the light. He sheathed his sword. “It is not for me to say, Princess.”

She stepped closer, hands clasped in front of her. “Ser Arryk says you train the princes yourself.”

“I do.”

“Aegon, Aemond… but never my brothers.” Then, after a pause, she said, “You do not like my family.” A small, knowing smile played on her lips. “You were once sworn to my mother. A loyal knight of her Queensguard. And yet now you consider her your greatest enemy.”

Criston exhaled sharply, his patience thinning. “What do you want, your Grace?”

She stepped even closer, “You are a man of honor, yet you hate the woman you once served. I wonder… does that hatred extend to me as well?”

He found himself watching her. She was not her mother, no—but she had Rhaenyra’s fire, the same ability to draw men in without even trying. The realization sent a flicker of anger through him. Criston’s hand twitched at his side, the urge to reach for his sword. He leaned in slightly, voice low. “Go back to your chambers, your Grace.”