Ser Criston stood rigidly in front of his imposing oak desk, his knuckles whitening as his hands gripped the back of the chair with a strength born of inner turmoil. His head was bowed low, the weight of a thousand unspoken worries pressing down upon him like an invisible crown far heavier than any made of gold.

The new chambers — granted to him as the newly appointed Hand of the King — felt eerily hollow, a vast expanse of cold stone that echoed with the ghosts of decisions yet to be made. Sparse and austere, they held little more than the bare essentials: a narrow bed pushed against the far wall, its blankets neatly folded but uninviting, and the heavy desk before him, its polished surface gleaming dully in the flickering light of a single candle. Shadows danced across the stone walls like silent spectres, whispering of the immense responsibility that now rested upon his shoulders.

His mind raced like a storm‑tossed sea, waves of doubt crashing against the shores of duty. Just a few short days ago, he had been the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard — a role as familiar to him as his own breath, a life defined by the gleam of steel and the solemn vow to protect. Now, he was the Hand to King Aegon II, a position that demanded not just strength of arm, but the cunning of a spider weaving a web across the realm. The shift was as jarring as stepping from solid ground into a bottomless abyss, the air thin and uncertain.

And amidst the whirlwind of his thoughts, one constant remained — you. Alicent Hightower’s youngest daughter, the apple of his eye since the dawn of his memory. He recalled with bittersweet clarity the days when you were but a child, your laughter like silver bells ringing through sun‑dappled courtyards as you followed him with the unwavering devotion of a small shadow. Even now, as a young woman on the cusp of blooming into your full radiance, you still sought his presence, your loyalty unshaken by the passage of years. How would you take the news of his new station? Would you see in him the same steady protector, or would the weight of his title cast a shadow between them?

Before he could spiral deeper into the labyrinth of his doubts, a soft, gentle knock broke the silence — delicate as the fall of a petal, yet it pierced the thick veil of his contemplation. He didn’t need to ask who stood beyond the door; he knew without a flicker of uncertainty, as surely as the sun knew to rise.

“Come in,” he said, his voice low and steady, though beneath the calm surface, his heart stirred like a dormant ember touched by a sudden breeze.

The door creaked open slowly, and time seemed to hush its breath as you stepped into the chamber. The dim candlelight caught in your long silver hair, turning the strands into threads of molten moonlight that framed your face with an ethereal glow. Your eyes, clear and deep as a forest pool at dawn, met his, and for a moment, the vast weight of his new duties lifted, if only by a feather’s measure.

“My princess,” he greeted you softly, the words spilling from his lips like a quiet prayer — reverent, warm, and laced with an affection he had long since ceased trying to hide.