Dream Of Winter | C. Stark & H. Targaryen

Valor

Criston POV

From a young age, Criston trained tirelessly in the art of combat. Perfecting his swordsmanship and honing his skills as a knight.

He had great respect and admiration for his father. But no intention of tacking up his mantle as the steward of Blackhaven. Being a westerosi sellsword in the Free-cities also wasn't the sum of his ambitions.

He aspired to be a paragon of knighthood, upholding justice and protecting the weak in his homeland.

Little did he know that the life of a white sword, beholden to the king, wasn't as glamorous as it sounded.

His skin crawled every time he was stationed to guard his grace's room at night. The lifeless haunted look on the Queen's face often made him at war with his vows.

Protect the king.

Obey the king.

Protect the innocent.

Protect women and children.

No matter what he'd do, he'll betray one oath for another. Is that the principle of integrity the Seven ordained? That there can no true justice.

He doesn't know.

**

"Princess, I don't think that's a good idea."

The knight had been standing for hours outside princess Rhaenyra's quarters. She hadn't left her rooms. He most certainly didn't leave his post or fall asleep.

But somehow, she appeared in front of him now. Dressed as a street urchin at the hour of the bat.

And tried to seduce him.

It sounded downright ridiculous when you phrase like that. But so it was.

"Why?! Who will ever know? I have no intention of informing my father. Do you?"

She was too flippant about a matter that could mean his death or mutilation and exile if discovered. Ser Lucemore Strong and Ser Braxton Beesbury learned that lesson the hard way.

And even if no one ever learned the truth. The Gods will know.

He will know that he broke his vows.

He's honored them for far too long to destroy them due to lust. If he had to be an oathbreaker, he'll be one for a just cause. As paradoxical as that may seem.

"I can't. I swore a vow." He made to leave right then and there. But the princess didn't mind much his explicit refusal.

"Who cares about some inane words sworn on some book, in a bloody septon's presence?" She scoffed.

Is she willfully blind or that obtuse?

"Considering that's how every Targaryen king has been crowned. I think everyone in the Realm. Goodnight princess."

He closed the door perhaps too harshly.

And left her service the following day.

**

It was the day of the tourney celebrating the betrothal of the crown princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Ser Laenor Velaryon.

The heir to the throne had picked a dress of raven black coloring with dragon markings, in honor of her House. The Queen consort Alicent Hightower, on the other hand, dressed in an a splendid emerald gown. The symbol of war for the beacon of Oldtown.

Criston Cole sat atop his armored destrier, Sandstorm, his lance held firmly in his gauntleted hand.

The sun glinted off the polished steel of his armor, casting a radiant glow around the jousting field. He surveyed the crowd, their eager faces filled with anticipation, unaware of the true nature of his intentions.