House Of The Dragon: 'The Exiled Prince'

| Author's Note: Forgive me for my lateness,— and for the short chapter as well,— I was sick for the last few days and couldn't do better.

. . .

. .

.

"I once believed my life would be spent as a simple household guard, bound to a modest duty. Yet, Prince Aenys granted me a chance to rise above the humble fate I once thought was my all. In that moment, I vowed to the world and to myself that I would never betray his trust,— and that I would fight for him until my last breath."

— Criston Cole.

.

. .

. . .

The small council chamber was stifling, the air carried the faint scent of ink and parchment, mingled with the tang of polished steel from the guards standing silent at the doors and at the opened windows.

Aenys Targaryen, sits beside King Viserys at the long oaken table, allowing his gaze to wander. His sharp, violet eyes scanned the chamber, lingering briefly on Otto Hightower's ever-composed face, who stands in the seat in front of him.

What a bore this council has been... he mused, drumming his fingers lightly against the armrest of his seat.

The hum of discussions about grain shipments and harbor taxes droned on, none of it stirring even the faintest flicker of interest within him, and it was only when the tone in Viserys's voice shifted that Aenys's attention snapped into focus.

His brother, who stood to his right, leaned forward on his seat, his elbows resting on the table as his voice dropped, laden with a rare melancholy that he wasn't yet acustumated to hear. "Ser Ryam was a good man, and a strong Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, as we all know very well." Viserys paused, his expression darkening as though weighed down by unseen burdens.

His fingers curled slightly against the table's edge. "But I do recall him being in poor health these past few months." And he noticed Viserys' eyes traveling slowly across the room, taking in each face as though searching for something,— a flicker of shared grief, perhaps,— but they stopped just short of meeting his own.

"Grief has not been kind to me as of late, and the passing of a man as noble as he seems to have eluded my attention for long enough." His voice wavered slightly before steadying again. "He passed in peace, I hope?"

At the question, all eyes turned to the Grand Maester, whose even, measured tones carried across the chamber. "Yes, Your Grace." The old man nodded slowly, his demeanor one of solemn reverence.

For a moment, the faintest hint of relief crossed Viserys's face, though it quickly vanished. "Ser Ryam was found in his chambers, having passed gently in his sleep. His brothers of the Kingsguard ensured his remains were prepared by the Silent Sisters, and he was interred with all the honor his station and history demanded." As the Grand Maester's words hung in the air like a dirge, Aenys observed his younger brother's reaction carefully, noting the subtle tension easing from his brother's shoulders, and he then allowed himself a small sigh.

Which was, unfortunatly, short-lived, as it seemed that Otto Hightower, ever the opportunist as he was beginning to understand by now, seized the pause for himself and his hidden agendas.

Otto's voice, low and measured, carried an air of sympathy that felt just a shade too practiced, as he watched carefully the Lord Hand swepping his gaze across the lords present at the table, ignoring his own. "A tragic, yet peaceful end for a man of such distinction. Ser Ryam was a stalwart protector of the realm, of that, no one can contest." Otto waited a beat, allowing the council's subtle nods of agreement to ripple around the table.

Then, with the precision of a tactician, he pressed on, his voice even, "That said, Ser Harrold, the current Lord Commander, believes it prudent to swiftly fill the vacant position left by his passing,— and I would be inclined to agree with him."

Viserys and all present nodded their heads slowly, while some of the lords murmured their agreement. His eyes however, flicked to Otto's, catching the faint glimmer of calculation behind the Hand's composed facade.

And that intrigued Aenys more than he let on, for he would surely get to the end of the Hand's machinations soon. That much was certain.

Yet, his attention changed before he could dwell much on the matter, as Ser Harrold Westerling, his steel-gray armor clinking softly, stepped forward from his place if rest, his tone imbued with respect and duty.

"Indeed, Your Grace, my lords." He bowed slightly before continuing, "The Kingsguard must always stand seven strong, as it always has. As such, with the Lord Hand's assistance over these past weeks, we've managed to summon several worthy candidates to court,— many of whom were already here and competed in the recent tourney that was held in King's Landing."

Ser Harrold's sharp gaze swept across the room then, lingering briefly on each council member. "Each has undergone rigorous trials to prove their merit, and I believe that today would be a good day to make the choice." he concluded, his voice firm and resolute.

Aenys, yet again noticed a faint smile on Otto's expression, as the same leaned forward slightly, his voice smooth as silk, too smooth for his tastes. "Perhaps, Your Grace, the Princess Rhaenyra and myself might accompany Ser Harrold in selecting a new sworn brother for the Kingsguard. It would be—..."

Ser Harrold nodded quickly at the suggestion, evidently seeing no harm in it, while his niece,— who stood to the side, dutifully acting as cupbearer,— brightened slightly at the notion. Her eyes glimmering with interest, clearly eager to undertake a task that felt meaningful in her dull everyday life.

But before Otto could finish his sentence, however, his calm voice cut through the room with quiet authority, finding the necessity to halt whatever plans the Hand Of The King currently had inside his mind. "I volunteer to oversee the selection, brother."

All heads turned to him then, Viserys included, and he wandered why that was.

Were they simply so much used to having Otto's influence in court, that him being interrupted was that much of a deal?

Honestly, he didn't care at all. And so, he met his brother's gaze, his tone of voice steady and deliberate, "As your heir, it is only fitting that I help choose a knight worthy of protecting our family." 'And if you think that I will let anyone else apart from us do, or influence the choosing, I have a piece of news coming for you...' he thought.

Viserys's face however, split into a broad grin, his earlier sadness giving way to visible satisfaction at his participation. Perhaps he should interrupt Otto more times fromnow on. "A fine idea, brother! Very well, I grant you leave from this council earlier than usual." His brother's tone was light, almost playful, and he nodded his head towards him, as Viserys continued speaking his mind. "I doubt anything else that is to be discussed here will hold your interest anyway, so you may as well have a early leave. May your search be fruitful, brother."

And he deemed it enough to rise from his seat, doing so as smoothly as possible, before inclining his head in gratitude.

"Thank you, Brother. I will be taking my leave then." He said, and turned to leave, when Viserys's voice called after him, halting his steps."One more thing, Aenys."

He turned his head, and looked at Viserys from above his shoulder, watching his brother leaning back in his chair, his tone shifting to something more formal. "Today marks your first day as Lord Commander of the City Watch. Pay a visit to the captains and assess their readiness, and see for yourself what needs doing. Whatever resources you require,— be it gold, steel, more men, or smiths,— inform me directly. I want the City Watch restored to its full strength, and perhaps even soar above it, under your command."

He then turned back towards the door, and resumed his walk, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You have my word, brother. You can expect me to forge them into a finer lot than what Daemon left behind,— that much is assured." As resumed his stride toward the door, Ser Harrold fell in step behind him like a shadow, and he even heard Viserys chuckling softly, calling after him.

"I trust you will. Just remember,— Daemon was not exactly renowned for his patience or diplomacy in handling the Goldcloaks. Try not to emulate him in that regard."

He shook his head, giving only a small reply in return. "I will take that under advisement."

And the chamber doors closed behind him, leaving the council to their business.

.

Back in the chamber, a brief silence lingered, thick with unspoken tensions.

The Grand Maester, ever attuned to the flow of the discussion, seized the moment to speak, his tone even and deliberate, "A wise decision, Your Grace, placing the prince in command of the City Watch." He inclined his head in approval, his thin fingers clasped before him. "If I may be permitted to ask,— was this the reason young Ser Harwin Strong was passed over for the position?"

Viserys leaned back in his chair, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He nodded once, his voice calm but firm, "Indeed. Harwin may be strong in both name and build, but this post requires more than brute force. Aenys is my heir, my brother,— and I am certain there is no better man for the role." The king's words settled heavily in the room. Aenys, seated beside his brother earlier, might have smiled at the praise, but he was long gone, leaving only the council to dissect the decision.

Otto Hightower shifted slightly in his seat, his fingers brushing the edge of the table. His carefully measured tone carried the faintest trace of hesitation, though his expression remained as neutral as a mask. "With respect, Your Grace, I wonder if—..."

Viserys's gaze snapped to Otto, his voice sharpening as he cut him off with the swiftness of a blade, which was surprising.

"If you are about to question my judgment, Otto, or suggest that my brother could be better suited elsewhere, I will remind you that Aenys is my new heir. He has returned to my family after many years, and he will play a vital role in this realm's governance,— whether you like it, or not." The Hand inclined his head swiftly, his practiced composure barely faltering under the weight of the king's words. Though his voice remained smooth, Otto's mind would already be spinning, recalibrating his next moves.

"That was not my intention, Your Grace. I only meant—..." Viserys then raised a hand, silencing him with a gesture for the second time in a row, his tone even but final, like the closing of a heavy iron door. "Then let us not belabor the point. Aenys is not Daemon, and in time, you will come to see the difference."

"And my decision stands, no one here shall ever question it, am I understood?" Viserys concluded. The tension in the room was palpable, thick as the salt air of Blackwater Bay as every Lord that remained seated at the table nodded quickly. Otto hesitated a moment longer, before bowing his head in reluctant submission. "Of course, Your Grace. As you say."

The king leaned back then, exhaling slowly, the firelight glinting off the golden dragon sigil embossed on his chair. His eyes briefly scanned the table, pausing on no one in particular. "Now..." he said, his voice softening but still carrying the weight of authority, "... tell me,— how fares my realm as of late?"

.

The training yard stretched wide beneath the cool shadow of the Red Keep, the stone walls echoing faintly with the clang of metal and wooden swords. The air smelled of sweat and leather, mingling with the salt breeze carried from the nearby bay.

Knights in polished armor stood in rigid lines, their faces ranging from eager to apprehensive as he approached the edge of the elevated ground with measured steps, Ser Harrold Westerling a watchfull shadow at his side.

His sharp gaze then swept over the assembled candidates, each a portrait of discipline, though not all seemed to carry the weight of experience he sought. His violet eyes narrowed slightly as he turned to Ser Harrold, voice calm yet tinged with scrutiny, braking the forced quiet. "These are all the chosen candidates, I take it?"

Ser Harrold inclined his head, his tone steady and respectful, as it should. "Indeed, my prince. We can begin with Ser Desmond Caron, a knight of fine reputation." He arched a single silver eyebrow, skepticism flickering across his face. "Is that so? Step forward then, Ser Desmond."

The knight in question obeyed, his steps confident and somewhat arrogant, from what little he could tell. He could see that his armor gleamed in the midday sun, though it bore the pristine look of ceremonial use rather than the scars of battle.

Ser Harrold also stepped forward at his side, his voice carrying authority. "Ser Desmond is the son of Ser Royce Caron. He has proven strong and steady, both in the tourney lists and outside of them, and most recently, while traveling through the Kingswood on his way to the capital, he apprehended a poacher, bringing him to justice. His service to the realm is commendable." And he listened, his expression unreadable.

After a moment, he inclined his head slightly.

"Thank you for your service, Ser Desmond. You may step back." Ser Harrold's frown was subtle but noticeable as he noted the old knight hesitated slightly before speaking.

"You did not find him fit for the position, my prince?" Aenys's eyes turned a cool shade of darker purple as he eyes the white knight at his side, speaking with his tone as sharp as steel. "I did not, and why would I? For apprehending a mere poacher? The Kingsguard should be composed of men whose deeds inspire songs and stories, Harrold,— not knights who rely on their lineage or minor accomplishments."

"You would do well to remember that." The words hung heavy in the air, and Ser Desmond's previously confident posture faltered as well. As for Ser Harrold, he nodded reluctantly. "Noted, my prince."

The old knight then gestured toward another knight. "Next, we have Ser Rymun Mallister, son of Lord Lymond Mallister of Seagard. He was the victor of the melee at Cider Hall, the last mounted of three-and-twenty knights, as well as having earned his knighthood at only eight-and-ten."

Aenys's lips curled faintly in disappointment as he regarded the knight before him. "Ah, a tourney knight. Skilled, no doubt,— at unseating fools in the lists." Ser Harrold, though clearly loyal to him, could not entirely conceal his discomfort at his blunt dismissal, yet replied orderly nonetheless. "I would say so, my prince."

And he waved a hand, already disinterested, eyes scanning the crowd before him slowly.

"He won't do. Thank you, Ser Rymun, you may step back." As the knight retreated, his pride visibly wounded, he let his gaze sweep over the remaining candidates. His voice, now clipped, dissapointed and cold, carried across the yard in an instant. "Do any of these men have experience in true combat? Beyond capturing poachers and winning trophies at feasts, I mean."

Ser Harrold hesitated before answering, he noted easily, with a tone more cautious now.

"That would leave us with Ser Criston Cole, my prince. A son of the steward to the Lord of Blackhaven." Aenys's interest piqued slightly, though his face betrayed little, as he gave a slight nod to the knight in question.

"Step forward, Ser Criston." The knight who stepped forward moved with a deliberation that spoke of discipline, he saw, a smirk making its way up to his expression. Cole's armor, though well-kept, bore scratches and dents that told of battles fought rather than pageantry displayed,— Cole then bowed deeply before speaking up in his direction.

"My prince." Silence reigned for a few moments as he studied him for a moment before his tone turned probing. "My Lord Commander tells me you've seen real combat. Enlighten me on the matter, Ser."

Ser Criston's voice was calm and precise, his words neither boastful nor self-deprecating, as the man spoke up once more. "I served as a foot soldier for a year on the Dornish Marches, repelling Dornish incursions,— where I was knighted by Ser Arlan Dondarrion, after we razed two of their watchtowers along the Boneway."

He then turned his expression into a thoughtful one, his tone sharpening slightly.

"So, you consider yourself skilled, do you?"

Ser Criston met his gaze evenly, his confidence tempered but unmistakable.

"It would depend on the perspective, my prince." And Aenys's lips twitched into a faint smirk, his tone carrying a hint of challenge.

"If you faced every knight here present, do you think you would lose to any of them?"

The knight's reply was measured, his tone unwavering. "Against them all at once, my prince?" Aenys leaned forward slightly, his voice cool and cutting. "One by one. Would you lose then?" Ser Criston's answer came without hesitation. "I'd win, my prince."

The quiet that followed was broken by an outburst that came from Ser Desmond Caron, face flushed with anger, who then stepped forward, his voice heated. "You lowborn cur, how dare—..."

"Silence!" Aenys's voice cut through the yard like a whip, cold and unyielding. His sharp gaze snapped to Ser Desmond, pinning him in place. "Must I remind you of who you are, Ser Desmond Caron? Or whose presence you stand in?"

The knight's head bowed quickly, his voice subdued. "Forgive my temper, my prince. I overstepped my place." Aenys's tone remained icy. "Indeed you did. And for that, you are dismissed, you may leave."

Ser Desmond hesitated for a moment, shame reddening his face further before he retreated. Aenys then turned back to Ser Criston, his tone softer but no less commanding. "Ser Criston Cole."

The knight straightened, his voice steady, and his eyes expectant. "My prince?"

Aenys's voice carried finality. "You are chosen as the newest member of the Kingsguard, congratulations. You shall swear your oaths to protect the royal family and serve the realm with honor in but a few moments. Do you understand the gravity of what is being asked of you?"

Ser Criston bowed his head, his tone humble but resolute. "I do, my prince! I am honored."

Aenys turned to the gathered knights and soldiers, his voice carrying authority. "I don't mind the honor, I mind the skill and loyalty you will uphold. Nevertheless, clear the yard, all of you. Only Ser Criston Cole shall remain."

Ser Harrold's brow furrowed slightly as he stepped towards me. "My prince?" And he met his gaze with calm assurance. "I only intend to spar with Ser Criston. In the meantime, see to the arrangements for his investiture. Ensure all is ready by the time I finish sparring." Ser Harrold hesitated but eventually nodded his head. "And your protection, my prince?"

A faint smirk returned to his expression, as he gestured to the guards lining the yard.

"Look around you, Harrold. The yard is swarming with Targaryen soldiers and household guards,— I'll be fine." Ser Harrold inclined his head, though reluctance lingered in his expression. "Very well. I shall see to the preparations."

And as the Lord Commander exited, he turned back to Criston, his violet eyes gleaming with challenge. A faint smile played on his lips. "Let us see if your confidence is well-placed, Ser Criston. Prepare yourself."

Ser Criston Cole nodded his head entusiasticaly, his grip tightening on a blunt blade he had just picked, the weight of his new station not quite yet settling over him.

.

All around the training yard, servants and soldiers hummed with anticipation, and all eyes were on the two figures at its center.

Ser Criston Cole, the knight that got recently accepted into the Kingsguard order, and Prince Aenys Targaryen, the new heir to the Iron Throne.

"Ready?" Aenys asked, as he focused his vision on the nearing figure of Ser Criston, to which the young knight replied back with a nod of his head. "Good. Then let us begin!"

And with the beginning of the spar, he noticed Ser Criston choosing to do a cautious approach, his given blunt iron sword held in a guard position, tip aimed at the his chest.

He knew that Ser Criston was no stranger to combat, having experience on the battlefield that lended him a measured calm. The young knight circled him to his left, testing his defenses with feints,— small flicks of the wrist designed to draw his guard aside.

Aenys, however,— was not in any way possible new to swordsmanship, and so he simply choose to stand like a statue, his own blunt sword lowered slightly, almost inviting an attack from his opponent.

His sword movements had always been fluid, and as such, his stance was natural as breathing. He had a reputation as a near-unmatched swordsman before being exiled, and it was a well-earned one. Naturally, he knew that he was currently radiating confidence in the eyes of the many spectators, his violet eyes tracking Criston with the intensity of a hunting dragon.

"Here I come, my prince!" The first clash came swift and sharp, as Criston Cole lunged forward with a thrust aimed at his midsection, a broad smirk present on his dornish expression, but he sidestepped effortlessly, deflecting the strike with a flick of his blade. "There's no need to announce it to the world, fool!" Aenys said, with no bite, clearly enjoying the small spar as well.

The clang of iron echoed across the yard then, and the gathered crowd leaned forward, stopping whatever they were doing before. Aenys retaliated with a diagonal slash, fast as a whip, and surprinsingly, Criston parried just in time, the impact shuddering down his muscular arm.

Momentum shifted quickly however.

As Aenys pressed his advantage, unleashing a series of attacks that blurred the line between offense and artistry. He delivered a high cut, then pivoted into a sweeping low slash, which Criston blocked with precision, his 'shield' of experience barely holding against Aenys's storm of strikes. "Not bad! I might have indeed made a good choice in choosing you, after all!"

His blunt blade sang as it danced through the air, each feint and riposte executed with lethal grace. He utilized techniques that betrayed years of rigorous training,— a feint to the left flowed into a spinning riposte aimed at Criston's flank, forcing the knight to retreat or risk being caught off balance.

Criston as well, countered with a riposte of his own, narrowly missing the his shoulder.

"Heh, good, good!" Aenys then deemed it enough, and switched tactics. He baited Criston with a deliberate opening, his stance loosening slightly as if fatigued.

Which unfortunetly for the young dornish knight, Criston took the opportunity as it came, striking with a diagonal slash aimed at Aenys's shoulder. He however, sidestepped, his feet shifting with the precision of a dancer, and responded with a thrust aimed at Criston's ribs.

"Ergh!" It was only Ser Criston's quick reflexes that saved him, his blade intercepting the strike at the last moment.

"You fight well my prince!" Sweat now gleamed on both combatants, though Aenys showed no signs of slowing down.

He adjusted his grip subtly, transitioning into a half-sword technique, using his off-hand to guide his blade for greater control.

And Criston, recognizing the shift, altered his stance defensively, his focus narrowing. "I think its time to end this spar, wouldn't you say so?" The bout reached its climax when Aenys executed a dazzling combination, a feint that drew Criston's blade high, followed by a lightning-quick reversal that brought the blunt edge of his sword to hover just inches from Criston's throat.

The dornish knight froze, chest heaving, his expression a mix of frustration and growing admiration, as the yard erupted in applause and murmurs of awe. Aenys then stepped back, lowering his blade and offering Criston a respectful nod and a hand to shake. For all the his prodigious skill, there was no arrogance in his demeanor,— only the quiet confidence of a warrior who had mastered his art. "Good fight, Ser Criston,— and welcome to the Kingsguard."

. . .

. .

.

| Fire & Blood |

.

. .

. . .