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Ser Criston was standing guard at the door of the Queen's chambers on a clear, blustery afternoon, not long after the start of his second year as her sworn sword, when he heard a strangled cry from within.
His heart surged and he threw the door open, charging in with sword drawn.
There was no assailant. There weren't even any servants. The Queen sat alone near the window. Or—not quite alone. Her latest baby was cradled against her breast, but he was only an infant, and asleep besides.
The Queen jerked her head to stare at the intruding knight, startled—frightened?
He saw her dark eyes were teary, her eyelids red.
Criston's panic abated, replaced with dull anger in his gut, a quiet burning towards every lout at court who might wound her.
Then the embarrassment hit. "Pardon me, Your Grace." He looked away awkwardly as he sheathed his blade. He moved slowly, trying to buy himself time.
In his old post with the Princess, he would've asked who she needed him to kill to assuage her tears. But the one time he had asked his new mistress the same, she had blanched and looked terrified while he belatedly realized that his ability to jest about killing anyone expired the same time the Monmouth knight did.
The Queen found her words, and—in an impressively unshaking voice—said, "Thank you for your duty and your attentive ear, Ser. I'm sorry to have worried you."
He was still learning what his new mistress wanted from him, and sometimes it was difficult to gage. When he first entered her service he had thought she wanted loyal constancy, never making her worry that she might need to exonerate him for a second crime. Yet he was coming to understand that she wanted a witness to the injustice done to her, and—he thought—his righteous anger on her behalf, to some degree. Yet when he offered her the rage that her mistreatment provoked in him, she seemed frightened by it more often than not.
At a loss of what to offer, Criston simply asked, "How might I serve you, Your Grace?"
"Nothing, Ser," she replied. The performative calm in her voice cracked now, the final word pockmarked by a sob. "Leave me."
She didn't mean that, he was nearly certain. If his little sister Mila had said that, he would be certain she didn't mean it. Yet here, this was an order from his liege…
"If that is truly your wish, Your Grace, of course I will obey. But… is it?"
She hesitated for a long moment, then gestured to an empty chair beside her.
Criston closed and barred the door, unfastened his scabbard, and sat.
The Queen did not speak for a long while. She looked straight ahead, and sometimes at the sleeping prince in her arms, running a hand again and again over his downy white hair.
Criston thought again of Mila as a girl. Something in the way the Queen held her baby was reminiscent less of a mother with her child, and more of a little girl with her doll; more seeking comfort than offering it.
"I am sworn only to you," he reminded her. "You have my confidence."
The Queen nodded, glancing sideways and giving him a small, watery smile, before fixing her eyes back on her son. "Your service does not go unappreciated, Ser Criston."
He felt a rush of gratitude for his gracious lady, who would think to put him at ease even amid her own distress. It became easier to wait while she lapsed into silence for a while longer and then, finally, began to speak.
"On the morning of my wedding, my father said, ‘Look how he dotes on Rhaenyra. Just imagine how he'll fawn over his long-dreamed-of sons.’" She sucked in a shaky breath, trying to stabilize herself. "And when Aegon was born, it nearly seemed true. Viserys would sit with that boy for hours, staring at him in awe." She paused. "Then Helaena—" She broke off again. "I don't know. Helaena's difficult. I didn't fault Viserys too much for not wanting to hold a babe who cries all the time. I scarcely wanted to hold her either. And his health is poor; he doesn't have the energy he did a few years ago. So at first with Aemond, I thought…" She trailed off, waving one hand vaguely. "But now? He has energy for Jacaerys."
It was true; there had never been a man more enamored by his grandson. At the last small council meeting, Viserys had suggested that Jacaerys — all of two months old — should attend, "as the future king." He was merely jesting, Criston assumed, but he'd still seemed disappointed when Lord Strong said there were matters of state to attend to and Princess Rhaenyra called for a nurse to take the sleeping infant from Viserys's lap and return him to the nursery.
"He's fonder of Jacaerys than he is of Aemond, of Helaena, than he has now become of Aegon. He is to Jacaerys as he must've been to Rhaenyra, what Father thought he would be to mine, and I…" She broke off, at a loss for words.
"Mayhaps there is some small blessing in this, Your Grace. If Viserys were the father to your children that he was to Rhaenyra, they might turn out the same—entitled brats who expect the world to fall at their feet."
The Queen turned sharply and gawked incredulously at Criston.
Anxiety flooded through him, suddenly aware he'd spoken without thinking and terribly misstepped. It was her right to speak as she would—even speak thus to him, as her loyal servant. But it was his role to listen, and no more. He was a member of the Kingsguard; it was not his place to criticize his king.
"Forgive me, Your Grace, I—"
Some strangled laugh burst forth from inside the Queen. It took Criston a moment to catch up. She was laughing, grinning at him. The tension in the room evaporated.
"Forgive you for what—speaking truth? Someone must."
Criston let out his own small chuckle of relief, and then another, laughing with her for a long moment.
With fear of overstepping suddenly gone, he asked, "Might I hold the little lad?"
She pressed a kiss to her babe’s forehead and then passed him into Criston's lap. Prince Aemond opened his eyes. Suddenly aware of how his hard, armored form must be a poor place to rest, Criston tried to pillow the child's head with his palm. Aemond scrunched up his face as he woke, waving his arms in a stretch and then relaxing back into his blankets. He stared up at Criston with a solemn, fixed gaze.
"He's a fine boy," Criston said, looking Prince Aemond in the eye and addressing his words to both mother and child. "Any man ought to be proud to have a son such as this." He ran his thumb over the boy's temple. "I know I would be."