“Princess.” The white knight, Ser Criston Cole, stepped forward and knelt on one knee, breaking Rhaenyra from her thoughts.
His proud head bowed low toward the ground until Rhaenyra’s voice came, granting him leave to rise.
When Criston Cole looked up, he could not help but pause at the sight before him.
Rhaenyra was beloved by her people, her beauty unmatched, called the “Realm’s Delight.” The true dragon blood of House Targaryen showed plainly in her features.
Her fine silver hair was braided and pinned behind her ears, and her pure violet eyes seemed to hold neither joy nor sorrow.
Even the sunlight seemed to favor her, casting a soft, luminous glow at her back.
“White Knight, why are you not guarding my father?” Rhaenyra asked evenly.
Beside her, the handmaiden Elly studied Cole with open curiosity.
“By the king’s command, I am here to protect you, Princess.” “Then do as you wish, Ser.” Rhaenyra returned her attention to the maester’s journal, her gaze falling back to the pages.
A faint, barely noticeable smile crossed Criston Cole’s face.
He took up his post at a respectful distance, eyes forward, though a small pang of hurt flickered within him at the princess’s recent coolness toward him.
Rhaenyra, however, was lost in her own thoughts.
This Cole is a ticking time bomb.
She ran through his history in her mind.
Ser Criston Cole had been raised to the Kingsguard not long ago.
He was the son of a steward serving Lord Dondarrion of Blackhaven, twenty-three years old, and strikingly handsome.
He had first drawn the court’s attention during the tournament held at the town of Maidenpool to celebrate King Viserys’s ascension.
He won the melee, and in the final duel, he knocked Dark Sister from Prince Daemon’s grasp with a flail.
The king had laughed heartily while the prince seethed with fury.
Cole then presented his victor’s crown to seven-year-old Princess Rhaenyra and begged permission to wear her favor in the joust.
Granted that honor, he proved his worth once more, defeating Prince Daemon again and unseating the formidable Cargyll twins, Ser Arryk and Ser Erryk of the Kingsguard, before finally falling to Lord Lymond Mallister.
Cole had been the object of Rhaenyra’s youthful infatuation.
A girl of ten and six, her heart prone to flights of fancy, she had called him “my white knight” and begged her father to make him her personal protector.
He was a good knight, once.
But then came a tangle of love and betrayal that soured everything between them.
Cole would eventually turn his cloak, join the Greens, and become one of Rhaenyra’s most dangerous enemies.
He would wound her deeply in ways beyond the flesh, and the two would become bitter strangers.
When Cole had asked her to abandon everything and flee with him, Rhaenyra refused.
She told him she was of dragon’s blood, that the crown weighed heavy, and that if he could so easily forsake his vows as a white knight, she could never trust the marriage vows he would swear to her.
In that moment, something in Cole had twisted and blackened.
Fans online would later say: Cole, when you lie awake at night, do you remember the girl of ten and six who was so full of light?
Rhaenyra found the whole affair exhausting.
She wanted no part of the grudges and heartbreak between Cole and her predecessor.
Who was right and who was wrong no longer mattered.
The situation had not yet spiraled beyond repair, but she would need to handle him carefully.
A firm hand now might save her endless trouble later.
Little did the quietly wounded Ser Criston know that the princess had already crossed his name off her list of trusted confidants.
She was determined to keep her distance from any entanglement with him.
Rhaenyra had no desire to spend her future creating a final boss out of a scorned lover.
A man who could turn from love to lethal hatred was a powder keg best avoided.
Still, her wings were not yet strong enough to fly alone.
A measured show of goodwill would not hurt.
Men and women with hearts ruled by love were equally terrifying.
The thoughts passed through her mind in the span of a breath.
Rhaenyra had already made her decision.
She turned to the handmaiden who was refilling her cup.
“Elly, accompany me to the Dragonpit.” Rhaenyra had dismissed many of her former attendants, guards, and fools.
Only Elly, a handmaiden who had once been beneath notice, remained at her side.
She was not comfortable with so many people waiting on her, nor was she certain of their loyalty.
If she could not command their devotion, it was better to show as few weaknesses as possible.
And so Rhaenyra set out, trailed by Criston Cole and Elly, and made her way to the Dragonpit not far from the Red Keep.
Even before they arrived, a tremendous roar split the sky.
“SKAHR!” Enormous wings came into view.
Two great dragons were playing in the heavens, occasionally spouting columns of flame thick with smoke.
“Blotting out the sun.” That was Rhaenyra’s first thought upon seeing them.
The dragon blood in her veins stirred faintly, the sensation building until it crested when she spotted her own dragon.
“SYRAX!” The golden dragon, resting nearby, heard its mistress’s call.
It beat its wings and descended, landing before her.
Rhaenyra stepped confidently onto Syrax’s wing and settled into the saddle on its back.
In High Valyrian, she issued the command to take flight.
“SKAHR!” Syrax answered with a piercing cry.
Its wings drove them upward, chasing after the two dragons soaring ahead.
“DRACARYS!” The command came in High Valyrian.
Syrax unleashed a torrent of flame, a massive column of fire that burned brighter and longer than the breath of the two dragons ahead.
Framed against the blazing light, Rhaenyra felt something strange building within her, as if some power were struggling to break free.
“Truly a dragon, our princess!” The Dragonpit keepers below, craning their necks skyward, and Elly beside them, all breathed the same awe.
Rhaenyra circled the Dragonpit several times on Syrax before her racing heart began to calm.
She did not wish to draw too much attention yet, so she kept from flying over King’s Landing itself.
The bird that soars highest is the first to catch the storm.
When she had first mounted Syrax, Rhaenyra had felt a flicker of unease.
Syrax had seemed confused, as though sensing that the woman before her was and was not the same person.
But in the end, the dragon accepted her, sparing her the fate of being burned alive.
Many dragonriders had been scorched by their own mounts, and there were even records of wild dragons devouring men.
Fortunately, Syrax was a gentle and ladylike young dragon by comparison.
Rhaenyra had ridden her since the age of seven, when Syrax had been but a hatchling.
Of course, “gentle” applied only to those of true dragon blood.
For anyone else, the dragon’s flame would reduce them to ash without a second thought.
The dignity of a true dragon was not to be tested.
What was that strange sensation?
It felt almost like…
Rhaenyra leaned against Syrax’s wing, puzzling over the feeling that had nearly broken free from within her.
Cole approached but kept his distance.
“Princess,” he called.
“His Grace bids you not to ride too often.
The heights may prove dangerous.” Rhaenyra’s expression did not change.
“I understand.” Syrax idly folded its wings, but Rhaenyra knew that if the knight made any sudden move, a blast of dragonfire would be the result.
She stroked Syrax’s wing in a calming gesture, a small habit she had developed to bond with the dragon and soothe its temperament.
“Syrax, your flame seems stronger than before.” “SKAHR!” “Ah.
So the volcanic fires of Dragonstone please you, do they?”