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Author's Note: Here is the second chapter of my story, "The Weaving Time." This chapter has an eerie mood, as I wanted to create a dark and dangerous atmosphere. I aimed for Rhaenyra to embody the fierce spirit that all Targaryen women should possess. I hope you enjoy it!

Chapter II: Something Stirred

A deafening silence followed the crowning.

It was the kind of stillness that clung to skin, sharp and anticipatory. For a moment, all that existed was the hush of held breaths and the distant flutter of a banner. Then came the whispers scattered like wind through dry grass.

"Should he be crowning one of the royals?" murmured a voice from the shadows.

"Well... the Hightowers have a reputation," another hissed back.

"But not offer it to the young princess?" came the skeptical lilt of an older woman, just loud enough to be heard.

Their words hung in the air, half-formed judgments that never dared rise to full accusations. From the dais, Otto Hightower's face remained unreadable, though his raised brow betrayed a flicker of unease. His mouth curved in a manner that could be mistaken for approval or something more calculated.

Then, the tension shattered.

Clap. Clap.

The sound rang clear, deliberate.

Rhaenyra Targaryen stood, her black and gold doublet catching the sun like a blade drawn. She clapped again, her applause poised, not joyous, but pointed. The crowd stirred, as if the motion were a cue they had been waiting for, unsure.

"Congratulations," she said, voice warm as wildfire and just as dangerous.

Her smirk, when she turned to Alicent, was a blade in silk. She leaned in slightly, eyes catching Alicent's with feline amusement.

"You've got yourself an admirer," she purred.

Alicent's cheeks flushed crimson. She looked away, down to the arena, where Ser Criston Cole stood amid the dust and dying fanfare.

And still, Rhaenyra clapped.

The crowd, uncertain at first, now roared with approval. What had begun as a ripple turned into thunder. The moment was his, but she owned the silence that came before it.

With effortless grace, Rhaenyra turned and left the royal box. The wind played with her unbound silver hair as she walked. Regal. Controlled. Dangerous.

Criston's eyes followed her.

He didn't mean to. Perhaps he couldn't help it. Something in him pulled taut as she passed, as if a thread once snapped had found its other half again.

She vanished beneath the archway, her form devoured by shadow.

He still stared.

They were magnets in a world of court and consequence. And though Criston didn't yet know what it meant, he felt it, an ache that came not from loss, but from the echo of something long overdue.

****

Criston walked toward his tent, each step heavy with exhaustion. His muscles ached from the brutal joust against Prince Daemon, and though his body cried out for rest, a quiet smile played on his lips. Victory was his and with it, the honor of crowning Alicent Hightower the Queen of Love and Beauty.

Inside the tent, the scent of sweat and iron still lingered. A young squire greeted him with a dip of the head, handing him a basin of fresh water. Criston nodded in thanks and began removing the layers of armor that clung to him like a second skin. One by one, the buckles fell away, the breastplate hitting the ground with a dull thud, until he was left in his linen tunic, damp with effort.

He knelt by the basin, scooped a handful of water, and splashed it against his face.

And then...something shifted.

As his hands fell from his eyes, the world blurred.

A vision unfurled before him.

Rhaenyra.

She stood at the heart of chaos, unbothered, unmoving. Around her, the world spun like a storm, but she remained still, ethereal. Behind her, silken threads drifted through the air, unraveling in slow motion, as though pulled by some unseen hand. Threads of time? Of fate? He didn't know. He couldn't breathe.

His instinct was to rise, to reach for her, but just as suddenly as it came, the vision dissolved. The ground steadied beneath him.

He was back in his tent, kneeling before the water basin, heart pounding in his chest.

Gasping.

Shaken.

He pressed a hand to his brow, trying to make sense of what he'd seen.

"What was that...?" he whispered to himself, voice rough with fear and wonder

****

The joust had left Rhaenyra drained, her body sore from the long hours of sitting, watching, enduring. As twilight fell over the castle, she made her way back to her chambers. Two knights trailed behind, silent and vigilant, an unspoken rule for a royal of her standing.

The halls were dim, lit only by flickering torches that cast long, swaying shadows on the cold stone walls. The clink of boots echoed faintly.

Then...

Swish.

Thuck.

Rhaenyra halted. The hairs on her arms rose.

"Did you hear that?" she asked without turning.

The two guards exchanged a glance behind her. "No, princess," one said. "We heard nothing."

She stared ahead, frowning, but continued walking.

Swish.

Thuck.

Again.

Her steps slowed. "Are you certain?" she asked, this time her voice softer, almost a whisper.

"Yes, Your Grace."

Her heartbeat quickened. She could hear it now—thump, thump—pounding louder, almost matching the rhythm of the sound.

Swish.

Thuck.

Closer.

It wasn't in the hall. It wasn't in her mind.

It was coming from the wall.

She turned her head slowly toward the stone. The flickering torchlight seemed to ripple across the surface, like something was breathing behind it. Her breath caught in her throat. The corridor felt colder now.

Something... or someone... was there.

Watching.

Waiting.

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Author's Note: This cover was generated by AI for my Wattpad story entitled "The Weaving Time." I was inspired by my previous works about time travel.

I hope you enjoy my Chapter 1 story below. Thank you!

Chapter I: Second First Meeting

Ser Criston Cole lay still, a strange sensation coursing through him. He was certain he had felt the sharp sting of arrows embedding themselves in his flesh. He remembered the blood, the collapse, the bitter taste of death on his tongue. Yet here he was, alive and breathing.

The scent struck him first. Oiled leather, iron, the dusty musk of hay and old sweat. Canvas fluttered gently above him, the tent's fabric glowing with morning light. Outside, he could hear the clang of hammer on steel, the neighing of horses, the banter of squires preparing for war masked as sport. All of it was too familiar, like stepping into a memory he had long buried. He sat up slowly, fingers brushing the coarse blanket beneath him, half expecting it to vanish. But it didn't. It was real. Real enough to hurt.

He pressed a hand to his chest, searching for wounds that were no longer there. Nothing. Not even a scar.

If I'm alive again... what am I meant to undo?

The thought pulsed like a prayer or a curse.

What is my purpose this time? To win? To repent? To stop her?

The weight of a thousand choices, made and regretted, pressed against his ribs. He had fought for kings and queens, lied for duty, killed for honor. And yet, here he was, in the beginning again. Why?

His thoughts were disturbed when a fellow knight tossed garments at him, a teasing grin on his face. "What are you doing, Cole? Still lost in your thoughts? You need to get ready for the tourney!"

The name of his friend eluded him, slipping through the cracks of his memory like sand through fingers.

Ah, the tourney. The very thought sent a thrill through him, until it turned sour.

Was this a dream, a fragment of the Seven Heavens, or perhaps a distant memory given flesh?

It felt so real, so immediate.

Had the Gods granted him a second chance? But for what purpose?

The questions swirled in his mind, each one more pressing than the last.

He rose from his seat, a sense of urgency propelling him forward, though the details of the tournament shun him, his mind still cover in confusion. As he stepped out of the tent, the sight of the flag he had once pledged allegiance to struck him like a bolt of lightning. A curse slipped from his lips;

Of all the times he could have been sent back, why this one?

This was the very moment he had first encountered the princess.

His thoughts was abruptly shattered when someone collided with him. The stranger muttered a hasty apology, but before he could respond, the figure hurried away. He had intended to slip away and avoid the tournament altogether, but his superior's voice cut through the chaos, announcing that he was next in line.

As he galloped on his steed, his gaze fell upon the royal family, and there, amidst the grandeur, sat Alicent Hightower. A warm smile spread across his face, for in a past life, they had shared a love that lingered in his heart without a trace of regret. Alicent was a stark contrast to Rhaenyra, embodying everything that was different and alluring. He flashed her a charming smile, and to his delight, he noticed a blush creeping onto her cheeks, a smirk dancing on his lips. As he scanned the gathering, he realized Rhaenyra was absent, which was hardly surprising; her nature was one of indulgence and recklessness.

Yet, perhaps this time, the fates had granted him a second chance to reshape his destiny, and he was resolute in his choice, Alicent would be the one he pursued.

*********

The silvered mirror caught the early morning light, its surface dappled with the soft gold of the rising sun. In it stood a woman reborn. Rhaenyra Targaryen stared at her reflection with a gaze that carried the weight of two lifetimes. Her violet eyes, as piercing as amethysts, searched her own face, not for beauty, for she still possessed that, but for something else. Proof, perhaps, that she still existed in this world.

She brushed her fingers along her bare arms. The sensation was ghostlike. In her memory, flames had devoured her, fed by the fury of Sunfyre, Aegon's dragon. She could still feel the agony, not on her skin, but beneath it, seared into the marrow of her bones. She had felt her flesh melt and heard her son scream her name. And yet, here she stood.

Alive.

Younger. Unbroken. And very much herself.

The room around her was stately but quiet, her old solar in the Red Keep, restored to a time before it had been claimed by fire and war. The tapestries bore the sigil of House Targaryen in its purest form: a three-headed dragon, black on red. The hearth was unlit, yet warmth spread through the room from the gilded glass windows, painted with suns and stars that cast golden shadows across the stone floor.

Today was the tourney. A celebration, they said, for the birth of her unborn brother, Baelon, though he had not long lived. A day of pageantry and spectacle. A day where old friends and future enemies gathered under the veil of civility.

A slow smirk curved her lips. Let them gather.

She turned away from the mirror and tapped her fingers on the polished oak table. The rhythmic sound echoed softly, like the ticking of a clock that had begun again.

What should I do? she mused.

Her smile widened.

Why, I should greet them all. One by one.

It would be... refreshing, even entertaining. At least until the war resumed.

Humming under her breath, an old Valyrian lullaby, perhaps, she crossed the room with measured grace. Her handmaids stood waiting by the wardrobe, expectant and uncertain. They had laid out a crimson gown with golden dragon clasps and embroidered sleeves, no doubt hoping she would wear Targaryen red for the occasion.

But she paused, shaking her head lightly. "Not today."

When a Targaryen wore black, it meant war. And while war had not yet begun, her intentions shimmered beneath the surface like wildfire beneath stone.

Instead, she chose a fitted doublet of midnight black, cut to flatter but allow for movement, with gold-threaded fastenings that shimmered like starlight when she walked. Breeches in rich black leather matched the riding boots she selected, boots that hinted she would rather face a tourney field than a ballroom.

The handmaids exchanged nervous glances as they helped her dress. This was no attire for a princess of the court. This was the garb of a dragon in wait.

Her long, silver-white hair flowed freely down her back, unbound and untouched by combs or jewels. It was rare for a noblewoman to leave her hair loose at court, it suggested freedom, a rejection of confinement.

Rhaenyra let it spill across her shoulders like the banners of old Valyria, unchained and untamed.

She met the gaze of one handmaid in the mirror. "Don't look so worried," she said, her tone lilting but sharp as a blade. "There's no war today. Just a change of...style."

"Style, princess?" the girl dared ask.

Rhaenyra tilted her head, lips curling with quiet menace. "That the dragon is renewed."

Behind her, the loom at the corner of the room clicked softly.

Swish.

Thuck.

The threads of fate wove themselves in silence, binding the past to the present with every unseen stitch.

Today, she would face them. And when the time came, when blood answered blood, she would burn away the false peace with fire and vengeance.

But not yet.

*****

The roar of the crowd echoed like thunder beneath the towering spires of the Dragonpit, its stone bones groaning beneath the weight of so many lives pressing in for spectacle. Above them, the banners of House Targaryen, Red and Black, snapped violently in the wind, a stark contrast to the golden sunbeams slicing through the high canopy.

The tourney grounds below were a tempest of energy: steeds snorting with impatience, lances gleaming, nobles whispering like vipers in silk.

And then she arrived.

The box stirred. Heads turned. Whispers became murmurs became gasps.

Rhaenyra Targaryen stepped into the high balcony with the calm of a queen who already knew the crown would one day sit heavy upon her brow. The black of her fitted tunic shimmered with hints of gold embroidery that crawled across the collar and cuffs like dragonflame. No silks, no jewels, no crimson to celebrate the birth of a prince. Only defiance dressed in elegance. Her long, silver-white hair flowed unbound over her shoulders like a banner of war. She had not come to please.

"She wears black," someone hissed.

"In mourning?"

"No... in rebellion."

And Rhaenyra heard them all. Every barb, every venomous tongue behind painted fans and smug courtiers. Her violet eyes passed over them like a blade unsheathed, and she smiled-not kindly, not politely, but like someone who had danced in flame and lived to mock it.

The King, Viserys, watched her with narrowed eyes. The Queen, Aemma, leaned forward, her face unreadable. But Rhaenyra's gaze slid past them and fell squarely on the green-draped figure beside her.

Alicent Hightower, not yet her enemy.

Not yet.

"Lady Alicent," Rhaenyra said sweetly as she took her seat beside her, folding one leg over the other with the grace of a dragon coiling to strike.

Alicent blinked, startled by the casual greeting, by the smile that didn't quite reach Rhaenyra's eyes. "Princess," she replied, unsure, polite. Still untouched by the venom that would one day pass between them like daggers thrown in the dark.

The horns blared.

Down below, Prince Daemon Targaryen, his silver hair tied back and glinting in the sun, rode onto the field in armor black as midnight. The crowd howled. He raised a lance with his characteristic swagger, his smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

Across the field, Ser Criston Cole emerged, dressed in simple but gleaming silver plate, green plumes fluttering at his helm. The mood shifted.

The match was brutal.

Daemon struck first, his lance snapping clean across Cole's shield with a bone-rattling crack. The crowd roared. Criston rebalanced, waited, then thundered forward. Their next clash was chaos-wood splintering, armor grinding, hooves carving up the dirt. Daemon was thrown, his arrogance undone by a single miscalculated strike. He rose furious, his blade half-drawn, but the heralds intervened.

Cole stood victorious, saluting the box with quiet dignity. Then, he looked up.

Time slowed.

His eyes met Rhaenyra's.

In that moment, the world fell silent. The crowd faded into mist, the dust of the joust swirled like memory, and the loom of time hummed softly in the back of her mind.

Swish.

Thuck.

The threads pulled tight.

Criston hesitated. His gaze softened. But then...

The crowd surged. The moment cracked.

He turned.

And crowned Alicent Hightower Queen of Love and Beauty.

Gasps.

Rhaenyra didn't flinch. She tilted her head, lips curling into something between amusement and danger.

"Interesting," she thought. Her fingers drummed on her knee.

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Author's Note: I'm back with another Rhaenyra x Criston stories. I plan to share stories monthly, as there are only few of Rhaenyra x Criston stories remaining.

This story continues from the previous oneshot I wrote, which is still untitled. This time, we’ll explore Ser Criston’s perspective. In the next chapter, I’ll ensure that Rhaenyra and Criston engage in some lively dialogue and a title for the oneshot. Enjoy!

ONESHOT #1 CONTINUATION

Ser Criston stood watch like a lone wolf under the cloak of night, his senses sharp and alert. Memories of the evening with the princes danced in his mind, igniting a fire of longing within him. In this stillness, while the world around him lay in slumber, he remained ever vigilant, anticipating a threat that loomed in the shadows. Little did he know, the true danger was embodied in the very princess he admired.

As dawn broke, it was time for him to relinquish his post and seek rest, knowing that the day ahead would be long and filled with duty once more. Yet, a storm of anxiety brewed within him at the thought of facing the princess after their shared moment. Would he be able to maintain his composure? His thoughts raced like wild stallions, each one more frantic than the last, until the door swung open, revealing the one who had ensnared his heart. His pulse quickened, thundering in his chest like a galloping steed. Could she hear it? And if she did, would she embrace what lay between them?

The princess approached Ser Criston with a radiant smile that lit up her already enchanting features. "Good morning, Ser Criston," she greeted, her voice like a gentle melody. Ser Criston felt his tongue tie itself in knots, stumbling over his words like a fish flopping out of water. "G-Good morning, Princess," he finally managed to utter, his heart racing.

As he pondered the day’s events, his reverie was interrupted by the princess's voice "If someone seeks me, kindly tell them, I am in the library." It struck him as odd; the library was not her usual haunt at this hour. Typically, she preferred the shade of the werewood tree, where she would lose herself in the pages of her favorite tales.

A flicker of concern crossed his mind, and he considered following her, wanting to keep her company and stand guard at the entrance. But his thoughts were abruptly halted when she added, "It's okay, Ser Criston, I will go alone. Please take some rest. The day is long, and you require energy for your daily duty."

Ser Criston, ever the stubborn knight with the fiery spirit of his Dornish heritage, couldn't help but interject. "Might I inquire, Princess, what brings you to the library at such an hour?"

"I wish to explore some books that I have yet to read," Princess Rhaenyra replied, her voice steady and resolute.

"But at this hour?" Ser Criston pressed, a hint of disbelief in his tone. He relished this rare moment of conversation, granted by her own request. Others would surely envy the connection they shared, yet the princess remained unfazed.

"The time I choose to spend and the places I visit are of no concern to you," she retorted, her gaze unwavering.

Caught off guard, it was the first time the princess had addressed him in such a manner. Her unwavering gaze met his with a determination that was unmistakable; after all, she was Rhaenyra Targaryen, forged from the flames of her lineage, resolute and unyielding. He found himself at a loss for words.

Noticing the confusion etched on his face, the princess softened her tone. "I apologize for my sudden outburst. I understand your responsibilities, Ser Criston, but may I have a moment to myself?"

"Of course, Your Highness," he replied, the words slipping from his lips. Yet, beneath the surface, a desire to delve deeper into her thoughts stirred within him. He longed to offer his support, to uncover the weight she carried, but he held his tongue.He knew better than to defy her wishes.

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Author's Note: It's been some time since I shared a story, and the number of Criston Cole haters seems to be growing😂. While season two was tough for me, seeing Milly with Fabien truly warms my heart. I feel inspired to write a story about them.

This story may lack a clear plot, but I simply expressed my thoughts as they came. I'm still developing my skills in structuring plots and storylines. I hope you enjoy!

FIRST LOVE

"Mother, who was your first love?" the little one asked, his tiny fingers weaving through her hair as he spoke, blissfully unaware that his mother had drifted into a sea of memories.

Suddenly, a loud knock echoed through the room, a forceful rap that could rattle anyone caught in a moment of mischief. But Rhaenyra remained undisturbed, lost in her own thoughts, unaffected by the commotion outside.

The door swung wide, unveiling the answer. "The king seeks you, princess," he rasped, his voice rough and strained, as if the very name he struggled to say was a dagger to his heart. It was as though the weight of his emotions choked him, leaving his words barely audible. Rhaenyra tenderly lifted the young prince's head, her gaze locking onto the man she had once loved, a flicker of that old affection still flickering deep within her heart, perhaps buried but never entirely extinguished.

It had been awhile since she uttered the name "Sir Criston." Their conversations had ceased following that fateful event, yet she felt no hatred towards him. Still, the thought of his son hung in the air, as if his presence materialized whenever the question arose. As she stepped out of her room, she knew he would follow her, fulfilling his duty, always a step behind her as she forged ahead. It was a subtle reflection of their roles. But in that moment, before they walked as equals, there were no titles, just the two of them—him and her.

The corridor stretched endlessly before them, increasing the awkwardness of the moment. Silence enveloped them, as if the air itself held its breath, wary of shattering the fragile stillness. It was a lesson etched in their memories, a reminder of the past. Yet, the act of breaking the silence could be refreshing, though it depended on the individual’s willingness to face the potential sting of honesty. "How are you, Sir Criston?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The absence of a reply echoed back to her, a response she had anticipated. Silence reigned once more.

She is aware of who her first love truly is—her uncle, she thinks. This is an undeniable truth, one that no one can contest. However, there’s a crucial detail that has been overlooked. Her uncle, the black sheep of the family, is a figure of admiration, captivating everyone with his charm and charisma. Yet, deep down, he harbors ambitions for the throne, a fact she is painfully aware of, even as her feelings for him linger.

Then came a day, a challenger appeared, someone who instantly captivated her attention, leaving her too spellbound to inquire about his identity. As the knight removed his helmet, revealing a strikingly handsome Dornish visage, her heart raced. Was it love she felt, or merely infatuation? Was it admiration or a sense of intrigue? The truth eludes her, for she is still too young to grasp the complexities of love.

She made her choice that day, and it meant everything. The memory of pleading with her father to be her savior still made her cringe. Those days were precious, each moment they shared a gem she would forever cherish. Yes, she fell deeply for him; he was her first real love. Yet, everything fell apart when she turned down the chance to escape with him. She longed for him to remain by her side, but the thought of him becoming a mere plaything was unbearable. And that’s how they ended up where they are now.

Upon arriving at the king's chambers, they found themselves once more at the door. As she entered, the door creaked shut behind her, lingering in its closure as if granting them a final moment to gaze into each other's eyes, to etch every detail into their memories, savoring the moment as if it were their last. Each face bore the weight of unspoken words, yearning to convey everything, yet their lips remained sealed. The door's slow descent felt like an irrevocable farewell, a silent proclamation that nothing would ever return to what it once was.

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Author's Note: Sorry for the late uploads. When I wrote this story, I was inspired by the song TRAITOR by Olivia Rodrigo. It was meant to reflect the connection between Rheanyra and Criston, but it turned out differently. Here is a new story about Rheanyra and Criston.

" I am carrying his child"

Rheanyra thought, gently touching her swelling belly. The child of him and her, the result of their passion during that fateful night in her bed. A memory that now seemed distant.

She whispered those words when she spotted him, Sir Criston Cole, with the Queen. "How everything has changed," she mused with a solemn expression.

She hadn't meant to cause him pain, but she had failed to find the right words to explain. After their wedding, she sought him out, never expecting that rejecting his proposal would lead to this. She refused to blame him though. Despite her efforts to talk to him afterwards, he seemed out of reach, avoiding her gaze with a hint of hatred.

Her heart ached as she recalled his vows, knowing too well of their doing which cause everything to fall apart. She had deceived and manipulated him. Feeling betrayed, she realized they had both deceived each other, but the child was the only thing left from their shattered promises. Broken and betrayed...

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NOTE OF THE AUTHOR

I haven't watched House of the Dragons yet, but I was captivated by the characters and their undeniable chemistry. They truly fascinated me, leading me to read into the history of Rhaenyra and Criston Cole through Google searches and watching short clips on TikTok and YouTube. It's my first time attempting to write a fanfic, and I'm still undecided on the title for this oneshot. I hope you enjoy it!

ONESHOT

Heat, that was the sole sensation Rhaenyra experienced at present. The scorching blaze that consumed her being, as she succumbed to anger that mirrored the flames. How did it come to this? Where did it all begin? Perhaps she pondered these questions before, but now she stands here defenseless. Her sons, yearning and desiring to safeguard what remained, she could not shield - not even for the throne. Ah, the throne, she mused as her body burned, she had time to contemplate. If only she were granted another life, she would not pursue it, would not even dare. As she closed her eyes, light was the only things she saw.

Unbeknownst to her, the gods do hear. Why now? Is it a blessing or could it potentially be a curse? That depends on the individual's perspective. What caused the gods to grant her another chance? She will find out perhaps sooner or later.

***

"What is this?" Rhaenyra wondered, as she hears breathing, sensed heartbeats intertwining with hers, and felt the touch of hands. As she opened her eyes, she witnessed the figure in front of her, their lips slowly parting - Ser Criston Cole. Is this the consequence of her past mistakes? Is this a dream, a reminiscence of the past? or is this reality? A kiss, a game of pursuit, a playful act she recalled, when she was young and perhaps naive. What was she doing here? She wondered.

Eyes brimming with desire, she can tell, yet she possesses the wisdom to resist, for it was this very temptation that led to their downfall.

"Ser Criston," she uttered, gently pushing him. She must maintain her composure, despite her confusion about the situation. She needs to unravel the mystery, but at the same time, she must avoid repeating the same mistakes. Perhaps the gods listened to her, but for what reason?

"Yes, my princess," he responded in a husky tone, his longing evident as he brushed a strand of hair away from her face. It was her own doing, as she spoke words she believed to be encouraging. She would later regret it.

As she extended her hands to caress his face, she softly uttered, "We cannot continue."

Rhaenyra continued, extending her hand towards him, "I understand my previous words, but I genuinely wish to prevent any future regrets."

“I allowed my desires to overpower me, neglecting to protect my rational thoughts. I offer my sincere apologies, Ser Criston."

“I am hesitant to break your oath, as this” she hesitated, barely audible “is the only thing you have." She remembered about the moment when he proposed to her on the ship. She doesn't wish to cause him pain, as they both have endured enough.

"You are an exceptional knight, the very reason I selected you, but it would be too much to request this." She reached forward, height differences are evident but nevertheless, it did not stop her from reaching and planted a gentle kiss on his forehead. Ser Criston gazed at her with unwavering focus.

Rhaenyra gestured towards the exit as they parted ways, saying, "You can return to your duties, Ser Criston. A kiss was all that I had to offer as a gift of your service."

Ser Criston stood there, unable to grasp the situation unfolding before him. He couldn't utter a single word as he stepped out of the boundaries of the princess's chamber. Unconsciously, his hand brushed against his lips.

As the door closed, a sense of relief washed over Rhaenyra's mind.

Possibly this time she can rewrite the past, her life, and it's a chance she shouldn't miss. Yet, little did she know, behind the door, emotions are brewing.