#ser criston cole

[bietrofastimoff23]

Criston, in book: a cold-blooded, ruthless, calculating, ambitious knight who skillfully eliminated others from his path, had a direct involvement in the coup, the one who convinced Aegon to become king and offered Aemond the post of regent.

Criston, in show: a single mother.

[hotdaemondtargaryen]

“I’ve also always been convinced that Daemon and Criston have had a some of sort of homoerotic tryst in the evening... They kind of hate each other, but they love each other, but they hate each other, but they love each other.”

“If you watch closely there's a lot of tension where it isn't written in the show.”

“You know, we’re both in our armors, we’ve got swords, he likes one queen, and I like the other queen...”

— MATT SMITH & FABIEN FRANKEL talking about daemon and criston's relationship at nycc.

[ashblooddragons]

I rarely read Criston fics because I find them unbelievable, but this was. This author showed his turmoil but also the way he knew how this was going to end, how there was no ending where he didn't have her.

I liked the little detail of her being Saeras daughter, it made it even more believable in a way.

I adored how the author combined softness with this overwhelming pleasure. It was cute and hot at the same time.

Amazing work and I highly recommend for all my Criston girlys!

Criston Cole - The Price of Temptations

Summary - A silver-haired brothel worker with Targaryen blood captivates Ser Criston Cole, who struggles to despise her but fails at every touch. Torn between duty and desire, he battles the dangerous, forbidden obsession that defies his oaths—and consumes them both.

Pairing - Criston Cole x reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!), strong language

Word count - 2435

Masterlist for Criston • House of the Dragon General Masterlist

Criston Cole despised bastards. And Targaryen bastards ignited the most ferocious blaze of contempt within him—a fire born of blood and betrayal, of duty and pride.

A bastard with silver hair was a threat—or an opportunity—to every schemer with eyes on the Iron Throne. But for Criston, it was only a reminder of oaths broken and lies untold.

But for all his loathing, he couldn't bring himself to despise me. No, he wouldn't. He tried—oh, how he tried—clutching at the shreds of honour he had left, the sacred vows sworn on that white cloak he wore. 

But each attempt was as futile as a man trying to catch the wind with open hands.

I always knew when he approached. The cobblestones of King's Landing betrayed his presence even when the night wrapped around him, eager to keep his secrets. 

This road had once been inconceivable to him, a stain on all he stood for. 

The man who was meant to be pure, untouched by the grime of this world. But purity was fragile, easily cracked by desire and by choices made in darkened alcoves. 

The white cloak weighed heavy on his shoulders, a testament to what he had been, not what he had become.

When the door creaked open, I felt the air shift, thickening with the unspoken. 

The place was dim, a den where lust and coin danced together, wrapped in the fragrance of incense and forgotten promises. 

Sylvi, always sharp-eyed, watched him with a smirk that spoke of secrets shared and judgments withheld. She relished in his discomfort.

"Where is she?" he demanded, his voice strained, low, as though volume would betray his presence.

"With another patron," Sylvi replied, her words honey-smooth and laced with something that bordered on pity, perhaps amusement. 

His jaw tightened, the muscles coiled like a viper ready to strike.

"She earns her living, Ser," Sylvi added, a flicker of challenge in her eyes. "Don't blame her for being desired."

His glare was as dark as the shadows that pooled around him. "Tell her I'll be waiting," he ground out before turning away, his frustration crackling in the air between them.

I watched him retreat to the private alcove, one reserved for men of power and desperation, those who needed more than the fleeting pleasures that coin could buy. 

The curtains were silk, the candlelight soft and suggestive. 

Everything was arranged to soothe and seduce, but I knew it offered him no peace. His gaze darted around the room as if seeking a distraction, his hands clenched tight, betraying the tempest within. 

Desire was a cruel master, and discontent its constant companion.

I let him wait. Let him stew in the tension that simmered between us, an unspoken, inescapable thing. 

When I finally stepped into the alcove, I moved with purpose, each step deliberate, my silver hair catching the light like a banner of who and what I was. 

His eyes found me immediately, drinking me in despite himself.

I smiled, and it was both a weapon and a balm. "My favourite knight," I murmured, my voice low and teasing, as I pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek. 

The touch was enough to make him stiffen, but he did not pull away. Not anymore. He belonged to me in this space, even if he would hate himself for it by dawn.

"You took a while," he said, his voice rougher than he intended. Was it frustration? Need? I couldn't decide—and in truth, it didn't matter.

"It's a busy night," I said lightly, pouring us both wine. My movements were unhurried; we had time. 

In here, we always had time.

"Every night is busy for you," he whispered bitterness and something that almost sounded like envy threading through his words. A laugh escaped me, soft and fleeting.

"There's a saying—rich men pay more to fuck a woman with silver hair," I said, raising my cup to my lips. "Words of my mother."

The flicker of emotion that crossed his face was almost imperceptible, but I saw it. 

Sympathy. Judgment. He wore them both poorly. 

"Your brother would help you if you asked," he said, his tone as hollow as his offer.

I took a slow sip, letting the silence stretch before I replied. "Hugh is ashamed of me, as he was of our mother," I said, the truth slipping out like a blade unsheathed. 

I swirled the wine in my cup, watching the deep red liquid spin. "But you didn't come here to discuss my brother, did you?"

My words hung in the air, a challenge. His eyes met mine, searching as if looking for something he'd lost—something that only I could give back.

I stood, and time slowed. The robe I wore slid from my shoulders, pooling at my feet. In this place, in this moment, I was bare. 

Not vulnerable. Never vulnerable. This was my stage, and I commanded it.

His breath hitched. "No," he said, his voice raw. "No, it isn't."

Before I could take another step, his hands found me, rough and insistent. The touch that was both desperate and reverent, as if by holding me, he might anchor himself. 

I leaned into him, the distance between us collapsing like the fragile lie it was.

This was not a game we could end. Not now. Not ever. I knew it as surely as I knew the heat of his breath against my skin, the way his hands trembled when they touched me. 

We were trapped in each other, bound by something neither of us could name.

"Here," he whispered, his voice thick with everything he wanted to forget. "I'll take whatever you're willing to give."

The weight of those words lingered in the air between us, thick and potent, like the heat of a flame poised to consume us both. 

The knight who despised me—who despised himself for wanting me—was already crumbling, the resolve he clung to shattered by his need. 

I could see it in the way his eyes darkened, how his breath hitched when he looked at me, torn between desire and disgust—disgust he reserved only for himself. 

In that fleeting, charged moment, we were both lost, helpless against the pull between us.

He closed the distance with a ferocity that belied his turmoil, his lips finding the sensitive skin of my neck. 

Each kiss felt like a confession, every touch laden with unspoken emotion, as though he sought to drown himself in the act of worshipping my body. 

His mouth travelled downward, the trail of heat he left behind setting me alight until he reached the valley between my breasts. 

There, he paused, breathless, his hesitation betraying a war within him—resentment that he couldn't deny how much he wanted me, jealousy over the men who had come before.

Slowly, deliberately, he pressed his lips to my stomach, his hands guiding me back toward the makeshift bed nestled in the alcove. 

It was a small, hidden place as if the world beyond had vanished and left only this: the two of us, bare and exposed in every way that mattered.

His movements were tender yet charged with intent as he positioned himself, my legs draped over his shoulders, my body laid bare beneath him. 

His clothes had vanished somewhere along the way, and now his skin was pressed to mine, feverish and wanting. 

Criston's fingers traced beneath my thighs, his touch a mixture of reverence and need. 

He paused for a brief moment, eyes meeting mine as if seeking permission one last time—or perhaps as if reminding himself of what he shouldn't have.

He stroked himself, the anticipation flickering in his eyes almost painful in its intensity. 

I gripped his muscled arms, feeling the tension thrumming just beneath his skin as he entered me, slowly, with a care that both burned and soothed. 

Every inch was deliberate, every movement a promise that this was more than an exchange. This was an escape, a respite from the lives we lived outside this dimly lit space.

Criston had always been different. One of the reasons he was my favourite, though I would never truly admit it to him. 

Unlike the others who saw me as a means to an end, he approached this—approached me—with a thoughtfulness that both unsettled and thrilled me. 

He wasn't simply taking; he was giving too, even when he shouldn't.

A smile crept across my lips, genuine and soft, as he began to move within me. His pace was unhurried, as though savouring every second. 

Pleasure unfolded between us, raw and untamed, coaxed effortlessly by his touch. 

Soft moans spilt from my lips, betraying the depth of my surrender. In that moment, there was no artifice, no masks—just us.

His breath ghosted over my ear, rough with desire. "Tell me," he whispered, each word like a stroke along my most sensitive places. "Are the other patrons as attentive?"

His fingers slid down, finding the spot where our bodies joined, circling with a skill that sent shockwaves through me. 

Lewd groans escaped my mouth, beyond any restraint I'd built over the years.

"No," I gasped, the word ripped from me. "Never."

His other hand tangled in my silver hair, tugging gently as his gaze drank me in, dark and unrestrained. 

He moved with a rhythm that was barely controlled, as if he was fighting himself every step of the way, trying to prolong what we both knew was fleeting. 

Every thrust, every touch, held the weight of longing, resentment, and a desperate need neither of us could quell. 

Time felt suspended, every moment stretched thin, teetering on the edge of something we both feared and craved.

His hand in my hair tightened, not enough to hurt but just enough to anchor me, a reminder that this was real—that we both were. 

His eyes never left mine, and the intensity of his gaze made me feel both exposed and cherished in a way I hadn't expected, couldn't have predicted. 

The rhythm of his thrusts quickened, each movement sending shockwaves through my body. I felt the tension building, a tidal wave of pleasure coiling deep within me, ready to crash.

His hands were everywhere—one still tangled in my hair, the other pressed against the most sensitive bundle of nerves between my thighs, circling with maddening precision. 

Every touch was deliberate, every motion perfectly timed, as if he had memorized the map of my pleasure and was determined to lead me to its peak. His breath came hot and fast against my skin, mingling with the soft, desperate moans spilling from my lips.

"Criston," I whispered, the name a prayer, a curse, a plea. 

My hands dug into his muscled arms, needing to feel him, to hold onto something solid as I hurtled toward the edge. 

The world around us dissolved, the alcove fading until only the two of us existed, suspended in this moment of raw, unfiltered need.

He groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest and into mine. I could feel his struggle, the barely contained desire to let go. 

"Look at me," he demanded, his voice thick with need and something I couldn't quite name. I obeyed, my eyes locking with his, and in that instant, the dam within me broke.

Pleasure crashed over me, intense and overwhelming, every nerve ending alight. 

This wasn't the practised moan, the artful arch of my body, or the clever facade I wore with other patrons. 

This was real—an uncontrollable release that made my body tremble and my breath catch. I cried out, a sound raw and unrestrained, and he swallowed it with a desperate, searing kiss. 

His lips moved against mine as if trying to taste every ounce of my pleasure, to claim it as his own.

The tightening of my walls around him, the way I shattered beneath him, was his undoing. 

Criston's movements became erratic, his restraint slipping as he drove into me, chasing his own release. I felt him pulse inside me, a groan of satisfaction and relief escaping his lips. 

For a moment, time stood still—the two of us intertwined, both undone by what we had shared.

He collapsed onto me, breathless and trembling, his weight a comforting pressure that grounded me. 

Our sweat-slicked skin stuck together, our hearts pounding in unison. He buried his face in my neck as if trying to hide from the world beyond the alcove. 

And I, still catching my breath, ran my fingers through his dark hair, savouring the quiet that followed.

There were no words. None were needed. In that moment, there was no knight and no brothel worker. No shame, no guilt—only two souls who had found something achingly real, even if it was destined to be fleeting. 

We lay tangled together, the aftershocks of our release slowly fading but the intensity of what had passed between us lingering, unspoken and profound.

I felt his lips move against the crook of my neck, pressing a soft, almost tender kiss there—a stark contrast to the intensity of what we had just shared.

"Why do you do this to me?" he whispered, his voice rough and low, as if he was afraid of the words even as they left his lips. 

There was pain in his question, a vulnerability that made my chest tighten.

I closed my eyes and let the warmth of his breath wash over me. "It's not just me," I murmured, threading my fingers through his dark hair, feeling the damp strands slide between my fingertips. "We do this to each other."

He drew back just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes dark with a mix of emotions—desire, confusion, perhaps even a touch of regret. 

"You make me forget who I am," he admitted, his voice cracking on the last word. "I can't hate you for it. Even when I try."

A bittersweet smile tugged at my lips. "Good," I replied softly, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Because I can't pretend with you. Not like I do with the others."

His eyes searched mine as if looking for the truth in my words. Whatever he saw there seemed to break something within him, and he lowered his forehead to mine, his breath warm against my lips. 

"I don't know what this is," he said quietly, almost desperately. "But I can't let it go."

I exhaled shakily, my fingers brushing against his cheek. "Then don't," I whispered, my words carrying both hope and inevitability.

We stayed like that, tangled in each other's arms, as the world beyond the alcove threatened to intrude. 

But for now, there was only this: two souls clinging to a moment that felt achingly real, knowing it couldn't last but unable to let go. 

For a little while longer, we would stay lost together.

A/n - Another fav

[helaenalyst]

he really said you should've stayed divorced

[ophelieverse]

“i was abed” yeah sure😒

[emmaziadarcy]

i keep sucking at my job but they keep promoting me 😭

[anakin-skybreaker]

Ser Criston Cole miraculously survives yet again:

[northcodex]

i like how criston redirected him like a horse

[bbygirl-aemond]

i hate larys immensely but him deliberately stoking the drama between alicent and criston was hilarious he ate this one thing

[prissypixie]

It’s funny (only bc I find him intolerable) how Ser Criston Cole will never miss an opportunity to insult Rhaenyra and yet he receives these judgmental stares from the greens. It serves as a reminder to him that no matter how much he serves these people, no matter how loyal he is to them - he is, at the end of the day, below them and therefore has no right to slander a highborn’s name EVEN if she is the enemy that they do not wish to see ascend the throne.

[patheticdarling]

Her Sacrifice

Summary: The assassins had no such luck finding Prince Aemond but what were they to do when they stumbled upon the beloved wife of King Aegon instead? Her belly swollen with his heir.

Warnings: Blood & Cheese/murder/gore & blood/cursing/threats/blades/pregnancy/kidnapping/funeral/incest (reader is helaena's older twin)

Word Count: 2236

"The other lords will be accompanying me for a drink in the Throne Room. Shall you join us, Wife?" Aegon asked, a slightly eager smile on his face, anticipating your agreement.

You sighed as you began to undo the braids in your hair, "The hour is late, Husband. I must rest."

Aegon pouted, "Just a cup! We've attended to our royal duties all day, have we not earned a bit of respite?"

"Respite is what I shall get with a good night's sleep. Not drinking until sunrise with you and your comrades," you teased. You stood from seat at your vanity, walking over and placing Aegon's hand on your growing bump, "Besides, do you not wish for our babe to be born healthy? So that they may grow into formidable dragon riders like their parents."

He smiled softly at your belly before kissing it sweetly, "You make a good point, my dear. Mayhaps I should stay in with you."

You shook your head, smiling down at him, "Do not let me stop your fun. You are right. The King deserves his respite. Besides there may not be many more nights where we get to enjoy ourselves," motioning to your bump.

"You are going to make a wonderful mother," Aegon stood from his seat, "I shall allow you to enjoy your last moments of rest then." He planted a soft kiss on your lips, "I love you, Y/N."

You stroked his hair, "I love you, Aegon."

Aegon kissed you once more before giving your belly a playful squeeze and disappearing from your chambers. You summoned one of your ladies to help you finish getting ready for bed. Thanking her as you got yourself comfortable between the silk sheets of you and Aegon's bed. Finally bidding her good night as she blew out most of the candles, leaving a few on for Aegon's drunken return.

You could not be sure of the hour when you heard your chamber doors creak open followed by the shuffling of feet. You did not even bother opening your eyes, assuming you'd feel the bed indent as Aegon stumbled towards it.

"Back so soon?" you teased, "I was only being half serious about the sunset-"

Suddenly, a large hand clamped over your mouth. Your eyes shot open as two men loomed over you. You screamed and panicked as the larger man used his other arm to keep you pinned to the bed.

"Quiet!" the smaller man pulled a blade out, pressing it to your throat, "Unless you want me to bleed you like a pig."

You nodded, terrified of what these men could do, "W-Who are you? What do you want?"

"Its not our wants you should be concerned with, Your Grace."

"Who sent you? What do y-you want from me?" your voice shook.

"A life is owed. It wasn't supposed to be you. A son for a son we were told," the smaller man shrugged, "But it seems Prince Aemond isn't in the castle tonight."

Of course, you thought. This was about Lucerys. Your younger brother had taken the boy's life and that was a deed that could not go unpunished. You knew how deeply your eldest sister loved all of her children. The loss of one would be devastating. Taking Aemond's life made sense. But taking yours? And the life of your unborn child? That was not in Rhaenyra's nature. This was plotted by someone far more sinister and dark.

"My uncle sent you, didn't he?" you spoke up. They both sent stares to the other, "Daemon Targaryen. He sent you to kill one of us."

The large man scoffed, "Aren't you a smart one?"

"Shame those smarts won't do you any good now, will they?" the smaller one mocked.

"Please," you tried to beg, "Do not do this. No good will-" The large hand came down on your mouth again.

"That's enough," he grunted before turning back to the smaller man, "I'll hold her down and you cut."

Your blood ran cold at his words. Not only were they going to kill you but they were going to tortuously cut out your unborn child. They both yanked you further down the bed until you were flat on your back. You tried to kick, scream, bite, thrash as much as you could but the man proved to have almost inhuman strength. The smaller man raised his blade, that same sadistic grin plastered on his face before he began to dig it into the lower part of your abdomen.

White hot pain seared through your body as he continued to slice into you. Your vision was blurred with tears and you could have sworn your throat was raw from your cries. Though the pain was so intense that you could not process the sounds that might have been leaving you. Warm blood pooled all around you, the once ivory sheets now a deep crimson. One last gasp left you as they pulled your child from your body.

Suddenly you had remembered your mother telling you about the pains of childbirth when you first married Aegon and all anyone could talk about was you producing his heirs. She had a rather negative approach that utterly terrified you. So, you decided to find comfort in Rhaenyra's advice instead.

"I will not withhold the truth from you, it truly is the most excruciating pain a woman must go through."

You groaned, "That is not what I had wished to hear, Sister."

"You did not let me finish. The process is hard, yes. And you will feel the urge to curse the Gods or even your husband and swear to never bear anymore children," you both laughed, "But the moment you hear those sweet cries and your babe is placed upon your chest, the pain is forgotten. And nothing has ever seemed so worth it. Then you will know, right then and there, that you would do it all over again if it meant you could finally find that purest form of love."

And yet, you would never discover that beautiful feeling your sister had painted so clearly. The room was almost eerily silent besides the dripping of blood onto the stone floor.

"What do you know?" the man panted as he held your lifeless infant, "A son. Congratulations, my Queen."

You could not speak as you felt your body numb itself. Tears falling with no cries as they stuffed your son's body into a sack. It was as if you could feel your heart shatter. The men finished their sinister act before fleeing through a secret passageway. You tried little to fight the heaviness in your eyes. Perhaps this was all a horrible dream and if you shut your eyes, you'd open them to find yourself in bed with Aegon's arms wrapped securely around your belly. The last thing you could muster was a small smile at the sentimental image as your vision faded out completely.

"Sister?" Helaena called out into your bed chamber, "I did not wish to wake you but Aegon is being so loud and I cannot sleep with him-" Her voice caught in her throat at the sight of your mangled body lying on the bed. Your figure lifeless and your eyes vacant as you stared at the canopy. She approached your body, a shaky hand reaching out to touch your face to be met with utter stillness. Helaena backed out of the room slowly, tears flowing down her cheeks before sprinting to find some sort of help. As if anyone could undo what had already been done.

"I-I don't know what happened. I came in and she...she was..." Helaena's voice cracked with sobs as various people filed into the royal bed chamber; the Kingsguard, the Dowager Queen, the Hand, and lastly, your husband.

They all stopped at the sight before them, their eyes welling with tears and their stomachs churning. The Dowager Queen let out a heavy sob as all their attention turned to the King. Aegon approached your body cautiously.

He fell to his knees, his hands cradling your bloodied face as he sobbed, "My wife, my dearest-"

Nobody dared say a word as Aegon mourned over you. His sobs heavy with grief as he called out your name over and over again. The Queen Mother clutching Helaena's arm as they cried with him. The Kingsguard hanging their heads low in shame at their failure to protect their Queen. Otto Hightower, known to be quick with his word, said nothing.

The council meeting that followed was one full of dread and grief. Most of the council mourned, the Hand schemed, and the King could do not but curse the Gods and swear revenge.

"Your Grace, perhaps we should speak of the funeral arrangements for the Queen-"

"No," Aegon was quick to stop the Hand, who raised a brow at his grandson's denial, "I will not have my wife's body dragged through the streets like a dog!"

"Not dragged, honored!" Otto corrected him before lowering his tone as he spoke to the King, "Y/N was my granddaughter and I loved her. She deserves the funeral of a Targaryen princess, a Targaryen queen. The small folk wish to mourn their Queen and the heir she carried. And they need to know who is responsible for this."

Aegon's face twisted in disbelief, "How could they not already know?! Who else would do this save the bitch queen of bastards?!"

"We must know for certain, Your Grace," Lord Jasper suggested, "If it was not your sister, this may prove to be an even bigger threat to the crown, to you, my King."

Aegon scoffed, "I do not care what threatens me. My wife is dead. And my child," he stifled a sob, "That cunt did this, I know it. Her and her kingdom of traitorous bastards will burn for it."

Before anyone could speak, the doors of the council chamber opened as Lord Larys entered. He bowed meekly as all eyes turned to him.

"My lords, Your Grace," he greeted the council.

All stood still, "State your purpose, Lord Larys," the Hand spoke.

"We have apprehended one of the assailants. A gold cloak, known for his brutal nature. The guards caught him fleeing the Gate of Gods. He carried the child's body in a sack."

The King hardly wasted any time, stomping over to the doors, "I shall kill him myself."

"We might retrieve further information about who is to blame for this tragedy after questioning," Ser Criston stopped Aegon from leaving as Otto spoke, "I trust in your skill set, Lord Larys."

The Strong Lord bowed before exiting the room. All eyes turned once again to the King and his Hand.

"We will hold the service for both the child and mother-"

"I said no," Aegon grunted, "My wife and child will not be put on display for the Realm."

"Your Grace, we might use this to our advantage in the war you wish to march into. Your people need to know the depravity that Rhaenyra is capable of. The great houses of Westeros will see that she is not fit to rule given her cruel nature. They will flock to your side and with them, their armies and bannermen."

Aegon continued to shake his head. He could not just let them see you or your child like that. They did not deserve it.

"Mother," he turned to the Dowager Queen for support.

Alicent approached Aegon's chair, "The Hand sets on a difficult path, my darling, but it might be the right one."

The King could not muster anymore fight, "Have the Silent Sisters prepare the Queen and child for their journey. Behind them will be Princess Helaena and the Queen Mother."

"No, I do not wish to be a spectacle," Alicent argued but her father would not hear it.

Your husband visited your body as the Silent Sisters began to prepare it. They had cleaned the mess and dressed you in one of your favorite dresses, the emerald color complimenting your skin and hair.

"Your Grace, it is ill-fated to look upon the face of death," Maester Orwyle warned.

"That is not the face of death, Maester. That is my wife," Aegon spoke, "Leave me with her."

Maester Orwyle and the Silent Sisters bowed before leaving the King with your body. He softly stroked the hair from your face as he broke into sobs once again.

"I am so sorry, my love," he cried, "I-I should have been there to protect you. And our son." Maester Orwyle had informed His Grace that the child you carried was a prince, a perfect heir, "You truly would have been the most wonderful mother. You were already a perfect wife and Queen. Motherhood would have come naturally."

Aegon recounted how well you did with Rhaenyra's last two babies, the ones she had with his uncle Daemon. As much as he did not care for his half-sister, he knew you did. Always quick to defend her, even against your own family. So, he was forced to ask himself, how could she do this to you? To your child?

"They will pay for what they have done," your husband muttered to you, "I will win this war. I will win it for our child. I will win it for you. With fire and blood. Your sacrifice will not be for naught, my Queen."

[bietrofastimoff23]

🎶 𝙳𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢...

𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚜? 🎶

**Criston knew that he loved these children — him, the king, whose honor he defended in front of others, the man, whose thirst for revenge for his murdered son he shared, the prince he trained, and the boy who grew up before his eyes — but he hardly ever imagined that it could be so painful.

We haven't seen much of their interaction, but Criston still showed that he is the real family to Aegon.

[hotdaemondtargaryen]

the cast of 'house of the dragon' s2, photographed by fabien frankel.

[yandereunsolved]

Yandere Team Green w/ traumatized reader—

Yandere Alicent: "It's okay, sweetheart; you're safe. You don't need to dissociate. No one is going to yell or put their hands on you ever again—as long as you listen. Listening is very important."

Yandere Aemond and Aegon in the next room over.

Yandere Aemond: "You are an imbecile. They refused to talk to anyone except for Helaena until today! You took that as a chance to grope them, you perverted fuck!"

Yandere Aegon: "You're just mad they like me better. They have never let you grope them."

Yandere Aemond: "They didn't let—You know what? When darling chooses me over you, you'll know why. At least I know my limits."

Yandere Aegon: "I have had that same expression on my face many nights. Whores and wine always soothed it. They'll come to appreciate my ways of helping them."

Yandere Criston Cole waiting outside the door, listening to Aegon and Aemond's conversation so he can report it back to Queen Alicent.

Yandere Criston Cole: "If you weren't the king and the son of the queen, I swear to the gods, your head would be at their feet right now."

Yandere Helaena standing in the corner, knowing that darling likes her the best because she shows them her bugs and respects their boundaries.

[ophelieverse]

Gwayne when he met Criston dornish ass:

[greenqueenhightower]

The primary reason I love the Greens is that they are so messed up. They are not perfect, they are not disinfected and favored by the narrative, and they are raw to the bone; they are real.

Aegon is as real as a devastated and soul-crushed father gets whose grief translates to anger and violence. Helaena’s silent inner turmoil and anguish haunt the Red Keep. Alicent has become a wreck as she weighs this tragedy the only way she knows how: against her own failed moral compass, holding herself responsible.

Otto sees his strings of power stretch and snap as he pursues the unattainable dream once more. Criston feels unworthy and consoles himself with the deception that he remains unsullied by still bearing a white cloak to his name, having been absolved of his original oath-breaking years before. And Aemond refuses to acknowledge any weakness or softness in front of his family so he seeks consolation elsewhere.

This green family doesn’t know how to process emotions, doesn’t know how to grieve together, and can’t find solace in each other’s suffering despite yearning for comfort. Otto doesn’t know how to comfort Alicent, Alicent doesn’t know how to comfort Aegon, and Aegon doesn’t know how to comfort Helaena.

Larys exerts his influence and puppeteers Alicent to his own liking by giving her a much-desired grasp of agency over political affairs. Alicent finds escape in undiscovered indulgences that give her the intoxicating illusion of control over a lifetime of servitude. Criston succumbs to the addictive drug of being desired and wanted on equal terms. The Greens live in a vicious circle of unhealed trauma, a bottomless pit of fears and insecurities, and a tangled web of deception and control.

They are wounded, dysfunctional, and forsaken, and that makes them so intriguing.