AC112, touring of Riverlands.
Alicent was a woman of the Reach. Her stepmother possessed a voice sweet as Arbor wine and a smile warm as the twilight over the Whispering Sound, yet her hazel eyes were those of a hawk, matching none of her gentle visage. The Queen leaned forward to pour the King’s wine, her full lips pressed close to his ear, urging him in a voice loud enough for all three at the long table to hear to settle their daughter’s betrothal without delay. It was only to be expected. Rhaenyra had long lost the relish for eavesdropping on such drivel, yet when the Queen dared to question "Ser Criston's loyalty to the Princess," she instinctively turned her head to steal a glance at her sworn shield’s response.
Intuition told her it would prove amusing, and she was ever one for amusement. True to her expectation, the White Knight stared straight ahead, anchoring the whole of his weight upon a stone pillar across the hall. The Kingsguard were ever prone to overmuch concentration, practicing from the day of their knighthood the precept set upon the first page of the White Book: fealty to Aegon the Conqueror, his sisters, and all of the dragon's blood that followed.
But not Criston. Criston was dutiful, yet never rigid. His green eyes were ever lively, ever watchful, offering a polite smile whenever her interest waned as nobles presented their toasts.
"Pay her no mind," Rhaenyra murmured, swallowing a low laugh.
"You have ceased your smiling. And you have been staring at that pillar far too long..."
Rhaenyra awaited his reply, turning the gold-set carnelian ring upon her finger three full times. The new ring was fair to look upon, yet it pinched; she would likely exchange it tonight for something more comfortable from the jewel casket Daemon had gifted her. Guests were still streaming into the Great Hall; the feast was not like to end anytime soon.
"See? Now you refuse to answer me again. You are wroth."
"The Queen shows concern for you, Princess. It is not my place to question it."
Rhaenyra pushed back the hair from her brow and looked up at the White Knight with a knowing smile, watching him knit his brows and avert his gaze. His hand rested upon the pommel of his sword as it ever did, yet his thumb and forefinger rubbed against one another. She knew that restraint, of course—just as she knew that were she to reach out her hand, he would lower his head as submissively as a hound.
"Uncle Daemon has just returned from the Free Cities. The raven reached my father’s bedchamber only this morning, and he brought back a pet snake, white and gleaming," she said lightly, switching topics without laying bare his pretense. "The Tyroshi say snakes and dragons are kin, you know, and it has green eyes just like yours... Ah-ha, Criston, there is that face again! Prithee, I only spoke uncle's name but once!"
