Criston Cole, exhausted, emmaciated and weak, kills about 12+ enemies.
Asks for a 1v2 to spare the lives of his remaining men and get's shot down by arrows from a distance.
And Team Black is cheering?
They literally proved his point. They would rather shoot him from a distance like the cowards they are than duel him.
And the Best part?
They omitted the "I'll have no songs about how brave you died Kingmaker...." line!
So it makes that scene look like they shot him not because they thought he did not deserve a warrior's death, but because they would rather not face him head on.
He truly is the realm's greatest warrior, at the time of the dance.
And the fact that he wraps around Alicent's handkerchief (is that what it's called?) Around the handle of his sword as he prepares for his last stand. It cannot get more romantic than that.
And he DOES get remembered in the main series, by Jaime and Arianne Martell so it's a big fuck you to Blackcels.
Here's to Ser Criston Cole! The Kingmaker! Long may he be remembered (he does)
cw: smut, GAY SEX, threesome, we’re all depressed and gonna die might as well fuck, rip Criston Cole you were my eye candy of this show, this isn’t good I just need to post, etc
“What are we to do if we win? Will you take as your your personal guard, my lord~?”
Gwayne laughed loudly at your boldness, you him and Ser Criston all sitting around a fire after a long day of riding through the Riverlands. You were a third son of some lesser lord that no one cared about or heard of before, making you expendable in this war, just like the other two men sitting with you. All three of you knew you weren’t going to get out of this alive, knew there was nothing for you after the war. You knew no one would remember you; but these two? Ser Gwayne who defended his sister, the queen’s honor when she was disgraced by the king not choosing her son as his heir? And Ser Criston, the best sword of the era who had struck down Daemon Targaryen twice, trained Aemond and Aegon Targaryen, who had renamed Harwin Breakbones into brokenbones? He would be remembered for generations. You could only hope to be a footnote in their stories, a friend in their last moments.
The three of you were drinking heavily as it could be your last time drinking. You leaned back against the tree you were sitting in front of, your arms reaching up to stretch as the shirt you wore was brought up slightly, showing some of the skin and hair on your lower stomach. Gwayne couldn’t pull his eyes away from the gift you were giving him, while Gwayne was focused on you Criston was focused on Gwayne and how he reacted to you. Gwayne coughed a few times before asking the men sitting with him, “any regrets lads?”
Criston shook his head, staring into the fire. You on the other hand stood up and began making your way towards the auburn haired man. He looks up at you confused as you leaned down, placing your lips on his softly. You began to pull away but Gwayne reached up to card his fingers through the hair at the back of your head, holding you as he kissed back. Criston couldn’t pull his eyes away from the two of you in the passionate exchange. Gwayne finally let you go, let you pull away to get air in your lungs. You smiled saying, “now I have no regrets.” Gwayne laughed, nodding as he finished his drink, his eyes coming up to look at you as his teeth sunk into his bottom lip. You quickly took your seat beside Gwayne turning to look at Ser Criston across the fire, the dornish man wasn’t sure how to react to the show you two just put on. Gwayne laughed at his flustered expression, teasing the man, “Ser Criston, don't tell me you’ve never felt the touch of a man before?”
Criston’s jaw tightened before he responded, “I have not my lord.” Gwayne laughed heartily, patting your thigh. You stood and joined Criston Cole where he sat, him getting more and more awkward the closer you got. “Would you like to? Our friend is quite a treasure I can assure you.” Gwayne smiled over the rim of his cup, watching Criston as he struggled with what to do. You brushed his shoulder with your own, dragging his attention towards you. His eyes jumped between your lips and your eyes, uncertainty coming off of him in waves. You slowly leaned forward until you were just a hair away, letting him decide if he wanted this or not. And god did Cole want it. He pushed forward claiming your mouth like it was land to be conquered, you moaned subtly into his mouth at the feeling of his desire. When he finally let you pull away you were panting with strings of spit connecting the two of you.
You look across the fire seeing the clear arousal painted on Gwayne’s face at the two of your scene you acted out. He stood, throwing what was left in his cup on the fire before motioning you with his head towards his tent, a clear invitation that you were more than happy to take. The two of you began making your way, leaving Criston to the fire. You were sure he didn’t have a desire to actually bed a man, just wanted to feel a little bit of affection before you all were dead. Gwayne had his hands on your waist, whispering filth in your ear as you two stumbled away. Criston watched as you disappeared, waited to hear the cries of pleasure leaving your mouth from the lord. He hated the feel that arose in him at the thought of it; he wanted to join you two, to kiss Gwayne while your mouth was on his cock, to feel the comfort of his two closest allies at once. Criston rolled his head back looking at the sky, he said a quick prayer to the warrior before snuffing out the fire and making his way towards the tent you two were housed in.
Gwayne had you laid down, his hand traveling up your shirt as the two of you were stuck in passionate lip lock. The sight made Criston let out a barely audible whine, just enough to grab Gwayne’s attention. He looked behind him towards Cole giving a cocky smirk as he said, “ah I see our fierce leader isn’t too good for an old romp in the hay after all.” Criston stripped himself of his outer layers, leaving him in just a linen shirt and light pants, something that you both were also donned in. While Gwayne was focused on Criston you had propped yourself up, kissing down his neck. Gwayne scanned criston’s body with barely contained lust before he thred his hands through your hair pulling you back from his neck. You whined but let him do as he wanted to you. Gwayne stood pulling you closer to criston til you were kneeling in front of him, face to face with his rather large bulge. Gwayne smirked at the dark haired man, “do you wanna feel his mouth, good ser?” Cole nodded quietly as you began undoing the front of his trousers to pull them down. His cock was half hard as you took it into your mouth, wanting to take as much of him as possible. Gwayne kept his hand on the back of your head, helping to push and pull you on Cole’s length. You were gagging around him, making moaning noises vibrate through his body.
Cole threw his head back, a deep moaning spilling out of him. He bit his lip, looking down at you on your knees between his legs. It was hot, too hot. Cole found himself meeting his end faster than he ever had with a woman, even the Queen of the realm could not make him come as hard as you did in that moment. You swallowed around him taking everything he would give you in the moment, Gwayne shot forward claiming Criston’s mouth before any sounds could escape the tent to the rest of the men sleeping around it. Criston and Gwayne fought with their mouths above you, struggling for dominance. You watched the scene play out, your member hard as a rock between your legs. Before you Criston’s cock hung, still half hard, swinging slightly with each push and pull of Gwayne on the Dornish man. You began to lean forward to take him in again when Gwayne’s hand threaded through your hair, pulling you towards his crotch for you to mouth at him through his trousers. You were drooling over the bulge, sucking on him as hard as you could through the fabric separating you from him. Gwayne pulls away from Cole, smirking as the man attempts to follow him.
Gwayne turned away from the two of you, stripping himself of his shirt and beginning to remove his pants. You followed behind him, throwing your shirt in the corner of the tent while Gwayne made himself comfortable in his pseudo bed. You crawled across the floor until you were beside him, straddling his hips to sit on top of him, something he was more than happy with. He put his hands on your hips moving you back and forth to grind against him. Cole stood at the front of the tent, unsure of what to do after you had sucked him off and Gwayne had made out with him so fiercely. After a moment of deliberation, thinking if he truly wanted to spend some of his final moments fucking two lordlings instead of actually trying to win this war. No, there was no hope. His last moments could at least be filled with joy. Criston slowly made his way to the two of you, unsure of how to join in on the act you had started. Criston found Gwayne thrusting his fingers into your mouth, collecting spit onto his fingers before moving them behind you, past the hem of your pants to your hole waiting for him eagerly. He slowly inserted himself into you making you gasp at the intrusion, Gwayne looking up at you smirking. His hand moved slowly back and forth, pushing and pulling his fingers inside of you making you cry out in ecstasy. Cole remembered how Gwayne had silenced him and you earlier to ensure that no noise would get out, Cole’s hand came to your face with him having you take his fingers into your mouth. He had three fingers knuckle deep in your mouth making you moan and gag around the digits. Gwayne, not happy to be outdone, quickly moved, shimmying your pants down until you were fully exposed, throwing the fabric away. Gwayne spat into his hand before wrapping it around his weeping cock, pumping it a few times before he slowly pushed into your ass, his eyes wide with his mouth splitting in a wide smile as he took in your reaction to an intrusion.
Cole watched amazed as Gwayne voiced you on his lap, having you take the lord’s cock deep in yourself. A part of him was jealous he wanted to fuck you, or maybe he wanted to be the one Gwayne was fucking. Either way he didn’t want to sit on the sidelines anymore. Cole pulled his hand from your mouth, his fingers covered in your spit. You gave him a smile as he moved to be behind you, pulling Gwayne’s leg up so he could slot himself between them. Gwayne let the man do as he liked as he continued to fuck into you. Cole used the spit covered hand to slick Gwayne’s hole like he had seen the man do to you. He slowly pushed his fingers in making the man under you let out a rather pathetic whine. Cole thrusts his fingers in and out a few times before replacing them with his cock, forcing his way in quickly. Gwayne threw his head back letting out a loud moan.
You quickly leaned down to be chest to chest with the man, a dance between your tongues starting while Criston fucked into the lord, who with each roll of his hips pushed deeper into you. Deep groans and grunts were filling the air as you silence most of Gwayne’s but Cole was left to spew them out. For it being Cole’s first, and probable last, time with a man he took to it like a fish to water, fucking into Gwayne with little pause.
Gwayne was the first to reach his peak of the three of you, his eyes rolling back into his head as he came deep inside you. Cole’s pace sped up with you being bounced with each movement through Gwayne’s body, bringing you closer and closer. You sat back leaning against the Dornish man’s chest as you turned to face him, kissing him passionately as both of you came at the same time. Gwayne’s hands were resting on your thighs watching as the two of you used him, happy to see you both find pleasure even if it would be the last time.
It was a glorious disgusting dance between the three of you, a final farewell to your lives and who you were before the fight that would come tomorrow.
Summary - After sneaking back into the Keep from a night spent out in the city, you find your sworn protector, Ser Criston Cole, waiting for you in your room.
Warnings - fem!reader, targtower!reader, not edited, reader has mommy/daddy issues, duty turned devotion type bullshit, criston can't just guard a woman without falling in love ig, yearning
Word Count - 2k
!MINORS DNI!
// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //
Soft footfalls echo in the narrow corridor of Maegor’s passages. You keep a palm cupped around the candle in your other hand, protecting the flame so it won’t gutter out. Secret doors are scattered throughout the corridor, each leading into bedchambers or solars or other forgotten passages. Having already left your brother, Aegon, at the secret door leading to his room, you keep count of your steps.
At just over twenty-five paces, the exact distance between his room and yours, you stop, turn to the left and blow your candle out, setting it on the ground for next time you go sneaking through to passages.
Cold stone bites at your palms as you press them against the aged door. You cringe with every scrape and groan as you push it open. When there’s a gap just wide-enough, you turn sideways and shimmy inside.
You’re greeted by warm light, candles flickering from all around your room, chasing the shadows of dusk into faraway corners. If you weren’t so preoccupied with heaving the door back into place, adjusting the tapestry that hides its seams from view, you may have noticed that there are more candles lit now than when you slipped out earlier, having abandoned the Keep in favor of a night spent in the city lying below Aegon’s High Hill.
When all is as it was, the secret door shut and covered, you turn around. Heaving a sigh, you shrug your cloak from your shoulders, letting it fall into a heap on the floor. Gooseflesh immediately forms along your arms, kissed by the chill breeze blowing in from the open balcony.
You walk to the vanity on the far side of your room, rolling your neck and shoulders, muscles sore from hours spent dancing among the smallfolk in a Flea Bottom tavern. Exhaustions made your bones weary, fantasies of crawling into warm sheets plague your mind. They tempt you, urging you to forego your nightly routine in favor of sweet, sweet sleep.
Your footsteps falter, casting a wistful glance down your shoulder to your bed when—
Seven Hells!
Your pulse jumps, a scream threatens to rip from your throat at the sight of a figure sat on the foot of your bed. You react quickly, clamping a hand over your mouth to muffle any sound, not wanting to raise alarm amongst the guards. Recognition washes over you in a matter of seconds, taking them in one detail at a time: their weathered boots and polished armor, tanned skin and ever-present frown.
Lowering your hand, you have half a mind to curse Criston for frightening you like this, for not announcing himself as soon as you snuck in—
Rational thought trumps what remains of fear.
He had to have seen you—sneaking in from the passages, hiding the door upon entrance.
Fuck.
The air turns thick. Every breath is like sucking treacle into your lungs, slow and suffocating. Criston’s stare is heavy, his expression like weathered stone. Armor grinds against itself as his arms cross over his chest. “Where have you been?”
There’s some relief that he doesn’t first question you about the passages. Does he already know about them, you wonder? After all, before Criston became your protector, he was sworn to your half-sister, Rhaenyra—who, in your youth, was said to be quite rebellious.
A trait Criston finds to be alive and well within you.
You look away from him, continuing to your vanity. “I was out,” you answer, purposefully curt. “Obviously.”
Nudging the vanity stool with your foot, you take a seat upon its plush velvet cushion. Criston pushes off your bed, and you fight a smirk at the sound of his footfalls, heavy and fervent as he strides to your side.
“Out where?”
You pull your neatly plaited hair over your shoulder, watching yourself in the mirror as you untie the ribbon binding it. “In the city,” you tell him, tossing the scrap of silk onto the vanity top. “Where else would I go?”
“Were you alone?”
You reach for your brush, begin combing. “What does it matter?” Before he can answer, you catch his gaze in the reflection, eyes playfully narrowing as you ask, “If I said that I wasn’t, would you be jealous, Ser Criston?”
He certainly looks jealous.
The knight’s breathing is shallow, tanned cheeks flush with frustration. At your question, a muscle feathers in his jaw, clenched so tight that you can nearly hear his teeth grind together. There’s a dark gleam in his eyes, a shadow of rage—not at you, you don’t think. But at whoever may have been graced with your presence tonight, showered with your favor and affection.
“As your sworn protector,” Criston says, voice strained, “I have a right to ask if you were escorted by another member of the Kingsguard.”
There’s such emotion in it—the way he said: Your sworn protector. A trembling betrays his fraying restraint, revealing the raw nerve beneath and exposing Criston’s desperation, a desire to not only be sworn to you, but to be wholly possessed by you.
Your sworn protector—no longer a title, but an identity.
Your sworn protector—no longer an oath, but a sacred devotion.
You set your brush down, holding his stare with a faint smirk. “I’m afraid that doesn’t answer my question, Ser.”
Something snaps. His mouth twists into a scowl.
“Are you truly so thoughtless, princess?” Criston asks, his tone maintaining a delicate balance between respect and disappointment. “Do you understand it’s your very life you play with? And that it’s not only you who would suffer the consequences of this… this utter lack of duty! This wanton negligence!”
You could have him dismissed from the Kingsguard for this.
For speaking so freely. For interrogating a princess. For trespassing in your rooms.
Criston continues, “If something were to happen to you, my life is forfeit. The king would–”
He’s interrupted by wood screeching against stone, the vanity stool thrust back as you rise to your feet. You turn to stand toe-to-toe with the knight, chin tilted to lock eyes with him. “The king,” you hiss with a sickly smile, contradicting the venom in your voice, “would do nothing—just as he’s done all my life.”
The energy shifts. Criston’s scowl morphs to a pitying frown.
“He is your father,” his protest is a tentative breath, laced with underlying uncertainty, “if something happened to you, he would seek justice.”
You laugh, low and bitter. Shake your head and shove past the knight. “If he mistook me for Rhaenyra, perhaps,” you say, kicking off your shoes as you head to the wardrobe next to your bed. “If not, then I imagine he wouldn’t even notice I’m gone. My life—the lives of my siblings—has never meant anything to him.”
Criston redirects, facing you now. He argues, “It means something to your mother.”—And to me, he holds back.
A scoff, throwing the wardrobe open.
Your mother loves you, of course—but it’s the kind of love that hurts. It’s cold distance and piercing scrutiny, violent words and stinging cheeks. If you were to die, she would certainly mourn. But it won’t change that she failed you. It won’t make her a good mother.
When you don’t respond, mindlessly digging through a drawer of nightgowns, Criston knows better than to broach that particular topic any further.
With a hesitant breath, he says, “It’s my duty to protect you. To keep you safe.” He takes several steps, decreasing the distance between you by coming to stand at the foot of your bed. You stay facing the wardrobe. “It’s true that I cannot tell you what to do—if you wish to fraternize with common-men—” such distaste laces this word—“then that is your will.”
There’s a pause. Your hands falter, swathed in a mess of silky fabric as you wait for him to continue.
“I only ask that you heed caution, princess. For you to allow me to accompany you and do my job—to safeguard your life, your virtue-”
Genuine amusement floods your chest. It spills from your lips in a string of vivacious giggles. “Is that what this is about, Ser Criston? My virtue?” You settle on a nightgown, turn around and toss it onto your bed. You glance to the foot of it, at Criston and his ever-present frown. “You truly are a jealous man,” you muse, smiling, “aren’t you? Thinking I go into the city to fuck common-men.”
His fists tighten at his sides, the blatant mockery in your voice having invited a wave of embarrassment.
“It was not my intention to imply that—”
The words catch in Criston’s throat as you turn the opposite way, slip your shirt over your head and shimmy out of your trousers, leaving the smallclothes beneath. All he can see is your back—the smooth column of your spine, brushed by tendrils of long, silver hair—but that’s enough.
Enough to make his heart jolt, hammer against his ribcage. Enough to make his knees weak, threaten to buckle beneath his weight. Enough to light a fire inside him, flames licking at every inch of his skin.
Grasping at the final shreds of his restraint, Criston averts his gaze to the floor.
He swallows on a too-dry throat. “King’s Landing is full of vile men, princess,” he tells you, a sense of guilt pricking at his conscience. “And vile men are known to commit vile acts.”
You reach out an arm, grab the nightgown and pull it over your head. Silk glides over your skin, covering the exposed flesh that tempts the knight so.
Whirling to face him, you ask, “And what about you?”
Criston doesn’t answer, still studying the rug beneath his feet with a staggering intensity. You catch his brow furrow, though, a small wrinkle forming there. You elaborate on your question.
“You’re a man in King’s Landing,” you tell him, leisurely placing one foot in front of the other, gliding to where he stands at the end of your bed. “Are you as vile as the rest of them, Ser Criston?”
Again, only silence.
You take another step. Less than a foot of space separates you, close enough now to scent the earthy musk of his armor. “Some might think it vile,” you continue, taunting him, “for you to be here right now—hiding in my bedchambers well after dark.”
Criston stammers, his words broken-up by serrated breaths, “I merely wished to know that you were safe, princess.” Dark eyes flutter up from the floor, drawn to yours. “My intentions were pure.”
“Were?”
His blood thrums. His lungs ache.
You continue, “Do you mean your intentions have changed, Ser Criston?”
Criston tells the truth. “No.” With you, his intentions are always pure. It’s his desires that complicate things. “My intentions are the same,” he tells you, clearing his throat, “I only wish to know you’re safe. That you’re well-protected.”
Your mistrust in his answer is evident. Lips pursed, your eyes scan his face, searching for something. At this moment, he feels every bit like prey. A cornered animal trapped beneath the searing gaze of a dragon, left entirely at your mercy.
A part of him is terrified. Another, utterly entranced.
Finally, you click your tongue. Reaching out a hand, you place it against his chest. His gaze falls, staring at where your palm is pressed to his armor. He wonders how it might feel against his skin. “You’re an honorable knight, Ser Criston,” you tell him, smiling. “A good man, too.”
Criston doesn’t remember the need for oxygen until your touch falls away.
Turning your back to him again, you stride back around your bed, pull the blankets back, and sit on the edge of your mattress. His mind is still reeling when you next speak.
“I was with Aegon.”
Criston blinks. “What?”
“You asked if I was alone,” you say, reminiscing on his earlier question, “I wasn’t. I was with Aegon—who was accompanied by Ser Erryk.” Sliding your legs beneath the blankets, you lean back against a stack of plush pillows. “So I was well-protected from those vile men you speak of.” Chewing on your lip, fighting a wider grin, you add, “I just thought you might like to know—despite how unjealous you are.”
Criston’s own lips twitch, curving upwards.
“Good,” he says, a bit awkward. Then: “And about that secret door…”
You groan, tossing your head back against the pillows. Criston softly chuckle, another lecture already poised on the tip of his tongue.
It’s going to be a long night.
a/n - idk man. I randomly decided at 8pm that I needed to write 2k words about this man after never writing for him a day in my life, and this is the product of that. any and all feedback is welcome and much appreciated!
the fact that rhaenyra probably hasn't even thought of criston cole in any serious way in over a decade and yet she still somehow haunts his daily thoughts and inspires such a wrath in him is absolutely hilarious to me. in a modern day setting he would be in an incel chat room and still keeping tabs on the first girl who dumped him in high school
