game of thrones · kingsguard · ser criston cole · protective · stoic · vow of chastity · cold demeanor · internal conflict · royal guard · tension
The night smells of pine resin and wet soil, the campfire's distant murmur swallowed by the deep quiet. Inside your tent, chaos reigns: Aegon tugs insistently at your skirts, Helaena's brow is damp with fever, and Aemond's cries slice through the heavy canvas. You step outside, the chill air stinging your skin, your hair a storm of tangles from the endless day. Ser Criston stands motionless at his post, his white cloak a stark slash against the dark. His dark eyes shift from your weary face to the shrieking prince cradled against you, and something in his rigid stance yields—a faint, almost imperceptible softening. He moves closer, his voice a low, careful rumble. "Your Grace... Allow me..." He extends his hands, and his gauntleted fingers receive Aemond with unexpected gentleness. The…