Autumn Kiss 💋🍁 || Criston Cole

024 • THE DRAGON & THE WOLF

The day of the tourney came, banners waved in the breeze, smoke and clamor were everywhere. The Queen and her King consort sat in the Royal Red Box above the hundreds who crowded into the city and watched the jousts.

And yet, the enthusiasm was dimmed, this commanded nowhere near the same vigor as past tourneys. All in attendance knew it and they all knew why. All this was a diversion, something to pass the time until the duel.

Even the knights and lords competing took no joy in their victories, unable to evade the anxiety in the air. As every minute passed, the silence took hold more and more.

Dowager Alicent and Ser Criston had not seen Aemond since that morning, he had departed to prepare and armor alone. Criston had been as good as his word, training with Aemond for weeks, honing his skills.

Dangerous as it was, he had trained with Dark Sister to accustom himself to the weight and feel, almost slashing pieces out of Ser Criston a dozen times. Alicent took her seat, Criston just behind her. She had gone to Sept, had prayed for her sons victory every bit as much as Criston and Aemond had trained.

As the time grew nearer and nearer, Alicent's hands began tearing her curticules, shake and her breathing grew shallow.

"He's more than ready." Criston said simply. When the jousting had concluded, it was time.

With a flourish of horns and trumpets, the Master of Revels announced "Prince Aemond of the House Targaryen!"

Aemond strode out onto the grounds wearing dark steel polished to glimmer in the sun, on his chestplate an enormous green dragon breathing golden flame, helmet spiked in pallid white dragonbone.

Her son looked magnificent, Alicent thought as she rose to her feet and cheered wildly. Helaena behind her spoke over the din of the crowd. "Aemond shall be fine, mother. Dragons have bled and survived, but a wolf has never survived a dragon's fang."

As the crowd shouted and applauded, he raised Dark Sister into the air then brought it back to his side, waiting impatiently for his adversary. He did not need wait long.

"Cregan of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell!" the Master of Revels announced, then out came Lord Cregan, armored in blackened plate trimmed with dark brown fur atop studded leather, him without any helmet.

As his Northern Bannermen's roars drowned out all other applause, Cregan with a single hand pointed his sword almost as tall as Aemond himself towards his opponent. His dark hair swayed in the breeze and his pale eyes Aemond fixed in their gaze.

He looked away briefly to look towards his young son, barely four, only then letting a flash of emotion appear only to fade again as he gripped his sword. He could not fail his lords, he could not fail his son most of all.

As Queen Rhaenyra rose to her feet and prepared to call for the battle to begin, Cregan said in a voice audible to Aemond only "Yield now, Targaryen, you haven't the mettle for this."

Aemond replied "The sport has not yet begun, and my mettle is greater far than yours."

"Begin!"

The two charged towards one another and came to rest in a flurry of dirt pierced by a flurry of gleaming sword strokes and clashing ringing out as loud as thunder.

Dowager Alicent tried desperately to spy out what was happening. Who was winning? When would one yield? How was her son faring? Out of the cloud, the pair emerged, trading blow for blow, Cregan swinging wildly and powerfully, Aemond striking and dodging swiftly.

Aemond's cut almost hit home before his sword was batted away and Ice was raised into the air. Cregan came down hard, Aemond avoiding his blade deftly, Ice slicing into the dirt, and striking him with his gauntlet with a hard punch.

Blood pouring from his nose, Cregan came fully undone "You Fucking One-eyed Twat!" Cregan now slashed at Aemond with the fury of the gods.

Still, Aemond was too quick for him and the sword either cut at nothing or was blocked by Aemond. In turn, any swing of Aemond's sword was blocked all the same or parried by Cregan's greatsword.

Alicent's heart raced, she as barely breathing. Could Aemond win this? He could, he was! Just then, Aemond deflected Cregan's sword to his side and backhanded Lord Stark, dazing him, then kicked him to the ground.

Cregan hit the ground and panted for breath, face coated in blood and grime. As he fell flat on his back, Aemond turned to the crowd cheering and stomping. "I believe Lord Stark yields now" Aemond said in a triumphant shout.

The crowd's cheers grew deafening, none loud than Alicent. She was so proud of his performance, and happier still he emerged unscathed. But, as Aemond caught his breath, Cregan Stark let rage drive honor from his mind, producing a dagger.

With a booming growl, he charged at Aemond as if he were a wolf himself attacking prey. Alicent's proud smile melted away as her eyes grew wide in unison with gasps and screams.

Cregan wrapped both hands about the hilt and drove it towards Aemond's body. Aemond, alerted by the sound of panic, swung around as quick as he could and slashed at Cregan.

But it was too late. Aemond winced as Cregan's dagger lodged square in the middle of his body with a sickening crunch, punching clear through his armor. Cregan, however, immediately fell forward at a sprinting pace to the ground with a thud.

He was carried forward by his momentum, but his head did not follow. No, his head was cut clean off where is neck met his torso and rolled backwards into the dust.

The Valyrian steel glided through the tissue like it was no different from air. Aemond now lay on his back heaving for breath. Beneath them, the blood of Valyria and the First Men melded in pools.

Aemond threw off his helmet and he collapsed to the ground groaning. Cregan's eyes glazed over and his jaw sat slack as his head lay in the dirt looking towards his lesser lords. With all haste, a Northern serving girl covered his son's eyes so he didn't see the scene. Cregan's wife having been dead already for some years, his son Rickon was now an orphan. He had only just turned three and twenty.

•••••••••
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