Under Aegon's unwavering gaze, the choreography of death unfolded exactly as the histories—or at least one version of them—had promised. Joffrey Lonmouth, emboldened by wine and a false sense of shared secrecy, leaned in close to Ser Criston Cole.
Aegon watched the Kingsguard's jaw tighten. He saw the moment the "Knight of Kisses" whispered the final provocation. Criston's face didn't just darken; it contorted into a mask of pure, primal loathing. With a roar that drowned out the lutes, Criston hauled Joffrey down. The sound of fist meeting flesh—wet, rhythmic, and heavy—shook the hall.
Chaos erupted. Viserys surged from the Iron Throne, his eyes darting frantically through the swirling silks, terrified that Daemon had used the distraction to steal Rhaenyra away. But the Rogue Prince stood still, his brow furrowed as he watched the carnage.
Criston didn't stop until Joffrey's face was a ruin of red pulp. As the guards moved in, the white knight blinked, the red mist clearing to reveal the horror of his actions. He didn't wait for judgment; he turned and bolted from the hall.
Aegon noticed the sharp glint in his mother's eyes. As the Sea Snake knelt over his son's lover and the King sputtered for order, Alicent slipped into the shadows of the back garden.
Aegon followed, a silent ghost, with Hugh looming behind him like a wall of soot and iron.
In the cool, moonlit air of the Godswood, Ser Criston Cole knelt upon the earth. His white cloak was splattered with Joffrey's lifeblood. He unsheathed his dagger, the steel glinting as he prepared to reclaim his honor through the only path left to a disgraced brother: the blade to the throat.
"Ser Criston?"
Alicent's voice cut through the silence. The knight froze, his breath hitching. "The Queen?"
"I believe you had a reason for your fury," she said, her voice a soothing balm. "A man of your skill should not be wasted on the grass. Are you interested in becoming my sworn shield?"
Criston hesitated, the dagger trembling. Before he could answer, the heavy tramp of boots echoed through the trees. Ser Erryk Cargyll appeared, leading a squad of gold cloaks.
"Your Highness," Erryk said, his voice heavy with regret. "We are here to apprehend Criston Cole. It is the King's command."
Alicent stepped forward, her regal posture a shield, but before she could invoke her status, a childish, mocking voice drifted from the dark.
"Ser Erryk, tell me," Aegon said, stepping into the moonlight. "What crime has Ser Criston committed to warrant such haste?"
Erryk blinked, startled by the seven-year-old Prince's presence. "Highness, Ser Criston has beaten a knight of House Lonmouth to the brink of death—if not beyond it—in the middle of a royal wedding. That is a breach of the King's Peace."
"Is it?" Aegon walked right up to the towering knight. "And do you know why?"
Erryk looked stumped. "I... I do not, my Prince."
"Joffrey Lonmouth publicly insulted me," Aegon lied, his voice cold and hard as Valyrian steel. "He spoke treason against the King's eldest son. Ser Criston Cole merely performed his duty and taught the cur a lesson. Did you not know?"
The air in the garden grew still. Erryk's expression froze. He knew it was a fabrication—Aegon hadn't even been near Lonmouth—but the accusation of treason was a mountain he could not easily climb.
"Forgive me, Highness, I was unaware... but the King's order stands. Please, step aside."
Aegon's eyes narrowed. In the scrolls of Fire & Blood, the details of Criston's salvation were vague. If he allowed Erryk to take the knight now, the Velaryons would ensure Criston never reached a cell—he would be dead before dawn.
"Seize him," Erryk ordered his men.
Clang!
Hugh's greatsword cleared its scabbard in a blur. He stood between the guards and Criston, the massive blade held steady in one hand. "Without the Prince's command," Hugh growled, "whoever touches the knight dies."
Erryk looked at the giant smith, then down at the small boy standing defiantly before him.
"Hugh," Aegon said suddenly, his voice switching to a tone of mock-reproach. "Put your sword down. These are Ser Erryk's men. You must know your place."
Erryk breathed a sigh of relief, thinking the boy had yielded. But Aegon turned his gaze back to the Kingsguard, his purple eyes burning.
"And you, Ser Erryk, must also know yours." Aegon pointed a finger at the white cloak. "Ultimately, you are a guard. I am the Blood of the Dragon. I will explain this matter to my father myself. There is no need for your interference."
Aegon knew he was burning a bridge with Erryk, but Criston Cole was a different kind of tool. Criston was a man fueled by spite and a desperate need for redemption. He would be the Kingmaker. He would be the sword that Aegon needed when the ravens eventually flew for war.
"Hugh, Ser Criston is weary. Take him to the Queen's apartments to rest."
Aegon stared Erryk down, a seven-year-old child commanding a veteran of a hundred battles. Erryk looked at the Queen, then at the massive, armed commoner protecting the Prince, and finally at the sky. He knew the King's temperament; Viserys hated conflict. If Aegon claimed he was protecting his own honor, the King would likely let the matter drop rather than face a public scandal.
"Understood," Erryk sighed, signaling his men to stand down. "I shall report that the Prince has taken the prisoner into his own custody."
As they walked away, Aegon glanced back at the kneeling Criston Cole. The knight looked at Aegon with a mixture of awe and terrifying loyalty.
"Go," Aegon whispered to Hugh. "The board is set."