Rhaenyra stood high above, on the small stool that made her tall enough to overlook from a balcony.
On the ground below... bannered knights and an unbannered one were arranged in an arch... mirroring the wooden figures that Ser Harrold set up to her side.
Soon, her old protector and new Lord Commander's voice sounded, and he held out the first carving of the first knight to be introduced… a nightingale.
“Ser Desmond Caron, a fine knight, Princess.”
She then watched this Desmond from above.
He posed like a tourney knight should... clean, practiced, the sort of man who’d been taught to look glorious when he moved.
“Step forward, Ser Desmond.” Ser Harrold nodded at the line, and the knight strode to the center.
As that happened, Rhaenyra heard steps from behind her. And from what she noticed, it was the Hand. No doubt to oversee and judge whatever she's doing again.
Other than him, there was also the Princess Rhaenys. Watching from a higher balcony with a cold stillness behind every slow blink.
These two and all else witnessing must be waiting to see if she, as the newly nad heir, would do what she is tasked to do... to judge, choose, and send a man into the service of the white cloak.
“Son of Ser Royce Caron, Ser Desmond has proved strong and steady in both the tourney lists and without. While traveling through the Kingswood on his way to King's Landing, Ser Desmond recently brought a would-be poacher to justice.” Ser Harrold announced and concluded.
Thought it was a strange sort of praise for a Kingsguard candidate... catching a poacher on the road... which made Rhaenyra feel a small, private impatience.
For she surmised that the crown needed n who had seen blood for the reasons that mattered. Poachers made for good embellishing stories... but battles made n.
Like how it currently is with the Young Bronze and his Order.
So, a silence from her ensued... pausing everyone else in waiting.
Making the Hand incline his head, prompting her like a teacher steering a child. “You might thank him for his leal service, Princess.”
At that prompting, she kept her voice cool, as she had learned to keep it. “We thank you for your loyal service to the Crown, Ser.”
The knight Desmond dipped his head, eyes gazing at her with a faked intensity. As if his stare was enough to tell that he was up for the role in question.
Consequently, Ser Harrold set back the nightingale and placed a figure of an eagle in its stead.
And another knight, stiff as the beak on his helm, stepped forward.
“Ser Rymun Mallister. Son of Lord Lymond Mallister of Seagard. Winner of the lee at Cider Hall. He was the last mounted of three-and-twenty knights. Ser Rymun was knighted at eight-and-ten.”
Nas and prizes rolled through the holdfast like recorded coin.
Rhaenyra just listened but felt dull.
These knights were fine n for lists and lances, for jousting and lees...
But she then and there decided that she was not looking for these qualities today. Especially when she had listened to songs of better n and better warriors, all under her estranged and potential cousin's commands.
So, she pushed a question straight to the overseeing Ser Harrold. “Do any of these knights have combat experience? Beyond capturing poachers.”
The man hesitated... but then his hand drifted to a plainer pole of wood.
No heraldry. No gilded crest.
A man without banners stepped forward, shoulders seemingly honest and unadorned.
“Ser Criston Cole. Son of the steward of the Lord of Blackhaven.” T'was all Ser Harrold could say.
But Rhaenyra’s mory caught on the na... the common-born knight who had unhorsed her uncle.
"Be welco, Ser Criston." She said.
And she also rembered so gossips about him, so out of curiosity, she leaned in to ask. "You saw combat in the Stormlands?"
The common-born knight then replied. “Dornish marches, Princess. I fought for a year as a foot soldier against the Dornish incursions. Ser Arlan Dondarrion knighted after we razed two of the watchtowers along the Boneway.”
Those words settled in her head. Real fights. Real battles. Not the staged valor of tourneys.
“I see...” She humd, not yet keen on choosing this Cole just yet.
But then she thought of the fleet and the Stepstones, of ships burned and n gone.
She thought of bronze-clad n trained by Ser Ronan, and how they were tempering by the mountains that her Arryn mother told tales of being dangerous.
And if her father's crown were to stand whole and stern, it should be defended by n who had actually known true battles like them.
So, with those thoughts, she asked to her side. “Has none from the Bronze Order taken part in the trials of these knights?”
Ser Harrold realized her curiosity and answered plainly with what he knows. “None from the Bronze Order were available, Princess... they should still be preoccupied with the Cleansing of the Mountain as we speak.”
And so, she really wanted to call them in.
For an idea ca to her...
“We shall pause until they are made available then.” She unexpectedly ordered. Truly thinking that this solution will form so bridge of conciliation.
Making the Hand’s voice chi in... as he said to her. “Let's not dally too much, Princess... these n have already passed the trials, and that would be made unfair if the swords of Runestone cut in.”
"And I doubt that the Young Bronze would be open to this impulsive thought you have, especially with the Royce's unwelcoming reactions to the King and perhaps even against you."
The Hand then smoothly continued. “It is also no doubt that the Young Bronze's army is formidable, Princess. But these n co from Houses that are not any less. Seagard, where Ser Mallister is from, for example, is the realm’s primary defense against reavers from the Iron Islands.”
“But these n are tourney knights at best... apart from Ser Cole there." She wavered but still insisted. “My father should be defended by a man who's known real combat, should he not?”
“Of course, Princess.” Otto could only incline at that, trailing diplomacy like a cloak. "But I still must suggest that you pick from knights who co from Houses that are important allies of the crown."
And at that, Rhaenyra had not much to say... only declaring that. "I choose Ser Criston Cole then."
To such an uninford opposition, the Hand seed slighted but had not much to say as well.
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