summary: robbs family are obsessed with his wife to the point he can’t get a moment alone with her
content: fluff, robb going insane, no war au!!
notes: this fic gave me an unmatched sense of joy. I love house stark!! I’m actually sansa starks biggest fan on my editing account I’ve posted 128 edits with her in. I saw we dub me head sansa stan. Also I will do a THOUSAND of these happy house stark fics w robb x reader it’s my fav
Robb should have known this would happen.
He married you in the godswood beneath the heart tree, snow drifting softly through the air, his entire family watching with shining eyes. It had been perfect. Quiet. Sacred.
He had thought, foolishly, that marriage would mean more time with you.
Instead, it has meant that the entire Stark family has decided you belong to them.
It begins before breakfast.
Robb wakes with you tucked against his chest, your hair a mess across his shoulder. For once, the castle is quiet. Pale morning light creeps through the shutters.
He presses a kiss to your temple.
“This,” he murmurs, half-asleep, “is what I imagined marriage would be.”
You hum sleepily. “You imagined me drooling on your shoulder?”
“I did not say it was dignified.”
You laugh softly, and he feels victorious already.
Then the door bursts open.
“Robb!”
Arya’s voice.
No knocking.
No hesitation.
He doesn’t even move at first. Surely this is a dream. Surely..
“Robb, Ghost stole my boot again and Jon won’t help because he says it builds character! oh.”
There is a pause.
You pull the blankets up instinctively. Robb stares at the ceiling.
In the doorway stands Arya, hands on her hips, entirely unrepentant.
Behind her, Jon leans casually against the frame, smirking.
“You’re married,” Arya says flatly. “Not dead.”
“Out,” Robb says, voice muffled in the pillow.
Jon grins. “Father says breakfast waits for no man.”
“I am not just any man.”
“You are when you’re late.”
You are trying very hard not to laugh.
Robb finally turns his head to glare at them. “This is my chamber.”
Arya shrugs. “It’s our castle.”
And just like that, they leave, satisfied.
Robb groans.
“It is too early for this,” he mutters.
You kiss his cheek. “Your family loves you.”
“They love you,” he corrects darkly.
Breakfast is worse.
You barely make it to the table before you are intercepted.
Sansa is immediately beside you, discussing fabric choices for a new gown. Bran wants you to hear about something he saw from the battlements. Rickon climbs into your lap without permission.
Across the hall, Theon raises an eyebrow at Robb.
“You look troubled, Stark.”
“My wife has not sat beside me once,” Robb replies.
Theon glances toward you, currently laughing as Bran animatedly gestures about something involving ravens.
“She did marry into a large family.”
“She married me not them.”
“And yet she appears to be preferring their company over yours. Shame.”
Robb shoots him a look that promises violence.
At the head of the table, Ned watches the scene with quiet amusement.
Catelyn leans slightly toward him. “He is sulking.”
“He is learning,” Ned replies mildly.
Robb finally manages to reach you… only for Jon to clap a hand on his shoulder.
“You’re needed in the yard.”
“I am needed here.”
Jon looks pointedly at you being tugged away by Sansa and Arya simultaneously.
“I think you’ve lost this battle.”
The yard offers no relief.
Grey Wind bounds toward you the moment you step outside later that morning, nearly knocking you off balance. You laugh, dropping to your knees to bury your hands in his fur.
“Traitor,” Robb mutters.
Ghost appears at your side as well, serene and watchful. Even the wolves have chosen you.
Shaggydog barrels past, chasing Rickon, who is shrieking in delight.
“See?” Theon says, nudging Robb with his elbow. “Even the direwolves adore her.”
“They are my wolves.”
“They are her wolves now.”
Robb watches as you rise, brushing snow from your skirts, only to be immediately handed a practice sword by Arya.
“She said she’d spar,” Arya announces.
“You said you were terrible,” Robb protests.
“I am,” you reply cheerfully. “But she insists.”
Arya grins wickedly.
You take a stance.
Jon folds his arms, intrigued. “This should be interesting.”
You swing too wide. Arya disarms you in seconds.
You laugh.
Robb does not.
He is watching the way your cheeks flush from the cold, the way you push hair from your face, the way you beam at his sister like you have always belonged here.
He loves that they love you.
He does.
But he would also like to hold his wife without an audience.
You finally slip away from Arya, cheeks flushed, hair slightly wild.
Robb finds you in the library.
Alone.
Reading.
Hope surges.
He shuts the door behind him quietly.
You glance up, surprised, and smile.
“There you are.”
He crosses the room in three strides.
“You vanished.”
“You were sparring.”
“I would have stopped.”
You tilt your head. “Would you?”
“Yes.”
He reaches for your hand…
The door opens.
“Ah!” says Sansa brightly. “I thought you might be here.”
Robb’s shoulders drop.
Sansa steps inside with a stack of fabrics.
“I need help choosing trims.”
You blink between them.
Robb says very evenly, “Now?”
“Yes,” Sansa replies innocently. “It will only take a moment.”
It takes an hour.
Robb sits in the corner like a storm cloud while the two of you debate silks.
By midday you are seated beside Jon at lunch, discussing archery techniques you learned watching him.
Robb sits across from you.
Again.
Again.
Theon leans over. “You’ve spoken to her… what, twice?”
Robb counts silently.
“…something like that.”
Jon is demonstrating hand placement using your fingers.
Robb nearly inhales a bone.
“That is enough,” he mutters.
You look up. “What?”
“Nothing.”
But he doesn’t stop staring.
After lunch you all find yourselves in the yard again. Snow crunches beneath your boots as you cross to where Robb is.
Robb is sparring with Theon, wooden swords clashing sharply.
You pause to watch.
Theon spots you first.
“Ah,” he says, ducking a swing. “The true ruler of the North arrives.”
Robb rolls his eyes. “Ignore him.”
You laugh softly and lean against the fence.
Within minutes, Arya Stark appears at your side.
“Bet on Robb,” she mutters. “He sulks if he loses in front of you.”
“I do not sulk!” Robb calls.
“You do!” Arya shouts back.
Theon grins wickedly. “He fights worse when you watch.”
Robb lunges at him.
You clap when Robb finally disarms Theon.
He looks immediately toward you.
Victorious.
Breathless.
Snow in his hair.
You smile at him like he’s done something extraordinary.
He forgets entirely that Theon is still speaking.
Then Bran tugs your sleeve. “Come. You promised.”
Robb’s expression falls.
“For what?”
“She said she’d read me all the books and fairytales she brought from home.”
Robb lowers his sword slowly. “You promised?”
You hesitate. “Briefly.”
“How long is briefly?”
Bran answers for you. “Long enough.”
And just like that…
You’re gone again.
Jon steps beside Robb.
“You look wounded.”
“I just want my wife.”
“She will return.”
“She said that yesterday.”
From the tower above, your laughter drifts down.
He softens instantly.
“Gods,” he sighs. “I cannot even be angry.”
Late afternoon.
Robb finally corners you in the corridor.
“You are avoiding me.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I have been busy.”
“With everyone except me.”
You soften. “Robb,”
“Reader!” calls Sansa’s voice from the stairwell. “Oh!! there you are! I was hoping,”
Robb goes very still.
Sansa approaches sweetly.
“Could you walk with me? I wanted to ask you about court etiquette.”
Robb stares at his sister like she’s declared war.
You hesitate.
He sees it.
He sighs through his nose. “Go.”
You squeeze his hand before leaving.
“Not as if she had time with you before.” He mumbled under his breath.
He stands alone in the corridor.
Again.
It’s nearly evening when you finally return to your chambers.
Robb is there.
Sitting on the edge of the bed.
Waiting.
You close the door gently.
“Are you angry?”
He shakes his head once.
“No.”
“Robb.”
He stands slowly.
“I woke with you this morning.”
“Yes.”
“And since then I have seen you in passing.”
Your chest tightens a little.
“They love you,” you say softly.
“I know.”
“And you love them.”
“I do.”
He steps closer.
“But I married you.”
The words are quiet.
Honest.
And for a moment, it feels like the world narrows back down to just the two of you…
A horn sounds.
Dinner.
Robb closes his eyes.
You almost laugh.
The Great Hall is loud.
Warm.
Full.
You are seated between Arya and Sansa.
Robb is three seats away.
Three.
You’re laughing at something Arya says.
You haven’t noticed him staring for several minutes now.
Theon leans in. “This is painful.”
Jon adds, “I almost pity you.”
Robb stands.
The bench scrapes loudly against stone.
Conversation dies down.
He walks around the table deliberately.
Stops behind your chair.
Places both hands on it.
“My lady.”
You look up, smiling. “Yes?”
“I require you.”
“For what?”
“For my sanity.”
Laughter ripples.
You open your mouth…
And he doesn’t wait.
He lifts you straight from the bench.
The hall erupts.
“Robb Stark!” Catelyn scolds, though she’s smiling.
“You have all had her since dawn,” he declares. “I am reclaiming my wife.”
Grey Wind barks.
Theon laughs.
Jon shakes his head.
Arya shouts, “That’s unfair!”
Robb ignores them all.
He carries you out of the hall, up the stairs, down the corridor.
Into your chamber.
He shuts the door.
Turns the key.
Leans back against it, breathing out like he’s just survived battle.
You’re laughing in his arms.
“You’re dramatic.”
“I am patient,” he corrects.
“Since when?”
“Since this morning.”
You wrap your arms around his neck.
“And now?”
He presses his forehead to yours.
“Now,” he murmurs, voice warm and low, “they can knock all they like because I am not stopping.”
Title: Blue on Black
Pairing: Ser Duncan the Tall x Princess!Reader
Rating: T + usual Westeros shenanigans
Word count: 6k+
Summary: No one else ever had eyes so blue and kind as his…and only the seven can help a fool who falls in love. Or in which a Targaryen Princess and Dunk keep meeting under a series of unfortunate events.
...sometimes a spark that's in the dark, it catches fire and burns you up...
THE WHITE CLOAKS of the Kingsguard flutter as they move through the streets of King’s Landing, leading and trailing the funeral procession from the Red Keep to the Great Sept of Baelor. The smallfolk gather along the way and in the terraces above, watching solemnly as Dyanna Dayne passes by in a shroud of lavender and scarlet on a bier of summer blooms carried by pale horses—their harness bells ring softly.
It is a sad day for the Seven Kingdoms and a sadder day still for the House of the Dragon.
Prince Maekar Targaryen holds little Rhae close against his chest, her small face pressed into his shoulder. He envies the small princess in the moment, ignorant of the cruelty of the world—the aching pain and sadness of losing someone so dear. The rest of his children ride in an open carriage. Their eyes downcast, with only sniffles and dry heaves exchanged, and every so often, Daeron wipes Aegon’s tears with quiet patience.
But Prince Baelor keeps his own—a boy and a girl—at the rear. This is a day reserved for his youngest brother, not one to be overshadowed by the Prince of Dragonstone.
Valarr catches sight of you, feet dragging, your fingers twisting a small ring around and around—a silver band set with rubies, a nervous habit to drown out the tolling bells. He drops back a step, and his hand finds yours in the slow-moving procession, fingers curling around your own. You look at him—then up at your father—eyes shining with tears under the thin dark veil of a mourning dress.
And then the slim silver and ruby ring slips from your finger and skitters toward the edge of the crowd, near the holey shoes of a Flea Bottom boy. The boy stoops down and picks it up—he’s never held something worth so much in all his short years. Part of him thinks he might be able to make a run for it, that it’s enough to book passage to the Free Cities or have supper for a year without begging or thieving, but the thought fades, and he steps forward.
“Get back, boy!” One of the men of the City Watch grits out, brandishing his iron cudgel as a warning. But the boy doesn’t move.
Dirt streaks his face, and his clothes hang loose and worn. He looks younger than your brother, but bigger, much bigger, when he lumbers closer, hesitant. “Pri– Princess,” the Flea Bottom boy mutters, holding out his open hand—broad palm, scraped knuckles—refusing to meet the gaze of royalty. But sitting in his palm is the ring.
Baelor’s hand settles on your back, a quiet urging. You step to the boy and reach for the ring, fingers brushing his. “Thank you,” you say, your voice just loud enough for him to hear over the hush of the crowd and the sept bells. His head lifts then, just a little, and for a heartbeat you’re struck by his eyes. Blue eyes. The likes of which you’ll never forget.
LITTLE PRINCE AEGON closes the door behind him, tears streaking his face as he slips from Maekar’s chamber, leaving his brothers still in heated counsel with their father. Aerion is wroth—of course he is—and Daeron’s piss-poor accusations do not bode well for Egg’s new friend. A fine fellow, from the way the little prince spoke of him. Maybe it’s foolish, careless even, but you decide to see just how true Egg’s words about this Hedge Knight are.
Ser Duncan the Tall looks up from the wet floor at the sound of iron hinges creaking, and his broad shoulders stiffen at the appearance of another royal. Will the parade never end? He lowers his head—he’s already struck one prince today, and he has no wish to insult another of royal blood. “Princess.” It’s not so much a greeting as it is an acknowledgment.
You set one of the stools aright and gather your skirts close in hand to keep them out of the muck as you sit. Fingers instinctively finding the familiar comfort of your silver-and-ruby ring, turning it slowly around and around.
“You’ll hear no thanks from my uncle or my father,” you begin, the words measured but sincere, “but I thank you for keeping Egg from harm.” The boy means a great deal to you. He’s earnest and too gentle for the cruelties of the world. Fear had settled over you like a stormcloud when Daeron finally found the courage to show his face after three days lost to drink in some tavern, spinning tales that a brutish knight had stolen away his little brother.
Your gaze lifts to Ser Duncan then, studying him in the quiet that follows. And while he certainly is large, brute does not seem the right word for him. “And I am sorry,” you add, softer, the ring still turning beneath your thumb and forefinger, “that this misfortune has befallen you.”
Dunk wishes he could regret his actions, but with Tanselle’s agonizing scream still echoing in his ears, he thinks he might’ve broken Aerion’s face had it not been for the royal guards stopping him. “Was only defending the innocent,” he says. “As any knight should.”
A faint breath leaves you—half a laugh and half something sorrowful. If only all knights and princes thought the same. “It is a rare thing for a knight to remember his vows these days.” Your eyes flick to the darkening bruise along his strong jaw. He’s at least three heads taller than Aerion and several stones heavier. The true shame is that he only loosened a tooth and did not knock it clean out. “Though I do wish you’d gotten in a few more blows,” you admit, looking down at the creases in your palm, almost ashamed to admit it.
The corner of Dunk’s mouth twitches at that. He still won’t look at you, but he steals a longer glimpse, long enough to see the same dread and hatred in your expression that Egg had after the day’s joust. Long enough to recall you were there too in that tent. “I don’t understand.” Dunk shakes his head, brow knitting together. “Is Aerion not your betrothed?” Nigh all of Westeros knew of the recent engagement between Baelor’s daughter and Maekar’s son—an odd match for politics and prosperity, but not a queer one among the Targaryens.
“Unfortunately.” You need not say anything more on the matter. Dunk understands. “If it eases your mind and heart, I sent Lord Ashford’s maester to tend to the girl’s hand,” you tell him.
He nods, solemn. It does soothe his heart to know Tanselle’s injuries would be looked after in a proper fashion. “A decent thing to do,” Dunk replies. It was the right thing to do, you think. Silence creeps in, and having thought of nothing more to say, you move to leave, knowing your father will wish to speak with him before he must face Aerion.
A flash of silver and red—a ring now too small for any finger but a pinky—catches his eye. Dunk rises. “Your Grace!” He calls, moving toward you with measured steps so as not to startle. “We...we’ve met before,” he stumbles over the words. “Do you remember?” There’s hope in his voice, even if it's a fool’s hope. A princess would hardly have a cause to remember a poor boy from Flea Bottom and a chance meeting in the streets years ago. “As children.”
After another step, the firelight of a nearby sconce shines fully upon his face, and your throat tightens. You know those blue eyes. In all the time that’s passed, you’ve yet to see a pair of eyes bluer, clearer, kinder than his. Baelor remembered Ser Arlan of Pennytree. And you—you remember him, just a boy from Flea Bottom. “You returned my ring,” you muse, remembering the day well.
“Daeron gave it to me on my fifth nameday,” you add, fondness and grief tangled in your voice—always your favorite cousin, no matter how many casks of wine he tries to drown himself in. Slipping the silver band free, you turn it over in hand, the dim light paints the rubies like drops of wet blood, an ill omen, you think. You’ve rarely gone without it, finding comfort in such a little thing.
“Wearing it has always brought me good fortune.” You step toward Dunk then and offer it to him—a courtly favour of sorts. He doesn’t move. So you take his hand—large and calloused—and place the small ring into his palm. “I pray it does the same for you, Ser Duncan.”
He shakes his head. “Your Grace, I can’t...”
“You can,” you interrupt, slipping your hand under his and forcing his fingers to close around the ring—the very same one he thought about making off with as a boy. It is a gift, if nothing else. A small fortune for a hedge knight should he survive what comes next. He finally does not shy from your gaze, and finds a mix of emotions he can’t quite make out.
Small footsteps patter down the hall—Egg. “Dunk.” His brows knit together, surprised to hear you speak his true and given name. “Be gentle with him,” you murmur, hand falling away from his as you turn toward the door. “He’s only a boy.”
“HELP HIM, PLEASE!” Egg’s voice cracks, and his eyes—deep and dark and purple—shine bright with panic and tears. His hands are clenched tight at his sides, knuckles almost white. You’ve always listened, always helped. To Egg, you’re the daughter of the crowned prince, the realm’s darling, and you should be able to thwart his brother’s distorted view of justice before it’s carried out.
But you feel just as helpless as he. “What can I do, Egg?” you answer, crouching so you are level with him. “I am no knight nor prince.” Even if you were more than a princess, it would not be likely to help Ser Duncan.
“But Baelor–” Egg starts. You cut him off, gently, “–is heir to the Iron Throne and Hand of the King.” Your fingers graze his sleeve. “He cannot risk himself so lightly.”
The boy shakes his head, his jaw set in a stubborn way that reminds you of his father. “Tell Aerion to stop, then,” Egg demands. An impossible task. He knows it is. Mayhap any other husband-to-be would consider his betrothed’s gentle requests, a marriage favor even, but Aerion is neither kind nor noble.
As if summoned by thought alone, Aerion Brightflame enters the room. Your heart drops seeing him. There is no warmth in his gaze as it drifts between you and his younger brother—no affection, no fondness. Only the cold, sharp look that always sets you on edge. “Run along, Egg.” Aerion’s command is lazy, almost bored.
“No.” Aegon answers, lifting his chin just a little. “I won’t,” he says, his voice wavering.
“I said run along,” Aerion repeats, sharper this time. “Go pray for your fool knight, if it please you. He’ll need all the gods he can muster.”
You nod to Egg, almost imperceptibly. “Go find Daeron,” you tell the boy. Egg swallows hard, then gives Aerion one last look of pure, burning hatred before he turns from the room.
In Egg’s wake, there’s an uneasy silence. Neither Lord Tyrell nor Lord Ashford thinks to say anything from their seats at the long table, both waiting for Baelor and Maekar to join and decide what is to be done.
Aerion’s attention turns fully to you, and his gaze hardens, the amusement he finds from tormenting his brother draining away. He steps closer, looking down his nose at you. “You would do well to remember your place, cousin.” His voice is a hiss, having heard you and Egg talking and knowing you’d gone to see the guilty hedge knight.
It feels like he has struck you without raising a hand. He’s forgotten I, too, am a dragon. “My place,” you say with a false smile, back straightening to make yourself taller, “is wherever I choose to stand.”
“Your place,” Aerion corrects coolly, “is at my side.” His hand lifts, as though to cup your cheek—claiming, possessive. You flinch before his fingers can brush flesh. The movement is small, but he notices it. Anger and wounded pride flash across Aerion’s face, a dangerous combination. Approaching footsteps stills his hand in the air between you, and he lets it fall back to his side when he sees his father and uncle coming to join the council. Your gaze flits from his dark eyes to your father, but Aerion lingers just long enough to give you an unreadable look before he takes his seat at the end of the table.
Ser Duncan the Tall requested a trial by combat, as all ordained knights have the right to, but he left the solar needing six more knights to defend his cause by the morning—a Trial of Seven, Aerion demanded. Lord Tyrell and Ashford disperse thereafter. Baelor expects you to follow, as the others do. But you remain seated, hands folded in your lap, staring at nothing. Egg is right. You go to twist the ring on your pinky. It’s gone. Of course, it’s gone, you remind yourself.
Your father watches you with his mismatched eyes. Had you looked up then, you might have seen something akin to shame flicker across the noble face of Baelor Breakspear.
“Is there nothing else you can do, father?” you ask at last. The question surprises him. It is not often you press him so. “He did only what any knight should do,” you continue. “Protect the weak and innocent. The puppeteer. Egg.” Me, but you do not say as much. Nor do you show him the scrapes on your palms, the bruises hidden beneath your sleeves, the ache in your knees from where Aerion’s fury had thrown you aside. A Fossoway squire had been the one to help you from the ground. You feel your throat tighten. “I...I’m tired of the good and decent folk of the realm being trodden on by people like Aerion.”
Baelor’s gaze softens—always a gentle heart. “Have I not been a good daughter?” The words come before you can stop them. “Have I not done your bidding?” You squeeze your eyes shut. Have I not agreed to marry my monstrous cousin—for the good of the realm?
He comes to you then and reaches for you, taking your face into his hands. “You have,” he says quietly, proudly. “You have been dutiful. More than many in your place would be.” No one in the Seven Kingdoms could say Baelor Targaryen did not love and take pride in his children.
And then he takes the empty chair beside you and he speaks as a prince. “Aerion is…as he is,” Baelor says, carefully. “But he is still the blood of the dragon. And the blood of our house must not sit idle where honor is concerned.”
You know he speaks true in some fashion, especially with the recent history of rebellions, but without dragons, House Targaryen cannot rule through fear and absolute power alone. The smallfolk’s love is where true power lies, and they have little love for the likes of Aerion, especially after he dishonored himself in the tourney by killing Humfrey Hardyng’s mount. “What is it you are asking of me?” Your father finally inquires.
To stop this madness. To choose what is right over what is easy. To save him. “I ask and want for nothing,” you whisper, though your lips tremble as you say it.
The morning comes, but you have not slept. No one has, by the looks of it. Walking to the tourney grounds is a solemn affair. The joy has been sapped from Ashford Meadow in just a few hours. Poor young Gwin Ashford, instead of being crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty, must preside over a bloody and needless trial. Aegon runs past you, small and swift, his face set with fierce determination. He will squire for Ser Duncan.
Turning from the stands, you pace the pavilions, looking for your brother and father. The wind stirs the flaps of Valarr’s pavilion. You pause. A shadow moves within, clad in your brother’s armor. Has Valarr taken up Ser Duncan’s cause? Surely, not. He hadn’t even sat in the council the prior evening. “Valarr?” You call. Your brother does not answer.
The armor does not sit as it should. The dark steel breastplate pulls a touch too tight across the back; the studded leather tassels fall shorter than you remember. And his hair, where your brother’s would show a single bright streak of silver, is salted with grey. Your breath catches.
Father. The man who held your hand when you were little. Who taught you right from wrong. Who kissed your brow and told you stories of brave knights and just kings. Your eyes burn, and suddenly, you feel small again.
“Papa?” Baelor turns. It’s been years since you last called him that. The Prince of Dragonstone dismisses the young Reach lords helping him fasten the last of the straps with a quiet nod. He had not thought to bring his own armor, so he wears his son’s. It fits him well enough. “Why?” It’s a meek, breathless question.
“Ser Duncan upheld his vows, as every true knight should.” There is no doubt, no hesitation. The soul of chivalry. Baelor adjusts his gloves. “And, if by nothing else, I make my daughter proud, then this is worth it.” You don’t realize you’re crying until his hand comes up to wipe the tears from your cheeks, his thumb brushing them away as he has done a hundred times before. He smiles at you—fond and unafraid. “Go,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your brow. “Go with Aegon, and I will do my best to protect your hedge knight.”
Your hedge knight. You want to protest the phrasing, but your father has already turned away. There is nothing to lose, fighting against men sworn to do him no harm, but everything to gain. Outside the pavilion, a groom brings his horse. Baelor Targaryen mounts his dark stallion, gathering the reins in his hands, and glances back toward you, just once, before setting Valarr’s helm on his head. Then he snaps the reins as the doors to the list field groan and open.
VALARR BECKONS YOU away—he’s distraught, angry, and cannot understand why you do not share the same sentiments toward the man he sees as responsible for your father’s death. A Prince of the Realm for a hedge knight. It hardly seems a fair trade. And even now, you cannot say if the man Baelor Targaryen gave his life for will live.
So much blood. You look down at your hands and can still see the mix of it and mud there from the days prior, and hear the maesters yelling for boiled wine and forceps. No place for a princess, they told you, letting a common armorer escort you from the tent in a harrowed daze.
Dunk tries to move—groans—and that is when he realizes he is not on the ground, nor in a cell, nor on the hard-packed earth of the list field. He is in a bed. A real bed. One with a feather mattress, linen sheets, and soft blankets. And everything hurts.
“Easy,” a soft voice says. He turns his head and sees you sitting beside him with his good eye, and feels the gentle weight and warmth of your hand on his bicep. For a moment, Dunk can only stare, trying to make sense of it. A Targaryen princess—daughter of Baelor Breakspear—wearing dark mourning silks, sitting at his bedside. Eyes still red-rimmed and shadowed with grief. It should have been me. The guilt gnaws at him; it will for the rest of his days.
“Princess,” he rasps. There’s a shred of panic in his voice and a new tightness in his chest. Dunk dips his head down, struggling to keep your gaze.
You rise, reaching for a cup on the table nearest the bed. “Here”—one hand slips behind Dunk’s broad shoulders to help him sit, careful of the bandages that wrap his chest and the bruises that turn his body into a canvas of black and blue— “slowly,” you tell him, bringing the water to his lips. He drinks, then coughs, and drinks again.
When he can speak, the first thing he says is: “Your father, Pri-prince Baelor.” Memory comes rushing back in a cacophony of blood and steel—his ears ringing, the crash of lance on shield, the terrible moment when Baelor’s helm was struck…Aerion had already yielded. But Maekar hadn’t heard, nor had Baelor. Dunk flinches as if the mace strikes his own head.
“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. The same words he repeated over and over as he held the prince in his arms. Tears well up in his clear, blue eye, clouded with pain. How could he ever face you—or Valarr—after what happened? It’s not right for a great prince to die so a hedge knight might live. “I never meant–” His cracked lips tremble. “I never wanted–”
“Hush.” Your voice is gentle, firm, as though Baelor himself speaks through you. Dunk looks at you again and sees the weight of such loss written plainly on your face—that lovely face. And still, you’re not angry...only sad. “My father made his choice,” you tell him, quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed, hand loosely curled around one of his. It’s heavily bandaged—from Aerion’s dagger—and there are blood splotches on the pale wrap. “He chose to stand with Ser Duncan the Tall.”
“He…he told me he needed good men.” The Realm needs good men. “Let me serve you, Your Grace,” Dunk says, nigh begging—seeking atonement for ripping Baelor Breakspear from this world too soon. Then his voice softens, and he reaches out, boldly taking your hand into both of his. “I can be your man,” he chokes. Your man.
You cradle Dunk’s bruised cheek with your free hand, knowing your father would have taken him on in the service of House Targaryen without hesitation. A true knight and a good man. The House of the Dragon could use more of those.
“If that is so” —the corners of your lips quirk upward, a sad, fleeting smile— “then I command you to rest, ser.” Rising from the bed, you bend, only just, and place a chaste kiss on Ser Duncan the Tall’s forehead. He almost reaches for you, but thinks better of it. “Rest while I can still keep Egg from under your feet.”
THE MAESTER UNBINDS the bandage around Dunk’s hand as you enter the pavilion. It is a nasty wound—already debrided to clean the muck out—but still angry and raw, the flesh tender and swollen. Dunk can scarcely bend his fingers, let alone grasp a sword or lance.
You sit opposite Maester Mykal, and Dunk watches you the whole while, his brow furrowed—you’re a puzzle he cannot seem to set to rights. A princess who comes to sit with a lowly hedge knight. A noble lady who does not shy away from blood. A daughter who shows kindness to the man who all but killed her father.
“Hold his hand, if you please, Princess,” Mykal says. You take Dunk’s hand—warm and rough with callus and old scars—in both of yours without complaint. The maester spreads a fresh poultice over the wound. His jaw clenches, but he makes no sound. And when Maester Mykal finishes and ties off the bandage with a neat little knot, he pats Dunk’s wrist. “Try not to be a fool with it, ser. It will mend if you let it.” His eyes flick between the two of you before he gathers his things. He’ll return on the morrow at your bidding. “I’ll leave you to your rest,” he tells Dunk. “Princess.” Mykal inclines his head and slips from the pavilion, leaving you still loosely holding Dunk’s hand.
“Why…?” Dunk begins, then stops, swallowing hard, thinking over his words so as not to offend. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be–” his voice trails, rough with uncertainty “–with your kin?” He asks, not unkindly, just confused. You had lost a father. So had Valarr and Matarys. And Maekar had lost his brother. Dunk cannot understand why you would choose to be here with him over family.
“I have been,” you reply. All the night and all the morning, until it was suffocating to remain. “But grief does not keep to one place.” Your eyes lift to meet his. He can almost open his other eye now, though it is still swollen and painted with bruises—but it is his good eye, the clear blue one, that finds yours. “And neither does duty.” Your thumb brushes mindlessly over his knuckles, careful of the bandage.
“My father once told me,” you continue, finally sitting in your bedside chair, “the measure of a ruler is not how they treat the highborn, but how they tend to the low, the wounded, and the forgotten.” A faint, sad smile touches your lips, there and gone again in a blink. “And you are wounded, Ser Duncan.”
But he is not the only one wounded after the trial: the Kingsguard, Humfrey Hardyng, Daeron, and even Aerion. “Is Prince Aerion...” He hadn’t wanted to kill the prince...not really. But he’s not heard anyone really mention what became of him after the trial. Dunk watches your expression falter and your hand fall away from his, and then he regrets having said anything at all. You daft fool. He curses himself.
You’d gone to Aerion after the funeral pyre had turned to ash—he was family, after all. He lay abed in one of Lord Ashford’s guest rooms. A livid bruise darkened one side of his face, the other gnarled by deep cuts, and his lip split where Dunk’s fist had found it. Aerion had no kind words to say, but there had been a flicker of something when you told him you wanted to see if he survived the night.
“Bruised,” you say, after a moment. “And stitched up.” In some ways, he fared better than Duncan. “My uncle is sending him to Lys.” Time in the Free Cities may yet do him some good. The way Maekar said it in the days after the funeral, it all but absolved your betrothal to his son and loosened the noose of duty around your neck. But you’ve not seen Aerion since Maekar decided on his son’s exile.
Dunk shifts on the bed, wincing as his ribs protest, and feels a streak of boldness overcome him. He reaches to take your hand again, his thumb moves against your fingers, as though testing whether you will pull away. You don’t. Instead, your fingers tighten around his, just slightly.
You find yourself going to sit with Dunk nigh every day. Most of the time, Egg comes too, but today he’s off to pack his things to return to Summerhall. Egg hopes he will not have to go and that he will be able to squire for Ser Duncan the Tall. When you enter the pavilion, Maester Mykal is leaving, having replaced the dressings around his torso, and notes Dunk’s wounds are healing well, if a little slow, and he suggests a bit of fresh air might do the hedge knight some good.
Dunk pushes himself off the bed, steadying himself with a crutch, but once he’s upright, you sidle closer to him, offering yourself as a second crutch. “Never thought I’d have a dragon steadying me on my feet,” he says—you wear the colors of your house today, it’s hard for him not to see you as such.
A small smile touches your lips when you look up at him. “We’re not all fire and fury.”
“No,” he agrees, voice low. “Some of you are kinder than you ought to be.” Dunk takes another step and winces when his weight settles wrong, even with the crutch under one arm and you under the other. It’s too much. Aerion’s sword bit deep.
The crutch slips, clattering to the floor, and his balance with it. All of him—nigh twenty stone of him—presses down on you. Dunk catches himself against the edge of the bed, enough to keep from crushing you entirely, but not enough to spare you the fall. You go down with him, letting out a small, startled grunt as the two of you land in an awkward tangle of limbs.
“Princess,” he chokes, scrambling at once, half-dragging you across his lap in his haste to set you upright, more afraid for you than any wound of his own. “M’sorry.” Dunk holds onto your arms. “Didn’t hurt you, did I?”
Your hands brace against his chest, fingers splaying over the coarse fabric of his stained tunic, and beneath it, you feel the steady, stubborn thrum of his heart. His breath catches beneath you, and you both realize then how close you are. “No harm done,” you assure him, not looking away from those big, bright, blue eyes of his.
“Shouldn’t be the one falling for me, Princess,” Dunk says quietly, a poor attempt at humor. But his voice is a little breathless from the closeness and the ache of the returning pain in his ribs. A faint huff of laughter escapes you, and even though it fades quickly, the warmth lingers in your flushed cheeks. His gaze flicks to your mouth, then up again.
“Princess…” he begins, voice low and uncertain, and then even softer is your name. No titles or formality, just a whisper. You like her, Egg told him the night prior; he could see it easily enough with his own young eyes. And she likes you too. That’s not a bad thing, ser.
You lean in—just enough he could pull back if he wishes, just enough that it feels more like a choice rather than boldness or impropriety. One of your hands lifts from his chest, moving to his face, cradling the fading bruises. Your thumb traces the rough line of his cheek with the first rasp of red-blond stubble. He leans into the touch. The breath he draws is sharp, unsteady, and those blue eyes search your face—asking the same silent question you are.
“Dunk,” you breathe, whether aloud or only in your thoughts, you aren’t certain.
He moves then, and his kiss, when it comes, is tentative and clumsy with care. But you do not shy away, and something in him loosens—breaks, even. His arm, thick and strong, comes up around your shoulders, drawing you closer, further into him. Dunk’s lips press firmer then, lingering just a heartbeat longer before he draws back, his nose brushing yours, and breath unsteady against your cheek.
You tilt your head to the side and catch his lips with yours before he can speak or think to doubt it, as you know he’s wont to do. The second kiss is warmer, no less gentle, and all the deeper for the wanting of it. Your fingers curl lightly at his jaw, holding him there. When you part this time, your foreheads rest together. Dunk swallows hard, his large hand shifting as if he might reach for you again, and he does.
The flap of the tent jerks open. “Ser, I —oh!” Egg stands in the entrance, frozen mid-step, eyes wide as saucers as they dart between you. Your hand on Dunk’s cheek. Dunk’s hand splayed at your waist. The two of you are far closer than propriety would ever allow.
For one drawn-out second, no one moves.
Your gaze flits away from your cousin, back to Dunk, and by the look of him—with his reddened ears—he would rather face another trial than his princeling squire. Resigned, your hand falls from his cheek, back to his chest, and your head drops, resting against his shoulder.
Egg’s face is redder than his scarlet sash, and you cannot help but let out a small, helpless laugh. The first since the lists fell silent—a lovely sound to Dunk’s ears.
“I knew it,” the boy manages, a grin splitting through his initial surprise. “Shall I come back later, ser?” Egg asks, rising on his toes to seem taller. “Or perhaps stand guard?” He adds, trying his utmost to sound serious but nigh on the verge of giddy laughter—how could he not be giddy? His favorite cousin and new friend.
Dunk groans softly and lets his head fall back against the bedframe, dragging a hand down over his face. “Seven save me,” he mutters.
Egg’s smile widens at hearing it. The boy is far too pleased with himself, but he takes a step back out of the tent, not leaving entirely yet—fingers still hooked into the dyed canvas. “Can’t have anyone else interrupting.”
“Egg,” Dunk warns. There’s no real heat in it, more so just the embarrassment of being caught.
A few more heartbeats pass. He looks down at you, still resting your head on his shoulder, smiling. But Ser Duncan the Tall feels a fool. You’re a princess, he reminds himself, he should not have done what he did, no matter how much he—and you—enjoyed it.
“I’m sorry,” he says at last, low and rough, his hand falling away from your waist. “For,” he falters, unsure which part to name exactly. The kiss? Egg? The silly way his heart starts to race when you hold his hand or smile? He squeezes his eyes shut and, for a quick second, sees Baelor Targaryen standing in his son’s armor, an almost sad smile on his lips.
You lift your head, still close enough to him that your noses nearly brush. “Don’t be,” you answer. “It’s not something I regret.” Dunk’s expression eases, leaving that earnest, open look that first struck you all those years ago on the streets of King’s Landing.
His hand lifts to your cheek, fingers just ghosting along the curve of your jaw before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, before his hand slips away again, slow and reluctant. “I shouldn’t have,” he begins again, stubborn in his sense of what is proper. “Yes, you should have,” you interrupt, just as gently as before. Tilting your chin up, you kiss Dunk again, a quick kiss to show you really mean the words you speak.
You want him, by the old gods and the new, you want him. Dunk’s breath catches. “I…have nothing to give you,” he admits, the words are honest and rough, much like him. “I’ve no castle. No lands. Not even a proper suit of armor of my own.” His mouth twitches, self-conscious. “All I’ve got is my sword, and what vows I can keep.” But you know this already, he knows you know, and you still look at him like that.
“And a good heart,” you add.
Dunk huffs a breath at that. His gaze drops again, then returns to yours, steadier—braver, with a new look twinkling in his blue eyes. “If,” he starts, then pauses, gathering his courage. “If you’d have me…I’ll be your man.” The words are quiet, even if he’s already spoken them to you what feels like weeks ago now. “Your man, to serve and stand beside you. For as long as you’ll have me.”
Your gaze drops to his hand, and you reach for it once more, fingers slipping lightly into his palm. Lifting your entwined hands, you—a princess of House Targaryen—kiss one of his scarred knuckles. “I would have you,” you answer, soft and sure.
For a heartbeat, he looks like the boy who once stood in the street with a ring in his palm again. You rest your forehead against his again, hands still joined, his thumb brushing once over your knuckles in that same tentative, hopeful way.
Ser Duncan the Tall may have nothing, he thinks—but with you in his arms and your breath warm against his lips, he feels he has been given everything he’s ever dared to dream of and hope for.
[Forever taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @hereforreadandwrite / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @vymyn / @slytherinmates ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my forever taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form! also please use the same form if you'd like to be added to my GoT, HotD, and AKOTSK taglist.
the court was not subtle. after the third daughter, the whispers began. after the fifth, they were almost loud enough to hear. valarr heard them all, and each one was a personal offense. he never once showed you anything but pride and joy, but you would catch him sometimes, staring down a lord who made a comment about "securing the line" with an expression so cold it could freeze fire. he wasn’t angry about not having sons. he only ever wanted a family with you, and you gave him a beautiful, loud, chaotic army of girls.
his favorite tunic has a tiny, hand-stitched embroidery of a flower on the cuff, courtesy of his four-year-old. tucked away in his study, beside the ledgers, is a small wooden box containing his most prized treasures- a perfectly smooth river stone, a crow's feather, a dried four-leaf clover, and a dragonfly wing, all gifts presented to him with the solemn gravity of a royal tribute.
valarr commissioned a new signet ring for himself, not with the royal crest, but with the clumsy, wobbly outline of a cat his daughter had drawn in charcoal.
his title at the dinner table is not "your highness," but "father, can you please pass the bread?" and "papa, she's looking at me!" he has mastered the art of negotiating peace treaties over who gets the last honey cake.
he doesn't care if the lords are scandalized, the sound of his girls' happiness is the only music that matters.
he knows his daughters will grow up. he knows they'll fall in love, have their hearts broken, and face the world. the thought terrifies him more than any battlefield. his greatest mission isn't securing the throne, but raising a generation of women who are so strong, so smart, and so fiercely loved that no one in the world could ever dare to treat them as anything less.
you shifted, gently placing the newest born in his arms. he froze, holding her as if she were made of spun glass and starlight. he looked down at her, and the hard lines of his face, the worries of the realm, all of it melted away. he was no longer a prince, no longer a knight. he was just a father, looking at his daughter.
"she has your eyes," you said softly, your heart so full it felt like it might burst.
he let out a shaky breath, his thumb stroking her impossibly small cheek.
and so it was. prince valarr, the man who was born to rule, found his true purpose not on a throne, but on a rug by the hearth. he was the one who would hold them when they cried, who would tell them stories, you would often find them like that, the mighty prince and his tiny daughters, lost in their own world of whispers and wonder.
- cherry wine is about domestic abuse. it’s now called a cute proposal song.
- too sweet is about seizing the day and ignoring healthy habits in favor of having more fun with unhealthy ones. he’s actively critical of himself in the song. it’s now called a song about thinking you’re superior for drinking black coffee.
- take me to church is about worship as a metaphor for sex. it’s called a religious song.
- eat your young is a song about war and political greed. it’s called a song about sex.
- now, the strongly political message of nobody’s soldier is being ignored in favor of calling it a metaphor for hozier’s relationship with his fans.
when are we going to stop simplifying hozier’s music down to cute little cottagecore bogman forest music? maybe you dont want to hear this but i don’t care. quit listening to hozier for the aesthetic. there’s a reason why empire now, foreigner’s god, butchered tongue, etc. songs with unignorable political messages are among his least popular songs.
It's not r*pe, it's rape. It's not su*cide, it's suicide. Not unalive, dead. The backbone needs to be reintroduced en masse because softening the blow of these concepts with advertising language does absolutely nothing but allow people unaffected by them to feel not even a sting of what they can do, prompting inaction.
And it's been proven that on certain websites, you don't even face a repercussion for using the words as they are. People just started censoring themselves because they feared the potential lack of views and likes and followers which is so nasty itself.
I attended an anti-suicide seminar in college. One of the big takeaways from it was that stigmatizing suicide increases the rate of suicide, because people who are feeling suicidal feel like they can't ask for help. Every time I see babytalk garbage like 'unalive', I think of that.
I started using Head and Shoulders ten years ago for itchy scalp and dandruff, and then for ten years I have not had itchy scalp and dandruff, so I thought “why do I still buy shampoo to combat itchy scalp and dandruff when I do not have itchy scalp and dandruff,” so I stopped buying the shampoo for itchy scalp and dandruff and can you guess I have now? Can you predict what currently afflicts me? It’s alright if you can’t because apparently I fuckin couldn’t either
Cutting something out of your life because you think you don’t need it any more only to realize that it was in fact working as intended and preventing a problem that will return should you stop doing this is a good experiment to run periodically with something small like dandruff shampoo, lest you start to think it would be a good idea to do this with like let’s say public health and the social safety net and vaccines
I had a liver transplant when I was 14 and like six months later I was chatting with my surgeon and he said “there’s gonna come a time, probably when you’re a teenager, where you’re gonna think, ‘I feel great, why am I still taking all this medication? I haven’t needed it in years.’ and you’re gonna want to stop taking all this medication. Guess what’s gonna happen then? You’re gonna go into rejection and your liver is gonna start failing, and you’re gonna be dying again, and we’re gonna have to find you another liver. So don’t do that.” And I said “why the fuck would anyone do that?” and he said “people are stupid.”
every once in a while when I get annoyed by a pharmacy or don’t wanna get out of bed to do my drugs I think “ugh, this is dumb, why do I do this?” and that conversation slams into me like a truck and I remember that I am, in fact, stupid
romaincrisis
izzy806
dailybridgerton
germansingergirl
jacobvanloon
tangentwithtanner
kaledo-art
gummygunk
