House of the Dragon Big Bang

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[hotd-bigbang]

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[yoursweetheartsrevenge]

Fandom/Pairing: A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms/Duncan the Tall x Tanselle Too Tall

Summary:  Dunk has always felt truly alone with his beast, hurting the people he loves most until one faithful night and one stunning woman changes everything.

Warnings: Minors DNI, 18+, smut, character deaths mentioned, angst, monster sex

Word Count: 2.4k+

Another's Note: my submission for @hotd-bigbang for AKOTSK prompt meme event. prompt was Monster AU. Hope you enjoy!

He was alone again. 

The rain saturated his flesh as he looked down at the good Ser who had taken him in all those years ago. Ser Arlan had been a true knight, a man willing to take in a beast such as him without want or need from the young lad ‘side a set of good strong hands. 

He remembered Rafe’s words.

“You’ll always be alone, Dunk. Nothing but a beast to them.” She would spit. She’d move on with other topics of conversation and mischief. 

Rafe was gone. 

Ser Arlan had followed in time. 

It must be true. A monster such as him was never meant to have family, a true home, true love. The man could not tell any longer if it were the rain or his own tears soaking his face. He supposed it did not matter. No one ‘side the horses to see him weep at the life beset before him. 

That’s all he had, the horses who still were weary of his presence. They shifted about some, but Dunk was always kind to them when the change could not be tamed any longer. He made sure he was far enough away so that he would do them no harm. Perhaps it was their very natural instinct that saved them where Rafe and Ser Arlan could not be saved. 

Her throat. 

His arm. 

Dunk’s canines. 

Dunk’s claws. 

He tried not to remember that he had held the ones he loved too close and made them bleed. The man looked down at Ser Arlan’s lifeless form once more before deciding he could not linger on his past actions any longer. 

He buried the past along with the knight. 

***

Dunk had wanted to be good. 

Ever since the day he had learned what a knight was he desired to be just that. A savior was better than a monster. It was why he decided to head to Ashford. He would like to do some good after the harm he caused. Sounds, smells, and sensations were no bother to him. Growing up in Flea Bottom had taught him not only to remain small, but to focus his senses on his own self. 

A wolf such as himself had a certain odor. If he focused on that he could remain tamed in perplexing situations. The change only nagged at him after a long stretch of no hunt or shifting from flesh to fur. Since the accidental death of his knight, Dunk did not feel the pull to shed his flesh. He was sure he could remain in this form until Ashford was over. 

If he lost, if he was ruined, that would be the end of it. 

He’d run into the wilds abandoning hope for human connection. 

The tankard held fast in his hand as he ventured toward a tent. The lingering scent was faint, embers, smoke, and . . . something stranger. The voice wafted through the air calling him forward. He was too tall for most entries. The tent was no different. A crowd was gathered to watch a performance. A grand puppet dragon hissed before him with a knight holding fast a mirror shield in defense. 

It was not any of that that struck him. 

The odor was not his own. The scent smelled of the sadness he had held in the rain, tears and loneliness. It was the heavy scent of an animal, sharp and strong. It drenched from the pours of the girl narrating the show. 

All worldly creatures before him melted away. 

He had never known there were others. 

Yet, here she stood before him, hunched and performing as if she were not the most beautiful being he had ever set his eyes on. 

He had thought he was alone. 

His flesh pulled. It itched. It hungered. Saliva pooled at the corner of his mouth. It was more than excitement. Truly how had he not expected this? In all his travels with Ser Arlan they had never stumbled upon another wolf, yet she was creating goose pimples across his flesh and a growing heat across his cheeks. 

When she looked upon him, a shy gaze that turned knowing with wide beautiful brown eyes Dunk knew he could not stay in the tent any longer. He fled as was customary for him to do when his eyes were set on a young maid he wished to devour. 

She was different though. 

“She’s like me.” He muttered to no one. He wished for Sweetfoot to witness his shock. He smiled in disbelief looking behind him. “She’s like me.” 

Why had he run? Why didn’t he stay? If she were a wolf too Dunk was sure he could not hurt her like the others, not in a physical sense. 

“She was tall too.” Like him. Just like him. 

Someone called out. Dunk turned to see the dark haired young man he had met earlier greeting him as if he were a lost friend. It was nice to feel as though he had that sort of closeness with someone. When Raymun offered food, Dunk could not say no. 

The wolf was always hungry. 

***

“You eat enough for four men, Ser Dunk!” Raymun laughed as the knight continued on. 

Dunk looked down at the turkey leg in his hand. He chuckled to himself not noting the eyes that were sorely set upon him in the tent. He tucked a piece of skin into his mouth, swallowing it down sharply. 

“It has been some time since I’ve had food this good.” His voice was soft and forgiving in itself. Raymun patted him on the back. 

“You are amongst friends here.” His new friend assured him. Dunk could not help but be satisfied by the way the young squire had said those words. It was as if he knew what being invited here meant. The air was thick with incense leaving Dunk’s nostrils a bit overwhelmed. 

As the night and dance grew on, Raymun abandoned him for other prospects. Instead Dunk found the desserts never quite satisfied in his hunger especially on nights when the moon was gloriously full. He felt his limbs stretch and crack with each lumbering movement. It was then that he noticed a man motioning to him from Lord Lyonel’s table. 

Dunk was unsure what a lord of Storm’s End could want with a man such as him. He would rather not upset a lord upon meeting him. Therefore he lumbered to the table. Dunk watched Ser Lyonel sit relaxed. He moved about a rather fine dagger until his nostrils flared. He gazed up at the man. 

“Well, what do we have here?” A grin threatened to overtake his face. 

“Beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel.” He watched the lord’s eyes scan him over. 

“To think I thought you only tall and quaint, yet here as I live and breathe you are much more than meets the eye . . .” He searched for a name he did not know. 

“Dunk. Ser Dunk, Ser.” He watched Lyonel laugh. 

“Right, of course, your kind do not have the luxury of names. Orphan than? Hmmm? Abandoned at birth, a story like that? Or was it a bite that brought the beast upon you? Something in your travels, strange and unusual lingering in the hedges?” He pointed the knife toward Dunk then away. “Not a threat. I know not my own habits.” Lyonel let it clatter before wiping his hand over his beard. “Come now, boy. I do not have all night.” Dunk swallowed processing the information. 

How could he know of his affliction? 

“I have been myself for as long as I have . . . been myself.” He was so taken aback by his own revelation that he could not form words. Lyonel paused to look him over once more before he let out a long chuckle. 

“It is such.” He nimbled his lower lip searching him up and down. “I suspect given your demeanor you have not met other creatures such as yourself.” Dunk simply shook his head. “The incense. It’s meant to help dull senses for creatures who need it. The moon is full and we need not for unwanted change before the time comes.” 

“Time comes?” 

Lyonel simply smiled leaning forward. 

“Do you like dancing?” 

***

The music sang on as the night grew closer. The itch tore at him to shed his skin as the incense died on the wind. 

How had he not smelt it? How had he not picked up on the odors and presence of the otherworldly? Ser Arlan had always called him thick as a castle wall, but he had never known that to be true when it came to his senses. Dunk always relied on instinct yet now among the overwhelming sensations of the evening he could not recall what was real and what was imagined. 

His dance skills were lumbering at best. The large lad was unsure what to do with his arms, moving them in an awkward fashion. His attempts to keep time with the music made his heart quicken. He felt himself swung about, the scent within the spin was horribly unfamiliar and welcoming. 

He heard Lyonel Baratheon call out. It was an animalistic sound as he moved. The crowd rumbled and growled in response. Dunk felt his muscles tightened to restrain himself from letting out a howl buried within his chest. He tried to calm himself as the beast threatened to break through. The itch burned his skin. 

He would not last the night. 

That Dunk was sure of. 

Lyonel nearly collided with him. The stare he invoked let Dunk truly see Lyonel. His eyes were nearly blackened from excitement. He let his mouth taste the air, aggression mixed with utter glee. It came from Lyonel. Dunk could feel his body heat mix with the lord’s own heat. Perhaps there was lust there too as Lyonel sized him up. 

He felt the hard foot smack into his. 

No. 

Dunk looked down to see it. 

The leather had burst slightly revealing the tips of a hoof. 

Dunk learned from his mistakes. He trusted his reflexes as Lyonel attempted to smash his foot again. He felt his body tense ready to avoid the antics of this unfamiliar beast. The more Lyonel Baratheon moved the more Dunk saw how inhuman he was, how inhuman everything about the evening was. Fur bristled across the back of the lord’s head. His skin began to break and blister at his forehead, peeking sharp antlers that seemed to grow with each movement. 

By the end of the dance, Lyonel no longer wore shoes. 

When Dunk crashed his foot, still of flesh, into the older man’s he felt the crunch of a hoof.

He heard the throaty sound of a wounded animal colliding with the hurt sound of a man who had lost at last. Despite the Baratheon’s monstrous change to a beast, Dunk had stepped on the hoof of a lord. Fear and panic held tight in his chest until Lyonel looked up, utterly pleased. 

A friendship formed in that moment. 

He spun, letting himself feel free for the first time in a long while. 

Dunk felt as if this could be home. 

His demeanor changed when he saw her. 

The young woman with an affinity for puppets sipped shyly from a wooden goblet. It made her lips wet and red. He could smell the sweet notes in the air that allowed his mind to become still in the thick heat of bodies. The thunderous wave of music and the beating muscle of his heart echoed around him. His nostrils flared as she dipped her head catching her finger in her hair. 

Her hair. 

Each strand pressed to her fingers made Dunk stalk forward. A crave to be near the she-wolf bubbled in his belly until he could see the wolf eclipse her eyes. They brightened yellow in the moonlight. He was close enough to reach out for her if he so desired. 

Gods did he desire. 

There in came the roar, a near animalistic screech in the air. Lyonel cried out, stretched out distorting his cracked and broken back. The antlers came quicker now that the night’s light caught in the tent. The other's eyes glew a fiendish yellow. 

Monsters gathered here in Ashford. The beast was not far to follow for the orphaned boy from Flea Bottom who never found a true home. 

Others joined in with the call including his new friend, Raymin who has cat like green eyes. Dunk turned to the young woman. His teeth were heavy in his mouth, fangs growing pointed and hungry in a jaw that cracked slightly Her fingers curled against her forearm leaving crimson stains until the skin peeled away freeing fur, a beautifully delightful dark brown. 

His cock grew heavier too. 

Before he knew it instinct took hold. 

The man grabbed hold of the tall she-beast’s head enveloping her in what many might call a kiss and what others might call animalistic lust. 

**

When the wolf roamed free, Dunk only remembered flashes.

Tonight was more than flashes. He could recall senses. How she smelt. How she felt against his body. How so fuckin good it felt to bend her over and fuck her from behind. She was like him, wolf, beast, an unbridled needless lust monster. He could still feel the pain subside into desire as his flesh burst and his fur broke free. 

Every moment in that state had never felt so free. 

His nose was at the crook of her neck, lingering in the scent of her. Fingers padded against his scalp as her wolfish whimpers did not subside even in a form that was too familiar. 

He sometimes hated the flesh. 

It felt too confining. He nuzzled her. He felt the ghost of her lips against his. 

“I don’t know your name.” 

It was a realization he would have hated saying  if he had felt human in that moment. Instead he let his eyes remain closed remembering how good it had been to finish inside a beast as himself for the first time. 

How many times had he rutted into her that night? 

He had never thought of caring for her name. 

“Nor I you,” Another kiss. Another memory burned in his mind. 

“It’s Dunk.” He let one wolfish eyes open. 

She was soft, pretty, nude, and smelt like him. 

She smelt like herself. 

Beast.

“Mine is Tanselle.” 

In that moment he let human nature subside and let instinct take over. He desired her in this state as well. It was the first time he felt joy in hearing a woman scream his name, the first time he heard those lustful cries. 

Dunk had never felt so wanted.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Anam Cara

Summary: Daeron the Drunken finally meets someone granted the same sight he has loathed his whole life | Word Count: 1.9k~ | Warnings: none really! Just drinking

Prompt: When you find yourself on the tip of an enemy's sword, draw them close to you, look into their eyes, and laugh.

A/N: my submission for @hotd-bigbang for AKOTSK prompt meme event! I really enjoyed working this (if not a little rushed 😭). I got inspiration from watching Hamnet and Agnes' ability to 'see'. Anam Cara means 'soul friend' in Gaelic ☺️

The coin made an abrasive sound against the pewter ring on her middle finger. She let out a bored breath. Perhaps the more she twisted it between her fingers it may pass the time quicker. For some reason she doubted it. Her eyes scanned the inn, the empty chairs, the dull silence. A place usually so alive with men insistent on drinking their troubles away, coins slipping through her fingers as she'd give them a sweet smile to encourage better payment and more rounds. But tonight was no such night. The Ashford Tourney had ensured that all regular customers were otherwise occupied several miles way.

She had hoped that the tourney may bring a straggler, but alas the only man was a little lord dressed in crimson, head against the lacquered table, and a cup of half-drunk ale loose in his grip. He had been here several hours, but so far the only coin he gave was a silver one pressed into her palm the moment he arrived. Since then he had driven up quite the tab yet unpaid.

"tis a poor look just lounging about," the landlady muttered tiredly as she passed her, throwing a heavy, ale-stinking rag into her hands.

She could have rolled her eyes, "and do what, exactly? I cannot conjure up customers."

"I care not, just do something," she moaned, "I do not pay you to stand around and gaup."

She scrunched her nose as her esteemed landlady made her exit to the kitchens, no doubt to stick her her fingers in the pigeon pie. With two fingers she peeled the ale-soaked rag off her front and idly wiped at tables that were already clean to begin with and had not seen a customer for several hours.

As she made good about her work, her eyes drifted to the young man still pressing his forehead to the table, dirty blonde hair messy around his head in a halo of drunken bliss. He had a dagger at his side and fine clothes. No doubt a little lordling to find his way towards Ashford come morning. If indeed he did not sink into more cups and barely wake at all when the sun was to rise.

His fingers twitched, and the cup half full fell from his grasp, soaking his hand and the floor beneath him.

Gods, why do you test me so?

She righted the the cup loud enough to stir him, shifting his boot with hers to wake him fully. "M'lord, I do believe you have had enough," she insisted firmly.

The man groaned and raised his head, sweat beading his pale brow. His eyes were lazy to find her, and no doubt her figure doubled in his vision from the amount he had drunk. "You dare disturb a man..so deep in his cups...I s...I s shall 'ave you—"

"Yes, yes, you shall have me whipped or some deranged punishment, I am sure," she muttered, her rag quickly cleaning the spill before the landlady saw, "you have driven up quite the tab. It'd be most helpful if you settle it now and call it a night."

"The night's young..." he dribbled, "...'ve nowhere to be of...urgency..."

She raised her brows as if to agree. Humming to make him aware that she did. "Perhaps a bed then, m'Lord."

He gave a half-smile, one side clearly more inebriated than the other, "only...ifits...yours..."

The glare she gave him was a dead one, unimpressed. "I think not. You mistake this for a whorehouse."

His hand groped for the empty cup, "another..."

"Absolutely not."

She turned to leave, rag slung over her shoulder, but his hand shot out, quicker than a man that deep in his cups had any right to be, and caught her wrist. His grip was warm, surprisingly firm, the calluses of a swordsman beneath the silk of a lordling.

"Wait." His voice had lost some of its slur, sharpened by something raw. "Just... one more. Then I promise I'll—"

She twisted, meaning to pull free, but his fingers opened across her palm like a plea. Without thinking, she pressed her thumb to the soft centre of his hand, right where the life-line curved. The world tilted.

Heat. Dragons, but…not how they had been told in stories of her childhood. How they had used to live, fly and breathe Dragonfire upon the small folk when a prince was displeased. There was a man seated upon the throne, the gold sitting at his brow and his sullen, almost mournful face. His eyes were sad. He pulled the crown from his head and it fell through his fingers like sand. A boy watched from dark shadows carrying the same wide eyed helplessness that this young lordling had.

She gasped. The vision stealing air form her lungs. Her hand withdrew quickly as if burned.

The young man's pale eyes looked up at her, wide and clear. "You saw…"

"Saw what?"

"You dream…like me," his voice was light, almost unbelieving.

Her heart near stopped dead in her chest, until she felt the unending thump against her ribs. Suddenly the stench of old pie and ale made her feel ill. She thought unbidden of her mother taking her out to the very outer borders of the forest, teaching her the ways of her family and her mother before her. Herbs, remedies, how to see clearly with a simple press of her thumb against a hand without disappearing into madness.

She clenched her hand tight, remembering to press her feet into the stone floor to ground herself to this moment.

Do not lose yourself to visions, sweetling.

"I do not dream," she replied, "I see things, that is all." She did not feel like indulging this stranger in the ways her mother often taught her.

He sat up straighter, the half-drunk haze burning away. "What did you see?"

At first she did not reply. Too dazed by the storm of visions she had just endured. The man grew impatient and needy, and pressed a gold dragon into her palm as if he could pay her to speak faster and more truthful.

She studied him a moment, the messy halo of dirty-blonde hair, the fine crimson doublet stained with ale, the dagger at his hip that had never seen real battle. Then she leaned in, close enough that her she could see the pale blue of his eyes in the low amber glow of the inn.

"You are no Lord…" she whispered.

He blinked sporadically. Panicked.

"No." She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, letting the remnants of the vision settle ,"I see a dragon, living. And above you…a crown that does not sit on your own head. It floats above another. Your father, perhaps. Or one who calls himself king. Or will…"

Daeron’s breath caught. The last traces of drunkenness fled him entirely. He stared at her as though she had reached into his skull and pulled the dreams out into the open air.

"You…" His voice was barely above a murmur. "How could you know that?"

"You are a prince. One of many, it seems. Targaryen blood runs so thick these days it near chokes the realm."

Daeron’s expression softened, the same wounded wonder she had glimpsed earlier returning tenfold. "You really do see," he breathed. "Gods… all my life the dreams have torn at me. Every night I burn with them. I wake tasting smoke and blood, and no one believes me. Not truly. They call it dragon dreams and pat me on the head like a child frightened of the dark." He gave a small, tortured smile. "Yet here you are. A serving girl in a dying inn, speaking my nightmares back to me as calmly as if you were reciting the price of ale."

"It does not tear at me the way it tears at you. The sight comes, I look, and then it passes. Like rain on a roof. I do not burn with it. I simply…know things." Her eyes met his, steady but untroubled. "You carry it like a wound. I do not. That is the difference between us, prince."

He studied her for a long moment, the firelight flickering across his pale face. Something raw flickered behind the ice of his eyes, envy, perhaps, or simple exhaustion. Then he reached into his purse again and drew out a small handful of coins, two gold dragons and several silvers. He pressed them into her palm, folding her fingers around the coins with both of his hands.

"Tell no one you saw me here," he said quietly. "Not the landlady, not a traveller tomorrow, not even the wind. Say I was some drunk lordling if anyone asks. Swear it."

She weighed the coins in her hand. Heavy. Far more than any serving girl earned in a month. "I swear it," she said simply.

She watched as he swayed to his feet. Back turned to her to turn in for the night. She watched him, intrigued.

"You will meet a man," she murmured, "tall as the stars, or near enough. He walks beneath a banner clouded. And when you find yourself on the tip of an enemy’s sword," she said, slow and deliberate, "draw them close to you. Look into their eyes…and laugh."

He turned on one foot and blinked, startled. "Laugh?"

"Not in mockery, or madness. Laugh as though the blade is a jest between old friends. The moment will pass because of it."

Daeron let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh of his own. He rubbed a hand over his face, smearing the sweat and ale-damp hair. "I think I envy you," he admitted softly. "To see without burning…I would give my life for that peace."

For a moment they simply looked at each other across the table, two strangers bound foreknowledge in an empty inn. She almost pitied him, a pretty, tortured prince.

"Goodnight, my Prince," she said softly.

Daeron gave a small nod, a saddened, empty smile on his face as he turned finally again, his hand groping for the bannister as he began his short climb to bed. He would certainly feel the consequences of tonight the next morning. Something to look forward to.

Her mind was still awash with the visions she had no indulged him with. Skin flushed with fever, breathing shallow, the fire in his blood turned inward and cruel. He would be relatively young when he perished. A quiet candle snuffed between the fingers of the Stranger.

Breeze sent her hair flying, a shiver rolling through her spine. A man stepped inside, stooping slightly to enter properly without smacking his forehead, for he was enormous, broad-shouldered and taller than any soul had a right to be. Rain glistened on a plain, travel-worn cloak. A sword hung at his hip, long and simple, the hilt wrapped in worn leather. His face was honest, almost boyish despite the size of him, with a thatch of brown hair and eyes that scanned the empty common room with quiet caution.

She knew him at once.

The man tall as the stars.

He shook rain from his cloak and approached, offering her a polite dip of the head. "Room for the night, if you’ve one spare? And maybe a bit of bread and cheese if the kitchens still hot."

She saw the raise of his brows when she took her time responding. Trying to piece together the messy visions and the consequences of both this man and the princeling being so near one another. The future looked too closely for comfort, looming. And suddenly she found herself unsure if she should have indulged the truth so much in the lost prince.

Still, she tucked the coins away deep in her apron so her landlady would not see nor hear them.

"Course, Ser," she replied, wiping her forehead, "there's still pigeon pie. Take a seat, will be with you shortly."

✨ Please note ✨ I no longer do taglists. If you would updates, please follow @targaryenrealnessdarlingfics and turn on notifications!

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

A Hell Without Her

Prince Daeron Targaryen is in love. With the help of Penny, a local whore and herbalist, he has shed the burden of his torturous dreams. Though he may come to regret it, for he had not foreseen coming back to Penny only to find her at the mercy of his brother, Aerion, holding a knife to her neck.

Pairing: Daeron “the Drunken” Targaryen x Original Female Character

Warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT; prostitution, violence, murder, blood, early stages of decomposition, angst, grief

Author’s Note: this is my submission for the AKOTSK Prompt Meme Challenge by @hotd-bigbang My prompt was “forbidden love,” submitted by @yoursweetheartsrevenge

This can be read on its own or as a sequel to my earlier one-shot, A Heaven Without Wine

-

A Hell Without Her

'Daeron the Drunken,' they called him.

Or, they used to.

His former sobriquet no longer fit him so well as it once had. No longer did he spend more time drunk than sober. No longer did he flout his duties in favor of indulging his vices. One thing that hadn't changed, however, was his propensity for spending his nights amongst the whores in brothels.

Well, it was one specific brothel, actually. And one very specific whore—his lucky Penny.

Every night he was in Summerhall, he went to her at the Whispering Thicket. They would share a single glass of blackcurrant mead, then go to bed. They would often enjoy each other before falling asleep, of course. Increasingly wildly and passionately. But once Daeron was ready, Penny would place four drops of her sleeping tincture beneath his tongue, and he would sleep unhaunted by dreams of fire and blood and death.

"You're my savior," he said to her one night as the tincture began pulling him into rest.

Penny laughed and kissed his forehead. "You saved yourself, Daeron. I merely helped."

She always did that when he said such things. Though it had been her potion to free him from the torment of his dreams, and her kindness which opened his eyes to his worth, she would accept no thanks nor praise. Whenever Daeron came to her with news of his accomplishment—whether it was that his father had offered his sincere praise or he had won a tilt at some tourney—she always acted as if he had done it all himself.

So, he instead took to thanking her in other ways. It started with small gifts. He would bring her a bundle of flowers he picked on his way to her, or a little stone with an interesting pattern. The gifts only grew bigger and bigger. Books from Summerhall's library. Bolts of fabric he had taken from the dressmakers at the castle—tidbits and trinkets from his travels.

Daeron traveled more and more now. It seemed his father had decided that Daeron was reformed enough to represent the family in public. While it was vexing to be away from Penny for so long, he did take pride in at last having his father's trust. Besides, he could find better gifts for Penny away from the small village around Summerhall.

As he did now as he descended the wooded path to the Thicket, a fine gold pendant in his pocket. A master goldsmith in Lannisport had crafted it to Daeron's exact specifications. He could hardly wait to show it to her. After more than a month's travel, all he wanted was to finally see his Penny once more, and lay the golden penny bearing her own face around her neck.

It was silent as he came to the door of the Thicket, which was odd. There was usually at least some chatter spilling from the open windows. But it was a relatively cool day, so perhaps few had decided to venture away from their hearths.

Daeron pushed through the door, expecting his customary greeting and mug of mead from Ravella.

He saw Ravella, but she wasn't smiling, or holding a mug in her hands, or even standing. No, the madam knelt on the floor, crying as she looked up to where Daeron's younger brother held a blade to Penny's throat.

No. No no no no no no no.

Daeron could hardly say he was surprised. Aerion had long made it his sole purpose to torment his siblings. He mocked Aemon ceaselessly until their father had no choice but to send the boy to the Citadel. He destroyed so many of his sisters beloved dolls and toys that their mother had commissioned locked steel chests to keep them safe. He fucking murdered Egg's cat.

They had never done anything to provoke such anger, and still, he subjected them to such cruel treatment.

Daeron was seized with a deeper fear than he'd ever known, even in the worst of his dreams, as he realized that he, unlike his siblings, had earned Aerion's ire.

Merely by ridding himself of his nightmares and shedding his reliance on wine, he had ceased to be a disappointment to their father's eyes and reclaimed his respect. To Aerion, who had long considered himself the favorite, it was a usurpation. It was stupid and irrational, as all things were with Aerion, but it was real.

For the first time in all his life, Daeron wished that he had dreamed. If he had, perhaps now, he would know how to save Penny.

"At last, brother," Aerion greeted. He didn't acknowledge anyone else in the room but Daeron, who had gone utterly still in the doorway. "We expected you ages ago."

Penny whimpered, trying to pull away from the dagger. Aerion only pulled her tighter to him, tutting before turning back to Daeron. "Your little whore refuses to perform her duties. Would you talk some sense into her?"

"Let her go," Daeron found himself muttering weakly.

Aerion rolled his eyes. "Don't be selfish. I only want to see what's so special about her. But she says she'll only open her legs for you."

"Please, Aerion." He knew the plea would fall on deaf ears. There was nothing of his little brother left in Aerion's face. Only such loathing and rage that Daeron nearly couldn't recognize him.

"It can't just be her cunt, surely. If it were that, she wouldn't be in a place like this." He ran disgusted eyes around the brothel's common room, landing on the weeping Ravella. "What did you say her name was?"

"P… Pennyroyal, my prince." Daeron hated Ravella for telling him. A deep, burning loathing at the betrayal. Did she not care for her girls after all? "We call her Penny."

Aerion snorted, pressing his cheek against Penny's. "You've certainly cost my brother far more than that, haven't you? If our father wasn't so impressed by his sobriety, I'm certain he would be wroth at how much Daeron's spent on you. I'll have to make sure he knows how much I'm saving him."

Oh gods.

This wasn't like the other threats Aerion had made—Aemon's fingers, the girls' hair, Aegon's balls. He truly intended to kill her.

"Go on, brother," Aerion nodded toward Daeron. "I won't have to do anything if you'll just share her."

Daeron couldn't do that. He couldn't move. He couldn't do anything but muddle through another pathetic plea. "Aerion, please. Anything… anything! Just not her, please!"

Aerion sighed, "How disappointing.”

Then, he slit Penny's throat.

As the knife bit into the delicate skin of her neck, she looked up, her tear-filled eyes brimming with terror, and whispered a plea: "Daeron."

It was her last word.

Aerion cut her slowly. Or perhaps it only seemed that way, for Daeron heard each beat of his racing heart as blackened steel drew a line of red across her throat. The wound was deep enough that there could be no doubt that she would die, but shallow enough to deny her the mercy of a swift death.

Her blood spilled fast, turning the front of her dress red.

Daeron always liked that dress. He liked the way it hugged her figure. He liked how it was stained green at the ends of the sleeve from her work making potions and tinctures. He liked that, when she wore it, she was bright and vibrant and alive.

Soon, she wouldn't be.

Her eyes never left Daeron's, even when Aerion dropped her to the floor with the carelessness of a child discarding a toy. She tried to say something, perhaps his name again. He couldn't tell. All he could focus on was the way her blood bubbled out of the wound when she tried to speak. He hated that.

So, he tried to stop it. He stumbled forward and fell on his knees beside her, raising his hands to cover her slit neck.

Her blood was hot.

Logically, Daeron knew it would be. But knowing it was far different from feeling it, slick and warm, sliding through his fingers without cease. Besides, if he had been logical, he would have tried to save her. He was bigger than Aerion; he could have done so easily. All he would have to do was push his brother away and take her far from any danger.

But Daeron was not logical. He was not brave. He was not any of the things a man—a prince—should be to save the woman he loved.

He loved her so much.

Penny was beautiful, even as her skin paled and her attempts at speech turned to whimpers, quieter and quieter. Daeron told her so. He told her she was beautiful and brilliant and kind and perfect. He told her how dearly he loved her. He told her that he would marry her, and then they would go to those distant woods where her grandmother once lived.

She smiled weakly.

That was the worst thing. The thing Daeron would never forget. How her lovely face was forever frozen in a smile because of the lies he told her as she died. Her hands, which had been grasping at Daeron's wrists as he tried and failed to keep her alive, slackened. Her eyes, once wide and brimming with terror, grew distant. Her blood, which had flowed with the force of a rushing river, slowed to a trickle.

But she still smiled.

Daeron brought a stained hand to her face, trying to wipe that wonderful grin away, to no avail. "Please," he begged her. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. I—"

Black boots stopped just beside her head, the toes atop her fanned hair. The leather was shining and pristine, save for a single spatter of red.

"A shame, really." Aerion's voice held no real regret. He may as well be speaking of the rain that had spoiled his hunt. "She was quite pretty."

Daeron leaned over his Penny, shielding her from his brother's vile gaze. He did not deserve to look at her. Did not deserve that pleasure or honor. Not when his blade had robbed the world—robbed Daeron—of her light.

Aerion sighed, falsely. "Well, I do hope that next time, you won't be so selfish, brother."

He patted Daeron's shoulder, and Daeron wanted to bite his hand off. He wanted to tackle Aerion to the ground. Beat his face bloody. Scream at him until his ears bled. Claw his eyes out. Pry open his chest and rip his heart out.

Daeron did none of it. He couldn't.

All he could do was gather Penny in his arms and weep.

"Wake up, darling," he begged her. "He's gone, you can wake up now."

She gave no reply.

"Please!" Daeron screamed. "Wake up, Penny. Wake up! I can't—I need you, my love."

She remained still.

"Penny!" he pleaded with all his broken heart. "Wake up, wake up, wake up!"

She didn't.

-

It had been over a year since Prince Maekar had to venture into the woods outside the village to fetch his eldest son from the brothel. The 'Whispering Thicket,' according to the half-faded sign above its door. What a relief it had been to know Daeron was finally becoming the man Maekar always knew he was meant to be. Though it had stung slightly to know it was a whore who finally changed him, rather than his father.

He did not know which man he would find inside the brothel: his newly reformed heir, or the charlatan Daeron had been before. If the message the madam sent him was true…

Best to just see for himself, he thought.

The door creaked loudly as he entered, but none turned to look at him. More than a dozen whores were spread throughout the room, though they all gave the large red stain in the center of the room a wide berth. They held each other tightly, weeping. Maekar already knew from his many prior visits to recover Daeron which was the madam. Even if he hadn't, it was obvious. The woman was much older than the others and dressed far more modestly.

“Ravella,” he greeted simply. He wanted to offer his condolences for the girl’s death, but wasn't entirely sure it was appropriate, given it was his son who had killed her. That still didn't feel real—that his son had actually killed someone.

"Prince Maekar." The madam wiped her eyes as he stood, then wiped her hands on her dress. "Thank you for coming."

"I am…" he hesitated, "I am sorry it is under these circumstances."

Ravella grimaced. "Thank you, my prince."

They lingered in awkward silence for a long moment. Maekar simply didn't know what to say. Thankfully, she broke the silence.

"Daeron—Prince Daeron is still with Pennyroyal, as I said. I can take you to them… to him."

Maekar nodded and followed her. Her steps were slower than usual. It would have been annoying if it weren't so understandable. Grief was heavy, and he knew that well.

"Have you sent for the silent sisters?" he asked as they came to the door. There was a smear of blood on the frame, vaguely in the shape of a handprint.

The madam steadfastly avoided looking at it and shook her head. "Folk like us don't get the sisters, my prince. There's too many of us, and we die too often."

He should have thought of that. Now Ravella likely thought him both insensitive and ignorant. "Tell the Kingsguard outside to send for them, regardless. Daeron will want her buried properly."

"Thank you, my prince," she whispered. Then she left.

Maekar hesitated, not knowing what horror he would find in that room. Part of him didn't want to go in. Seeing what Aerion had done would make it real.

He knew Aerion was capable of great cruelty. It was a curse of their bloodline. Maekar himself had committed cruel acts when he was young. But that was in war. This was something else. Something Maekar couldn't understand.

Still, he had to be there for Daeron, so he pushed through the door.

It was an achingly familiar scene.

Daeron lay on the bed, the girl in his arms. Both were covered in blood from her slit throat. Gods, Aerion had cut her deeply. Still, Maekar suspected he had cut Daeron even deeper. His boy—his firstborn—was whispering to the dead whore, combing through her stained and matted hair with shaking fingers.

Three years after his wife's death, Maeker could still feel the phantom of Dyanna's hair, damp with sweat and tangled beyond hope, catching on his fingers. He felt it now. He clenched his hands until the feeling vanished. Now was not the time for him to grieve again. His son needed him. Nevertheless, he stood in the doorway for a long while, watching Daeron but seeing himself instead.

How could Aerion have done this?

The boy had a dangerous temper, even Maekar would admit that. But it always had limits before. He had, on occasion, hurt those who displeased him, but never before had he taken a life. What was it about this girl that drove him to such lengths? How had she managed to capture the heart of one son while driving the other to such hatred?

'Pennyroyal,' the madam had called her. A fitting name. At once a cure and a poison.

There was a chair in the corner of the room. Maekar tried not to think on why there was a chair in a brothel room as he seated himself. Daeron hadn't noticed him, still whispering to Pennyroyal.

"You would look so lovely in red," he rasped, his voice rough as iron. "Not black. Black is too dark, and you shine so bright."

She did shine. At least, the pendant around her neck did. The ribbon it hung on was soaked with blood, and had slipped into her wound in places. It looked like real gold, and finely crafted, at that. Maekar could barely make out the shape from where he sat, but it looked nearly like a… He sighed.

A golden penny.

Just the kind of gift he would expect from Daeron. Just like the jeweled enamel egg he had gifted his youngest brother for his last nameday.

"I loved her," Daeron said.

Maekar hadn't noticed he had gone silent, that he'd noted his presence. I know, he wanted to say. That pendant told him exactly how much he loved this girl. Too much. Like Maekar had loved Dyanna—wholly.

If only this girl had been the daughter of a noble house, or even a wealthy merchant. It would perhaps be untraditional, but Maekar would have made it work. But as a whore… It was doomed from the beginning. "You shouldn't have done that."

"I know." Daeron nodded. He carefully pulled on the pendant to keep it from slipping into her throat. A small clot of blood came out with the ribbon. A devastating sob wracked through him, and he buried his face in Pennyroyal's hair, rocking them both back and forth as he cried.

Maekar's heart broke.

Daeron would not recover from this. He was too young, too sensitive, too good. Just like his father, he had loved once and loved fiercely, but he would never love again.

And his own brother was to blame.

An unfamiliar feeling surged in Maekar's chest. Something he had never felt for any of his children. They had made him frustrated, disappointed, and even sad on some occasions. Never before had Maekar felt true anger towards any of them.

Aerion had seen what this loss had done to Maekar, and had felt his own grief and pain when Dyanna died. How could he ever do this to his brother? What was broken in him to allow such heartlessness? How could he have ever come from Dyanna—sweet, kind, wonderful Dyanna?

Whatever was rotten within him could only have come from his father.

“I am sorry, Daeron," Maekar bit out. He was shaking with rage. "Aerion will be punished for this.”

Daeron whimpered, and it may have contained a doubtful laugh. “It won't bring her back.”

“No. Nothing will, I'm afraid.” Though if he could, Maekar would move mountains and battle the gods to do so.

"Is this… is this how you felt?" He looked as he had when he was a boy, so small and innocent. "When mother…?"

"Yes." His voice broke on the word. He had felt this exactly. Though seeing his son in such pain was was perhaps even worse. "It is the worst thing in the world. If I'd known… I would've done whatever it took to keep you from feeling it."

Daeron wept. Pennyroyal's wounds blackened, her skin paled, and the sun rose and began to set. Still, Daeron wept.

"Kepa…" Maekar flinched at the word. Daeron had not called him that since before he could walk. "What do I do now?"

"I don't know, trēsy." A hopeless smile formed on his face. "I wish I did, but I do not."

-

Kepa - "father"

Trēsy - "son"

-

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[lemoncakesandwine]

For the @hotd-bigbang AKOTSK prompt meme event!

Character: Lyonel Baratheon

Warnings: Bareknuckle boxing | Violence | Blood | Injuries

Wordcount: 4.4K words

Summary: The Laughing Storm rides into Ashford, eager for the tourney revived by its ruling lord. Violence and vice abound, and Lyonel indulges in both the way a man of the Stormlands can.

Prompt: Tourney Fun

A/n: I gave this a future-tech feel because the idea had more or else infested my brain and I had to put it into word somehow.

The sun was westering when Lyonel Baratheon crested the low ridge overlooking the Ashford meadow. His retinue was not far behind him, the low thrum of their bikes muffled by the din rising from the vast field. Still, anyone who walked the paths leading to them would know they were there. All they had to do was breathe in the ionised air from their bikes’ engines.

He flicked a black toggle, and the low thrum—a sound that had been a constant companion for hours—dropped to a mere hum, and the bike came to a standstill. His gaze cut across the sea of pavilions already raised, their flags snapping in the cool wind. Some were large and some were small. Some were round and some were square, and some held no true shape at all. Red and green they were, and black and blue and purple, and even grey and white. Each of them was lit up by floating lamps bobbing along on the current. They threw out dull golden light onto silk and linen and the life that gathered around them, their gold and their jewels glinting.

There were so many of them; Lyonel was certain he could not count them all. Servants in simply cut but well-made woollen robes hurried from one tent to the next, the lions and the trout and the blazing watchtowers of the houses they served picked out in gold and silver and white thread.

Lyonel grinned. Somewhere down in that field, nestled amidst the others, was his pavilion, and the pavilions of his tail. He threw up his visor and looked at his brother, his grin widening.

“Look at that!” He cried, gesturing at the swirling river of humanity beneath him with a graceful sweep of the hand. “Is it not a glorious sight?”

Lawrren, Lyonel’s younger brother, chuckled. “Aye, brother!” He sat up straight, the chest plate of his golden warframe blazoned with the holographic black stag of the Baratheon line racing over grass and then rearing onto its hind limbs in challenge. “May it reward us in as many ways as we desire!”

“Indeed!”

Lyonel regarded his brother for another moment before looking away. Lawrren was younger by only three years, but the differences were almost immediate to anyone who came upon them. Lawrren was the taller of the two and the stronger. But Lyonel was the better fighter, the heir, the one to whom all others turned to, like moths drawn to a flame—whose laughter boomed from one end of a great hall to another and made heads turn toward him like flowers to the sun. And yet...

His mother loved Lawrren best. Lawrren was the child conceived at a time his mother and father turned a corner to discover the first blooms of love, instead of the cold duty that brought Lyonel into the world. Their mother never openly showed it, but it was always there—the way she sought Lawrren for his counsel more than Lyonel’s, the way she was open with Lawrren the way she never was with Lyonel. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. And, he supposed, made him who he was today.

Suddenly, a cheer rippled through the multitude congregating below, and the deep sound of a single, steady drumbeat reached his ears.

The merrymaking had begun in earnest.

And Lyonel did not tarry.

A week of feasting and fighting awaited him, and he did not wish to waste it wallowing in what lay between his mother and his brother and himself. He did not look at Lawrren. He did not even look down. On instinct alone, he flicked his wrist against the haptic interface on the handlebar. The bike revved to life with a sharp whine and hugged the gradual slope as it drifted downward.

Men and women scrambled and cleared a path for him and his household when they rode into the field proper. Some of them were dressed in warframes and gowns of shimmering metalic fabric with accents of blue and green and gold. Others were garbed in scaled plate and dresses of wool and velvet, breathing new life into aspects from another time. They all shouted out their greetings. Lyonel drank it all in, his mouth watering at the scent of roasting meat. His attention was soon drawn to the comely women. He dipped his head at a group of them, daughters of House Tyrell all, and they tittered while their Septa glared and frowned. Lyonel laughed loudly and made for his tent when his steward emerged from between green and gold pavilions and caught his eye.

“Lead the way, Gidden!” he called, “for I fear beauty has blinded me to the course I must take!”

The ladies giggled louder before they were dragged off in a huff by their minder. Lyonel laughed again and blew a kiss at the old woman when she glanced back at him. Her face curdled like milk left out too long in the hot sun.

“You cannot help yourself, brother!” Lawrren shouted over the cacophony, amused.

“Such is the Baratheon way!” Lyonel cackled. “Come, Lawrren! Let us find the places set aside for us!”

By the time they reached their tents at the centre of the camp, the sun had almost dipped beneath the trees. Lamps were greater in number now, twinkling here and there like little stars. Lyonel killed the engine, and his bike slowly dropped to the grassy earth with a soft thud. He dismounted with the practised ease of a man who spent his life riding it and stretched his long limbs. Lawrren dismounted also, his fingers already unfastening the seals of his helm. When he worked it loose, he raked his fingers through the dark curls of his hair, loosening them.

However, he did not linger. He trudged to his pavilion instead, his steps slow and weary, his black cape edged with the dust of his journey.

“Off to bed so soon?” Lyonel asked. “And here I thought you intended to make merry with the rest of us.”

“I intend to, brother,” Lawrren said over his shoulder. “I mean to make myself more presentable first before I do.”

“I should hope so,” Lyonel teased. “Otherwise the ladies will all flock to me for warmth and company, and you will be left weeping into your pillow come dawn. We cannot have that.”

“Most thoughtful of you, brother!”

“Oh, aye! Most thoughtful, I am! The others will be stunned, I tell you! Stunned!”

Lawrren ducked inside when his attendant pulled the flap aside, his shoulders shaking.

Lyonel did not unfasten his own helm. It was adorned with the gilded, antlered coronet of his house. The coronet was a symbol of his high birth. It was presented to him when he came of age as his father’s heir. It glittered brilliantly, drawing the eye of anyone who saw it. And it was heavy. But Lyonel felt not the weight of it bearing down on him—merely what it represented instead: toil and service, duty and sacrifice. But not today, he told himself. Today, and for the remainder of his sojourn in Ashford, he would revel and forget his troubles. He would not trouble himself with thoughts of toil and duty and sacrifice until he set himself on the road to Storm’s End and had to contend with the future hurtling toward him, whether he wished for it or no.

The space he stepped into was vast. When the guard standing sentry dropped the panel behind him, he let out a breath of relief. Now he was among those who loved him and who sought him out for his counsel. His. Not the little brother who was the darling of their mother’s eye.

His home away from home was of waxed golden canvas that gleamed even against the gathering shadows. Rampant stags were richly embroidered all over in black thread. There were lamps here too. They hovered on unseen currents, casting their light on the benches and trestle tables arranged neatly at the foot of the dais. Servants arrayed in the gold and jet livery of his house bustled about him. They set down plates and cups, and carried linen to his bedchamber at the far end. It was behind drapes of yellow silk so sheer, he could see beyond them. They made his bed and its pelts look as if they had been bathed in gold. None of it would see as much use as the chamber he stood in, but still, it would serve its purpose when the need arose.

Gidden strode up to him, a bulging velvet purse in hand. “I have received word of a contest,” he began, his voice a whisper. “Boxing. Bare-knuckled. According to the old laws.” He tied it to Lyonel’s belt. “Meaning, no laws. It will be in the tent near Lord Manfred’s. His steward said Lord Manfred thought you would like to know. He said the noise will tell you where it is.”

Lyonel beamed. Gidden was not yet one and twenty, but he already knew his lord’s tastes so well. “You have my thanks for this. Command the others to carry on with the preparations. I suspect a large party will follow me after the bout is finished.”

Gidden bowed.

A star—the first true star to appear—sparkled when Lyonel strolled out into the open once more. He closed his eyes, his senses coming alive as a man finally in his element. The scents of rosewater and lavender perfume were sweet. Beneath them, the faint aromas of freshly baked bread and spiced wine and sizzling pork sausages—his favourite—wove other spells. Lyonel opened his eyes and went in search of it first. The needs of his rumbling stomach proved stronger than his need for amusement.

He charmed the vendor into parting with the fattest of them and a full horn of ale besides. As he ate and drank, he took in the sights before him: horses cropping grass and swishing their tails at the flies; the bikes surrounded by bright-eyed children; and the jugglers in their motley walking hand in hand with mages, hoping to bewitch willing onlookers with their tricks.

Elsewhere, whores mingled with both highborn men and low, cooing and flattering and plying their trade. Lyonel kept a hand on his coin. Cutpurses often followed the women; he had learnt this lesson years ago, when he was a youth of five and ten, and thought himself—the son of a Great House—safe from their slippery hands.

Still, there was so much to see—the knights most of all. Lyonel made a thorough note of them all, for these were the men who might ride against him in the lists: Rhysling and Beesbury, Hardyng and Longthorn. There were others also, so many others—knights of great repute and those of the hedge, known and unknown—and all of them were eager. He stopped for a word or two and smiled graciously when they did the same. He wondered if any prince of the blood would show his face in Ashford.

It was all anyone spoke of from the day Lord Ashford’s invitations were received. Old King Daeron would send his own in his stead. Baelor Breakspear, perhaps, or Maekar, or their sons—Valarr and Matarys, Daeron and Aerion. The ladies no doubt hoped the prince would be Baelor—widowed and heir to the throne, still comely, and looking for another bride. For Lyonel, it did not matter. He longed for the prospect of riding against any one of them and unhorsing them. That would give the minstrels a song to sing about, a son of House Baratheon knocking a Targaryen prince off his saddle.

With a joy he had not felt in ages, he picked up his feet and tossed his empty drinking horn back at a servant passing by. The time had come for him to seek out the fight.

He weaved his way around the red and white tents of House Connington and its twin griffins; the russet of House Penrose with its crossed white quills projected via holodisplays procured at great expense; and the purple and white of House Hasty—the knightly house that had always answered its lord’s call without fail. There, in the midst of them all, stood the pavilions of House Dondarrion—and the tent where the night’s sport lay. It was lit with lamps drifting above and was surrounded by nobles and soldiers, common-born and squires. They were all talking and laughing, and passing coin from one hand to another.

Lyonel did not hesitate.

He marched inside, his hand still resting on the bag at his belt. His thoughts formed a prayer to the Warrior, beseeching him to bless the strength and skill of the one he intended to back.

There were many men massing around each other, their standing and stations forgotten for a few hours. There were more than a few ladies as wellwives, daughters, and sisters just as eager for the match as their husbands and fathers and brothers, and whores who accompanied their lords for the night. They stood away from the other women, their faces painted and powdered in a way the others were not. Lyonel passed on his name to the herald, and the youth announced his name and titles.

“Lord Lyonel Baratheon,” he sang out in a clear voice, “Firstborn son of Lord Sulvan Baratheon, Heir to Storm’s End and Lordship of the Stormlands.”

Heads turned to him like flowers to the sun. When they bowed and dipped their knees to him, he returned the gesture.

“Please,” he said, untying his purse, “be as you were.” To the herald, he murmured, “My wager.” He dropped it in the man’s outstretched hand. “Pray tell me the names of the contenders.”

“Ser Blane of House Florent,” the herald replied, “and Ser Coren the black, of House Cerwyn.”

Lyonel’s eyes widened. “A Cerwyn? Here?”

“He is a hungry one, my lord. And from the whispers carried on the wind, it seems he has yet to taste defeat.”

“Is that so? Place my coin on him.”

The herald clutched the bag close to his chest. “As you will, my lord.”

Lyonel clapped him on the shoulder and joined the throng. He pushed and elbowed himself to the very front of the gathered circle, his blood racing when the little sparring field and its ring of poles came into view.

This was what this spectacle was all about—what the entire tourney was about. Something raw and ancient and alive, even after the passing of the millennia.

He laughed to himself and waited.

He did not have to wait overlong.

A gong rang out once—just once—its deep chime calling for absolute silence. When it ceased to reverberate, the Master of Revels cut through the gathering and stood apart from the others, a tall, gaunt man dressed in robes of white and orange.

“SER BLANE,” he boomed, “HEIR TO LORD CHARISS OF HOUSE FLORENT! SER COREN THE BLACK, OF HOUSE CERWYN!”

The combatants—bare-chested and barefoot, dressed only in leather breeches with neither frame nor padding to shield them—entered the ring from opposite ends. Both were of a height and stoutly made—men with calloused hands so thick and large they looked like bear paws. They met in the centre and clasped forearms for an instant—exchanging the old greeting between two warriors. When they withdrew to their places, they took the first stance, angling their hips and tucking their right fists tight against their ribs as they waited for the signal to begin, their left fists chest high.

The signal came in the form of another chime of the gong. The spectators erupted and roared, and the first punch was swung.

Coren ducked out of the way of that first jab, then rose and answered with a left uppercut that smashed Blane hard on the chin. Blane reeled back, blood dripping down the corner of his mouth. He spat out a tooth and unleashed a storm of wild punches that would have felled a lesser man. But Coren was no lesser man. He was younger, faster—and knew his business. He ducked. He blocked. Then he ducked again and sunk two punches into Blane’s exposed ribs while the man’s fist arced across empty air. Winded and in pain, Blane let out a strangled howl of frustration.

“Enough of this, Blane!” A woman hollered, her face hidden among the mob. “Finish that northern bastard and be done with it!”

Fresh wagers were exchanged between the shouts. Serving men threaded their way around the press of men and women, their hands laden with flagons and cups. Ale and mead and beer flowed freely, and every man and woman with a thirst drank his or her fill. Meanwhile, the two fighters paced one another, taking the lull in fighting to gather their breath. Insults were hurled from those who supported one man to the other. Lyonel cheered loudly for Coren and paid no heed to the jeers that rose and fell from the other end.

“Come on, Coren!” He thundered. “Plant him a fucking facer! Show us what a son of the North can do!”

Blane, enraged, seized his opening when Coren dived in. He hurled a vicious right that cracked him on the jaw and knocked him down onto his side.

For a while, Coren did not get up, and a stillness that was deep and suffocating fell upon the crowd. Nothing else could be heard, not even the merriment taking place outside. Lyonel stood still and watched, his gauntlets crunching as he squeezed his hands into fists. He did not want the fight to end so soon. He certainly did not want to lose so much gold so soon.

“Get up!” Someone bellowed. “Get up, Coren!”

The fallen man grunted and coughed.

“Up!” Lyonel barked. “Up, man!”

As if he were finding his way out of a dream, Coren rolled onto his stomach and hacked up a glob of blood.

Yet instead of simply struggling to his feet, he pushed himself up to his hands and knees, and clawed out a fistful of dirt. As Blane charged at him, he whipped the clump of soil and grass into his eyes, distracting him.

His opponent, blinded for an instant, roared. His fist swung wildly. Coren blocked his blow and countered with a cross to the other man’s left cheek, splitting the skin. Before Blane could recover, he cupped his hands and slammed them simultaneously onto Blane’s ears, then pivoted with a crushing overhand right that snapped Blane’s head back with a sickening crack loud enough for those close to him to hear. Blane staggered backward, bleeding profusely now and disoriented. Coren did not hesitate. He finished Blane with a powerful heel kick to the diaphragm, folding him in two and sending him crashing into the poles.

Blane did not get up.

The Master of Revels stepped forth and counted down the seconds. When ten of them passed, everyone knew the bout was over.

“WE HAVE A WINNER!” he pronounced loudly. “SER COREN THE BLACK, OF HOUSE CERWYN!”

Those who put down their names for Blane quieted. Those who did for Coren broke into fresh, thunderous cheers. Two men rushed forward and hoisted Coren onto their shoulders. They carried him on a full circuit of the tent while other men whooped and the women tossed tokens at the champion. When he was set down, he was besieged by admirers, each of them keen to offer their felicitations. Heralds walked among the lucky few, enriching them with their winnings. And Lyonel, buoyed by his increase in fortune, thought the time had come for them all to feast.

“Everyone!” He spoke out. “Everyone! The night is still young! It need not end here!”

The Master of Revels saw him and signalled for quiet. When a hush crept through the tent, Lyonel ambled to the centre.

“You have all had your taste of violence and wagers!” He declared. “What say you to other vices?”

The approvals that followed were near deafening. Lyonel smiled broadly. “Then follow me,” he urged, “and none of you shall leave for your beds unsatisfied! Especially you, Coren!”

The distance from one point to another did not last long, but the procession still sallied out. Lyonel led the way, his arm thrown around Coren’s broad shoulder. Word spread fast from mouth to mouth, and soon, the line that had followed the Laughing Storm had swelled three times its size. Lyonel glanced back, his eyes glinting at the sheer number trailing him. His first feast at Ashford would be well spoken of; he was certain of it.

Lawrren was already waiting by the entryway of his brother’s tent, washed and scrubbed, his new frame adorned with rampant stags inlaid here and there with onyx polished to a fine sheen. The corners of his mouth twitched up when Lyonel came into view.

“Brother,” he said, his gaze darting from his brother to his brother’s newfound friend. “Who is your companion, pray?”

“Ser Coren, of House Cerwyn,” Lyonel said. He turned to the knight by his side. “Ser? My brother, Ser Lawrren. This one made me rich,” he told Lawrren. “Treat him well for it.”

Lawrren nodded his assent. “Be welcome, Ser Coren.”

“My thanks, my lord,” Coren said.

The column proceeded within. Most found their places on the benches. Some simply stood. Others waited outside, making the most of the cool night breeze before they went in. Lyonel showed Coren his seat. It was just beneath the dais, a place of high honour. He poured wine for the man.

“A fine vintage from these parts. No doubt it will be all Ser Blane will be eating for a while,” Lyonel quipped.

“Along with his father’s scolding.” Coren raised his cup and drank deep. “Lord Chariss risked a large sum—enough to make your eyes water. Now all of that is mine.”

Lyonel laughed merrily. “More’s the pity. For him.” He touched Coren on the arm. “Come back to Storm’s End with me after this is finished. I could use a man like you by my side.”

“I will, my lord.”

No sooner had they finished with each other and parted ways, Lyonel climbed the dais, his brother a step behind him. Lawrren took his place by his right hand, and waited.

“Be seated,” Lyonel said when he sat down, “and be welcome, one and all.”

Benches creaked as everyone—everyone—settled down, their faces alight with anticipation. They turned as one to look at Lyonel, their host for the night’s celebrations. He leaned forward—resting his elbows on the table—and looked intently at them.

“Long before known time began,” he started, “our ancestors took to a field just like this one for a bit of bloody fun. The Maesters name it the first joust. I say, thank the Seven men thought to devise such a joy. And thank you all, for never letting it die!”

The cramped space echoed with a rising wave of hearty approvals. Tables groaned as each and every person present banged their fists and cups repeatedly against the polished wood.

“Let the cups be filled!” Lyonel proclaimed when it all died down. “And let the feasting begin!”

On a signal from his steward, servants drifted, their hands laden with platters of freshly baked bread and the first course: a broth thickened with eggs and bread crumbs.

Lyonel was the soul of courtesy. He presented Coren to many of his vassal lords, exchanged jests with his brother, and graciously thanked nobles who stepped up to his table, hoping to curry his favour with small trinkets and rich gifts. Lyonel was no fool; he sniffed out empty flattery the moment it darkened his doors, meaningless baubles in hand. Still, he accepted what was offered to him with a warm smile and an open hand. He never knew when he would have to call on those who came to him for aid.

All the while, Lyonel dined on roasted capon and root vegetables drowning in butter; choice cuts of venison basted in honey and herbs; tiny river fish roasted to crackling; and apples cooked in wine and spices. He had not eaten so well since he left for Ashford, and now, he found himself overcome by a warrior’s hearty appetite. He smiled at the men who brought dish after dish to him and flirted with the women who served him his mead and ale. When the minstrels took up their instruments, he stopped for a while to listen.

Lord Manfred Dondarrion set down his cup and addressed Lyonel from below the dais. “Will you be putting your name down for the lists, my old friend?”

“Oh, aye!” Lyonel agreed. “And shall we make my partaking all the sweeter? A hundred gold dragons to the man who sticks me best and knocks me off my saddle!”

The roar he incited was unlike any he had ever heard. It encouraged hi and made him stand up. “Now eat up,” he continued, “so we can dance!”

The minstrels changed their theme to one more lively. Men and women rose and took to the floor. They linked arms and turned a full circle, stomping rhythmically as they did so—and let go, only to do the same with a new dancer. Lyonel left the dais. His brother did the same. They joined the others, chanting and exclaiming in time with the music. Three score voices, maybe more, shouted Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! as they turned and turned, and danced themselves into a fevered frenzy.

Lyonel stopped in front of Lawrren. He paused, sizing up his prey, then brought the heel of his boot hard on Lawrren’s foot before he could even respond. Lawrren grunted, but he did not shy from the challenge. As Lyonel lunged forward, he drew back once. Then twice. He laughed as he gave Lyonel a merry chase across the floor.

Lyonel enjoyed it immensely. When he pressed his attack one final time, Lawrren grasped the opportunity and stepped hard on his foot. Lyonel cried out—more so from surprise than from pain. He shoved Lawrren back, his blood now up. Lawrren was more than equal to the task. He retaliated with a sharp push that nearly sent Lyonel sprawling onto his back.

“You are learning!” Lyonel laughed as he steadied himself.

“That is because I am kin to a master!” Lawrren tossed back, amused rather than wroth.

Lyonel’s laughter rattled around the hall. He resumed dancing in earnest, twirling, hopping and kicking through the air with a joyous, unrestrained force, like a storm. He danced through the night, and when the first buttery yellow rays of dawn drove away the grey gloom, he stumbled toward his bed filled with visions of victory and glory.

This can also be read on AO3

[forbelladonna]

A vow to serve

Prompt: Sick fic for @hotd-bigbang

Pairing: Daeron the drunken/Dreamer x Margella Tyrell (Original Female Chracter)

Sick!Daeron x Caregiver!Margella

Summary: Margella wonders about her feelings of exhaustion and guilt while still caring religiously for her husbands's decaying health.

Warnings: Mentions of chronic illness and pain (physical and mental), themes relating to anticipatory grief but without death of characters, caregiver exhaustion mentioned

Wordcount: 3500 words

Notes: I loved writing this and creating this new OC, it was also the first time writing this heavier sickfic format!

Dear Sister Lena,

218 AC Summerhall

I write to you in despair. I use this ink and this paper as a means to vent, and selfishly so, for I still send these words to you instead of casting them into the sea. Daeron is ill. He has been in poor health for years now, as you already know, but he is getting worse by the second. The maester believes his lungs are infected and his heart is faltering. That can still be treated, they say, but they don't know what to do about his mind. It seems to fight all reason. Some nights ago, he left the bed when I went to pray in the sept, even against the orders of the maesters. He went drinking heavily again. The guards brought him in poor condition, so I spent the night caring for him. When he woke up, he cried and apologized, as he always does, with his poor sad wet eyes that I adore so much. I know it's not his fault, but why does bliss never last? Prince Maekar's worry and shame grow in equal measure, but so do my feelings of loneliness. I sleep by his side every night in his sickbed, I'm scared to leave him alone. Sometimes I wake in terror because he is in so much pain, and sometimes because I dream he is. I ask you, sister, for your guidance and for your presence. If you can, come to Summerhall. These days, I catch myself detaching from reality and thinking about my young years as a novice under your care. I close my eyes and see the ocean before us, but my hope is not as boundless as its water. Please, come to me.

From your Margella, who loves you in faith and life

Sister Lena departed immediately for Summerhall when she received such a missive. When she arrived, Lady Margella hugged her with deep affection and felt comfort for the first time in many moons. The Septa was more of an observer during the first days in the royal place. Her former student was tired beyond description, and so was the prince. Sometimes he resented her care, he was frustrated, understandably. And yet, she also saw the tenderness, the sweet care, and love in Margella’s fingers when she fed him, and read for him. When Daeron was awake and not in deep pain or poor mood, he made her laugh easily and sought to comfort her too.

Lady Margella was a peculiar child when younger. She, from House Tyrell, was endowed with a certain beauty, like the botanicals of Highgarden, perhaps not like flowers but like ivy. She was sent at a young age to serve and study as a septa herself. She claimed to have been touched by the wonders of the gods once when she lost herself in the woods as a young girl. The girl made a vow of silence for six moons until her father agreed to let her go. She was never talkative or affectionate at home, but the total absence of speech made him too depressed to argue.

The life of service was a path of many flavors, as many would not expect. Besides the obvious obligations regarding chastity and faith, there was knowledge open to her, there were choices and duties, and the paths branched in many shapes. Beyond marriage and death, in womanhood, that was a liminal space where one could belong and not belong in society, a treasure for many who went there of their own free will or to escape undesirable unions. Many were the women to advise, inspire, and guide her, and many were the young girls she saw arriving whom she sought to inspire too. There were times when doubt surfaced, of course, about the future, old age, solitude and men, even so, Margella was happy with that life.

On one occasion, when she was visiting her family, she met the princes, the Targaryens themselves. That's where she saw Daeron for the first time. She told Sister Lena, "Sister, I've dreamed of him. I saw parts of who I was and who I ought to be. I am to be married to this man. In the past, I thought this life was my purpose, but now I must submit to another. Forgive me, sister, forgive me! My devotion must now lead in another direction." Sister Lena was speechless. She tried to persuade her pupil to commit to her vows, but to no avail. Daeron and Margella married not long after meeting each other. It was quite an unlikely match that only got approved by the High Septon because it was a demand by the royal house, and Margella was of noble lineage herself. Prince Maekar believed with conviction that a man needed a wife, and his son was no exception. Yet, none would fit him. So, if the septa was the one he wanted, he would move hell if needed, to make it happen. Maybe that could heal him, maybe that could save him, he thought.

"I have sinned, Sister Lena," Margella said to the septa during their daily prayers in solitude. They came to pray alone when Prince Maekar was in the room with Daeron. "Now the gods punish me with the reality of my thoughts," she spoke quietly in a soft voice in the prayer sept.

"What are you saying, girl? You, who have always cared for him so deeply, with so much patience, so much faith... I do not believe the truth in what you say, child."

"But you must, for I have harbored in my heart those feelings, and now they corrupt my soul as they corrupt his body," she wept quietly, just letting the water flow from her sunken eyes to her cheeks, feeding the feelings of shame. "I must tend to him now, I am anxious when I'm not..."

"Wait!" the septa proclaimed . "Unburden yourself, please explain, child, not as a confession. I know you well, I know your soul. I saw you grow since the moment you arrived in the Motherhouse at 10 years of age, and saw you flourish and falter and flourish once again." The elder woman continued, hoping that their past connection could allay her at last.

The younger one faced her with a sad and tender smile. " There 's not much to explain... My husband has shown me the most blissful of moments. I love him as he loves me, and yet, to know of such benediction makes this harder on us all. I have witnessed my husband's mental and physical decay through the years, and through the years I have tried, I have endured, the gods know I have. Nevertheless, the past two moons have proven too hard a trial... and yet, I pray." She started walking, signaling to her elder that she was not yet ready to talk about what she meant by that, by the letter, by her gaze. Margella walked back to where she always stayed in vigilance, beside the sickbed of Prince Daeron Targaryen, her beloved husband.

Prince Daeron lay in their shared chambers, covered in fresh linens and a blue and gold duvet. She made sure he was as comfortable as possible, clean, well cared for, treasured. His eyes were closed, sleeping dreamlessly, alas. The head maester had used an unadvised amount of milk of the poppy and sedative substances from a foreign root to induce a sleep that seemed dreamless enough for him to finally respire. His wife's routine during such days revolved around cleaning him from the fever sweat, brushing his hair, taking him to chamber pots , and making the room as fresh as possible for a sickroom. She sat close to touch his hand, caress his hair, and make sure he was breathing, that he was indeed alive when he was so deeply sedated. When she came back from praying, she took his hand in hers and kissed him, and then caressed her own face with his limp fingers.

"Please do not leave me in this place, husband, take me with you if you must go..." she whispered softly.

Margella brought a calm and tranquility to the prince that he could not completely understand. Their relationship flourished, as did the feelings they harbored for one another right after they met. She made him understand some of his premonitions, and for a while, he could see his peculiarities as a gift from heaven. Yet , his dreams did not stop. It kept happening, her presence just made hell easier to endure when he became delirious. As the years went by, and after the death of Prince Baelor Targaryen and his sons, Prince Daeron's paranoia and mental instability grew like a plague. It spread in all directions. He saw and tasted the beauty and kindness of the world, especially in his wife, and even so, even if she doted on him, he understood that the bliss and tranquility of spring was not meant for him. And that broke him even more. It did not matter how good she was, how kind the world could be, his soul was never going to be truly at peace. And with that came the guilt, in fact, the guilt had been there since the beginning, like a leash that needed time to grow. And so he drank, and dreamed, and cried, and drank even more, and fell ill many times in the process.

The lack of sleep from the fear of nightmares made his waking life a nightmare in itself. Suffice it to say the prince's presence was not a pleasure to endure, much less for himself. Everyone believed the prince had gone truly mad beyond salvation this time. His wife, however, was denying such accusations. She believed he was truly physically ill and that the illness was further harming his frail mental state. And she was indeed correct. Although this was more grievous than the others, he was prone to ailments, and his vices did not help. The prince had been in and out of consciousness for several days now, ultimately, his physical decay made his body too weak to protest being in bed.

"How was he in the afternoon, Lady Margella?" the old maester said while looking at the prince. He entered the room for the evening examination, as ordered.

"He slept," she took a sip of the tea "like he is now. Thankfully , I'm sure he is beyond tired."

He took his time to listen to the prince's chest, feel his skin and temperature. "He seems more comfortable than before, the heart's rhythm sounds and feels more regular, breathing is not so shallow now, so we have good indicators for a recovery..." He lifted the covers further, revealing the prince's legs and feet. "Looks less swollen today.. . that's good."

"I have been massaging his feet and legs. I noticed the swelling too. I don't know if it's the illness or a result of just being in bed for so long, but moving them seems to help , " she said confidently.

"Indeed, you should keep with that. In the moments he is awake, it's crucial, however, to keep him in this state as tranquil as possible and make sure he eats, his body won't be able to fight this without nourishment." He started preparing to leave after finishing the examination.

"Yes, maester, I know that... You know how he is, he will try to refuse everything but wine. I'll make sure he eats."

"I know you will, as always." The certainty in his voice was kind, she felt her actions acknowledged and smiled.

The prince slept deeply still. It was beyond the hour of the wolf when Margella woke up to her husband struggling with breathing. "Daeron!" With haste, she lifted his back with more pillows, easing the pressure in his lungs, and unlaced his chemise to cover his chest in salve and eucalyptus poultice. "My angel, hush, everything will be well . Breathe with me, please, please."

"Everything hurts..." such was the pain that he cried.

"Hush.. . I'll take care of you . Do not cry now, love, it will make it harder on your chest." Margella eased his labored breathing with the salve and her touch, and when he recovered his shallow but regular breathing, her own ribs relaxed again. "Better?"

"Yes... Thank you, my love." He caressed her. " I am so sorry... you should... sleep in the other room. I keep waking you up. You need rest. The maester can watch over me if you want."

"Drink this, love," she ignored his words and gave him an infusion with milk of the poppy and two drops of nightshade. "My angel... all is well. This will help you sleep again." She rearranged the covers and went to bed again by his side. Daeron spent the rest of the night in agony, the only comfort being the arms of his wife that wrapped him. He slept when the effects of the sedation hit. Margella did not sleep after.

The next day, Prince Maekar came to visit his son, as per usual, and Sister Lena convinced Margella to come with her and leave the room for a while. Prince Maekar also insisted on it, he could tell how much the burden was catching up to her. Lena told her to see the gardens, the weather was splendid, but the younger one made her way into the sept. There, under the gods' witness, the two women prayed, but Lena could feel the tension in Margella.

"Margella, what is burdening you? Is it not enough of a burden the illness in your husband? Must you burden yourself with guilt too?"

"Perhaps I must." She looked away.

"Tell me, child, speak frankly. We are under their eyes and ears, and whatever it is, They know the truth already."

She walked a little around and then stopped, kneeling beside her old master. "Daeron has been ill for a long time, but before he became bedridden like he is now, he had been having terrible, monstrous dreams. He would wake up in the middle of the night screaming, and I felt..." Words failed her there. ".. .So powerless to help him. I felt his sanity slipping through my fingers like water, day after day, as the dreams continued and progressed, and with that, the illness in his body progressed in equal measure. He had so many moments like that before, throughout the years, but this...these last ones were of a severity I cannot truly explain to you."

"I know , child... that's why I came to your aid as you wrote to me of the severity of these episodes." Lena grabbed her shaking hand on her lap and signaled her to continue.

"He..." she sighed before continuing, "a fortnight ago, he spoke about atonement, you see, that his family would be purged and slaughtered in fire as an atonement for the things they had done and are yet to do. And he would see figures, people, demons, and dragons... My husband is not mad Sister Lena, you might doubt me, but there is truth in what he dreams. I have seen it time and time again to be proven right, and at times it can be a blessing. But when it becomes like this, it transcends what health and the flesh are capable of enduring. It makes him so ill!" Her voice altered on those last words, almost cursing the gods for their fortune. "After seven nights of this torment, his physical decay caught up with the mental state, and it was an atrocious thing to witness... That seventh night, he was very drunk, fighting sleep. He was being loud, even aggressive."

"To you?!" Sister Lena inquired at once.

"No! Never to me, but to himself... " she quickly explained. "He started feeling and seeing fire, he screamed as I held him in my arms until his heart failed him, and he finally collapsed in my embrace. And in that moment, that simple moment where there was pure silence at last, and he was just laying in my arms, in that second when I checked for his pulse and breathing, there was a part of my soul that wished he was... no longer." She wept, shamefully, and before she could continue, the arms of Sister Lena embraced her as she planted a kiss in her dark hair.

Margella cried in the septa's lap, unable to say much after that. So the elder just continued caressing her and let her cry it out. After a while, she spoke to her. "My dear Margella... there is no sin to that."

"It was but a second, but the idea crossed my mind. His suffering was so enormous, so tormenting that I... I wished for it to end. And now he is in bed for days, and he is not well, Lena, he really isn't. It must be my fault for thinking that! Don't the gods know all things? Even what we don't say?" She cried deeply again before continuing, "He is awake, and I dread every second that I witness him in pain, and yet I cannot live without him, Lena. I simply cannot... Why must life give me such moments of bliss only to take them away from me? Are they punishing me? Is it for my sinful thoughts, or for breaking my vows?" The lady gazed into the ceiling as if seeking an answer from above.

"We have no control over the thoughts that cross our minds ... It is not so difficult to imagine death as a kind of bliss in a moment of despair." She grabbed Margella's face in her palms. "What you truly wish for is that the suffering of your husband could die, that his demons would perish like a fever that has finally broken. Do not punish yourself, for life is punishing you enough for reasons I am yet to understand. But have faith. We believe, without proof, there would be no need for this faith if not for these mysteries. Right now, you are walking through hell, and you don't know when it will end. But you are not alone." She kissed her forehead, and the younger woman felt like a stone had been lifted from her chest after she put into words the nature of her afflictions. She cried again, purging her soul of guilt.

As the next few days developed, Prince Daeron regained his senses. He seemed finally at peace for the first time in several days when he woke up with rays of sunlight. His wife, already awake, was preparing a sweet tea next to him, facing the window.

"Margella..." he spoke softly, extending his hand to reach her.

She turned right away to him and saw in his eyes the signs of the absence of pain. "My angel, you are awake, finally." She grabbed his hand at once to kiss it and sat in the corner of the bed.

"I don't think I resemble much of an angelic creature looking like this."

"You'd be surprised how much you do in my eyes, husband." She brushed the hair out of his face and felt he was free from fever.

"I... I don't recall much of the past fortnight... was I just here?"

"Yes, my love... you've been quite ill, the maester sedated you for some days so that you could fully sleep and recover. You are doing better now, we believe... Do you feel better?"

"I don't remember my dreams. I slept, I can breathe and talk, so... I guess I do. But I feel utterly disgusting. I'm ashamed you witnessed me like this."

His wife kissed him and cupped his face. "No need. I've cleaned you every day, but I'll tell the maids to prepare a bath with warm water and salve."

Daeron smiled, but then it faltered. "You must... cease this, wife."

"What?" She asked right away. 

"To look after me like this almost all by yourself. I can understand that sometimes my limitations make me incapable of taking care of myself, but this is not fair, and it's not what I wish for us, for you."

"I've written to Aemon, as you asked. He will come here soon to be your maester and to help. Will that ease your mind?"

"That's... amazing news. Yes, it will, and it will ease yours too." He missed his brother and was tired of the maesters who could not fully understand his afflictions.

After breaking his fast, obliged by his wife to eat even if his appetite was little, she told the maids to prepare a warm bath in the room for the prince. She helped him in and massaged his aching body, then washed his hair of all traces of illness. A part of him felt like a treasure, the other felt like a burden. He was mortified with a sense of shame and impotence. Pain was endless, but fortunately, so was the care and affection of his wife.

"I am so sorry..." he said, finally holding her face in his hands when returning to bed. "I am but torture, pain, and labor in your life, and yet, I am glad that I am not alone in this world. Even when I lose sense of myself, you are what still brings me back." Without saying anything else, the prince wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her frame and placing her head on his chest. Some tears escaped her eyes. Those little tears seemed so heavy that he felt them leaking into his own heart.

"It's not your fault that things are the way they are, that you dream the way you dream... but I love you the way I do, and for all the things that make you you." He wrapped her tighter, letting her scent lift him in that soft ambiance, those fleeting moments of peace, a mirth.

[ripdragonbeans]

It's An Old Song -- Daeron x OC

For the @hotd-bigbang prompt fest! I had the prompt - Myth AU. I took on the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice.

Warnings: Death

Summary: You've heard of this tale before. It is the same, only the players are different. It's the story of two tragic lovers - the fate of Orpheus and Eurydice, with our narrator themselves, The Stranger.

READ ON AO3

Now, it is a song that has been sung many times before. We all know the story yet we desire to hear it again and again. Throughout the world, this story has been told countless times with different players but they all end the same way. The fates weave their strings through each other, tangling them in a red thread that cannot be undone. All it takes is one snip of fate's shears to separate them forever.

A royal Dreamer and a whore.

Daeron the Drunken was believed to have been such a frequent dreamer that he drank it all away so he would not be plagued by them.

Miana was a Sand. A bastard. No one claimed her to be one of theirs so she worked in a whorehouse. It was a roof over her head and her stomach usually filled. She knew how to make her customers smile, how to get them to give her more of their coin. She was cunning. She did not care for me or the six others. Not until she met him.

Daeron stumbled into the whorehouse, alcohol on his breath, a breezy smile on his face, and unshed tears in his eyes. "Madame," he slurred. "I desire company tonight."

The Madame of the whorehouse walked up to Daeron, hips swaying, as she offered him a cup of milk of the poppy. "As you wish. We have a new girl, if you would like to meet her. An exotic girl, she is; hails from Dorne."

Daeron did his best to stand up straight as he held the cup of milk of the poppy in his hand. "I'd bet my brother, Aerion, that she is a beauty but no one deserves his attention." Daeron laughed a hearty laugh as he made his way to the back of the house. He was no stranger to this place. He came here often to find solace in the bodies of others, despite having no real attachments to any. Just like his cups, they were merely distractions from his dreams.

As of late, Daeron's dreams plagued him more and more. Each one caused him to be confused and question his own sanity. Some of the dreams were violent, some were not. Some were beautiful and others were dreadful. The one that stuck in his head, however, was of this beautiful snake. Its eyes bore into his own and there was a pull in his chest that beckoned him towards it. He stood there in front of the creature, arms out stretched to reach it, only for it to fade away as soon as his hand brushed against it. As soon as the snake faded, a cloaked figure would appear and rise to claim Daeron for the dark as well.

The image of the beautiful snake danced in Daeron's mind so he tossed the cup of milk of the poppy down his throat to make it disappear. Placing the empty cup on a silver platter by the bed, he made himself comfortable as he waited for this new Dornish beauty.

A figure appeared just shy of the beaded curtain that separated the room from others. Already, this new whore was enticing to Daeron. He had never fucked a whore from Dorne, or one that claimed to be from there. He licked his lips and sat up, already half hard at the mere thought of her.

The figure's hand reached out and slowly moved through the curtain. Beads rustled as they made way for the whore. First an arm, then a leg stepped through. Her leg was tan and sleek. She took her time entering the room, making the prince wait. At last, she was through. Her black hair cascaded down over her shoulders, just shy of her breasts that were barely covered by the sheer fabric that wrapped around her. Each step she took was calculated. She met Daeron's lustful gaze and held it. A small smirk played on her lips as she carefully removed her shawl. As she reached the bed, she bent down on and crawled to him.

Daeron looked at her in awe. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He reached out to cup her face and she nestled into his touch. Soon, she was simply a whisper away. Daeron closed the distance, slanting his lips across hers. He was gentle with her, afraid she would run away even though he knew she would not. He cradled her even closer so that she climbed upon his lap. As she settled herself, Daeron pulled away.

"You are beautiful," he whispered.

"Thank you, my prince," she said.

Daeron wanted to do more than fuck her. He wanted all of her.

"Come home with me," he told her.

She blinked, stunned. "Excuse me?" The words were out of her before she could stop them. "I am sorry, my prince. I do not mean to insult. I am just surprised."

"What is your name?" He asked her as though she would disappear into thin air.

She smiled and blushed, genuinely flustered. "Miana," she replied.

"Miana," Daeron echoed. "A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. You must come home with me," he insisted. Daeron's eyes were becoming glassy. All he knew was that she was supposed to be with him.

"Let me bring you pleasure, at least, before you take me home," Miana whispered before kissing him again.

She took his hands and moved them to the hem of her sheer skirt, encouraging Daeron to take it off of her. While he was enthralled by her, he could not focus on the pleasure she was giving him. Despite Miana worshiping him, all he could think about was getting her to come home with him.

He took her that night, claimed her. It was not like his previous dalliances with whores. He was gentle with her. He kissed her softly, pouring his love into his kisses. When he had finished pouring his seed into her, Daeron held her carefully as though she was made of glass.

"May I ask you a question, my prince?" she said.

Daeron nodded.

"Why are you treating my like this? I am a whore, just like all the others you have been with."

"You are different," Daeron insisted. "I have seen it. You will be mine and the kingdoms will be at peace again."

"I am a snake, my prince. You should not trust me more than any other whore," Miana argued.

Daeron brushed her hair out of her eyes. "Because you are a snake I must take you. I have seen it, as I have seen you."

"All I have ever known is by myself. I do not know how to let someone else take care of me," Miana confessed. "To let go of everything and to go with you, I do not know if I can do it."

"I will stay by your side, Miana, my beauty."

This was their first meeting; I observed them that day. The Crone stood by my side as we watched them tangle themselves in fate.

---

Miana was unable to leave right away with the Prince. Instead, Prince Daeron visited her everyday at the whorehouse, if not multiple times a day. No one batted an eye, no one thought any different of Prince Daeron. He had many whores before Miana and everyone assumed that there would be many more after her.

How wrong they were.

Miana was the last whore he would ever be with.

Everyday she would wait for him to make love to her and whisper soft words into his ear - promises of leaving the whorehouse and living a new life in a castle. Daeron told her of his visions, of his dreams, and how they both plagued him and blessed him with foresight. He also played his lute for her. As he welcomed her into his life, he had told her that music helped keep the bad dreams at bay. Whenever she was with him, she bade him to play again.

"I am working on a song," he told her in secret one day.

"A song?" Miana repeated.

A sad smile played on Daeron's face. "When I play it I dream that the realms are at peace. My dreams tell me I must finish it."

Miana raised an eyebrow. "Are you so sure?"

Taking a deep breath, Daeron closed his eyes and began playing. As he played his song, everything halted to a stop as though everyone and everything were listening to him. Where there was once clamor outside there was only the sweet melody of his music. Miana stared at him in awe as his song came to an end.

"If that is what it can do now, you must finish it," she said before she kissed him.

It was never absolutely clear but he knew for certainty that she would change his life forever. He would follow her to the ends of the earth. Anything for Miana.

As a Prince of the Realms, however, Prince Daeron had duties. He was expected at to attend a tourney, something he was not looking forward to. His father told him he was to accompany his brothers along the way; no one else was to join their travels. With much reluctance, Daeron left for the tourney with his brothers in tow, leaving Miana behind.

Without Prince Daeron taking her time, Miana was free to work. Many knew she was favored by the prince so very few sought her out. When the Madame offered her to her patrons they would turn away so they would not risk angering a Targaryen prince.

When no one took Miana, the Madame cast her out. With no food in her belly, Miana was hungry. A storm coming on was on its way and Miana was cold. The cold and hunger are sure ways to meet me. Many did, that night, and Miana was one of them. She went to sleep and never awoke. She was buried under the ground in an unmarked grave. No one came to see her.

---

Many days passed while Miana was underground and Daeron was not there to save her. He could not quell her hunger, not while he was away.

I followed him as he searched for her. He looked in every alleyway, every whorehouse, every nook and cranny, but he could not find her. Every night, after he would search for her, he would turn to his cups again, humiliated at wiht his own actions. It was not until he stumbled into the first whorehouse where he had met her that the madame told him.

"I have other girls for you, my prince," the Madame offered. "Miana is gone but that does not mean there is no other girl for you."

Prince Daeron hit the wall with all his might. "She can not be gone," he whispered. "I have seen her. She is here!"

"Miana has gone to the Stranger," the Madame said. "It has been days since she was last seen here and I can only presume as much."

I watched Prince Daeron as emotions burnt through his body. Grief, anger, confusion, defeat. All of it hit the prince at once, causing him to stumble out of the whorehouse one last time.

When he returned to his chambers he found himself drinking again. Cup after cup he would drown himself in wine until he could feel no more. He looked at his lute, wondering if he should play, but knew he would not be able to with no muse. As he finished his cups, he threw it on the ground, willing it to break, to shatter, just like he had.

I appeared to him that night in his dreams. Like the other times I have visited, all he could think about was the beautiful snake that was Miana Sand. He dreamed he was holding her again, that he was protecting her from me, but she was unmoving. Seeing Prince Daeron so defeated moved something in me that I had to pause for a moment.

"Would you like to see her?" I asked him.

Daeron startled, dropping the beautiful snake. He looked at me with eyes wide with anger, with grief. "What do you want, Stranger?"

"I am asking you if you would like to see her again."

"I want her back," he choked out. Tears were streaming down his face.

"She is not so far gone, yet, Prince Daeron. Her soul is still with me; she has yet to meet The Father."

Determination was all over the prince's face. "Take me to her."

I bowed. "As you wish."

Miana appeared in a flash of white light. She looked as healthy as can be, not at all the way she looked when she died. Miana had died of hunger; her belly empty, her heart broken.

"Daeron! How are you here? Where am I?" were the questions that left her mouth. But she did not sound like how she did when she was alive. She sounded as though she was in a cave, her voice merely an echo.

"I came to find you," Daeron said. He reached out to touch her but was met only with air. "Why can I not touch you?"

I turned to the prince. "I said her soul is still with me. Her body decays under the ground."

Again, Daeron reached out to touch Miana's hand but came in contact with nothing. He looked at her, tears building in his eyes once again. As Miana looked at him, I could feel the memories of her life slipping away.

"I do not understand…" Miana said.

"You are dead," Daeron started. "Because of me. Because I left you to go to that stupid tourney. Because I was not there to provide for you." He fell to his knees. "Can you ever forgive me, Miana?"

Miana knelt down in front of him. Her hands came up to cup his face but like Daeron's own attempts at touching her, she passed through him. "I do not blame you, my prince, but you must let go of me."

He shook his head. "No, no, I will not let go of you." He stood up and turned to me. "Tell me what I can do, what I can give you, Stranger. I will do anything to have her back in my arms."

"I will not let her go, it is against nature for her to return to the living," I told him plainly.

Daeron cursed at me. "Then I will change nature myself!" He looked at Miana as he said, "for you, my love, I will play." Turning away from her, he fashioned his lute in his hands out of thin air and began to play.

Everything stopped. Everything listened. Even in a dream, it was all anyone could hear.

The tune was sad but it was also not. It reminded me of times gone by. I looked at Daeron and Miana. The two loved each other very much and they are not the only ones to have lost their other half due the cruelty that is nature, but as I watched them both, I found myself sinking into the song, into their story.

I saw Daeron, the drunken prince.

I saw Miana, a bastard forced to live as a whore.

I saw them come together — I remember it well.

I saw them build the life they had.

I saw them fight for it.

Then I saw them forced to be apart.

Daeron was alone.

Miana was alone.

Daeron fought in a trial.

Miana fought for food.

Daeron returned.

Miana left.

As Daeron's song came to an end, I was taken out of their story. Once again, only the two — Daeron and Miana — were in front of me. They stared at each other in a way that only true lovers do. I had seen it before and will see it many more times to come. Daeron's song, however, made me think. Miana should be led to The Father but…

"Take her," I whispered.

They looked at me in shock.

"Take her back. You must walk a long way back to your consciousness but you can take her."

Daeron almost fell back down to his knees. "Thank you, Stranger, I -"

I raised my hand. "Do not thank me yet, Daeron. You can walk back but it will not be hand in hand. You must walk one in front of the other, you at front and her behind. Just do not look back."

Miana stepped back towards Daeron, as though she was trying to shield him from me. "Why? Is this a trick?"

I shrugged. "A test," I offered. "I see lovers torn apart every day, it is nothing new. How am I to know that I am making the right decision, that you are true lovers and not simply attempting to toy with nature?"

"And what if I look back?" asked Daeron.

"Then she is mine forever."

The weight of my words hung over them like a melting ice pick ready to fall and pierce what lay beneath it.

"Take my offer or leave. I do not have the patience to wait much longer."

They looked at each other one last time, drinking their lover in as though they were attempting to memorize every detail. Separated by a veil of the realms, Daeron still pressed a kiss to where Miana's cheek would be. Despite the fact that he passed through her, she closed her eyes as though she felt him. Maybe she did. As she nodded her head, Daeron turned around and began the walk back.

I was not alone as they walked away. The others were with me, curious as to why I let them go. "Love," I answered them simply. "Maybe they will not be like the others."

All but The Crone nodded their heads. She knew something, something I did not want to know but that would come to pass nevertheless. She tilted her head to the side. "I fear they will be like the others."

"You do not know that."

"…But I do."

I watched as they continued to walk. It would seem they were going nowhere to an outside eye but truly they were venturing closer and closer to consciousness. Miana herself was even becoming more solid in her figure; no longer were the wisps of her memories floating away. Despite that, whenever she would attempt to touch Daeron she would pass right through him. They could not hear each other, either. This was a test, a test of their trust in their love.

Daeron was becoming more and more restless; I could see him fighting to look ahead. He was so afraid after losing her once that losing her again would cause him to spiral like he had never done so before. He would rub his hands on his pants, run them across his face — anything to keep him from thinking of the entity behind him.

I saw it right before it happened. They were right there on the prescipice of his consciousness. They had made it.

Then he turned around.

"It is you," he whispered.

"It is me."

Miana reached out to touch him one last time but once again fell through. Wisps of her memories began to fly away from her body. She was…fading. All Daeron could do was watch in horror as she flew away with the wind as though she was dust.

"Why did you look back, Prince?" I asked as I stepped toward him.

His hand was still reaching out to where she was. "I needed to see her."

"You had to trust her."

"How could I trust her when I can not even trust myself?" He yelled.

Daeron collapsed on the ground. "Take me, Stranger, I beg if you."

"I can not. There are plans for you. You have not yet seen all that is come to pass." I gestured for him to finish his last steps. "Wake, prince."

Daeron woke in a cold sweat. Fear and grief filled his body. He rolled out of bed then crawled to his lute that was leaning on the wall. He had no energy, no will to live anymore. He begged for the release of death, yet I would not take him. His hands clasped the lute and he brought it close to him.

"For you, Miana, I will finish the song," he said as he strummed its strings once more.

As Daeron played his lute, however, nothing came. Even when he played his song, nothing paused to listen to him as they used to. The song inside him was dead and gone.

"Miana," he whispered. "Miana, Miana, Miana." Tears broke through. "I should have trusted you, trusted myself. It is because of I that you are gone." His voice cracked on the last word. "I will never love someone as I love you."

It was all he could say. She was all he could think about. When he slept he dreamed only of her — her touch, her laugh, her smile, her eyes. He only ever saw her in his dreams when he slept, and even then it was not enough. Seeing her only brought on a bittersweetness in his heart, a stab of pain dusted with relief. But he knew she was no longer with him, no matter how often he dreamed of her.

---

The days flew by around him as he stayed as still as could be. He no longer moved, at least not truly. To him, his world was still but really the world was moving around him as though nothing of any significance had happened.

He never truly healed when Miana died. Daeron was a walking shell when he had lost her. All he had to do was look ahead, and he almost succeeded, as well. Many rotations around the sun had passed and there was still a hole in his heart. He tried to fill it with cups but he never tried to fill it with another. He would drink himself to sleep almost every day and wake up in pain every morning.

The wife of his cousin soon became his wife when he died. Did he love her? He did not. He did care for her, but love? It no longer existed within him. He went through the motions of looking like someone in love but he truly was but I could see his true heart had died when he looked back that fateful night.

"You are a duty, nothing more," Daeron said to his new wife. "I am sorry I can not be the husband you had but I do not have it within me to love another as I had loved her."

His new wife nodded. "I understand."

Even after a few years, he could not bring himself to say Miana's name. Saying it brought him to tears every time. The guilt he had in that moment of doubt would swell up inside him once again.

I looked upon him with a sort of sadness. Once, I offered my thoughts to the others. The Crone said it was written, that his was destined to be a tragedy.

Prince Daeron the Drunken. The one who dreams. The one who looked back.

May he be judged by The Father.

[nichestars]

these little wars

a new empire beckons, a new kingdom in the distance / no gods are present, just the sky, the earth, and us / no wings, no halos, nor the thunder in the footsteps / 'cause fear and anger, they are a law unto themselves

and you love the little signs of life / you love it when we lose our minds / you love these little wars of words / you love it when they call your name, your name / it's the weight of love, so gentle, in your arms. weight of love, snow patrol

baelor/daemon blackfyre | pg-13 | 3,791 words read on ao3

for the prompt: "Pre Blackfyre rebellion fluff+ Angst from broken family" as part of @hotd-bigbang 's akotsk prompt meme challenge.

[forbelladonna]

Ser Duncan slaying the Dragon (Inspired by the iconography of Saint George) 

Materials: Colour pencil, pen and golden paint on paper

30x21cm

Prompt: "In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women."  for @hotd-bigbang challenge!

(First pic is a photography of the original and the 2nd is a very bad scan version, can't do better right now 🥹)

The story of Saint George slaying the Dragon is a myth with pre-Christian origins, and there are many different versions and retellings throughout history. The main idea is that Saint George, a christian soldier, saves a village from a dragon by slaying it. The creature poisoned their lake and terrorized the people, demanding sacrifices from the village. At first, animals and gifts would suffice, but then it demanded human sacrifices that were chosen by lottery by the people. On one of those occasions, the princess of this land was chosen as a sacrifice and sent to the dragon to die. The myth says Saint George visited this place and learns about this dragon from the princess when she is approaching the creature. She advises him to flee before the dragon harms him. Instead, he chooses to save the princess from the sacrifice by killing the creature himself and converting the population to Christianity. 

 Besides the obvious religious theme in the myth, the story depicts a triumph of good over evil and an example of true knighthood, very popular throughout history, making this passage one of the most iconic representations of saints. For this prompt challenge, I decided to reimagine this myth and draw/paint Ser Duncan as Saint George and Tanselle as the princess. I took inspiration from medieval illuminated manuscripts that also fit the theme of A knight of a Seven Kingdoms. Saint George is, besides other things, patron of knights! 

[lesbianlyonelb]

Peter Pan Syndrome

Story Summary: Lyonel and Janella have a difficult conversation, one a long time in the making

For the @hotd-bigbang prompt: "Spare me the poetry of your leaving".

Lyonel Baratheon x OC, background Maekar Targaryen x OC

Warnings: Implied cheating and sex, Janella and Lyonel being downright nasty to each other

When Lyonel reaches out, his hand sinks down into still warm sheets instead of touching another human.

He lets out a low grunt of confusion, the noise deeper with grogginess. Lyonel moves his hand out more in the vain hope maybe she's rolled away. He can't feel her or a dip in the bed telling him where she might be.

Carefully, hesitantly, he opens one eye, expecting to see his companion for the night beside him. All he sees is an empty spot beside him, the lingering warmth and wrinkled furs the only indication someone even spent the night here at all. Lyonel grunts, this one a little more awake and intelligent than the first, and rolls onto his back.

His nose wrinkles. Lyonel sniffs once then twice before slowly moving to sit up. Only one person he knows wears gardenia with citron, and Lyonel does distinctly recall Janella coming to his tent and dancing, both in the literal and metaphorical sense.

It's dark, both inside the tent and out. Lyonel hears the crickets and other insects buzzing, the sound of frogs from the nearby river, and even a soft breeze blowing. It takes a minute for his eyes to adjust in the darkness. Even then, he can't see much, merely a shadow moving about his tent. He thinks he recognizes the few features he sees, but he isn't entirely sure, not with how little light he has.

"Going somwhere?" Lyonel manages to croak out. He clears his throat in an attempt to get his voice to match his level of alertness.

The figure stops.

"I didn't expect you to be awake." Janella's voice breaks through the air. It's both a relief and curse at the same time, having his suspicions confirmed. Lyonel sits up slowly.

"Didn't expect or didn't want?" He challenges. His eyes narrow.

Silence stretches for far too long. It lingers for a moment and then two, infusing the very air with its uncomfortability.

Lyonel laughs. It's not a happy or pleased laugh, not a genuine sound of joy, but one motivated entirely by bitterness.

"Of course. Of course. I should have expected no less." He murmurs. Lyonel let's out another noise, a laugh only in name. He sighs.

"You know I can't stay." Janella moves about the tent again. A surprising tinge of bitterness creeps into her voice. This time, Lyonel hears the rustle of fabric, presumably her pulling her shift back on.

"No, please. By all means. Slink," a sudden yawn interrupts him and while he didn't plan to do so, he rather likes the theatricality of it, "Slink out of here like a rat." Lyonel falls back onto the bed, his hand gesturing limply for a moment before letting it drop as well.

"Lyonel..."

"Fucking... spare me the poetry of your leaving. Go." He waves his hand. "Fuck off."

Much to his surprise, when he cracks his eyes open to see if she listened to him, Janella stands at the bottom of his bed. A small beam of moonlight illuminates her.

"Lyonel. That's not fair."

Lyonel props himself up onto his elbows, moving a little more quickly than he wants, and stares at her. The darkness makes him more comfortable in letting his incredulous expression creep onto his face.

"Is it? If anything, I'd say I'm being too generous."

"You know as well as I do I can't stay." Janella hisses. "If anything, I should have left already. Maekar mi-"

Lyonel tunes her out then, mimicking arguing with her as he stares at the canvas ceiling. He makes sure to lift his hand and mime her chattering before letting it fall limply to the side. He closes his eyes.

Silence greets him again.

It's too quiet.

Lyonel sits up slowly, and oh, if he weren't furious, the look on Janella's face might break his heart. She looks as if he slapped her, open palm and rings on, instead of merely making fun of her. As it is, his chest hurts when he notes the slight bit of sadness in her eyes.

(It will break his heart later, he knows this. Lyonel will be in a snit for the next several days and ignore her, and then he'll kick his own ass the entire way back to Storm's End, unable to get her expression out of his head. He'll hate himself and wish he talked to her before he left.

He'll also be pissed he didn't get this reaction from being clever. If Lyonel is going to make an absolutely cunt of himself, he might as well be a witty and petty cunt.)

"What the fuck are you still doing here?" Lyonel hates the way he bristles at the sheer disappointment rolling off of her without Janella even saying a word. Fucking... she doesn't deserve this, doesn't deserve his time or attention, doesn't deserve a fucking thing from him.

He doesn't even know why he lets her keep coming back. Janella makes a choice ever single time, and Lyonel is never the one she picks. She picks the fucking Anvil every single time. A laugh bubbles up inside of Lyonel's throat.

"Don't you have a newborn to take care of?" Lyonel clicks his tongue. "Shame to give a child a complex so earlier in their life."

That gets the reaction he wants. Lyonel can't handle disappointment, the slight undertone of either wanting better for or expecting better of him. He can, however, handle rage. Lyonel knows how to handle it and wield it even better than the person who tries him.

Lyonel stares evenly at her. Janella's nostrils flare. His stomach tightens as he steels himself, readying himself as if she plans to throw a punch as opposed to veiled barbs.

"Fine." Janella turns on her heel, searching for her dress. She yanks it on rather violently when she finds it. Her hands shake. It makes a savage part of Lyonel glow with pride to see her reaction.

"Fine?" Lyonel echoes. "No biting words or threats? Did they defang you or are you just so used to simp-"

She laughs. The suddenness nearly makes Lyonel flinch, and he stares at her. Janella never laughs during an argument. In general? She laughs when genuinely amused (or during sex, which Lyonel finds strangely endearing).

(Does she laugh when Maekar touches her? Does she let out that shy, almost high-pitch giggle when Maekar says or does something that blatantly turns her on? Does she cackle when Maekar brushes his fingers over the particular sensitive spot on her ribs, the one Lyonel knows make her squirm from both laughter and arousal?

The thought Maekar hears those sounds sours Lyonel's mood even more than he thought possible, bitterness building on his tongue with alarming speed. They're wasted on the Anvil. Cunt probably thinks she's making fun of him instead of understanding what they mean, unable to appreciate the intimacy of such sounds. His insecurities get in the way of him understanding regular laughter; there is no way in the Seven Hells he gets the intimacy during sex.)

"You do realize I do not do this for fun?" Janella spits. She stalks over towards one of the tables where her hair net sits, having been discarded so Lyonel could get his fingers fully into her hair.

"Your past would suggest otherwise." Lyonel pauses and then tilts his head. He should consider his next words, but his mouth is often faster than his brain. "Leo did a number on you, didn't he?"

Janella stops. Lyonel's lips twitch despite himself. It's a low blow, he knows, but he's not in a particularly generous mood at the moment. Rage and betrayal swirl around his chest like a tempest, battering against his ribcage with so much force he fears it may crack him open.

(Perhaps it already has. Lyonel can never tell where he ends and his anger begins when he gets like this. Oh, he'll play unaffected, but it's obvious he's furious.

Besides, it isn't as if this is a surprise. A storm like the one raging inside of him right now never creep up on people. They're not sneaky fuckers; all one need do is watch the horizon to see what will happen. The power behind a storm like this, an emotion like this, is not in its stealth. No. What people measure these by is the destruction left in their wake.

Lyonel doubts much of anything will be left once this particular one dissipates.)

"I would not go there if I were you." Janella speaks each word with enormous control. She doesn't so much grind them from between her teeth as carefully enunciate. Lyonel laughs, low and cruel. His opponent trying to cling to control like this means he's already won, they just can't see it yet.

(Why is he like this? Why must he see every interaction like a game? And why is he wondering about this now? This is a question to keep him up in the middle of the night, not wonder about during a fucking fight.

Because she doesn't haunt him only at night. Janella may as well still be at Storm's End with the way she lingers in every facet of his life. He can't even lay in his own fucking bed without thinking of her, rolling over in the mornings expecting to smell florals and citrus and getting... not that.)

"Aawww, still seeking father's approval?" Lyonel goads, clicking his tongue for extra measure. "Explains your taste."

Without thinking, Janella takes two steps forward. Her jaw twitches. It's slight, and if she weren't currently in a patch of moonlight, Lyonel would have missed it entirely. She sets her jaw and clenches her teeth.

Lyonel can't help his loud bark of laughter, he really can't. Of course. Of fucking course she picks up mannerisms from Maekar. The man isn't even in the tent with them yet Lyonel cannot escape him. It makes him want to scream. He can't, though. All he can do is laugh.

Much to his surprise, Janella stays silent. She stares at him, hurt and reproach all over her expression. Lyonel raises an eyebrow.

(Come on, fight back, give me a sign this means something, anything. Show me you care in some way. This isn't pretty, isn't ever going to be a fucking fairy tale, but it could be the stuff for a ballad. Give me a reason to stay.)

Watching all of the sadness and hurt slide off of Janella's face to be replaced by careful, curated neutrality hurts Lyonel more than any barb she could hurl at him. He handles insults, some genuine and some friendly fire, on the daily. This is different in a way he can't quite articulate. It's not like watching a door slam, the change isn't violent enough, yet it's the closest analogy he has.

"If you had no interest in this anymore, you could have told me." Janella tilts her head to the side and gives him a cold, almost calculating look. Lyonel rolls his eyes.

"Fuck you." He spits. "This isn't about that, and you know it."

She stares at him. It's eerie, the sudden blankness, the impasivity. Janella regards him in a detached way, and it makes his skin crawl and vision flicker. Lyonel does emotions and actions, not whatever the hell this is.

Suddenly, she exhales. The sound nearly echoes in the tent. It seems to come from deep within her, perhaps her soul. She must have been wrestling with whatever it was for quite some time.

"You're right. It's not about that." Janella pauses. Lyonel doesn't fill the silence for once. It doesn't seem right. Her tongue flicks out to wet her lips. "Thank you. You've given me clarity tonight."

Well. Fuck. Yeah, Lyonel wants a reaction, any kind, but this isn't exactly what he hoped to get. He could do a screaming match, especially if it turns into another round of rather intense sex, but this? A pit forms in his stomach.

He could make a joke, should make a joke. Yet every time Lyonel reaches for one, it falls from his grasp. Instead, he sits up again.

"That's it? That's fucking it?" Lyonel nearly scrambles to his feet. The sheets fall away from him and pool on the floor. "You're just going to walk away?" He pauses and then lets out an almost hysterical giggle. "Of course it is. Because that's all you fucking do, isn't it? Run away from your problems." Janella turns away from him and starts walking away, and oh, he can't have that. He starts following her, his nudity be damned. "Tell me, how'd it work last time? Oh, wait. You ended up exactly where you would have before, the only difference is you traded which dragon you'd be chained to for the rest of your life."

Janella ignores him, even as he follows her. She pauses at the tent flap. Finally, she turns back to him.

"It's time for me to grow up, Lyonel. I suggest you do the same."

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Unshackle My Illusions

Pairing: Aerion Targaryen x Cass Rivers (OFC) Warnings: Horror, body horror, non-explicit sexual content. Word count: ~3.5k

Summary: Aerion seeks amusement in the arms of a mysterious woman at the Ashford tourney, and finds that how he sees himself is something that will become as much a horrifying reality as it is a nightmare. For the @hotd-bigbang prompt meme challenge - I chose the prompt "a lady's favour".

Author's note: I don't have a tag list. If you would like to keep up to date with my writing, please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

Aerion was bored. He’d been bored since the moment they had departed King’s Landing. A tourney for the name day of a daughter of some lowly lord, stuck among common folk and fields that reeked of sheep shit as far as the eye could see was beneath House Targaryen. He resented his father and uncle for their insistence that they attend. Who the fuck was Lord Ashford anyway? His only consolation was the fact that he knew he was a better knight than anyone else who would be in attendance. It was laughable to him that anyone believed they could face a dragon and emerge victorious. It was scarcely worth the effort of donning his armour, yet he would enjoy embarrassing his opponents, particularly his cousin, Valarr. The boy was soft, green as summer grass, and absolutely useless in combat — Aerion had disarmed him enough times in the training yard to know that. A dark haired Targaryen was no true Targaryen after all.

His boredom had given way to irritation when, part way through the ten day journey, both Daeron and Aegon had gone missing. It had been a source of immense ire for Maekar, dominating his attention, and Aerion couldn’t understand why. He was clearly the better knight; who cared if his drunken wretch of an older brother was face down in a puddle of his own vomit somewhere? It was one less embarrassing stain on their house’s reputation if he’d gotten himself killed alongside that snivelling brat, Aegon. The best decision his father had ever made was sending Aemon to the Citadel. Aerion was the only son worthy of their house sigil, the only one capable of restoring the Targaryen name to its original greatness.

The seat of House Ashford was nowhere near as grand as The Red Keep, Dragonstone or Summerhall. The castle was no more than a glorified inn, practically a hovel, far more cramped than Aerion had anticipated, and far beneath a prince. His lip curled in distaste. He had anticipated wine and pretty wenches, at the very least. The serving staff were all homely looking, plain faced, and fat. There may have been sporting fun to be had with Lord Ashford’s daughter, but Gwin, it turned out, was no more than a child, and recoiled with fright from him when he approached.

A dragon ought not be caged, and so Aerion had made his way outside, walking among the encampments of both lords and smallfolk alike, to see what amusement he could find there. He had no desire to sit around with Baelor and Maekar, drinking piss weak wine, while they fretted about the whereabouts of his likely dead siblings.

The whores that littered the camps were repugnant — half dressed and already fully in their cups. He would sooner have seen to his own pleasure than allowed their sour breath to waft against his flesh. He longed for the Street of Silk, where a single gold coin in the palm of the right person could buy him a night with multiple women, all untouched by the hands of others.

A dark coloured tent in a far corner caught his eye — black canvas, with dried herbs and flowers tied to the opening, flapping gently in the breeze. There was no one loitering outside, no raucous laughter from within, only silence. Curious, he stalked closer, pushing his way inside; whoever occupied the space would be honoured to host a prince, he felt sure, so there was no need for him to ask permission for entrance.

The tent was spacious, pitched high, yet it was warm and oppressive inside. The fire pit that burned low in the centre did little to illuminate the inner gloom. A bed laden with furs was set up on one side, with a small wooden table and chairs on the other. Fragments of coloured glass, dried flowers and small bird skulls were suspended from the canopy above, tinkling lightly as he pushed them aside. The air was thick and sweet smelling, like spiced honey but slightly earthier.

“Welcome, my prince,” a sultry voice purred from behind him.

Aerion startled, pale brow rising, before he composed himself, turning and drawing back to regard the woman that stood before him. He had half a mind to chastise her for creeping up on royalty, but the words died upon his tongue as he took her in.

She was not much shorter than he was, slender and pale skinned, with long, raven black hair that fell in loose waves to her waist, framing a face with soft, pretty features and rosebud lips. It was her eyes that gave him pause though — they were pale, not quite blue, but the milky grey of stormclouds.

He realised he was staring, his jaw slack, and cleared his throat, pressing his lips into a tight line as he folded his hands in front of him. “You sound as though you were expecting me.”

She shrugged, something feline in the coy smile she flashed at him. “If you are here then you are precisely where you are meant to be. A dragon does nothing by accident.”

Aerion smirked, both flattered and surprised by her ready acceptance and recognition of his status. “And who might I find myself with?”

“You may call me Cass,” she replied airily, stepping around him and placing more firewood upon the flames.

She had offered no other name, though judging by the rich violet fabric of the light gown that was draped around her body, she was of the Riverlands, a bastard most likely — he had spotted no signs of travelling companions that would signify an allegiance to any particular family. His gaze raked approvingly over the silhouette of her, illuminated by the fire.

“What brings you to Ashford, Cass?” he asked, revelling in the sibilance of the single syllable upon his tongue.

She laughed softly, the movement causing the cascade of her hair shift over her shoulders like spilled ink. “We do not need pleasantries, we both know why you are here.”

Stepping towards him, Cass plucked open the tie holding her gown together at the front, allowing the sheer fabric to drop from her shoulders and pool around her feet. Aerion’s lips parted, pupils dilating and throat running dry as he drank her in — she was exquisite. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, her breasts small but more than enough to fill his palm. She appeared delicate, much too fragile to have been used by anyone else here — if she had been there’d be signs upon. She was his for the taking.

He hummed in approval, grasping her by the dip of her waist and tugging her against him. The scent of her was intoxicating, heady and herbaceous. “You think you have what it takes to amuse a dragon?”

“I believe I am already,” she murmured, curling her fingers into the plush, red velvet of his doublet and guiding him towards the bed.

Aerion scowled when he leaned in to kiss her and she turned her face away, though the slight was forgotten the moment she coaxed him atop her and divested him of his clothes. He lost himself for the entire afternoon between her thighs, the tight heat of her was near maddening, she fit perfectly beneath him, her legs draped over his thighs and hips, depending on the angle he drove into her from. He took her over and over, her legs placed over his shoulders, and then with her face pushed down into the furs, and never once did she whine about moon tea any of the times he spilled inside of her, so unlike the whores back home. She was perfect, every inch the amusement he had sought, and he had no desire to share her.

Finally spent, he lay beside her on the bed, breathing hard. He watched in silence as she rose, pouring them both wine before returning to his side. He drank deeply from his cup, savouring the rich viscosity of the red as it passed over his tongue — the finest that had passed his lips since his departure from the capital.

“Are you satisfied, my prince?” she asked, propping herself up on her elbow to look at him.

Aerion admired the bruises, bitemarks and scratches that now littered her previously unmarred flesh, and felt his chest swell with pride. “Your talents are sufficient. I think I shall keep you very busy this tourney.”

“Ah, but there are—”

Aerion lunged, sensing what he presumed to be a protestation, his hand wrapping around her throat and squeezing as he stared down at her with eyes filled with fury. “I will not share you. Do you understand?”

She nodded, grey eyes wide, and Aerion relaxed his grip, attempting to appease and quash the briefest glimmer of regret that sparked to life within him. “Do as you’re told and I shall see you are handsomely rewarded.”

He rose from the bed without another word and dressed.

“I shall see you upon the morrow then?” Cass asked, not bothering to cover her nudity as she reclined upon her side, staring at him impassively.

She truly was remarkable, the vast majority of women cowered from him and regarded him with wet, frightened eyes when he got a little rough with them. His outburst hadn’t seemed to bother Cass at all.

“If you’re lucky,” he replied, tone laced with arrogance.

“Oh, I’m sure I will be, my prince,” she called after him as he pushed his way out of the tent.

A hooded figure moved slowly through the wood. The faster that Aerion moved to pursue it, the further it seemed to move away. Branches scratched at his face as he broke into a run, roaring in frustration at its evasion of him.

When he finally got close enough to grasp at the robe, his heart lurched as the figure whipped around, the face beneath the hood gaunt and rotted, eyes sunken so far into the sockets he could no longer see them. Fleshless fingers grasped his jaw tight enough to bruise, turning his face towards a pool of stagnant water between the tree roots. What was reflected back was scale covered, twisted and monstrous, and when he recoiled the creature recoiled too.

Aerion awoke with a start, clutching his chest as he panted, wide eyed and disheveled, not understanding the squalor of his surroundings. He then remembered he was a guest of Lord Ashford, and had not awoken in his own bed. Slumping back against the pillows, he threw an arm across his face as he waited for his breathing to return to normal. His thoughts drifted to Cass, and the dream was soon forgotten.

Cass welcomed him back into her tent and between her thighs, and Aerion allowed her to take charge, lying back with his arms folded beneath his head as he watched her move atop him. It wasn’t often that he allowed a woman to have this level of control, but he was utterly enchanted by her and she had proven herself more than worthy of a dragon.

“You have entered into the lists, have you not?” Cass drawled afterwards, long fingernails trailing down his bare chest, pressing just shy of pain, leaving white scorelines in their wake.

It made Aerion shiver, and he cleared his throat, adjusting his position against the pillows before winding her long, dark hair around his fingers and tugging to remind her of who was in charge. It unnerved him how easily she was able to make him feel less than the prince he was, though he’d never admit it. “I am,” he uttered, “I will choose who I challenge tomorrow.”

“And so you will require a lady’s favour,” she smiled, turning her cheek as he attempted to capture her lips with his own.

Aerion frowned, then sighed as he scrubbed a hand over his face. “No, such traditions are not being observed for this particular tourney. Lord Ashford has already named his insipid daughter queen of love and beauty,” he rolled his eyes before adding, “we are competing to defend her honour.”

Cass shifted, sitting back on her haunches, pale eyes narrowing as she looked down at him. “But you are a dragon, a prince, surely such tawdry rules do not apply to you?”

Aerion scoffed, imagining the sour look on his father’s face if he observed his son allowing this woman to place a wreath upon his lance. “You are a whore, you cannot publicly bestow favours, imagine how that would look.”

“I am not a whore,” she hissed, anger making her eyes blaze before her features calmed once more. “I would not present it to you publicly. I only ask that you take it and use it to fight valiantly tomorrow. No one needs to know.”

“Fine, if it means that much to you,” Aerion conceded. He was secretly flattered that she seemed to want him to have it so badly, and there was a thrill in knowing he would be participating with a favour when no one else was.

The favour was an ugly thing. He had expected a wreath of leaves and flowers, instead it was a circlet of twisted vines and branches, with scaled reptile flesh bound around it, greyed and flaking. Still, it would appear better and draw less attention against his armour than a gaudy floral arrangement would, and so he accepted it, telling Cass that he hoped to see her cheering him on in the lists tomorrow.

His spine twisted and contorted, flesh tearing and stretching as he howled and writhed in pain. The heat was searing, unbearable, he wanted to vomit from the feeling of it. Holding his hands in front of his face, he observed with vision that was blurred with agony as each of his fingers snapped and twisted, his throat dry and hoarse with screaming.

Gnarled, bony fingers clasped his cheeks, wrenching his head violently towards the looking glass. What stared back was unrecognisable, a hideous beast with raw skin and yellow, reptilian eyes.

Aerion awoke in a sweat, barely having time to compose himself before a knock at the bedchamber door was followed by an announcement that it was time to don his armour.

He placed Cass’ ugly favour upon his lance, out of sight of prying eyes, before riding out onto the tourney field. Though his eyes searched for her, he could see no sign of her in the crowds. Her absence  angered him. He had defied his father’s wishes, taken the favour of a whore, and she couldn’t even be bothered to watch him compete. He took his rage out on Humfrey Hardyng, driving his lance deep into the chest of the knight’s horse. He took no notice of the jeers of the crowd, uncaring even when a rock bounced off of his helm, slamming the visor closed.

The moment the tourney was over, he tore free of his armour and stormed towards Cass’ tent. He found only empty space. Aerion would have doubted it was ever there were it not for the scorch mark left on the grass by her firepit. He grasped passing squires by their collars, demanding to know where she was. Every person he spoke to denied with bewilderment any knowledge of her existence. Aerion’s blood boiled.

It was his rage that guided him as he stormed back through the camp, stopping at a puppeteer’s tent and observing the mockery she made of his heritage by acting out the treason debacle of slaying a dragon. It was salt to an already open wound, and he seized her, sending the crowd scattering with horrified gasps as he broke her fingers.

The lumbering oaf that knocked him to the ground dissipated his anger somewhat, but it was the taste of blood in his mouth and the sight of Aegon standing accusatorily before him that fully cleared the haze.

Aerion demanded a trial by seven, wanting to dispatch his assailant quickly so he could pursue the woman who had made a mockery of him. His only solace was that he had never paid her for her services.

Lips pressed against his, cold and lifeless, making his stomach roil. His mouth and throat filled with blood, making him sputter and cough, his lungs aching with the effort to breathe. When he opened his eyes, he found he could not blink, he was motionless, the blood he had drowned in now pooled around him. The distant cheers of “the dragon is dead” felt both deafening and faraway.

Aerion awoke well before dawn, and prepared for battle. He wasn’t sure what drove him to do so, but he placed Cass’ favour upon his lance. He had fought ferociously with it once, perhaps it would serve him again.

He battled hard against the knight who had dared to strike him, momentarily believing to have slain him.

“He’s dead!” he shouted towards the crowd, and for the briefest of moments his eyes locked with a pair that promised thunder and rain. 

The momentary distraction was enough for Aerion to be bested, his beaten and bloodied body dragged before Lord Ashford and made to withdraw his accusation.

All went dark for Aerion after that. He dreamed vividly of gnarled fingers that cradled his face too tightly to be affectionate, a voice that was familiar and yet seemed older than time itself whispered “let them see the dragon you are.”

When Aerion finally recovered consciousness, he was back in the bed he occupied in Lord Ashford’s keep, his body more bruised and broken than he had ever known. Peering beneath one of the bandages that was wound tightly around his middle, he brushed his fingers over a patch of hard, scaly feeling skin. Scabs, most likely, he had sustained more injuries than he cared to count.

He had no reaction at all when his father informed him that he would be exiled to Lys, though his eyes cast one, final longing look across the field as the horses rode away from Ashford, hoping to catch one final glimpse of raven-black hair and storm-grey eyes. There was nothing, no one, and he wondered what had become of Cass’ favour.

Aerion was grateful at least that his father had paid for a private cabin aboard the ship that would carry him across the Narrow Sea and into exile. He shut himself away from the rest of the crew, his pride wounded every inch as much as his body.

Every night he dreamed of lips that poured fire and blood past his own, of pale eyes that watched as his body twisted, cracked and tore, transforming into a creature that he no longer recognised as himself. Then one night, no dreams came at all.

Saathos stood upon the dock, watching his men unload cargo — barrels of wheat and barley and casks of strong wine — making hurried notes of everything onto a wrinkled scroll of parchment.

As his first mate, Tregar, turned to walk back up the gangway, Saathos seized the top of his bare arm, halting his progress. “How much longer until everything is off? We have cargo to load on for tomorrow’s voyage, and I am eager to avoid the storm.”

Tregar nodded, smoothing his fingers over his forked, black beard. “Just our guest of honour left. He has slept quite a long time this morning.”

“Wake him,” Saathos urged, “we were paid to bring him to Lys, and our part of the bargain has been struck. Get him off my ship.”

He released Tregar’s arm and watched him hurry aboard before returning his gaze to his list. Tregar returned moments later, his brown furrowed in confusion, his hands cradled around something that Saathos could not quite see.

“What is it?” he asked, looking up, annoyed that the silver haired prince had not accompanied him. He had been a difficult passenger the entire voyage — his strange behaviour unnerved the crew.

“He’s gone,” Tregar said with a shrug, “must have disembarked without us noticing. But he left this behind…”

Tregar held out his hands, revealing a large, scaled dragon egg, seemingly made of stone.

“What shall we do with it?” Tregar asked.

Saathos took the egg, testing the weight of it in his palm. It was warm to the touch, despite the rough stone of it. “We sell it,” he decided, “if the prince was foolish enough to leave it behind, it cannot have meant that much to him, and a dragon egg, even a petrified one, will fetch a handsome price.”

No further dreams would torment Aerion.

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[margoshansons]

VALAR MORGHULIS ::

Baelor thought of his brother as he parsed through the thick pages of the tome he’d stolen from the Ashford library. 

He would already know what Baelor was hoping to find. 

A trial of the Seven. The first in a century, and yet there were none to be found in the entire history of the Reach. He’d searched until he reached the tales of Garth Greenhand and his daughters, the tome useless to him once he reached the Age of Heroes.  Baelor urged his mind to focus on the words in front of him, searching for any information regarding such an antiquated tradition.  Aerys would have plucked a book from thin air before rattling off a thousand different facts regarding the Andals and their seven champions. Gods how he wished his brother was with him now. 

For the @hotd-bigbang challenge! I chose the prompt “night before the trial of seven”

[dubiousmetamorphosis]

A Taste of Iron

A Daella Targaryen Gen Fic

A fic for the AKOTSK Prompt Meme Challenge of @hotd-bigbang

Prompt: caring for injuries (I twisted it a bit, but... injuries are still being cared for technically speaking) Summary: After the Trial of the Seven at Ashford Meadow, Daella tries to salvage something dear to her. When that fails, she instead opts to try the taste of revenge. Includes: gen fic; angst; grief/mourning; animal death; character study; the mildest torture scene ever; ten-year old Daella Targaryen experiencing too much emotions at once; The tragedy of girl friendships gone sour; Gwin Ashford; bedridden Aerion; useless big brother Daeron; girldad Maekar; most of this is a headcanon because we know too little about Daella Word count: 3.3k Read on AO3

Divider by @/strangergraphics

The taste or iron burns on her tongue. Blinking, she stop in her tracks. She has been chewing on her lip again. She had not realized. Daella never realizes.

Stop that, her mother’s voice echoes from beyond the grave, stop that. You will hurt yourself. You will get blood all over your clothes.

She had not meant to. She didn’t think that she would be biting on her lower lip again, let alone so hard that she’d make herself bleed. She is calm about this. At least, she has been trying to convince herself that she is. But the stinging pain on her lip lays bare how she truly feels about this ordeal. Nervous, uneasy, terrified. Even her stomach hurts. Despite her better intentions, she is dreading the confrontation.

Lapping at the wound, she forces herself the continue her way up the winding stairs. She can do this. She can just go to Gwin, tell her how sorry she is about… everything. Surely, Gwin will accept her apology. Maybe she will even realize that Daella had nothing to do with it.

This is all Aerion’s fault. And her father’s. And Daeron’s. Maybe Aegon’s as well? But it is not hers.

Gwin must realize that. She simply must, because they have to be friends again so that she will let her play with Lordling Fluff. The thought of Gwin’s tabby, fluffy cat encourages her. Lordling is soft and sweet, he can jump so high and his meows are perfectly adorable. He is undoubtedly the best cat alive.

At least since Aerion drowned Vhagar in the well at Summerhall’s courtyard. Aegon always complains about Vhagar’s cruel death as if he is the only one entitled to grieve her. But Vhagar had been her cat before she had been Aegon’s. Even more, Daella knows why Aerion drowned her. It had naught to do with Aegon. No, Aerion did it, to get back to her—because she refused to swallow his stupid comments.

So clumsy, you may as well fail to birth a child, he said when she sprained her ankle during her dance class.

Once you are my wife, I will teach you better, he said when their father found out that she had been attending Aegon and Aemon’s sword classes.

If only your hair wasn’t the color of shit, you’d almost look pretty in it, he said when she was showing father the new dress she’d made.

So the morning after the feast for uncle Baelor’s name day, when she knew Aerion would be unwell after mixing wine and ale all night, she snuck into his room. With a bucket of horse shit. She dumped it over him.

‘I have mother’s hair, do you think she had shit hair?’ she yelled and then, ‘Father said I will marry Aegon either way!’

She said that, even though she’d never spoken with their father on the matter, even though she thinks Aegon is an annoying rat.

Aerion, of course, tried to kill her. At least, she thinks he did. It is hard to say. She is fast, always has been, and he was hungover then, and the whole of Summerhall had heard the commotion immediately and uncle Baelor and cousin Valarr were in the castle, and their presence often discourage her brother from the most vile deeds—so she escaped from his wrath unscathed.

The next day Vhagar was dead.

But Aerion smelled like horse shit for at least a week and he never ever talked about marrying her again. She paid for the honor of being ignored by him with shit and her cat’s life.

Only now he has broken their silent agreement to leave each other unbothered. He is ruining her life yet again. He knows very well all the effort she put into coming to Ashford. Of all people she was forced to rely on Daeron to get to the tourney. He is usually so confused and drunk, it was rather easy to convince him that he was to bring both Aegon and her with him. But then he refused to travel further than that filthy inn and Aegon, selfish little rat that he is, disappeared. She almost missed the whole tourney. Luckily father found her and Daeron, so she did get to see some of the tourney.

She did get to meet Gwin.

When she met Gwin, for the first time in a long while, something akin to sunshine brightened her mood. Summerhall has such a misleading name, truly. It sounds like a lovely place, but ever since mother died it has been like her whole family is entombed inside that castle. Locked inside their tomb, she has been dreaming of a true friend so hard. Rhae is fine, but only eight, while she is ten. She needs a friend her age. Or a friend like Gwin who is kind and smart and wise. And who has a cat that looks like Vhagar if she squeezes her eyes half closed.

But now Gwin may hate her and she may not get to pet Lordling ever again. So she has to find her and—

‘I want you to know that I do not blame you for ruining my name day!’

That is Gwin! Daella hesitates at the final step, furrowing her brows. What is she saying? To whom is she speaking?

‘It was a rotten thing they’ve done to you, and you were right in your reply.’

They. Understanding sinks in and with it nauseous guilt. She is speaking to the hedge knight. About those who wronged him and her. Is she part of those whom Gwin blames for this terrible ordeal? She inhales, trembling, and steps into the hallway. Gwin is coming towards her.

Never before has Daella seen such a face on Gwin’s face: stern and cold and serious. Almost like when her mother was displeased with her. Gwin does not look thirteen like this, more like… seventeen? Eighteen? Very adult. Very grown up.

Next to her, Daella is just a child, wanting to pet a cat.

Noticing Daella, Gwin falters in her self-assured stride. She courtesies, awkwardly, and Daella mirrors her. A moment passes and then, just like that, the young lady continues on her way down the stairs. No words are exchanged. Daella is left rejected in cold silence. Tears well up in her eyes, making her vision swim. Breathing hard she leans against the wall. Her legs are trembling so hard it hurts.

It hurts.

She did not want to be Aerion’s sister. She did want for him to torture a puppeteer and pick a fight with some stupid hedge knight just because. She did not want for her uncle to die at her father’s hands. She did not want for Gwin’s name day to be ruined.

She did not want for Vhagar to drown all alone in that well.

How scared she must have been in those last moments!

She did not want for any of this, but it is happening either way and there is nothing she can do about it and there is no one to turn to. Not since mama died.

She must not cry, she knows that. She is ten, almost grown up, too old for tears. But she cannot help it. Salt droplets rain from her eyes, sliding down her cheeks. Breathing hard she tries to at least keep from screaming, but as she hurries down the stairs, she begins to sob like a child. In the hallway to her room she bumps against someone tall.

‘Hey, watch ou—ehm, Daella?’

Wiping the tears and snot from her face she looks up at Daeron. He looks surprisingly sober, but not entirely. He is never fully not-drunk.

‘Go find the other half of your ear!’ she snaps, trying to push past him, but he grabs her by the shoulders and pins her in place.

He hunches so his face is level with hers. There is a heavy fatigue in his purple eyes. He sighs, making her wonder why he is even taking the time to speak to her. If he is so annoyed with her, he should just ignore her as he usually does.

‘The other half is long gone… What is wrong, little sis?’

‘Everyone hates me!’ she says.

‘I am certain—’

‘No, everyone hates me. Everyone hates us.’ She shoves him away, and because he is Daeron, it is easy to do so. Freeing herself from his grip she hisses, ‘And it is all Aerion’s fault. He killed Vhagar! And you did nothing to stop him. You never do anything at all!’

Not bothering to gauge his reaction, she storms off into her room. The maid tending to the linens gasps in shock as Daella lets herself fall on the bed and begins to cry into the mess of sheets. At least the servant is smart enough to just go, so she can wail in peace.

The sun is high in the sky by the time she has no more tears left to cry. Her throat is soar, her eyes puffy and her lips bruised from all the biting and picking. There are bloodstains on the sheets. Feeling empty she watches the dust drift in the sunlight. It is not fair that she feels so miserable. She did nothing wrong.

The only one in the wrong, the only on to blame for Gwin’s silent rejection, for Vhagar’s death and uncle Baelor’s cruel demise is the person who occupies the room next to hers. Aerion must be there now. He is bedridden. At the moment he is even more helpless than the one time she threw horse shit over him. Maybe she could go for a round two of that. Maybe then Gwin will see that she was just as hurt by this whole mess.

Maybe. Most likely not. Throwing horse shit over Aerion could not mend what is now broken. But perhaps she could just break it some more. Half a plan is forming in her mind. Before she has even thought it all through, she sits upright on the bed and goes in search for the box Rhae made her bring with—Just in case, she’d lisped.

She is not gnawing on her lip when she enters Aerion’s room. She is not trembling on her legs, she is not breathing unevenly. Her hands are not even clammy. No, she feels still and cold inside. The wooden box is heavy, but she finds it an easy burden to carry. The curtains are half drawn, keeping the sunlight out and the tomb-like gloom in. Aerion lies fast asleep in his bed. Bruised and bandaged it is not hard to imagine that he is lying on his death bed, waiting for the last rites before he departs to whatever place rotten souls like his go.

Daella breathes in the silence and approaches his bed. She pauses at its foot, gazing at her older brother. Somehow she finds that he looks better like this. In this moment she can find some depraved sort of appreciation for ser Duncan in her heart. He made sadistic Aerion almost docile. With a hum she comes closer and finally sits down on the edge of the bed, opening the box of potions, scalpels, bandages, herbs.

Rhae dabbles in witchcraft. As soon as Daella spread the rumor that she was to marry Aegon, Rhae even fed Aegon a love potion to make him marry her instead—little does she yet know that their father is unlikely to agree on any sibling marriage. Either way, from watching her little sister she knows a thing or two about sorcery. About healing and about pain.

Humming she pops open a flask and picks up a scalpel. She dips the tip of it in the dark mixture and then raises it to the deep gash scarring Aerion’s jawbone. As soon as the sharp tip scrapes over the barely healed wound, Aerion’s eyes flash open. He tries to sit straight, to grab at the scalpel grazing along his wound, but he falls back before he can really do anything, groaning and cursing.

‘What are you doing?’ he breathes.

‘Taking care of you, dear brother,’ she replies in an eerily high tone.

She has never spoken like this before.

‘The Maesters have—’

She dips the scalpel tip in the dark fluid. ‘These are Old Valyrian methods they do not know of. Rhae taught me these.’

‘Rhae is eight and stupid as shit.’

‘You are stupid as shit. Now sit back and let me make sure these wounds will not fester.’

‘You are going to regret this.’

‘Is this how you repay your sister’s kindness?’ She raises the scalpel to the other wound adorning his face, the one close to his mouth, and presses the sharp tip in so deep that it draws blood.

Aerion takes hold of her other arm, digging his fingers into her flesh painfully hard. But she does not budge.

‘Are you poisoning me?’

‘I do not want you to die, brother.’

Her gaze is stuck on the way blood drips from the wound. He bleeds just like anyone else. Not like a dragon, but like a normal man. It is likely the prettiest thing she will ever see, the red liquid spilling over his perfect face—now maimed forever.

He always boasted about his looks, the beauty of a real dragon, he would say. While she has shit hair and dung skin. The only thing about her he ever praised was her eyes, which are Valyrian purple. It is the only thing she has in common with him. It is the only thing she hates about herself.

Her purple eyes are why Gwin turned away from her. Without a single word.

‘I warn you a last time,’ he groans.

But his grip on her is weakening already. He will try to make her pay for this, she has no doubt. But she has no cats left for him to drown. He cannot frighten her anymore.

‘You need to be alive to be able to suffer.’

She digs her fingers in his abdomen, there where the most sensitive wound rests. With a guttural moan he leans back and for a moment something akin to real fear flashes in his eyes.

‘This has nothing to do with you.’

A moment passes, her heart skipping a beat. How dare he!

‘This has everything to do with me!’ she shrieks. ‘You made Gwin hate me! You made father kill uncle! You killed Vhagar!’

His lips part, but his reply comes after an awkward delay, ‘Is this still about that stupid cat?’

She wants to scream, but somehow she cannot. Her wailing is stuck in her throat and her hunger for revenge is cold and stale in her heavy limbs. Panting she clenches her hand around the scalpel, tightly. If she wished she could plant this thing deep in his face. She could make certain that he would truly become ugly beyond repair. But then the doors open and in comes—father.

‘Daella, what is this?’

Aerion lets go of her arm and she leans back, the scalpel almost falling from her grip.

‘Taking care of Aerion,’ she mutters quietly.

Father has crossed the distance between them in merely the blink of an eye. He grasps the scalpel from her hand brutishly, but then, as he looks at the tip of it, smudged with the black fluid and Aerion’s blood, it is not anger that flashes in his purple eyes. He looks almost sad.

She waits for him to say something. Certainly, he will be angry. He will cuss again, even though mother so often tried to make him stop doing that. At least in front of the children, and if he truly must, at least in front of their daughters.

Still, all ugly words she knows, she has learned from him.

‘You must not worry yourself with that,’ he finally says, returning the scalpel into the box.

Why does he speak like that? If she did not know him, she would almost say he sounds kind. She does not understand.

‘The Maesters are looking after him. Let him rest.’ He takes the box from her lap and then tugs at her shoulder to make her rise.

Looks are exchanged between her brother and father. Sad looks, angry looks, resentful looks. She does not understand. Has father finally rejected Aerion? Is that why he is not reprimanding her? Why is he so calm about this? Why does his hand rest on her shoulder gently? He leads her through the hallways of Ashford Castle.

‘Take this away,’ father grumbles to the first servant they come across, handing over the box.

‘That is mine, father, Rhae gave it to me!’

He ignores her. That she is used to. He takes her into the room where they’ve been breaking their fast the last few days. There he sits her down on a settee by the window. She expects him to turn away then, to take a seat at the table and start his reprimand from there. But instead he sits down next to her. There is still a fair distance between them, but he has not sat so close to her since mother’s funeral.

She knows why. She looks like mama.

‘I’m sorry, Daella. With all that has been going on, I…’ He falters and tries again. ‘I noticed you and the young lady Ashford got along well.’

Daella blinks. He understands nothing.

‘She hates me,’ she whispers.

‘Daughter—’

Burning hot with sudden anger, she bursts out, ‘Aerion made her hate me! You made her hate me!’

‘I am certain that she does not hate you,’ he says through clenched teeth.

Looking him dead in the eyes she demands, ‘Did you have to agree to that stupid trial, father? It was her birthday and you ruined it, because you did not call back Aerion!’

His eyes widen, pupils shrink. A shiver runs through his spine, but all Daella has ears for is the stale silence that follows, emphasizing the storm raging in her body. Her eyes are again wet and prickly with tears. She hates herself for it. She has been trembling and crying and hissing the whole day. She is more akin to a feral cat than to a girl of ten. A girl who should be beyond such childishness.

She bites down on her lip again. Iron burns on her tongue.

She half expects father to reprimand her. And maybe he would be right to do so. Uncle Baelor has died and father is grieving and he feels guilty, even though he should not in her opinion. She knows it has been hard for him and that her ruined friendship with Gwin pales against uncle Baelor being dead and burned to ashes now. So maybe he should tell her that she is behaving badly. It would be right, wouldn’t it? Even if it would hurt her even more.

Father’s reprimand does not come. Instead he shifts closer to her. He sighs and before she knows it she is smothered by his big arms. It takes a moment before she realizes—he is embracing her. This is a hug, from her father. Blinking away the tears, she lets out a whine and takes hold of his arms, keeping them close. He is big and warm and he smells familiar. Smells like home.

She wants to go home. Gwin may hate her, but Rhae does not.

‘I am sorry, Daella.’

‘Tis alright, papa,’ she mutters. ‘I just feel so… so… I miss mama.’

‘I know.’ He trails his fingers through her hair. The same color as mama’s. ‘I know.

[nightswatchyaoi]

Duncan, alone & only half a shipwright, finds himself on the wrong side of the law after beating a duke's second son and being accused of kidnapping the third. On the run and in need of funds, he is welcomed onto the ship of an enigmatic, laughing seaman captaining a ship known as Storm's End. However, Duncan's relief quickly turns sour when he realizes the boy who has been following him stowed away on the ship, and that he has inadvertently thrown his lot in with a crew of pirates. -- For the @hotd-bigbang prompt meme challenge, I chose "pirate au" Characters: Duncan the Tall, Aegon "Egg" Targaryen, Lyonel Baratheon Word Count: 7.3k Warnings: Depictions of violence & death (including old-timey gun violence), mentions of graphic violence, child endangerment if you squint

Dunk's ears rang. There was too much adrenaline running through him to hear what was actually going on in Ashford Pub as he struggled against the holds of the three guardsmen restraining him, half trying to free himself and half continuing to lash out against the cruel lordling that had broken the fingers of sweet Tanselle-Not-Too-Tall. Not too tall for him anyway—not that Dunk wouldn't have beat his arse for anyone else. It just stung more that he'd hurt the girl Dunk fancied, broken her fingers and ruined her happiness unless a surgeon could set them right for her. She painted when she wasn't serving hot ale and cold pies.

He panted and heaved as Duke Maekar's son, Aerion, awkwardly pulled himself off the ground, the sound slowly fading back in as Aerion spat blood on the worn floorboards. Then Aerion just looked at him, sizing him up like he wasn't a foot shorter and bloodied from Dunk's sore, bruised knuckles.

"Why would you throw your life away for that whore? She's hardly worth it."

He didn't respond to Aerion, just bucked against the guardsmen. One of them barely kept his arms around Dunk's bicep. Aerion ran his tongue over his teeth as he waited for the response that Dunk couldn't give.

"You've loosened one of my teeth. So we'll start by breaking out all of yours."

Rain hit the tip of Dunk's nose, startling him awake. He'd run all night after breaking free; ducking into alleys and uncomfortably folding himself up to hide behind corners and carts and barrels. He hadn't meant to sleep, only recover for a moment while he waited for dawn. He needed to find a ship setting out even though it pained him to leave everything behind: the bunkhouse that let him stay on for a month with minimal interest while he looked for a job, Raymun and the cider he brewed in secret in the corner of his room, the painting he'd bought off Tanselle when he should have bought eggs, Tanselle herself. He'd even miss the boy.

"No! Don't hurt him!" His high, clear voice rang out loud enough it could be heard over Dunk's grunts as he struggled, deterring the fourth man trying to aid in grappling him to his knees. Egg's cry made everyone stop, made Aerion turn around instead of watch in anticipation of Dunk's teeth being shattered.

"And you're the man my older brother said kidnapped Aegon?"

"What?" Dunk's voice felt so flat as he gaped at both Aerion and Egg.

Egg? The duke's missing son he'd heard about in passing? No, no. He was some poor orphan that had started following him around and loved adventure stories and believed Dunk when he said he'd finished his apprenticeship as a shipwright. Egg wanted to be a shipwright too (and an explorer, and maybe a cartographer if maps hadn't been made of the places he sailed to). What would Duke Maekar's son want to be a shipwright for?

"Aegon, what happened to your hai—" The boy cut him off, lunging for Aerion's knees before breaking left when his brother tried to grab him. One of the guardsmen darted towards Egg when he dropped to the floor and slid under a table.

"Run, Mister Duncan!"

Dunk pulled his hood further over his face as he walked the familiar path to the docks, the constant drizzle already seeping in through the old cloak from ten years ago. He had meant to get it treated again to keep the wet out, or maybe just replace it with a new one that actually came to his knees. He'd grown since Master Arlan gave him the wages that would pay for this one. He was ungainly tall, taller than everyone out right now and taller than everyone who'd be out later. Dunk stood out even though he hunched, even though it was actually raining and he had a reason to be wearing this too-short cloak that had stopped being the fashion ages ago. Not that he cared about the fashions, but it was probably just one more thing on the pile that made him easy to pick out.

He sniffed and told himself it was just the miserable weather and not because he was feeling sorry for himself. Master Arlan had said there wasn't any use feeling sorry for yourself and that you had to own up to all your choices because they were what made you who you are. And who Dunk was, was someone attached to having teeth in his head… and apparently someone who listened to eight-year-old boys that had spent the better part of two weeks lying to him. Liar or not though, Egg—Aegon, had been a good boy. He was quick and hard working and he cared enough about Dunk he hadn't wanted to see him get brutalized by the guardsmen Aerion wielded like a hammer.

All Dunk had done was stand up for Tanselle, and now he was likely to be killed for it because of who he'd fought and who the boy he'd been sheltering was and because he'd run from the scene when he got told to. If he'd kicked anyone else in the face he'd at most get a night in the clink for disorderly conduct. Meanwhile Aerion broke fingers and flipped tables and called for tenfold revenge, and nothing came of it because he was noble. It wasn't fair, but so little had seemed that way in the weeks since his old mentor had died.

Laughter cut through Dunk's sour mood like a hot knife through butter, and he jumped hearing it. His eyes darted over the heads of sailors and fishermen and dockhands until they landed on the source of the laughter: a man with dark curls poking out out from under his gold-trimmed cocked hat and wearing a saffron yellow coat stood before the only lowered gangplank at the docks, and in front of the extravagantly dressed sailor stood the harbormaster flanked by a pair of city watchmen. Dunk ducked behind a pile of crates, crouching so he could at least pretend he was hidden while he peeked over the stack to watch.

"Gentlemen, I am sure you're all reasonable enough to respect and understand that my men and I have urgent business," the golden sailor shoved a ringed hand into the pocket of his coat and started fishing around in it, "and with the sea being a fickle mistress, the best time to leave for it would be—oh—now." Dunk's eyes widened as he watched the sailor press a fat purse into the harbormaster's hand. He fully lowered himself to the wet planks of the docks and pressed his back to the crates, fingers ticking off some enormous sum he could only imagine at imagining, what with it being given out by a man who could put real gold on his hat and then stand to wear such a fine thing in the rain.

"Mister Wagstaff!" As the sailor called out, Dunk twisted to look over the crates again. The harbormaster and the watchmen had left, and the golden sailor with pockets full of money had turned and cupped a hand around his mouth to yell at a crewman leaning over the railing. Dunk saw the man take his first step up the gangplank.

"Wait!" In his hurried scramble to his feet he jostled one of the crates so far it almost slid from the stack and clattered to the docks. Dunk grabbed it with both arms as he yelled again for the other man to wait, half draping himself across the thing and causing the biggest scene the docks had seen since… well the last time he'd bumbled into something. Master Arlan had always told him he was too big not to watch what he was doing and where he was going, and even though Dunk had listened to him he found it hard advice to follow. There was so much to watch out for, and so much of him to trip into it.

The sailor giggled as he watched Dunk awkwardly pull the crate back into place. "Marvelous job, sir! Absolutely spectacular bungle! If you're an assassin, you're doing a piss poor job, but if you're the entertainment here I'm half a mind to toss you a coin!"

Dunk frowned, but dusted himself off and trudged down the docks towards the laughing sailor anyway. "You have done me a favor, sir."

"I have?"

He nodded towards where the harbormaster had been. "Aye. And for that I owe you a debt. Take me onto your ship, let me sail with you. I'm plenty strong, I'll do whatever jobs you give me and I won't complain about them. I-I—" Dunk started to falter as he saw the sailor's eyes glaze over and his attention drift from his face, and before he knew it, he was lying to him like he'd lied to Aegon. "And I'm a shipwright! I can—I can repair whatever needs it, make her sail like new if something happens to her." He inclined his head towards the ship as the sailor's dark eyes lit up. It was only half a lie, he'd almost finished his apprenticeship. And hopefully almost a shipwright was close enough to actually being one.

The sailor clapped him on the shoulder. "On top of being an absolute ox, you have offered a valuable service, Mister…?"

"Dunk—uh—Duncan."

"Just Duncan?" He asked, brows knitting together as his head tilted to the side. Dunk nodded.

The sailor sucked his teeth before throwing an arm around him, a huge grin lighting up his face. "Well, Just-Duncan, call me Lyonel!"

Awkwardly leaned into the other man to accommodate the 5 inches between them, Dunk let himself be led up the gangplank. "Thank you, Captain Lyonel! You won't regret taking me on on such short notice, I swear it!"

"Just Lyonel for now, we'll save 'captain' for later." He firmly pat Dunk on the chest twice as he continued, "make yourself useful and help us with our immediate setting out, and I'm sure the men will vote to keep you on. We'll pull out titles then."

"Voting? I thought—er, yes sir, Captai—Lyonel!" Lyonel wheezed out a laugh before finally releasing him. Then, with a smack on the arse to direct him where he wanted, he sent Dunk off to help with the rigging.

It was harder work than it had ever looked like while Dunk watched ships setting sail from the harbor with Master Shipwright Arlan Pennytree. More than once a red-headed sailor in all black and gray asked him "what kind of sailor are you" and Dunk had to keep saying "a new one," or "a shipwright, sir." But he was fairly certain he had caught on by the time they had shoved off and were catching the wind that would take them out to the open ocean.

It was still raining as Dunk stared at the horizon, the English coast and the city he'd called his home most of his life long gone. He felt queasy, and he wasn't sure if it was the unfamiliar rocking of the ship he'd learned was called Storm's End, or if it was his nerves. The crew still hadn't voted on keeping him or not, and the uncertainty of it all made Dunk grip the slick railing and toss the remainder of his supper from the night before into the ocean. Half a mince pie and a pint of Raymun's cider, now off-color and bitter tasting fish food. He was already hungry before all this, now Dunk was hungry and didn't have an appetite, not when he'd probably just throw up again.

Dunk let out a surprised sound between a grunt and a dry-heave when he was clapped hard on the back.

"Making a terrible case for yourself." Lyonel grabbed him by the collar and the belt and hauled him to stand upright away from the railing. Dunk just stared at him, wide-eyed and green-faced. "Go on, wipe your mouth, there's a good man! Need to be in as ship-shape as you'll make Storm's End if you want to convince these clammy-handed cunts half as well as you did me." Dunk grimaced as Lyonel led him, arm around his shoulders once again, to the center of the deck where all the men had gathered.

"We here to swear in your new man, Lyonel?" The blonde sailor the captain had called "Mister Wagstaff" laughed from where he sat on a barrel, flask in hand and rain dripping from the brim of his dark green hat.

"Fuck off, Theo!" The insult sounded like a joke when Lyonel said it. "We're putting Duncan here to a vote for if he joins us, or if we just drop him unceremoniously on the beach as soon as we get home." He jostled Dunk, squeezing his shoulders before shoving him into the center of the crowd. "Make your case, Mister Just-Duncan!"

Dunk shuffled awkwardly and scratched his neck, he hadn't thought he'd need to give a speech. "I've—uh—I've never sailed before, but… but I work hard at whatever task I'm given. You all saw that today, with my help getting us out." He swallowed thickly, desperate to keep down the bubbles in his stomach as his eyes darted across the crew. A sea of faces that all muddled together into one big set of eyes on him, one giant mouth ready to laugh or call him stupid. Even Master Arlan had called him thick-headed, and the old man had taken Dunk under his wing when he was only twelve. "I don't believe in making myself a burden, so I'll pull my weight while I'm here. My old mentor said I'm strong enough for two so… so it's a lot of weight. And—and he taught me to be a shipwright. When Master Arlan—my mentor—when he was young, he had a contract with the royal navy. It was up long before I met him, but everyone who knew him when he was young said he was just as good as when he maintained the king's ships! So… so stands to reason I'll maintain Storm's End with the same care His Majesty's ships see."

Theo Wagstaff laughed from his perch on the barrel. "Storm's End, a king's ship? No wonder Lyonel presented you to us. Still, can't turn down good maintenance offering itself up. I say 'aye,' let's keep this Just-Duncan on." That started it, a great wave washing through the council of sailors all giving their assent to Dunk staying with them. Dunk let out a shaky exhale as relief flooded him.

"Wooh! Welcome aboard, Duncan!" An arm slung around him again, the golden sea captain—Dunk's captain—steered him towards the door to his cabin. "Not a bad little speech, although I have some notes. Starting strong, I liked that part about the old girl being treated like royalty; really let me imagine myself as The Storm King of Nassau with my royal ship full of riches being maintained by my own personal shipwright"

Nassau. The pirate colony. Shit.

Dunk had to have heard wrong. He was thick-headed, just like Master Arlan had always said. There was probably some other colony Dunk had never heard of, in Canada or the like, with a similar name as the one in the Caribbean swarming with privateers and smugglers.

"You… you said where, captain?"

"Nassau, Duncan. Nassau. Rain get in your ears while you were slouching and looking down at your feet?" Lyonel slipped his arm from around him and strutted to his desk strewn with maps and ledgers that Dunk was now positive had to have been stolen. He dropped into the chair and propped his feet up, the damp from the soles of his boots staining one of the maps. The creaking of the ship and the rain against the window felt ominous now even though it was still such a soft, manageable rain. Dunk thought it should be storming, that lightning should crack behind Captain Lyonel and the great rack of antlers over his window should be sprouting out of his head like some kind of devil-king instead of a storm one. But maybe it only stormed when Lyonel wanted it to.

The worst part of this whole thnig was that Dunk was stuck now; an outlaw-on-accident among outlaws-on-purpose with nowhere else to go. Too many thoughts rolled around in his mind, all of them begging to be agonized over. Dunk grabbed at the first one he could just to rid himself of it. "I don't slouch." He winced, he felt stupid as soon as he'd said it.

"You were cowering like a vicar's daughter on her wedding night." Lyonel's feet thumped back onto the floor so he could lean forward, his elbow propped in the wet patch from his boots. "Now Duncan, I like you, but I won't have a man on my crew that doesn't have some pride in himself. God gave you tallness, so be tall. Otherwise, I will undo the men's decision to let you stay on and have you keelhauled or—"

"Don't hurt Mister Duncan!" The curtain separating Lyonel's bed from the main part of the cabin flew back and Aegon lurched forward, falling off the bed and landing in a heap on the floor. He was dressed finely now, like a tiny adult in an embroidered black velvet suit instead of a child in mismatched brown and blue wool sprinkled with mud. He scrambled to his feet, the hat covering his bald head falling off in the mad flurry of skinny limbs.

"Aegon?!" The boy winced at his own name, Lyonel started giggling at it. Dunk ignored both of them and grabbed Aegon by the collar of his little black coat so he could pull him to the side. The boy needed to know he meant business, but he didn't want to hurt Aegon. Dunk lowered his voice, it was the best he could do when they were crammed into the cabin along with a giggling pirate captain. "What are you doing here?"

"I couldn't stand being home! Aerion's a monster and father doesn't do anything about him and—and… I wanted to make sure you got away alright. I'm the one that told you to run, and Uncle Baelor always says you should take responsibility for things."

Lyonel's laughter was louder now, a proper wheeze as he strode across the floor and clapped Dunk on the back. "Oh Christ, fuck! Oh, this is good!" Each word came out between breathless giggles. "Not only—not only has a child somehow managed to sneak on board my ship and hide in my cabin, he's Duke Maekar's son and he's here for you." It wasn't a question. For all his laughter and his immediate casualness with Dunk that made Captain Lyonel come off as completely incapable of being serious, the man was perceptive, already having the long-and-short of the whole situation. A member of the royal family aboard a pirate ship leagues from shore, tiny and unarmed and vulnerable.

Dunk hadn't kidnapped the boy like his oldest brother had apparently told people he'd done, but Lyonel certainly could, and he was in the perfect position to turn a stowaway into a captive. Dunk moved the boy behind him and squared his shoulders, looming over Lyonel as he stood chest-to-chest with him. "Aegon's under my protection, captain."

Lyonel's grin only widened, open-mouthed with his tongue poking out between his teeth. He slapped both hands against Dunk's chest, fingers splayed as he just smiled up at him like a loon. "There you go, Duncan! Tall. We'll make a decent member of my crew out of you yet!"

Dunk's face screwed up in confusion as he glanced away from the captain. That wasn't the reaction he'd expected, but it certainly wasn't a bad one. When he didn't say anything, Captain Lyonel continued, his hands finally slipping from Dunk's chest so he could turn to properly look at the boy. "So what do we do with a child under your protection?"

"Can I stay on with Duncan?" Aegon asked, leaning as far around him as the hand Dunk had on him would allow. "I want to be an explorer and sail the seas and… and he was teaching me all about ship maintenance."

"You can't stay!" Dunk shot back. "Your grandfather's the king! And no one but your family goes about naming people things like 'Aegon.' I can't very well be telling you to do something and have men who'd take your little finger off to send Duke Maekar as proof they've got you before demanding a prince's ransom from him go and overhear your silly name!"

The boy's nose wrinkled and he frowned. "My name isn't silly! And you can just go back to calling me 'Egg' like you did before. I like that name better anyway, my brother Aemon gave it to me before he went off to Oxford and decided to stay there. Probably to get away from Aerion. And besides, they won't hurt me. Not when you're here." Aegon—Egg again—looked up at him then, his big eyes pleading and full of trust and the sort of hope you can only have when you're a child.

Dunk sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tugging the blonde strands as his head tipped back to look up at the ceiling of the cabin that wasn't terribly far from the top of his head now that he was looking at it. He wanted to say "no" to Egg, he needed to say "no" to him. This was barely a life for Dunk, it certainly wasn't one for a little boy used to feather pillows and servants. But even though he knew it wasn't what was best for Egg, Dunk couldn't make his mouth form the word "no." Not after everything they'd been through in those two weeks, not after seeing the boy's brother, not after Egg had run away from home for a second time just to find him, not when he trusted Dunk to fight off a whole crew of pirates for him.

"Ooh, alright! Just stop looking at me like that. Now, we've got to keep your head shaved, you've got to do what I tell you when I tell you, and I'm not going to treat you any different than I did before I knew you're not some orphan living in a gutter. And as soon as I find someone to mind you, you spend most of your time in Nassau. I'm not bringing you anywhere I know is dangerous."

Egg's eyes lit up and he threw his arms around Dunk's middle. "Thank you, Duncan! I'll be the very best apprentice you could ever have! Oh, think of all the adventures we're going to have!"

"Adventures?! This is a pirate ship!"

More loud, wheezing laughter. "You really are the gift that keeps on giving, Duncan! Been ages since I was this entertained." He scooped Egg's hat off the floor and plopped it back onto his head, then threw his arm around Dunk and put a hand on the boy's back to usher him towards the door. "We'll get Egg working with the cook or doing inventory to keep him from being underfoot, and don't worry about the men. I'll get them used to him, can't go losing the funniest fucking thing that's happened since that time in Spain with the goat and the priest and—say, you ever been to Spain, Duncan?"

"Erm, no, captain. I've never left England."

"Oh, shame. Delicious food, beautiful people. If I'm allowed back I'll take you, your boy too. You'll have a grand adventure with The Laughing Storm!" Dunk's heart dropped into his stomach as Captain Lyonel led him back out to the deck. Of course he'd had to go and throw himself at one of the most infamous pirates in the world.

Dunk still held the rigging he'd just finished checking as he squinted out over the sparkling ocean. Before he'd fled England eighteen days ago he had never known that water could be so blue. It was beautiful.

With his sea legs acquired and having gotten the hang of sailing, Dunk quite liked life at sea. So much so that he could almost forget that he'd become a real, proper wanted criminal by throwing his lot in with The Laughting Storm, but every night it all came back. It was like everything he worried himself sick over pooled in his ankles while he was up and working, doing some job that needed to be done or teaching Egg one skill or other he'd never picked up because someone else had done it for him all his life, and then he'd bunk down in a hammock that was slightly too small for him and it would all come rushing back into the rest of him. Like a stopped bottle that got knocked over.

"The boy wants you!" Dunk looked over his shoulder to see one of the crewmen who kept Egg out of trouble climbing out of the hatch that led below deck. He was at least as broad as Dunk while being a head shorter, and covered in hair everywhere save his head.

"R-right. Thank you, Mister Pate." He said with a nod.

Down below, Egg held a little ledger up to his face, the book braced on his arm as he carefully wrote down the inventory of repair supplies. His hat had been replaced with a scarf tied around his head, and he'd long ago abandoned the jacket of his suit. Stripped of half his finery, the boy looked more like when Dunk had first met him. He looked more at ease too.

"I'm here."

"Duncan!" The ledger and quill were dropped onto a crate and he spun around. "My hair is getting long enough we need to shave it again. But don't worry, I've already got your razor! I grabbed it this morning so you could do it whenever we had time." With that, Egg pulled Dunk's straight razor from the pocket of his breeches and held it above his head.

"Give that here! And what about the shaving lotion? I might knick you if I do it dry." Dunk pulled the sheathed razor from the boy's grasp before holding out his other hand expectantly. Egg dug around in his pocket and dropped the bottle into Dunk's hand.

Soon enough, Egg was perched on top of a cask of rum, his legs swinging as Dunk rubbed the shaving lotion onto his stubbly head. It was quiet with just the two of them, the only sounds were the creaking of the ship and the soft shink of the razor scraping away the evidence of Egg's royal blood.

"Are you having fun yet, Mister Duncan?" He asked, breaking the silence.

"Wha—shaving your head? How's that supposed to be fun?"

"I mean a life on the high seas as a great and storied pirate, a noble robber of those with excess, the Robin Hood the Atlantic!"

"Robin Hood?! You read too many stories, Egg. It ain't noble, it's just robbery. Pirates don't give their cargo away." Dunk brushed the fine, silvery hairs from Egg's shoulders. "For the grandson of the king, you're entirely too excited about being a pirate. What happened to making maps?"

Egg twisted around to look at him, determination in his big, deep purple eyes. "I can still do that as a pirate, which is even more exciting than the royal navy would be! I can go wherever I want instead of waiting around to be told to sail to the Americas or France or wherever grandfather says, and no one will shield me from everything going on just because of who my family is. I'll get to take part in real sea battles once I'm old enough to be trusted with a sword and a gun. And if I meet the second prettiest girl in the colonies with no money or noble family to her name and settle down on a tobacco farm with chickens and pigs, then no one can get upset because no one will know I've married down."

"The second prettiest? You've put a lot of thought into this for settling." Dunk said with a good natured chuckle, a teasing smile at the corners of his mouth.

"That's because you'll marry the prettiest one. Right, Duncan?" There was as much sincerity in Egg's question as there had been in his impassioned speech about the virtues of a life of piracy.

Dunk looked down at his feet, his grin going soft and less joking. It was hard not to get sucked in when the boy got like this. "Aye. Since I'm older and will get to her first."

The hatch that led above deck slammed open, flooding the area with so much sunlight that Dunk had to blink back the brightness. "Get your arse up here, Duncan! Yellow-Humfrey spotted sails!" Captain Lyonel sounded almost manic in his excitement as he yelled down to him. Dunk felt like he needed to lie down. He knew his first time doing actual piracy was going to happen at some point, but he had hoped he'd have more time to try to mentally prepare for it.

He took a few steps towards the ladder and then looked back at Egg just as the boy hopped off the cask. "You stay down here," he pointed at him, "Mister Pate or I will come get you when it's all over. I know you'll want to watch, but I can't have you getting shot if someone misfires."

"I'll stay out of trouble. And—and Duncan, you be safe too." Egg said, twisting his blue scarf in his hands. Dunk just nodded and stiffly climbed back up to the main deck.

It was chaos. Men were shouting and running about the deck, Quartermaster Theo Wagstaff barked to "raise the colors," and Dunk was nearly run into as one-eyed Mister Rhysling and Yellow-Humfrey rolled a barrel of gunpowder towards the cannon.

Above all the commotion Captain Lyonel's excited, booming laugh rang out. "Look alive you cunts; we're boarding a ship, not sneaking into your mothers' beds!" He spun towards the helm and pointed at Red-Humfrey. "Bring us in, Mister Hardyng! The chase is on!" His order was punctuated with more giddy laughter.

"Lyonel, fuck's our new shipwright doing on the deck?!" Quartermaster Wagstaff grabbed the captain by his lapel with one hand and motioned towards Dunk with the other. "He should be down below—"

"We'll be fine with the same men that always plug up the holes from gunfire. They've served us well, and I'll send Duncan to look at their work once we've taken the ship and whatever the fuck their cargo is. Theo, you can't look at a man that big and think he won't be good in a fight." The captain shrugged out of the quartermaster's hold and cupped the back of Dunk's neck, he pulled him so close their noses were almost touching. "You will fight something fierce for me, won't you?"

"Um, y-yes? Yes. You can count on me, captain."

He winked at Dunk before releasing him. "Good man! Now, keep your wits about you, don't fall when we're boarding, and remember to keep both eyes open when you aim." With that, Lyonel pulled one of his two pistols from his belt and held it up for Dunk to take. He stared at it with wide eyes, frozen in place for a moment before he forced his arm to move and his fingers to close around the offered flintlock. Pleased, Lyonel left Dunk behind and called for Mister Pate to get him a boarding axe.

Dunk did his best to practice aiming and to give the axe Mister Pate had given him a few test swings just to get the feel of it in his hand, but when they drew closer the boom of the canon firing at the mast of the ship they chased and the ceaseless gunfire of half the crew kept him from focusing. Dunk winced at how loud it was… and from nerves. He felt like he was going to throw up, but with his luck the minute he got to a clear bit of railing to toss his lunch over the side he'd get shot by some man on the other ship. And Dunk liked being alive, that was how he got in this mess in the first place after all.

"Get us to the broad side, Humfrey!" Lyonel's yellow coat billowed behind him both from the wind that the sails had caught and the speed he crossed the deck with. "Grappling hooks at the ready to lock us together!" He stopped by the hatch down to Egg's hiding spot and called down. "Boy! Get the grenades!"

Dunk didn't have time to protest Egg getting involved as men rushed about, sweeping him up in the process as Red-Humfrey got them into position to board. Musket balls whizzed past as grappling hooks sailed, hooking onto the other ship and embedding themselves into the wood.

Yellow-Humfrey cried out when he was shot in the shoulder, and Dunk rushed to grab the bomb the other man had just lit the fuse for. He scooped it up before it could roll too far, and lobbed it as hard as he could at the other ship. Dunk was fairly certain he saw it hit a man on the head before the blast went off. Another grenade was shoved into his hand and he was told "do that again." Dunk threw it as the surgeon dragged a groaning and swearing Yellow-Humfrey out of the way.

A roar rose up from the crew as the deck of the other ship cleared enough for them to rush aboard without all dying. Dunk was pushed towards Manfred, and his hands shook as he helped him position one of the planks to bridge the gap between the ships. The thud of it falling into place was so loud Dunk was scared he'd dropped it and it would slip and fall into the ocean.

Without a moment's hesitation, Captain Lyonel stepped up onto the plank and drew his sword. With the way his cutlass and the gold thread in his coat caught the light, and the way the wind blew his clothes and his hair, Dunk could almost understand all the romantic notions Egg had about piracy. "Onward! For gold and glory!"

Half a dozen other planks fell into place as Dunk was shoved behind the captain. He grabbed the axe at his belt with trembling fingers as he followed Lyonel into battle, his own half-panicked yell joining with the more enthused pirates as they charged after The Laughing Storm.

Dunk had only thought it was chaos on Storm's End when he was called to the deck for the chase. Aboard the merchant ship was brutal, hard to follow, loud and sweaty and swarmed with men that didn't have any jobs to fill other than "take" or "push back."

His axe fell to the deck as gunfire sounded uncomfortably close to him and made Dunk put his hands over his ears. The battle on the deck was barely audible now, a dull roar underneath the sharp ringing. The man from Storm's End who'd been nearest to him was down, eyes wide open and staring up at the sunny sky. Teeth gritted, Dunk whirled around until he saw the merchant with the smoking flintlock. With a shout that sounded more like popping in his ears, Dunk barreled into him, knocking the merchant to the ground. He might have never swung an axe or a sword in battle, and he might have never shot a gun, but he had thrown a punch before; countless of them before Old Arlan Pennytree had taken him in.

Dunk groaned when the merchant elbowed him in a flailing attempt to get out from under him as a little more of the noise from the men fighting all around him became audible. The merchant socked him in the jaw then, and Dunk's teeth clacked together painfully. He punched the man underneath him again, making his knuckles ache like when he'd gone after Aerion for what he'd done to Tanselle. The yelling was so loud Dunk couldn't hear anything else over it as the ringing in his ears faded

"It's over!" Manfred shook him as he spoke. Dunk's face screwed up in confusion as his eyes swept around the deck. The yelling he'd half heard wasn't more fighting, it was cheering. Digging a finger in his ear, Dunk shrugged the red-headed pirate off and lumbered to his feet.

"What happened?" He asked as he looked down at Manfred.

"Surrender. Everything down below's forfeit to us." Manfred stamped his foot on the bloody deck for emphasis. Dunk nodded slowly before extending his hand for the merchant he'd just been wailing on. The man blinked up at him, bruised and bewildered, before tentatively taking the offered help.

"Mister Duncan!" Dunk spun towards Storm's End as Egg called out for him, and his eyes went wide when he caught sight of the boy. There he was, arms spread out to help him balance, scrambling across the boarding plank. "Mister Duncan, are you alright?!"

He rushed to Egg as Manfred yelled "what about the rest of us?" and lifted him off the plank as soon as he was close enough to reach. Dunk put him down with no small amount of care, and then jabbed a finger in his face. "Egg, I told you to stay put!"

"The captain told me to get grenades, I couldn't ignore his orders! And then if I was already above deck I thought I might as well just board this ship to check on you as soon as the fighting was over. And it's over, so I wanted to know if you're hurt."

Dunk pressed his lips into a line and sighed hard through his nose as he glowered at the boy. When Egg looked down at his feet and mumbled a sad little "sorry," Dunk patted his shoulder. He didn't have the heart to clout him on the ear about disobeying, not when the whole thing had been such a confusing mess. "I'm fine, Egg. Just wait next time. At least do that part of what I told you instead of presuming things."

"Yes sir!" Egg said, nodding hard.

"Duncan, I need you down below to help sort cargo! And to manhandle things. The boy can come too; carry the small stuff." Captain Lyonel yelled as he crossed the deck, the ship's manifest clutched in his hands. Egg's eyes lit up, and he raced after the captain on his trek to the hold. Dunk followed them, a handful of the other men falling into step with him as the rest went to ready Storm's End for her new cargo.

"Spices, tea, coffee…" Captain Lyonel slapped his palm against every crate he passed. "Ooh, that's nice. Might try to keep that one." He paused briefly to look at several bolts of fabric, and Dunk had no idea which one he was talking about.

"Is this it?" Egg whispered, disappointed and judgmental.

"Hush. I told you it's not like your stories." Dunk whispered back.

"There we are! The keys Captain Stokeworth so kindly gave us!" Lyonel held his hand out, ringed fingers wiggling expectantly as Quartermaster Wagstaff dropped them into his upturned palm. The lock in the hidden door clicked, and Lyonel threw it open wide. This second part of the hold was smaller, and the glitter of silver and jewels hidden away in it undid everything Dunk had just said to Egg as the boy ran into the secret room with an excited cry.

The captain shoved the manifest into Theo Wagstaff's hands and strutted in after Egg. Dunk followed him, dumbstruck and with eyes wide as saucers. He'd never thought he'd be in the same place as half this amount of finery. Carefree, Captain Lyonel perused everything he could readily get his hands on.

"Chocolate must be in these…" Theo mused, looking down at the manifest as he ran his fingers over a crate. "Silk's over there." As the quartermaster took inventory of the secret room, Dunk peered into a box and carefully lifted a necklace that wouldn't be out of place on the neck of a lord's wife.

"Perfect!" Lyonel pulled a fine silver tea service from an open crate, the protective cloth wrapped around it falling away from the elegantly shaped teapot. "Egg! Carry this back to my cabin. And be careful not to drop it, it's for my wife."

Dunk dropped the necklace and gaped at the captain as he handed off the pieces of the silver tea service to the boy. Egg only looked half as shocked as Dunk, but Dunk had never been good at hiding what he thought of a situation.

"Lyonel, you—you're married?"

"For seventeen years." Lyonel smiled at him, proud and giddy like he'd just announced he'd accomplished some great feat. Dunk was still hung up on the captain having a woman in his life.

The captain, caught up in the apparent joy of this wife he'd had for the better part of twenty years, strode over to Dunk and threw an arm around him. "You'll meet her when we're back home. Ah, you'll love her, Duncan! Bit of a stickler, but she's a good time. Quick wit, good for a laugh, nice tits—hopefully Alarice likes you as much as I do. That's half the battle." Dunk just nodded along, too dumbstruck to do anything else. Egg, meanwhile, stood there with his mouth drawn up and his barely visible eyebrows furrowed.

"Did you say 'Alarice,' captain?" Egg finally asked.

Lyonel's grin widened, the same mischievous, far-too-entertained smile from when Egg had first popped out from behind the curtain in the cabin and started making demands about Dunk's safety and getting to stay aboard the ship. "Yes, yes I did."

As Egg's eyes widened, taken aback in the sort of way you only can be when some important revelation happens, Captain Lyonel started laughing. Dunk had no idea what was going on, and felt like he was at least twenty paces behind everyone else. Dunk the lunk, strong as an ox and twice as slow; that's what Master Arlan had always said. He probably wouldn't pick up on whatever Egg had until that night, assuming it was something he even knew to begin with. The boy had a habit of saying things you only learned from tutors hired by the wealthy, and then acting like it was common knowledge.

"Well then! If an earl's missing sister can run away and marry a pirate captain, and then be fine for seventeen whole years, then my running away to be a pirate myself is not so strange or ill-fated. There's your proof of it, Duncan. And here," Egg said with a triumphant smile on his face as he lifted the silver tea service, "is your proof that it will be as glorious as my stories you said it won't be like." With that, the boy spun on his heel and marched out into the main part of the hold. Dunk stared at his tiny, retreating form as the captain started giggling harder. Lyonel was fully leaning on him, shoulders shaking with his laughter.

With an audible sigh, Captain Lyonel patted Dunk's chest and then let go of him. "He's an audacious one, I'll give the boy that. Now come on, Duncan, let's get all this shit loaded onto Storm's End before my whole beard's gray."

[lemoncakesandwine]

For the @hotd-bigbang AKOTSK prompt meme event!

Pairing: Dunk & Egg

Warnings: Graphic Description of Corpses | Implied/Referenced Suicide | Past Execution / Branding | Character Deaths Prior To The Beginning Of The Story

Wordcount: 7.2K words

Summary: After befriending an orphan and taking him on as his squire, Dunk rides to Ashford in the hopes of finding service. His days as a hedge knight are now behind him as he tries to make his way in a realm struggling to rise in the aftermath of a disease that cut through much of the known world.

Prompt: Post-Apocalyptic AU.

A/n: This story takes place in 209 AC. Headcanon for what lead up to this story can be read here.

The way to Ashford dragged on like a never-ending river of cracked earth overgrown with grass and shrubs.

Dunk knew this way was the safest, but the plodding was so slow it tested even his temper. Still, he kept an easy pace—not just for the horses’ sake, but for the shaved-pate little boy he met while on his journey.

Egg rode Chestnut as well as a boy of nine could—with more vigour than patience or skill. The old stot took to him well enough, and bore his childish attempts at riding with as much patience as he could muster. Thunder followed, his lead tied to Chestnut’s saddle. Dunk smiled, then closed his eyes when a cooling breeze swept through his hair. It smelt faintly of flowers and pine, the same scents it carried when he met Egg.

They had crossed paths an hour after dawn outside the doors of an old inn—the only inn to be found for many a league. Dunk had finished his meal—the last decent one he was likely to have for many days. He had indulged for once, as a rare reward. It was fresh bread with diced ham and eggs, and the apples that followed had been gathered from the inn’s obliging apple trees. A king’s repast for most these days, it had been given to him with a kind hand. Then he had paid and left. He could not afford to tarry any longer. He had to get on with his journey.

Egg had emerged from a nearby stream, dripping wet and with his feet caked with mud. He stopped to dry himself on a roughspun cloak lying out in the sun. Dunk greeted him and asked his name. He asked where he came from—where his parents were. Did he live in the inn? The boy said no. He then named himself Egg and dubbed himself an orphan, and begged Dunk to take him. There was no one else for him. 

“Please, ser,” he had pleaded. “Take me with you.”

Dunk had refused at first. All the coin he had to his name was a soiled cloth purse filled with five silver stags, nineteen copper pennies, and a chipped garnet. The others—his sword and his steeds—he would not sell. Not yet, in any event. So he had said no. He could not possibly provide properly for a hungry, growing child. Why, he barely managed to keep himself and his horses alive. The burden was too great for him to carry.

“Go on, lad,” he had said at the time, though not unkindly. “Find another master. Go work there; the lady will take you in, I wager. But I… I cannot hope to take you on.”

The little boy had said nothing. He did not stoop to pick up the copper Dunk fished out of his purse and flicked at his feet. He waited until Dunk had mounted Sweetfoot and pursued him instead.

Egg had run behind the horses as they trotted over clay and weeds and hard-packed soil, his little feet kicking up dust each time he dug in his toes or kicked away a pebble. He had not called out. He had not shouted for Dunk to stop and stay. Yet Dunk had known he was there—the hair that had stood on the back of his neck told him he was being followed. When he had glanced back over his shoulder, the boy darted off the road and dived toward the trees. The sight had made Dunk laugh and stop.

“Come out, lad,” he said. “I know you are there.”

The boy appeared, brushing the leaves off his cloak. His eyes were wide, and hope flickered in their depths. It was as if he were looking at Dunk like he was the first raft in a wide, dark sea. Something had cracked in Dunk’s heart then. He could not leave the child by himself. So he took the boy on.

“Ser?” Egg said, looking at him strangely and shattering the companionable silence they each dwelled in since the moment Egg took to Chestnut. “Are you well?”

Dunk shook his head. “Got lost in myself, lad, that is all.”

Egg shrugged and gestured to the trees. “Do you see them, ser?” He pulled his cloak closer. “My mother told me of Old Gods. She said they lived in trees. She said they watched. Is that true? Do they watch us?”

Dunk looked up at the same trees, a tremor gripping his chest when they towered over him. “I do not know, lad,” he said, urging Sweetfoot into a trot. “But best not to linger and offend them anyway.”

They rode on while the light slowly died, hemmed in on either side. There were so many trees now—pine and birch and oak—and so few to fell them for wood. The Stranger had called a vast host of souls into his embrace.

It all began with a ship that had sailed in from another land four years past. It carried silk and sugar and jewels, and a sickness that had no known name. A plague unlike anything the realm had ever witnessed surged through it until it tired of the death it had left behind. Well over a year had passed since it was last heard of, but the desolation it caused could still be keenly felt. More than once, Dunk had to stop while a herd of cattle or a flock of sheep raced across his path, utterly wild and without a guiding hand to keep them out of mischief. Or he had ridden past an abandoned manse or a ransacked keep. His limbs had prickled with dread when he considered the fate of those who lived there.  

But he himself was still alive, Seven save him, and without a master to serve. Old Ser Arlan was dead—gone now for nigh on half a year, his corpse food for worms beneath the soil. Dunk had seen to the rites himself, though he was poor with his words. Still, the old man was given as grand a funeral as Dunk could manage—near the roots of an old thorn tree, with only a robin as his witness. Ser Arlan deserved better. That he could not provide better had shamed Dunk.

He looked over at Egg, who was scratching Chestnut’s neck.

Four days passed since they first met, and Egg proved good as a squire. He groomed Dunk’s horses, saw to his camp and his food, and even began darning where he could. Dunk had to teach him how to do it better. Egg had small hands and sure fingers, but they were soft—so very soft. Time and again, Dunk found himself looking at those hands. They did not belong to an orphan who lived a hard life. Instead, they belonged to a little lordling who was spoilt from the moment he was placed in his mother’s loving arms. How could this be so? What could he be hiding? Then Dunk would shake his head and return to the task at hand. What did he know about lordlings and orphans?

“Ser,” Egg pointed to his left. “I can see a roof. Over there. We could sleep there.”

“We could,” Dunk said, wary. “Let me see.”

He called out, his voice surprisingly clear and light for a man of his stature. It carried all around, echoing through the gaps in the trees. No one answered in return. Dunk called out again and waited. When silence greeted him a second time, he put his heels to his horse, and she walked down a winding little path to a sprawling farmstead. Its field—vast enough to speak of some wealth—had given way to wildflowers and brambles. Its barns and stables were abandoned, and their stalls were empty. The door to the house was thrown wide open. It was also silent. Uncommonly so. Dunk believed they could stay the night here. But he had to see for himself if they could. He did not want them to wander unexpectedly into a den of thieves and be caught unprepared.

Dunk dismounted, commanding Egg to stay where he was. He stalked through the open entryway and looked around. He took in the shadows that gathered at the corners, the dust that lay thick on the table, and the cobwebs that hung long and heavy from dark wooden beams. There was no sign of life—no evidence another soul had come this way. Yet Dunk did not drop his guard. He drifted from room to room, his stomach tightening into knots when he found the door to the last of them was closed. Still, he persevered. He pushed it open and stepped in, only to stop midway.

Lying on a bed stained a dark shade of rust, painted by the golden light of the setting sun, were the bones of a person—a woman, Dunk thought. Moths had been at her dress. Her hair was wisps of long, dried strands of blonde. She clutched onto the hilt of a little dagger that lay flat by her side, its blade glinting as if still sharp. Her skull tilted to the open window at the other end, the vacant hollows for her eyes fixed on the warped glass. Dunk crossed to it and looked out. In the field beyond, beneath the leaves of an oak tree, seven stone markers rose out of the earth, covered here and there with moss.

Seven markers.

Seven graves.

And against all odds, the one in the bed outlived them—only to succumb to a different kind of death inside this forgotten room. She had been like those who escaped the Stranger’s Great Reckoning, only to find they could not bear to go on after that. Dunk thought to offer a prayer, but words failed him. So he did the only other decent thing he could. He left and shut the door behind him, carefully making his way back to the receiving room. His mind still lingered on the seven markers outside—the woman on the bed. Egg need not see all of that. His young eyes would have seen plenty already; he did not need Dunk to add more fodder to whatever nightmares that came to him at night.

“It is safe, lad!” He shouted out a window. “Tie up the horses! Then come inside and take your rest!”  

Egg stepped over the threshold a little while later. He spread his cloak over the clay floor and sighed in contentment.

“We are near Ashford now,” Dunk said. “Do you still mean to serve me?”

“Yes, ser,” Egg said, determined.

“Even with work that may break your back?”

“Yes, ser.”

“You are a fool, lad,” Dunk said, and not for the first time. “You could have stayed at that inn and served. Warm food for your belly and a clean place to lay your head, with a kindly woman for a mistress. Easy living for an orphan. No one with wit would have said nay to that.”

“I did not want to do it.”

“You should have,” Dunk said. But then his lips had curled up at the corners when he looked the boy over. “Look at you. You are all sharp elbows and knees. And three apples tall.”

Egg looked down at himself, lifting up his sleeves and the hem of his robe to see the truth of Dunk’s words in his shoulders and knees. He pouted, his eyes flashing with defiance.

“Mind yourself, lad,” Dunk said before Egg could retort. “Or I will clout you on the ear.”

“But you never do, ser,” Egg said boldly, wicked humour driving out the defiance in his eyes.

“Perhaps I should,” Dunk tossed back, though without heat. “Then you will remember your courtesies and your pledge to serve me. You wanted to be a squire, did you not?”

Egg made a face. “I did.”

“Good. Now fetch the waterskin and soak the beef. We can eat before we go to sleep.”

Later that night, they supped on slices of salt beef and wild berries that they had foraged along the way. The beef was tough like old leather, but the berries were still juicy and sweet. Egg’s lips were stained a deep purple when they had finished. Dunk’s was no better. They laughed about that, a knight and his squire with lips the colour of dark wine. Then they stretched out on the hard floor, their cloaks featherbeds for the night. Egg wished for a proper bed, but Dunk forbade it. So they slept the night away in the room they were in.

At dawn, they took to their saddles once again. The road was still long, but it was cleaner now. The soil was smoothed over. Loose stones had been swept away. Holes had been filled in with fresh earth, and the weeds had been ripped out. They rode faster but did not think they would reach Ashford before duskfall.

Halfway through the remainder of their ride, Egg, seeking some amusement, sang. His voice was thin and high but melodic—too melodic for an orphan who had never received a lesson a day in his life. Dunk shook his head and listened. What would he know of the orphans in these parts? Perhaps Egg’s mother had served a woman of high birth—and he may have been allowed to sit with the noble children while they took their lessons. Yes. That had to have been it. Egg’s mother served a noble. So much about him was clearer now.

“There it is,” Dunk finally said, when he caught a glimpse of a stone post looming ahead. “Ashford.”

Faded orange glowed as if aflame amidst the sunset’s haze, as did the white sun-and-chevron of House Ashford. Egg stiffened in his saddle, his hands tightening around the reins.

“What troubles you, lad?” Dunk wanted to know. “I am only taking you to Ashford; not the king’s justice.”

Egg, startled, turned to look at him. Blue eyes dark enough to pass for purple blinked. “Pardons, ser.”

“No need to beg my pardon,” Dunk said. He wrinkled his nose when a foul stench filled his every breath and tugged at Sweetfoot’s reins. The mare had sidestepped, as if startled by the vile odour. “Now remember, when we arrive, you must—”

He froze and instinctively held out his arm, to stop Egg from going any further. But it was too late. Egg had already levelled with him, his face draining of all colour when he looked over his outstretched arm and saw what Dunk did.

Hanging on the branches of a nearby oak were three men dressed in shabby array—and dead by a few days, by the look of them. Their skin was waxy and pale, and their eyes had already sunk into their sockets. Dunk’s gaze dropped to each of their left cheeks, scabbed over with the dark purple brands left behind. They were in High Valyrian, but the warnings they imparted were plain enough for even Dunk to understand. The word for thief. The word for slaver. These men tried their luck with Ashford’s anointed Reeves and paid a steep price for their loss. Justice was finally spreading; the law was being upheld.

Egg eyed them, now green instead of pale. “Ser?” he whispered. “Shall we go?”

Dunk nodded, more than a little green himself. “Aye.” He reached over and touched the boy gently on the shoulder. “Tis a terrible sight, lad, but such is the way of the world. A squire must be strong. He will see bad and worse.”

“I will try, ser,” Egg said quietly.

They left the dead behind.

Neither of them spoke the rest of the way. The sight of those men had unnerved them. They had not even dared to stop by a withered apple tree to pluck early fruit flushed with bright red and green. Stealing fruit and grain was a grave crime now—so grave, in fact, lords and ladies with coin took knights and soldiers into their employ to guard their fields and their orchards, instead of simply waiting on the Reeves to descend and do their bloody work. No one dared go against them. Not unless they wished to swing from a tree.

By the time they reached Ashford Meadow, the sun was but half a blazing disc above the tops of trees. Others trudged past them, their shadows spreading long across the new grass. Each of them carried full baskets strapped to their backs—strawberries and blackberries, potatoes and parsnips and beets, enough to be rationed out and keep the city fed. Some of them cast envious glances at the horses—the ones who rode them. Many of the others averted their eyes. They had strange markings on their cheeks—flies and tears, flowers and weapons and beasts. Those who did not looked at them with suspicion.

“Why do they have those marks, ser?” Egg asked.

“They were slaves,” Dunk said, recognising the pink flower branded on a woman’s cheek.

She was a pillow slave from Lys. Once, he had seen one of them in King’s Landing, when he was a boy of one and ten. She was dressed in plum silks that brought out the amethyst of her eyes. To Dunk, she was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. She had smiled at him and given him a few coppers to buy food for himself. It had been the first sliver of kindness Dunk had tasted in his young life.

“They have come seeking a kinder life,” he finished quietly.

“The others do not like them, ser.”

“They are from Essos, lad. That is why.”

A guard arrayed in a worn surcoat of white and orange held up his hand and stopped them at the castle’s open gates. “State your business,” he said.

“I wish to speak to m’Lord of Ashford, ser,” Dunk said. “Or his steward. I wish to be taken into service.”

“I am no ser,” the man muttered. He narrowed his eyes. “Too many men come seeking Lord Ashford. He turns them away. Try your luck with his steward. Plummer is the name.”

Egg leaned forward. “Where is Plummer…” He twirled his hand, seeking the man’s name.

“Grasson is my name,” the man said gruffly. “Come along. I will show you where he is.”

Dunk looked at Egg. “Make our camp by that brook we saw on the way. By the elm tree. See to Thunder and Chestnut. I will return soon enough.”

For a while, Egg remained where he was, his arms crossed. Dunk did not yield to him. He too remained where he was, unmoved, then softened when Egg took Thunder’s lead and turned. His shoulders drooped in defeat as he rode back.

“Stubborn one, that,” Grasson said.

“He may be stubborn,” Dunk said fondly, “but he is a good lad. He serves me well.” 

Grasson shrugged. “Make haste. Plummer will stop seeing callers soon.”

Ashford Castle proper was a stone structure built in the shape of a triangle. Round towers rose thirty feet at least at each point, and thick, crenellated walls ran between. Frayed flags flew from its battlements, displaying the sigil of its ruling lord. Men stood to attention along the wall walk, their eyes fixed on Dunk. Dunk ignored them, though his ears burnt from the way they looked at him.

“Over there,” Grasson said, pointing to a tower built into an angle of the curtain wall. “The door is still open. You can see him now.”

“My thanks.” Dunk dismounted with ease and gave Sweetfoot over to a stable boy for grooming. “This one likes oats if you have them,” he told him. “And apples, if you have them to spare.”

“She will get whatever we have,” the stable boy said, and led the white palfrey away.  

Dunk stared. The boy was an insolent wretch. He was also thin and tired, and no doubt very hungry. Dunk bit his tongue. He had no right to make demands of anyone here, not even those who carried out the lowliest of tasks. He was no one to them as yet.

The tower of the steward was squat and small. A fire burnt cheerfully in the stone hearth. Dunk paused briefly before going further. He found Plummer seated at his table. A gaunt man with a pinched face and thin, greying hair, he was occupied scratching out mistakes on a piece of parchment with a sharpened black quill. When Dunk stepped into the dimly lit room that passed for a receiving chamber and the floorboard creaked beneath his dry, cracked boots, Plummer looked up, his tired eyes widening as he took in the enormity of Dunk’s height and size.

“The gods have been kind to you, I see,” he remarked, returning to his parchment. “What do you seek?”

“Service, m’lord,” Dunk said. “I wish to pledge my name to Lord Ashford.”

Plummer set down his quill and stretched his arms. “Your name?”

“Ser Duncan the Tall. I squired for Ser Arlan of Pennytree. The old man caught a chill and died.” Dunk drew out his sword for Plummer to see. “This was his. He bade me to take it before he died. He asked me to wield it with honour.”

Plummer appraised the blade—a longsword that was simple but well made—without even reaching for it. He nodded wordlessly with approval. 

“A sword worthy of the name, I dare say,” he said. “Yet I have never heard of this Ser Arlan of Pennytree, nor you, for that matter. Pray tell me… Ser Duncan the Tall. Who stood as witnesses to your dubbing?”

“None, m'lord. Only the sun that shone brightly on us.”

“That will not serve,” Plummer pointed out. He slumped into his chair and drummed his fingers against the table. “I need witnesses, do you understand? Too many men abroad are claiming to be knights these days—thieves and rapers and worse, hoping to slip the Reeves’ noose.”

“I am not them,” Dunk protested, sheathing his sword. “M’lord.”

“So you say,” Plummer sighed. “Work we have aplenty, and not enough hands to tend to it. If you are what you claim to—”

“I am.”

“Then I will speak to Lord Ashford. But I make no promises, mind.”

“Thank you, m’lord,” Dunk said and started for the door.

“I am not finished.” Plummer summoned him back. “I would be remiss if I did not tell you this. If you refuse your duties after we reach an accord, we will claim all your wealth. Your steed, your coin, even your blade. Such is the way now. Do you still wish to put down your name with us?”

“Yes,” Dunk said, his cheeks heating at the notion of having to forfeit all he held dear. “But you need not worry, m’lord. I will honour my word.”

“Very well. I will speak to Lord Ashford on the morrow. He is with Lord Tyrell and does not wish to be disturbed.”

“Lord Tyrell?” Dunk blurted. “As in, Leo Longthorn?”

“The very same. What of it?”

“Ser Arlan fought for his father once. If he vouches for me, will you take me into your service then?”

“Aye. It can be done. Bring him with you when you call on me next. I shall see where to place you.”

Dunk stepped out into the yard. He was hopeful—the first time in many a turn of the moon. He would have a roof over his head, a pallet to lay his head on, and a decent meal to fill his belly. No more riding from one desolate road to another; all that was needed was for Leo Longthorn to speak on his behalf.

If he wished to do so, that is.

When Dunk returned to the stables, the sun had sunk beneath the trees, and torches were all that remained to light his way. He needed to leave before the hour grew too late. Egg needed to hear fortune might turn her gaze their way.

Suddenly, a blare of trumpets sounded just outside the city walls, deep and loud and menacing. A large party of men-at-arms and archers poured in, their horses splendid but frothing at the mouths as they thundered toward the castle.  

Dunk kept to the stable doors. He hid and watched with bated breath while the visitors drew to a stop just outside the stable walls. A hundred men made up the throng—and perhaps a hundred more. A most imposing party, armed and armoured to the teeth, no less. Their banners snapped and rippled as they rode. One of them caught Dunk’s eye—a red three-headed dragon against a field of black, breathing scarlet flame. House Targaryen had come to Ashford.

“Our Lord of Ashford humbly welcomes His Grace, Baelor Targaryen, the second of his name,” a herald standing by the doorway sang in a sweet voice. “King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.” A big, red-faced man with dark hair hurried out, bracketed by two women—one young and one older—who were a match to each other in many ways. “His brother, Maekar, Prince of Summerhall and Hand of the King. His grace, Prince Valarr. Heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone.”

Dunk jerked. The king was here. His son and brother were here. He huddled deeper into shadows and watched.  

“Your grace!” Lord Ashford cried, bowing low. “It is a great honour to receive you!”

The king alighted first and walked toward his hosts instead of simply waiting for them to come to him. He clasped Lord Ashford by the forearm, then kissed Lady Ashford on both cheeks. His dark hair was now streaked with silver, and his beard was more pepper than dark. His oft-spoken-of mismatched eyes of blue and brown were weary and haunted, and his cloak was travelled-stained and dusty. Despite this, he held himself with a kingly dignity, and he spoke to Lord and Lady Ashford with graciousness and ease.

“My lord of Ashford,” he said. “My lady. It is a great honour to be received by you both.”  

By then, the others were dismounting, and grooms came forward to take their horses. Lord Ashford presented his daughter, a maiden no older than five and ten. She curtsied deeply to the king, then to the man who stood a pace behind him.  

He was as tall as Baelor but thickly built, with shorn silver-gold hair and a beard already touched with the first strands of frost. A spiked mace hung at his belt. A heavy silver brooch, wrought in the shape of a hand, glinted on the breast of his tunic. Dunk’s eyes narrowed on the brooch. A name from among those called out before struck him like a bolt from the blue.

“Maekar,” he said to himself.

No sooner had he finished, a lord in Tyrell gold and green followed the Lord and Lady of Ashford out into the open. A man dressed like a begging brother walked in step beside him. But the begging brother was not without adornment. A chain of high-office—linked seven-pointed stars adorned with gems the colour of the rainbow—glittered brilliantly. Baelor greeted the Tyrell man first, addressing him in a hushed voice, as if he were someone of very high standing. The holy man waited his turn, fussing with a ring as he did so. He bowed deeply to the king when he had his attention, his voice deep and rich as he offered his own greetings.  

“Your grace,” the man said. “Be welcome to Ashford.”

“Your High Holiness,” Baelor said, taking the High Septon’s hand—for it could have only been the High Septon—into his and raising it to his lips to kiss his ring. “Your journey was without trouble, I trust.”

“Alas, it was not, your grace,” the High Septon huffed. “But pray come inside and wash the mud off yourselves.”

“My thanks,” Baelor said. “But first, allow me to present you to my son.”

He invited a young man to come forth. “Valarr? Come.”

The young man marched up to the king and bowed. He was as comely as his sire but shorter—and leaner. A flash of silver-gold slashed across his dark brown hair—the only part of him that looked truly Targaryen. Yet he was just as gracious, and his words were no less warm. He greeted Lord and Lady Ashford, then turned to kiss the High Septon’s ring. He uttered something that Dunk did not catch. Whatever it was, it made the servant of the Seven throw back his head and laugh. Baelor merely smiled, but there was softness there, and a father’s pride.

Dunk shifted. That was when he saw him.

He was young—of an age with Valarr, perhaps, and no older. He stood a foot apart from the rest and was unlike Valarr in many ways. He was of middling height, with curls of silver-gold framing a face that was sculpted and imperious. He wore a mantle as black as night, but his raiment was all flame, with silks of gold and yellow and crimson that caught the light and bewitched the eye. Here was the blood of lost Valyria minstrels waxed poetic about in their songs in its truest, purest form.

“My son,” Maekar said. “Aerion Brightflame.”

Aerion was charming, to be sure. He greeted his king’s hosts with courtesy, but when he locked eyes with Dunk for a moment, the warmth in his smile vanished, and his lips curled in distaste. Dunk looked away and pressed further into the shadows. To his relief, Lord Ashford spoke again.

“Be welcome in my home,” he said, looking over his guests’ shoulders. “Where are the others, pray?”

“Daeron and Aegon have been delayed,” Prince Maekar grumbled. “Some diversion caught my oldest son’s eye, and he insisted on savouring it for himself. They have not come yet?”

“The spring rains have swollen many streams,” the High Septon said. “Perhaps your sons had to find another way to reach us.”

“Indeed,” Baelor said. “Come, brother. Daeron and the others will be here soon; I am certain of it.”

Maekar tightened his jaw. “You would show more concern if they had been your own.”

“Daeron is perfectly safe, brother,” Baelor replied evenly. “So is Aegon. We have nothing to fear.”

“That may be so,” Maekar harrumphed, displeased. “But I will still not leave this to chance.” He turned and looked at one of the armed men. “Take a dozen of your finest,” he commanded, “and set off as quick as you can. If you have not returned by the third day, I will ride out myself.”

“It shall be as you will it, my prince,” the man said. 

While Lord Ashford called his guests inside, the Tyrell lord lingered. Dunk waited until he was alone to approach. When he was, he seized his chance and rushed to him, dipping down to one knee when the man turned to face him.

“M’lord Tyrell,” Dunk began earnestly. “Are you Leo Longthorn himself?”

“Indeed I am,” Leo said.

“Would you consider me bold if I asked a boon of you, m’lord?”

Leo studied him with a critical eye before he bade him to rise. “What boon do you wish to ask of me?”

“Your good word, is all. I wish to enter service here, m’lord. And cannot do so unless Lord Ashford agrees or you vouch for me.” Dunk stared at Leo’s doublet, his eyes swimming in the gold Tyrell rose picked out in heavy thread, unwilling to raise his gaze. “I served Ser Arlan as his squire before he thought to knight me. He fought for your father during the conquest and bled for him in the end.”

“My father took a great many men with him during the conquest. He spoke of a few, but never of Ser Arlan. I do not know of him. I cannot vouch for you.”

Dunk dared to look him in the eye then. “But Ser Arlan fought under the Tyrell banner! Surely your father must have said something!”

“He did not, alas.” Leo clapped a hand on his shoulder, his voice laced with pity. “Forgive me, ser. Too many men have already used my good name—and sullied it for their own gain. I will not lend it for another to take and desecrate as they see fit. But come inside and take your ease before you leave. I will ask the servants to find a place for you in the hall."

Dunk did not press the matter any further.

He accompanied Leo into the Great Hall—a room vast enough to seat only fifty, if not a few more—his hopes crumbling one by one like castles of sand caught in the wind. Each step he took was sluggish, as if he were weighed down by lead. When a servant appeared, her skin smelling of sweat and her fingers stained with soot, Leo instructed her to find a place for Dunk. Her lips pursed into a thin line when Dunk stepped around him, clad in threadbare wool and a sword belt of hempen rope, but she still did as she was bid.

“As you will, m’lord,” she said. “Come with me, ser.”

Dunk walked behind her, his eyes darting around the chamber that was hazy with smoke and rich with the scents of roasting meats wafting from the kitchen. He took the place set aside for him at a trestle table already crowded with others. It was far below the salt, more likely to bring him simpler fare than for those seated at the dais, but he was not one to turn his nose at a decent meal when it was offered to him. A man could not live on meat and sparse wild crops alone.

Even when that man had to leave later with shattered hopes.

He looked at the men on either side of him. They were household guards, all of them. Each of them had worn a new tunic with the colours of their lord’s house—presented to them in honour of their royal guests, no doubt. One of them looked at him keenly. He was as tall as he was broad, and had a thick, coarse beard kissed by fire. A golden brooch clasped his cloak. In the centre of it rested an apple enamelled in a deep, rich red.

“I am Ser Steffon,” he said. “Steffon of House Fossoway.”

Dunk swiftly dipped his head. “Ser Duncan the Tall.”

“You are a big one, Ser Duncan. Would you care to try me on the morrow? You could give me good contest in the sparring field. I would ask my cousin, but he is unripe, as you can see."

The unripe cousin Steffon spoke of was seated to Dunk’s left—a stocky youth with hair that was more brown than red. He was younger also—younger than Dunk and Steffon by two years, at the very least. He reddened in an instant.

“I may be unripe,” he spat, “but at least I am not rotten to the core.” He turned toward Dunk and held out his hand. “Raymun, if it please you. I am not yet anointed.”

“Ser Duncan.”

“Take on Steffon’s challenge, Ser Duncan,” Raymun insisted, his eyes blazing fire as he glared at his cousin. “Kick the seeds right out of him. That will remind him to bite his tongue.”

Steffon snorted. "It will not alter who and what I am—an apple born on a higher branch instead of one low to the dirt."

“Oh, how you love reminding me of that.” 

“Peace, both of you!” Another man said. He was grizzled and old and had only one good eye. The other was covered with a leather patch. A scar dragged up and down from brow to cheek. “Or else Lord Ashford will deem it fit to throw you both out on your ears.”

Steffon grumbled what passed for an apology and turned to speak to another man. Dunk was grateful for that. Steffon had the scarred look of a knight who had seen his fair share of jousts and true battles before the world almost came to an end. He could easily use his skill to best Dunk in a contest out on the sparring field. And Dunk would be all the worse for it if Steffon’s blow struck true and maimed him some way. He would not be able to support himself or Egg if that happened.

Raymun asked for pardon also. “I should not have dragged you into my quarrels with my kin. Steffon makes it hard not to do so.” His eyes lit up when the servants entered the hall, their hands laden with fragrant dishes. “I trust you have a good appetite, ser,” he told Dunk. “Lord Ashford will not leave us wanting for bread and ale tonight.”

For those below the salt, the meal was a simple affair: discs of fry bread, slivers of fruits and vegetables dried in the sun, and heaping trays of beef roasted over the fire. Dunk tore his bread in half and ate it with a portion of beef Raymun carved for him. The bread was filling, and it was fresh and warm. Another serving woman poured him a measure of ale and left out jugs of cold water. To Dunk, the water was just as welcome as any wine from the Arbor. He drank with every other man who had a thirst.  

All the while, better dishes were presented to those above the salt. Dunk looked up at the dais, eager to see what they had and what he did not. Hot buttery rolls fresh from the ovens were presented to Lord Ashford and his callers, and fresh fruit too. Strawberries, Dunk saw. Large gleaming servings of them were piled high in glazed orange bowls. His mouth watered at the sight. It only worsened when two serving men carried between them racks of lamb basted in honey and herbs, and the smell carried as far as where Dunk sat. Honey was a delicacy now, as were fresh fruits. The lack of enough hands to see to them made them so. He swallowed and let his eyes roam.

The first to catch his eye was a young woman. She was seated next to an ash-blonde lord, dressed in simple green velvet that brought out the gold in her upbraided hair. Dunk thought she was very beautiful. And anxious. Her gaze was downcast, and she had tightened her grip on her cup, as if that was the only thing keeping her tethered to the table. When Dunk looked around, he understood why. More than one lord had their eyes fixed on her, like she was the only person in the hall worth their notice.  

Raymun leaned into Dunk and whispered, “That is Lady Abagail Lannister.” He drank deep and sighed when he found his cup now empty. “The Grey Lion brought her back from Tyrosh. They say she is all he has now.”

“Is that why the others gape at her so?” Dunk said.

Raymun nodded. “I think the dragons mean to snatch her up before the stags or the trout do.”

Dunk speared a slice of meat and regarded it. “The lady must feel like a choice cut hanging by the butcher’s window,” he observed thoughtfully.

“Just so,” the one-eyed man said. “But it will not change her fate. Within a fortnight she will find herself promised to some high lord or another. The question is, who it will be.” The man stood up and dusted off the edges of his tunic. “Here,” he said, pushing his full cup toward Dunk. “Have this on my account.”

“You will not stay with us, Rhysling?” Raymun said, giving the one-eyed man a name. “The music will start soon.”

“I have the second watch. I must be on my way.”

He bobbed his head and took his leave.

Dunk decided to take his leave also. “I must return on the morrow,” he said, and rose. “Pray tell me, what time does Plummer begin receiving people?”

“After he has broken his fast, ser,” Raymun said. “An hour or so after dawn.”

Dunk thanked him and pocketed his portion of the dried fruit. Egg would like them; he once spoke of fruits left for him at his mother’s table. “Have Rhysling’s measure of ale,” he said, which pleased Raymun greatly.

The yard still bustled with men and women going about their business when Dunk quit the castle and strode across the yard. He went in search of Sweetfoot and rubbed her nose when he found her stall. She had been looked after; that much was plain. Her coat had been brushed, her hooves had been cleaned, and her mane had been untangled. Even the bale of straw beside her had a few oats sprinkled on it.

“Were they good to you, sweet girl?” He said, unbolting the stall gate. “It seems to me like they were.”

Sweetfoot reared her head once, then twice, as if agreeing.

“That is good then. Come along now. We cannot keep Egg waiting on us any longer.”

The palfrey followed him out into the night unbidden.

The stars were out in all their glory and a full moon, too. Dunk had enough light to find his way to the brook and the elm, though his mood was sombre. He had not convinced Lord Leo to vouch for him. Come the morrow, all would depend on Plummer and what Lord Ashford told him. If they said yes, he and Egg would have a proper place to stay. If not, he and Egg would have to go on and try their luck elsewhere. Dunk hoped they would not have to go on. The roads grew wilder the further one rode away from the cities and towns; he could not defend himself and Egg from bandits if they were discovered and overcome.

Egg already had a fire going. He sat before it with two cracked pewter plates already set out on the ground with roasted fish. Thunder and Chestnut cropped grass, their saddles neatly laid out next to them.

“Still awake, I see,” Dunk said, when he reached him.

“Yes, ser.” Egg's eyes widened when Dunk pulled out the dried fruit and held it out in his palm. “Are you hungry?”

“I had my fill in the castle,” he said. “Have both the fish. You need it more than I.”  

Egg still shared the fish with him, then ate the dried fruit with loud, sticky mouthfuls. They looked up at the stars, and Dunk told Egg the tales Ser Arlan once wove for him. A star fell while they watched, its tail a dazzling white as it blazed its way across the inky sky.

“A falling star brings good luck to those who see it,” Dunk said.

“Truly?” Egg probed, his fish forgotten.

“Ser Arlan told me once,” Dunk said, his voice thick with grief. “And it was just us who saw it. The others? They are asleep beneath a roof of stone. Or in tents of silk. They will not see what we saw.”

Egg looked up at the sky and the path the star cut across as it fell. “Is the luck ours then?”

“I do not know, lad,” Dunk said, clenching his hand into a fist when he recalled his failure with Leo. “But we shall see. Come the morrow, we shall see.”   

This can also be read on AO3

Tags: @asianbutnotjapanese

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

The Roots That Bind Us

Pairing: Dunk x Tanselle (Modern AU) Warnings: References to drug and alcohol use, non-explicit sexual content, mild angst and fluff. Word count: ~4.5k

Summary: A promise made beneath a shooting star keeps them coming back to the elm tree every Midsummer evening. For the @hotd-bigbang prompt meme challenge - I chose the prompt "first love".

Author's note: No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications if you would like to keep up to date with my writing.

“Took you long enough,” Tanselle said, looking up from where she sat, her back leaned against the trunk of the elm tree.

Dunk smiled apologetically, holding up a plastic bag by way of explanation; the glass bottles inside clinked noisily, the weight of them causing the carrier bag handles to dig painfully into his fingers, turning the undersides red and swollen. He didn’t even feel it, not when his heart pounded like a drum against his ribs and knots furled and unfurled ceaselessly in his belly. “S–sorry,” he said, setting the bottles down and beginning the cumbersome effort of bending his knees to lower to the ground and sit beside her. “Ray had some homebrew he wanted me to try, and I figured it would be better than going to the shop, but once he gets talking…” 

His eyes lifted to meet Tanselle’s and he felt his cheeks flush hotly as he noticed the amused smile she was watching him with. He cleared his throat, scrubbing a hand over his face as though he could physically wipe away the embarrassment. “Did you get the stuff?” he asked.

“Yeah, I got the stuff,” she replied casually, looking away to rifle through her backpack and pulling out a small brown block wrapped in cling film, which Dunk assumed was the hash she had tasked herself with providing. 

He’d have thought it was a pebble and thrown it away if he had seen it outside of this context. He’d never touched anything stronger than cider before, but tonight would change everything. It was Midsummer, the longest day of the year, and two days prior they’d sat the last of their GCSE exams. It had been Tanselle who’d decided the two of them should get together and do something to celebrate, and she’d suggested stealing some of her mum’s new boyfriend’s stash and pulling an all-nighter. Dunk hadn’t been keen — Uncle Arlan was strict, and if he stayed out all night and came home smelling of weed then he’d be in trouble, but he was powerless when it came to Tanselle. He’d take a thousand clouts in the ear if it meant getting to spend time with her. So, they’d agreed that Tanselle would sort the drugs, and Dunk would get the booze, and then they’d meet at the elm tree at sunset.

Sunset had long passed, but the last sliver of molten orange still clung to the horizon, turning the sky the milky, muted dark blue of long summer evenings — not dark enough for stars, but not as intrusive as when the sun hung hot and oppressive overhead. It was the transitional period between late afternoon and early evening when almost anything felt possible. Dunk had meant to arrive earlier, but Raymun Fossoway had spent twenty minutes explaining how his homebrewed cider would be crisper and more refreshing than the stuff his cousin, Steffon, made. Raymun had learned to ferment the apples from his cousin, but where Steffon brewed cider made of skin-on red apples, which yielded obnoxiously bright orange, yet deliciously sweet cider, Raymun had decided his needed to be different, and so had used barely ripe green apples to make his own.

“It’ll be nice and light, this stuff,” Raymun had insisted as he’d bagged up the bottles. Dunk thought it looked like cloudy piss and was sceptical that anything brewed by a sixteen year old would be genuinely pleasant to drink, but he was already running late and was too polite to say so, so he’d simply offered a heartfelt thanks and hurried along on his way, holding up a hand in acknowledgement as Ray had shouted after him to let him know what he thought once he’d tasted it.

“How much…uh…weed do you think we’ll need to put in?” Dunk asked, watching intently as Tanselle licked the tip of her finger and ran it along the seam of a cigarette, splitting it open and emptying it onto a rolling paper that she’d perched upon her knee.

Tanselle shrugged, offering a coy smile. “I’ll go light to begin with, if you’re worried.”

“I’m not worried, I just…” Dunk trailed off, his eyes going wide as Tanselle reached inside of her top, whipping a penknife out of her bra before flipping it open and beginning to shave off flakes from the little block of resin, allowing them to land upon the tobacco that lay nestled within the Rizla.

Tanselle had always been too cool for Dunk, and it was moments like these that reminded him of it — she was the only person that didn’t seem to realise. What other girl casually carried a knife in her bra, ready to brandish it at the first opportunity to roll a joint? She fumbled delicately with the cigarette paper, pinching and rolling it, and Dunk used the opportunity to allow himself to admire her without her noticing.

She had coiled her long, dark braids into a bun which sat on top of her head, and showed off the star shaped hoop earrings she wore, as well as the slender curve of her neck. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, her feet almost level with his – she was the only girl he’d ever met who was able to meet his eye without craning her neck. He remembered she had gotten upset a couple of years back when a group of boys had made fun of her for her height, claiming she was “too tall”.

“I think you’re just right,” Dunk had reassured her.

“Just right for what?” she’d asked suspiciously.

Dunk had only blushed, shaking his head before walking the wrong way to geography in his flustered state.

She hadn’t dressed appropriately for the weather — Tanselle never did. Her denim shorts and vest top would have been ideal for the heat of the day, but cloudless summer nights were cold, and when the sky finally turned black enough for the stars to shine, she’d have nothing to keep her bare legs or shoulders warm. Despite sweating the entire walk to the meadow, he was suddenly glad of the fact he’d decided to wear his denim jacket, eager to offer it to her the moment she first complained she felt chilly. He always offered her an extra layer — a plaid shirt, a jacket, a hoody, a jumper. When she eventually handed it back at the end of the night and they went their separate ways, Dunk would make a point to inhale deeply around the collar, it always smelled like her, it was one of the perks of her borrowing his clothes, and it made him glad that she never remembered to bring a coat. He didn’t know much about fragrance, nor did he possess the vocabulary to adequately describe her scent, but each time she wore something of his, it always smelled sweet and earthy afterwards. Uncle Arlan had told him once, while loading one of his jumpers into the washing machine, that it smelled like a hippy bonfire. He had stopped placing the clothes that Tanselle borrowed into the laundry hamper after that — he never wanted to wash that smell away.

Tanselle placed the roached end of the joint in her mouth once she’d rolled it, the quick burst of flame from the lighter illuminating her soft features momentarily before going out again. Dunk watched as the tip of the paper glowed cherry red as she took a pull, inhaling deeply.

“Here,” she croaked, holding it out to him between two fingers, her brow furrowed.

“Are you okay?” Dunk asked, his tone laced with concern as he took it from her.

She nodded, coughing lightly as she finally exhaled, spluttering smoke everywhere. “You’re supposed to hold it in, gets you more stoned that way.”

Following her lead, Dunk placed the roach between his lips and took a pull. He coughed the moment the smoke hit the back of his throat, pungent and acrid tasting, and pressed his forearm to his mouth to stifle the worst of it. “Christ, that’s awful,” he choked out, making Tanselle giggle as he eagerly passed the joint back towards her. 

He reached for the carrier bag, popping the lid off one of the bottles of Raymun’s homemade cider. It looked like piss, and didn’t taste much better either. It was overly strong and noxiously sour, making Dunk wince as he took a swig, and he thumped his fist lightly against his chest as it burned on the way down.

Tanselle leaned over, sniffled at the opening of the bottle, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Yeah, I’m not drinking that,” she huffed.

Dunk couldn’t blame her, but he’d take Raymun’s horrible cider over smoking hash any day.

“Where’d you tell your uncle you’d be tonight?” Tanselle asked, tearing off a strip from the Rizla packet and rolling it between thumb and forefinger into a new roach.

“He thinks I’m at Ray’s,” Dunk told her, rolling the glass bottle between his palms, “I mean, I was, so it’s not really a lie…what about you? Where does your mum think you are?”

Tanselle rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I didn’t tell her anything. She barely notices me since she started seeing Leo.”

She made out like it wasn’t a big deal to her, but Dunk could see it made her sad — her shoulders would slump and her gaze would turn downcast whenever she spoke about her mum. Dunk longed to reach for her hand, to squeeze her fingers gently in his and tell her that he noticed her, he always would. But he felt like it would be crossing a boundary for which he’d never received an invitation, so instead he murmured a quiet sorry and stared out across the darkening expanse of the meadow.

They chatted idly, canopied by the dense green leaves of the elm tree, as the sky above them slowly grew darker. Tanselle smoked the rest of the joint to herself, and then rolled another. Dunk had made it almost to the bottom of the first bottle of cider, now too fuzzy headed to care that it tasted bad. Tanselle asked how Dunk thought he’d done in his exams, and he scoffed; it had been a pointless waste of time for him to even turn up.

“You’re thick as the brick walls I spend my days laying,” Uncle Arlan had once told him, and if the number of questions that Dunk had left blank on the maths exam was anything to go by, he had a point.

Dunk was grateful that Arlan had set him up with a bricklaying apprenticeship in King’s Landing for once the summer was over – in a couple of years, he’d be ready to return to Ashford and join the family business, hopefully one day taking it over.

“A trade is more valuable than any fancy education,” Arlan had said.

Tanselle would be attending the college in King’s Landing, taking the BTEC Diploma in Fine Art. She had always been gifted; since joining Ashford Secondary School just three years prior, she had immediately impressed the art and design and technology teachers with her natural talent for sculpting, painting and creating things with her hands. Though she was pretty and talented, Tanselle had struggled to make friends, she was an outsider, and by year nine of secondary school, everyone already had an established friendship group. But Dunk had wanted to be friends, much more than friends, in fact, but he never dared push for anything romantic. He often wondered if they had anything in common besides both being tall, but it was a thread he refused to pull at too hard for fear he would unravel the already fragile state of what they shared.

Over the last three years, he had grown accustomed to seeing Tanselle every day at school, and on evenings and weekends they’d meet up under the elm tree in the meadow, to chat and sometimes share cheap cans of beer — Dunk had been able to get served in the local corner shop since he turned thirteen. Being a foot taller than almost everyone else his age had its advantages sometimes. Following a messy divorce, Tanselle’s mum had relocated with her daughter from Dorne to Ashford, and Dunk knew she had found the adjustment hard. Non-conventional family dynamics were something else they shared besides their height – Dunk’s parents had died in a car accident when he was still a baby, and Arlan, his dad’s brother, had taken on the responsibility of raising Dunk. Arlan was a good man, but he was strict, and he didn’t approve of what he referred to as his nephew’s “mooning after that tall lass”.

“I’m gonna miss coming here and sitting under this tree with you,” Tanselle sighed with an exhale of pungent smelling smoke.

Dunk would miss it too. The huge elm tree that stood at the far corner of Ashford Meadow, its trunk too thick to wrap his arms around, and branches that stretched out to the sky like gnarled, old finger bones, had been the marker for some of the happiest days of Dunk’s life, and all of them had been shared with Tanselle.

“Do you think we’ll stay in touch?” Dunk asked, keeping his gaze fixed upon the neck of his cider bottle, not daring to look at her in case he didn’t like the answer she gave.

“Of course we will,” she laughed softly, “we’ll both be in King’s Landing, we can hang out all the time.”

Dunk frowned, before swigging what was left in his bottle and allowing it to thud to the earth beside him. “You’ll be at the college though, you’ll make new friends, you won’t have time for me.”

“You’re being silly,” Tanselle teased, elbowing him playfully.

Dunk pressed his lips into a tight line, swallowing thickly. He was in no mood to argue. 

The sky was fully black now, and he had a full view of the stars that shone through the gaps in the branches of the tree. Turning his face towards the sky, his eyes widened as he watched a flash of light pass across it, leaving a trail of light in its wake. “A shooting star,” he murmured in quiet wonder.

“Did you make a wish?” Tanselle asked, chipping out the half smoked second joint. Her eyes were hazy, a soft smile dimpling her cheeks. She was stoned — Dunk knew nothing about drugs, but he wasn’t too stupid to realise that smoking a joint and a half to yourself would absolutely have an effect.

The cider had made him bold. “I did,” he replied resolutely, turning fully to face her, “I wished that we’d come back here, to this tree, every midsummer for the rest of our lives and spend the night together — that way we’ll never lose touch.”

“Deal,” Tanselle said with a dopey smile.

Before Dunk knew what was happening, she had leaned in and pressed her lips to his. He had known she smelled sweet, but she tasted even sweeter, even with the lingering bitterness of hash and tobacco in her mouth. He had never been kissed before, but he did his best to return the gesture, to move his mouth the same way that she did with hers.

He didn’t protest when she pushed him back against the grassy earth and straddled him, too stunned to speak when she shimmied her denim skirt above her hips and sunk down onto him. He had never felt anything like it, it was like sinking inside of a hot bath, and he screwed his eyes shut, fingernails scoring the mud as he met an embarrassingly swift end. He could have cried when she lifted off of him, he wanted to pull back the minutes, to stretch them out and replay them, memorising every little breathy noise and rhythmic rock of her hips. He hadn’t even needed to give her his jacket; now he could smell her everywhere.

“Will you really come back next year?” he whispered into the darkness afterwards as Tanselle lay beside him, gazing up through the tree branches. “Do you promise?”

“Promise,” she whispered sleepily.

They drifted apart after moving to King’s Landing. Weekly meet-ups petered out into once monthly catch-ups, then occasional texts, then nothing. They weren’t friends anymore, not really, just people who used to know each other. Dunk watched Tanselle live her life through Instagram, just another viewer on stories that involved all of the new people she’d surrounded herself with since starting college. He was a passive spectator to her transformation into someone he no longer recognised; she had started straightening her hair and wearing heavy, dark eye make-up. He didn’t like her friends. They weren’t like him, and they weren’t like Tanselle — not the Tanselle he knew anyway. She was going out with Aerion Targaryen, a spoiled, rich kid who Dunk didn’t think was good enough for her. He was arrogant and at least a foot shorter than she was, but he came from old money, a family too powerful to be argued with.

Dunk was surprised when she sent him an invite on Facebook to the end of term summer party that Aerion was throwing at his family’s place in King’s Landing, and considered declining until he saw that Ray and Rowan were also on the invite list. He felt embarrassed riding his rickety pushbike up the impossibly long driveway. Leaning it against the wall, he saw the flashy, red Ford Fiesta with black trim that Aerion tore around the city in. His father’s money had modded the engine to be obnoxiously loud, and the roar of it had almost startled him off of his bike a few times as it had sped past him on narrow roads.

The party was loud and filled with people he had known from school but no longer spoke to. He spent most of the evening in the corner, feeling awkward as Ray sat next to him with Rowan draped across his lap. Dunk’s eyes never left Tanselle; Aerion paraded her around like she was a trophy, calling her “T”, as though the two syllables of her name were too complicated for his lazy, entitled mouth to sound out. The loud laughter of Roland and Donnel at every stupid joke he cracked made Dunk grind his teeth.

When he tried to remember the exact events that had led up to his fist connecting with Aerion’s jaw, the memory was foggy. Roland had made a wise crack about Tanselle’s height, and Aerion had responded with an insulting comment intended to deflect the inadequacy he felt, however, Dunk had noticed the hurt that had flashed momentarily across Tanselle’s features and had seen red, acting before he had had a moment to think.

Aerion had hit the deck like a sack of shit, and Donnel had given Dunk a bloody nose for it. Tanselle had screamed, attempting to help Aerion up, but he’d shoved her off, storming out of the house and towards his car. Tanselle had followed, trying to stop him. The snapping of fingerbones in the car door as Aerion had yanked it shut had cut through the air like a gunshot. He’d sped off, not acknowledging his girlfriend’s anguished cries of pain, and it had been Ray and Rowan who had taken her to A&E.

Dunk had offered to go too, but Rowan had shaken her head, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder as she’d said “probably better you don’t.”

That had been two weeks ago, and now it was Midsummer again, and Dunk was back in Ashford, sitting against the trunk of the Elm tree, hoping against hope that, despite everything, Tanselle would still keep her promise from a year ago.

It was fully dark, and he was mentally preparing himself to leave, when he saw her tall, slender silhouette walking purposefully across the meadow.

“I didn’t think you were going to come,” Dunk said, his heart sinking when he looked up to see she was wearing a leather jacket — she’d have no need to ask for the jumper he was wearing.

“I almost didn’t,” she sighed, dropping down beside him and lighting an already rolled joint that she’d pulled from an inside pocket. The action was made awkward by the medical tape that strapped up the middle and forefingers of her right hand.

Dunk took a swig of beer and offered her an unopened can from the bag. She took it, cracked it open and drank half in two gulps. Her hair was down, poker cue straight, sitting well past her shoulders, and her eyes were rimmed with kohl black eyeliner, the wings so sharp they looked as though they could cut him.

“Look, I’m sorry, I—”

“Can we just not talk this time?” she asked irritably.

So, they didn’t talk, and it was Dunk who took control — he had had time to practice over the last year; never anything meaningful, but enough that he knew what he was doing. He let his actions do the talking for him, taking her hard and fast, her mewls and whimpers lost to the leaves above. It was an exorcism of frustration, a wordless expression of how much he hated the distance between them, and whatever Tanselle was feeling she expressed in kind; clawing at his back desperately with her good hand.

They lay there sweaty and panting afterwards, neither of them speaking for several moments before Tanselle finally broke the silence.

“You hate my friends, don’t you?”

Dunk considered his words, his fingers tightening in the fabric of his jumper, before he responded as calmly as he could. “Yes.”

“Well, they don’t like you either,” she quipped before standing and brushing herself off.

He watched her walk away, knowing better than to follow, staying flat on his back as though pulled into the earth by the roots of the tree itself. There was always next year.

To the surprise of no one, Aerion and Tanselle’s relationship didn’t last the summer. Dunk and Tanselle grew into strangers, their interactions dwindling to little more than seeing occasional life updates on social media and dropping a cursory “like” on big milestone events. Yet still, an invisible binding brought them back under the elm tree every Midsummer evening, no matter where they were in the world, and for a single night it was as though no time had passed at all. Sometimes they spoke, and sometimes they didn’t.

Dunk finished his apprenticeship and went back to Ashford, taking on a senior role within Arlan’s construction company, before taking it over entirely when his uncle eventually passed away. His job took him all over Westeros on different projects — a high rise in King’s Landing, a new-build house in Riverrun, the restoration of an old cottage in White Harbor. He met Rohanne, and they moved in together. Yet every Midsummer, he returned to the elm tree.

Tanselle went onto university, and got her degree in prop making and set design. Her work looked exciting and she seemed to enjoy it, from the pictures Dunk saw and what little she told him on their annual reunions. She married a woman named Beony, and they had a baby — a chubby cheeked little boy that Beony had given birth to. Yet on the longest night of the year, every year, Tanselle returned to the elm tree.

Time had carved them both into different people, living entirely separate lives, but the heed of the call to the elm tree was too strong to resist, they were bound by a wish and a promise made beneath a shooting star almost twenty years ago.

“Have you ever thought that we could adopt, or maybe foster?” Rohanne whispered into the darkness to Dunk one night as they lay in bed together.

She couldn’t conceive naturally, not that children were ever a topic that Dunk had discussed with her. They weren’t even married.

“I don’t know, love,” he replied quietly, “let’s talk about it another time.”

He could tell by her sharp inhale that he had hurt her feelings, but she said nothing, and he did nothing to offer her comfort. The space between them in the bed seemed like a vast, unbridgeable gap. Dunk wondered if he’d feel differently if it was Tanselle lying next to him, if life had dealt a different hand if it would be their little boy smiling toothlessly for Facebook pictures. Not Beony’s little boy, but his, with Tanselle’s kind eyes and dimples.

When he returned from the elm tree that year, he was unsurprised to find that Rohanne had packed her stuff and left; he was more impressed that it had taken her so long. He had never given himself fully to her, it was one of his less forgivable acts.

Tanselle and Beony divorced eventually, and Tanselle returned to Dorne. They split custody of their son, so he spent half the year with Beony in the Stormlands, and half the year in Dorne. Tanselle still made the journey once a year back to Ashford though.

Dunk’s knees ached in protest as he walked across the meadow, but he ignored it. He’d crawl through the grass if he had to. The sun had just begun to dip upon the horizon, a ball of molten orange trailing embers across a cloudless sky. He smiled as he approached the elm tree, seeing Tanselle already sitting against the trunk, her legs stretched out in front of her as she casually smoked a joint. Her hair was cropped short now, her dark curls close against her head, her temples peppered with silver. She looked more beautiful with each passing year.

“Took you long enough,” she grinned up at him.

“Knees aren’t what they used to be,” he shrugged, groaning as he lowered himself to the ground beside her.

They were gentle with each other that night, taking their time, and even though his bones protested at the lack of a bed beneath him, Dunk couldn’t find it in himself to care — not tonight. Tanselle laid her head on his chest afterwards as they both gazed up at the sky.

“A shooting star,” he murmured, blue eyes sparkling as he watched the streak of light across the sky.

Tanselle didn’t ask him what he’d wished for this time, she didn’t need to; some things run deeper than that, woven into the earth like the roots of the oldest elm tree.

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