Iridescent

[malibuklaus]

[galadriel1010]

Sometimes you get a brief glimpse into the American worldview and decide that you don't want to know.

[transcyberism]

I cannot stress enough that this meme is entirely literal. there's no reference or subtext you don't know. these are simply the objectively most popular works of art from each denomination.

[darinaursus]

Little Maekarlings

[baelorsbeard]

For Anon: Gave Daeron a day off from the rodeo and a nice, cozy poncho.

[motherrthing]

some drunk dunk

[motherrthing]

fellas is it gay to swear a sacred vow to the hot older man in your life

[leupagus]

What an excellent question and the answer is Yes

[ser-duncan-the-best]

Dunk and Egg are the hesitant grumpy older man adopting a small child but with the twist that the older man is like in his twenties and also he's not really grumpy at all and also his 'hesitancy' is barely an issue after which he throws himself into the task of looking after the kid like his own sibling/son/secret third thing. And I think that is great.

[syndrossi]

1300 words and we haven't even hit the Runestone stacks yet! (Most of said words thus far brought to you by Baelor's many musings on Daemon and dragon dreams.)

[cykelops]

another history making marvel post I never see anyone talk about is “so is nobody helping blade kill all those vampires”

[cykelops]

found it

[patchworkmechanic]

Got really into A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms so there may or may not soon be a Dunk x Lyonel sort-of-fix-it blurb where Dunk gets turned into a unicorn for a while

I don’t know GRRM’s world beyond that TV show but if there’s dragons there has got to be at least one unicorn for the sake of universal balance

(And also convenient “I thought you were dead” plots)

[leupagus]

Dunk/Baelor florist AU? Otherwise I’m also wondering what your thoughts would be on Jena/Dunk/Baelor if Baelor were buying the flowers for her

Friday after Friday he'd turn up in his Savile Row suit (or, as it got colder, in some mouthwateringly expensive wool coat) and buy a bouquet. After that last conversation, he'd branched out into flowers other than roses and carnations, though not with any kind of coherence. He still politely ignored Dunk's advice about floral meanings and picked flowers based on what he liked, or what he thought his wife would like.

So over the moths Dunk got the shape of her in his mind: someone funny and kindhearted, brash and beautiful, sentimental and impatient. She hated "faff" in her bouquets, preferring that every stem be a flower, even if it overwhelmed the overall effect. "Especially if it does," Mr. Targaryen said once, fond and rueful as he selected the next bouquet. She hated roses and loved daffodils and lilles and black-eyed susans. She was forgetful — half the bouquets didn't last past a few days, Mr. Targaryen reported, because she'd forget to put them in a vase or would forget to put water in them — but kind (when she found out her husband had told Dunk she'd hated the bouquets at first, she'd written a long apology which she'd instructed her husband to recite, in full, to Dunk the next Friday).

In fact, she called afterward. "I just wanted to make sure Baelor read it properly," she said, sounding a bit breathless over the phone.

She didn't sound anything like her husband, whose accent was all high-hill vowels and quiet self-assurance. She sounded closer to his neighborhood's tone: a hearty slap on the shoulder instead of a soft touch to the back. "I think so, Mrs. Targaryen," he answered.

"Dr. Dondarrion, actually," she corrected, but cheerfully. "I married him after I got my PhD and I'm fucked if I'm changing my name after all the fucking degrees got printed."

"Sorry," said Dunk, and realized glumly that he might be falling in love with her just as embarrassingly as he had her husband.

*Note: Will no longer be doing new prompts after the current ones are filled, but thank you so much to everyone who sent in amazing ideas!

[leupagus]

Hi! :) If you're still doing these - mundane modern au dunkbaelor? I have been thinking about kel's art of dunk calling baelor to tell him egg ran off again nonstop!

The seventh time Egg ran off to Mr. Pennytree's domicile, Baelor canceled the call for a car to go and pick Egg up and instead took the direction himself. Part of it was merely good sense — Mr. Pennytree was fast becoming part of the Family's daily life, and as such it was always wise to remind such people, newly accepted, that the Family still knew where they lived.

But there was another part that was curious. Egg was a scion of the most powerful Family in the country, who wanted for nothing. Yet his dearest wish was to go down to Tooting (Tooting) and visit with "Ser Duncan" and his illegal menagerie. (At least, Baelor assumed it was a menagerie from the way Egg spoke of them, and in a small flat in Tooting he could hardly be keeping them legally.) What sort of man could keep a bored, rich son of the city entertained for hours on end?

Baelor knew he'd made a tactical mistake well before he came to the dirt road and the wooden sign nailed to a nearby tree that said "Welcome to Pennytree Farms!!" with a smiley face drawn under the two exclamation marks. But still he gripped the wheel of his car and went on. If nothing else, he really did need to retrieve Egg before Maekar and Dyanna tried to relitigate their custody agreement all over again.

Egg was in the orchard picking apples. Or more accurately, Egg was perched on Mr. Pennytree's shoulders, with Mr. Pennytree shouting instruction and encouragement. Baelor got out of his car and walked slowly toward the orchard. A half-dozen other pairs were working along the trees, and looked curiously at him as he passed by.

"Uncle!" Egg called, seeing him first. He nearly launched himself off of Mr. Pennytree's shoulders to crash down into the dirt. It was only Mr. Pennytree's quick hands that caught him about the waste and saved him from the hard-packed ground. Egg bounded up to him, not deterred in the slightest. "We've gotten nearly three bushels already, Uncle! They're going to use it for cider."

"Some of it for cider," Mr. Pennytree corrected him with an exasperated smile. "Some. Not all." He smiled down at Baelor, his bare shoulders freckled in the weak London son but his his eyes as clear as the sky itself. "We're not that bad," he added.

Baelor, having entirely lost track of the conversation, was obliged to say, "I beg your pardon?"

But Mr. Pennytree didn't repeat himself; instead he smiled, slow and steady and warm, and said, "Why don't we speak upstairs, then?" He gestured to a cottage behind them, straight out of one of those sentimental calendars of idealized rural life.

Baelor drew himself up. "Have you shirts up there, at least?"

"Aye," Mr. Pennytree replied, the smile growing larger. Sharper. "I've got all sorts of things up there."

[innerchildabortionclinic]

also I don't think parents "these days" are uniquely terrible, I just think neglect is showing up in new ways as technology progresses. today's ipad kid would've been wandering around in a ditch alone all day and night before. parents not wanting to have to deal with children is not a new phenomenon.

[ahedderick]

mmm. I remember when my son was three or four years old, and I suddenly realized, hey - he has had NO serious injuries! When I was that age I had had multiple major injuries, been to the er twice, tons of scars. My parents joked repeatedly that they'd have to send me to school, when I got old enough, as a "bag of pieces." And we all laughed - funny, right?

And it hit me like a BRICK that I was taking careful care of this little one every day so he didn't get hurt - but! my own memory was of being alone, unsupervised, a ridiculous amount of time. Outside on the farm and alone as a toddler, or literally being looked after by a farm dog.

Memory being fickle, I checked with one of my aunts who I was close to as a child. "Was I left alone, like, a LOT?" I asked her. Her friendly face got serious, and she just nodded. "You raised yourself," she told me, "Then you raised your brother."

That was the 70s. So, yeah. Hard agree, op.

[fakelawyerbug]

I've seen a bunch of "fandom etiquette" posts on my dash today and I'm going to say something that is maybe going to be unpopular but;

The absolutely pervasive mentality that unwanted criticism or critique shouldn't be given and should be ignored is why fans of color don't stay in fan spaces.

And I am not going to mince words here:

A lot of you are racist. A lot of your fan works are racist.

That might have been difficult to hear. And if it was, you should probably reflect on why that was.

"Fandom etiquette" has created a space where fans of color either bite our tongues and eventually leave or say something, get dogged on, and then eventually leave.

So much of "fandom etiquette" seems to be about insulating creatives from Feeling Bad and hostility to any kind of negative feedback is a pretty big contributor to why bigotry festers in these spaces.

[iridescentoracle]

#imo the potluck analogy applies- it would be rude to critique someone's icing technique at a potluck bc it wasn't as good as at the bakery #but if they had decorated their cupcakes w hate symbols it wouldn't be rude to tell them that's gross and gtfo #in fact it would be inappropriate to NOT say anything in that situation #or to complain that another guest who did point it out was 'ruining everyone's potluck' #and pointing out racism in fan works is 100% the second thing not the first! (via destructions-daughter)

[patchworkmechanic]

AKOTSK AU where Raymun gets a dragon, and nobody finds out about it for months because unlike everyone else in the realm, it doesn’t even occur to him to use it for power or influence.

Dunk and Egg stopping by New Barrel on their travels: What ya got there, Raymun?

Raymun, with a dragonet draped across his shoulder: A cider

[patchworkmechanic]

Sudden thought—

Duncan puts Aerion in air-jail like a naughty cat

[patchworkmechanic]

Just watched episode 6 of A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. And I had a thought, so…

In a world where Baelor’s injuries might have been less severe, and Dunk’s were, perhaps, just a little more, Dunk and Lyonel still find themselves beneath the old elm tree.

The world is hazy through Dunk’s one good eye. Like a thin film has coated his pupil, turning the sight of the field and stream and the Maester Lyonel had brought pale and murky, just the wrong side of blurry.

Dunk hazily thinks that the press of Lyonel’s shoulder against his own is the most solid thing he could feel. He knows Lyonel’s talking to him, but can’t quite parse the meaning. Only the emotion gets through. Dunk’s fingers flex weakly against Lyonel’s wineskin.

The Maester says something to Lyonel. To Dunk’s thick ears, it sounds urgent. Something about his wounds, Dunk thinks. Something beyond what the Maester can help. Dunk feels only a distant flare of alarm. He’s too tired to panic anymore.

Lyonel responds to the Maester. Harsh, denying. Dunk barely shifts as Lyonel sits up beside him. He sees Lyonel turn towards him. His voice is reassuring, but his face is too twisted for it to be real.

Dunk can’t answer to whatever Lyonel is saying. His thoughts are too slow, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth. He blinks slowly up at Lyonel. Even now he can’t keep his eyes off him.

Whatever Lyonel sees in Dunk, it cannot be good, Dunk realizes, as Lyonel face twists further. He grabs Dunk’s shoulders, leans closer over him, speaks almost frantically. His eyes are wide as he speaks.

Dunk still can’t understand a word. Feels it getting harder to hear at all. But his eyes stay fixed to Lyonel’s. His eyes are hazel, Dunk muses hazily. In the dark of the tent, he’d thought them a dark, rich brown. But the light of the field turned them almost gold, to match the man’s cloak.

Dunk stared as Lyonel became more frantic, turning to the Maester and yelling something at him, to him, before turning back to Dunk.

Dunk’s eyes never left Lyonel, even as his blinks slowed, as Lyonel started patting his cheek and speaking louder, as Dunk’s vision finally faded to grey, then dark.

Not such a bad last sight to have, Dunk thought, as he slipped away. Not so bad at all.

[emilybeemartin]

Napoleon doesn't stand a chance against one repressed wet man and one maladjusted dirt man

[leupagus]

Since I didn't get any more writer questions, I was left to my own devices, so really this is your fault

What about a Regency AU with one of the more ridiculous Bridgerton plots sprinkled in, where Miss Duncana Pennytree is traveling to London with her guardian Ser Arlan for the Season, in the hopes that he can get her married before he dies— only he dies before they even get to London, leaving Dunk pretty much stranded once she finally gets to the city.

She more or less stumbles into a ball hosted by the Baratheons, who always begin the Season with some lively festivities. There she catches the attention of Lord Lyonel, but it's only the next day that she has a chance encounter with Prince Baelor Targaryen himself, where she ends up confessing that she's got no prospects, but still must find a suitable (or at least not wretched) match by the end of the Season.

Baelor is plagued with the opposite problem, more or less — ever since the death of his dear wife he has been hounded by prospective brides and their hopeful parents. But as the Heir to the Throne he can't exactly refuse to be part of the Season, and so he's just been white-knuckling his way through each spring and summer.

Something something something, they agree that Baelor will pretend to be interested in Duncana — not courting her, of course, but certainly not looking at anyone else for the duration of the Season. This will elevate her status while keeping most of the brides at bay, which is a win all around. (Lyonel hates this plan a lot but nobody actually consulted him beforehand.)

Baelor led her onto the floor, even as her hand tightened in his grip and tried to tug him back to the safety of the shadows. It was a strong hand, with long fingers under what looked to be a rather shabby glove. Baelor wondered afresh what Ser Arlan's plan had truly been. To marry her off well seemed unlikely, if not impossible, with the meager resources he'd scraped together. Perhaps he too had meant to throw himself on the Prince's favor, as she had yesterday evening; yet it seemed at odds with the man he'd once known.

"You'll gain few admirers clinging to the wallpaper," he informed her as they took their place for a gavotte.

"I'll gain even fewer admirers in full candlelight," she muttered, just loud enough to hear, and he could not help the laughter that escaped his lips. She looked down at him, as startled as he at the noise, and he thought how strange it was to look up, into eyes the clear blue of a sky reflected on the surface of a still pond. She looked away and added, "Besides, this is about ridding yourself of admirers more than securing me a spouse who won't despise me."

Your Grace ought to have been at the end of the sentence, but Baelor was already learning that among Miss Pennytree's talents were neither tact nor ettiquette. He did not mind, though it was as well that the gavotte did not provide much opportunity for eavesdropping. "Honor me by assuming I can ward off the eligible ladies present this evening," he said, "and keep your eye to your own objective."

She scowled, an expression hopelessly out of fashion yet somehow all the more charming for it. "Yes, my flotilla of admirers."

"You already have one," he reminded her, nodding at the top of the line where Lord Lyonel watched them with a narrowed, jealous gaze.

Miss Pennytree opened her mouth but the music stilled her reply until the exchange which brought them back together for conversation. "Lyonel's not an admirer, he's a menace," she informed him. "At my first ball, he lead me through a waltz. Stepped on my foot, too."

That Lord Lyonel would do such a scandalous thing was hardly scandalous at all — he had courted notoriety with far more lust than any paramour. But Baelor had heard of the exchange, and not for Lyonel's outrage. "You stepped on his foot in return, if the stories are to be believed," he replied mildly.

She had made a complete conquest in the process. It was likely what had gotten her the invitation to this evening's affair; there were no few of the ton here assembled eager to see what the Laughing Storm would do, upon discovery that his newest beloved was now in the clutches of the House of the Dragon. A pretty bit of drama for the beginning of the Season, though a risky one — for while a gentleman might weather almost any scandal, a young lady's reputation was far more easily bruised. 

But Miss Pennytree had been blunt in summing up her chances at a tolerable match with no fortune or family to bolster her, now that Ser Arlan was dead. And Baelor himself had tried everything short of an actual wife to keep the wolves of matrimony at bay. They were both compelled to wager a good deal on this scheme, though watching her count the steps under her breath as she made the next turn he was bitterly aware of how much more she had to lose than he.

"Well," she replied as she returned to his arms, "he deserved it. And he's got nearly as many doe-eyed beauties vying for his attentions as you have. He'll not pursue some oversized—"

"Discounting the fact that even now, he is staring daggers into my back," Baelor commented, "I am compelled to inform you that you will gain no admirers at all if your only conversation is how unattractive you are."

She blinked down at him as the next measure parted them for another minute or so; Baelor danced with Lady Ashford as Miss Pennytree was taken round the turn by her husband, who barely came up to her elbow. There were a few titters from the sides, but they faded quickly enough as he raked his eyes across the throng. He was still Prince Baelor Targaryen, and a woman found in his company was not to be mocked. Besides, for all her inexperience Miss Pennytree showed a tolerable foot along the floor, her muslin gown fluttering behind her like a banner held aloft by a proud squire upon the field.

And perhaps this was a battle, after all.