Listen we've talked briefly about Maekar getting insecure because people think he's too old for Janella. But what about Janella getting insecure??? Janella seeing someone looking at Maekar, and she gets insecure because surely he wants someone around his age, she's just a dumb young woman
Janella getting especially insecure because one woman is not only closer in age to Maekar but also is much hotter than Janella (in Janella's opinion). And Janella's insecurities absolutely manifest as jealousy
Meanwhile, Maekar is trying to figure out what this lady did to make Janella act like that and is 0.02 s away from going into full protective mode. Until it suddenly clicks that oh. Janella's jealous. Which delights Maekar to no end because he truly didn't expect that
Listen we've talked briefly about Maekar getting insecure because people think he's too old for Janella. But what about Janella getting insecure??? Janella seeing someone looking at Maekar, and she gets insecure because surely he wants someone around his age, she's just a dumb young woman
Pairing: Dunk the Tall/Baelor Breakspear Targaryen
Warnings: None
Wordcount: 5.7K words
Summary: While in Weeping Town, Dunk, a low-born knight harbouring a secret love for one far above him in both birth and station, finds his affections being reciprocated in equal measure.
A/n: I tried to include as many of the prompts/ideas that I received. Since I have never written for this pairing, I thought of starting with a story of them getting together.
This is for @hungryriverbeast for the @dunkbaelorexchange2026. I hope you enjoy this!
Dunk never cared for the sea.
For as long as he could recall, he had sought the comfort of grass and stone and earth, never the shifting sands of the shore nor the bottomless waters beyond it. In truth, the waves frightened him in ways he could never describe, and the smells of salt and rot often made him ill. Yet here he was, standing by the railing of the Star Spray as it ploughed its way towards the Sea of Dorne, staring out into a world that was as vast as it was grey. He kept clutching his stomach, bearing his discomfort with as much silent dignity as he could muster. A knight, even one of the hedge, had his pride. And Dunk was no longer a mere hedge knight. He was a prince’s sworn man—the captain of his household guard, no less—and he held onto his pride fiercely even as he battled the urge to bring up his last meal. He had no desire to disgrace himself in the presence of others.
Until Dorne, Dunk thought miserably. I must endure this ordeal until Dorne and then back again.
The knight was on his way to Sunspear. Once, he would have deemed such a journey impossible—the stuff those without coin amused themselves with only in dreams. Now he stood waist-high in the thick of it all, guarding the Crown Prince while the royal heir attended the wedding of a Martell cousin who was a particular favourite of both the prince and his younger brother, the Prince of Summerhall. So much of the journey was wholly new to Dunk. Ser Arlan never took him deep into the Dornish Marches—not even when their need for stars and stags was most dire—and Dorne itself seemed like a land of many fables to Dunk’s mind. But the seas along the way… they constantly churned from the hour they departed King’s Landing, and the skies always seemed determined to spit icy rain.
At least the rain had ceased tormenting them for now, which was a small mercy in itself. For more days and nights than Dunk cared to count, wind and water lashed at the ship relentlessly, making it toss and heave as it made its way from the capital to Tarth and Storm’s End and beyond. The air had taken on an uncommon chill that seemed to seep into a man’s bones. Dunk had to seek sanctuary in his chamber below decks by then, so unwilling was he to bear the wet and the cold. It had been warmer in the rooms below, and he had stayed dry. He had not wanted for company either. The other knights in the Crown Prince’s company had proved themselves more than equal to the task. They shared their meat and mead, and regaled him with their tales, fantastical as some of them sounded. And none of them thought to make light of his struggles with the ship or the journey. They never sought to make him feel inferior because of it.
“A true knight never belittles the ills of another,” Ser Arlan had once said. Dunk always held fast to those words; yet he suspected the knights on board did so more out of respect for the heir to the Iron Throne than out of any knightly courtesy. Still, he returned the gesture in the same manner he received it—freely, and with an open heart. It was the only way he knew how.
“Is the sea still a heartless mistress to you, Ser Duncan?”
The voice that came from behind him was soft, measured, and patient. It brought a flush that spread from Dunk’s cheeks down to his chest.
“She certainly is, Your Grace,” Dunk said, his gaze fixed intently on the horizon. He could not let Prince Baelor see him blushing like a maiden on her wedding night. His answer, if pressed, would only humiliate and endanger them both. “But I am master of myself. I will yet prevail.”
Prince Baelor drifted to his side. “Of that I have no doubt,” he said, resting his hands on the rail. His fingers were almost close enough to brush against Dunk’s. “Pray do not give way to shame, Ser Duncan. The sea is unforgiving to many; prince and pauper alike.”
“As you say, Your Grace,” Dunk returned. He mastered himself in the end, though not over the cause the prince spoke of.
For nigh on half a year, mayhap longer, Dunk had silently ached for the prince, won over by his humility and his willingness to treat Dunk with the same kindness and dignity as he would any highborn lord. That Dunk could not give voice to what he yearned for tormented him; Prince Baelor was a man long wedded and widowed, with sons already grown. He would never look upon a lowborn knight—a man, no less—with tender affection or favour. His faith and inclinations would not allow it. So Dunk bore it without counsel from others—and prayed it would not destroy him one day.
He dared to look at Prince Baelor then. The prince remained by his side, his mismatched eyes of blue and brown set firmly on Weeping Town’s unseen shores. Their ship was still hours away, but with each rise and dip of the oars, they drew ever nearer to the town. An assembly with Ser Harrin Dondarrion, brother of the woman Prince Baelor had taken to wife, was almost upon them, and it filled Dunk with dread. Even now, the man’s good brother grieved for her. He spoke of her often, and with a warmth that made Dunk’s heart ache with envy. But it was only proper for a man to grieve his departed bride and the mother of his sons. A prince should be no different.
Dunk the lunk, the knight chided himself. Slow as an aurochs and thick as a castle wall.
“Come,” Prince Baelor said, turning to face him. “I have asked the cook to prepare a broth to ease unsettled stomachs.”
With leaden feet, Dunk followed the prince, threading his way around sailors toiling at their duties.
The way down was dimly lit with brass lanterns affixed to the walls. They swung and creaked when he descended the steps to the rooms set aside for the prince and his party to use, and the sound set Dunk’s teeth on edge. More than once, he had to lower his head to avoid a low beam. In the narrow passageway beneath the deck, knights of the Kingsguard, armoured in scaled white plate, snapped to attention on either side as the prince passed them by. Ser Donnel looked at him and grinned. The knights had styled Dunk a brother-in-arms—a Kingsguard in all but name. Dunk had gladly welcomed it.
Ser Roland opened the door at the far end, stepping aside to allow them entry into a small and well-appointed room with little hatches that let in the dreary mid-afternoon light. Dunk had come to this before to break his fast or sup with the prince. On each occasion that he did so, he had discovered something new to marvel at. In this instance, it was a cedar box no bigger than a man’s fist. It had been laid on the table and its open lid revealed the contents: a ring hewn from blood-red stone polished to a smooth finish, resting on top of a cushion of black velvet.
“I had this made to your measure,” Prince Baelor murmured. He pushed the box across the waxed oaken surface toward Dunk and took his seat. “I trust it suits.”
Dunk reached into the box and took the ring into the flat of his palm. It was cool to the touch, and it looked just right for him. When he slid it down his right ring finger, it fit perfectly.
“You are too generous, Your Grace,” Dunk said, taking a chair. His ears were as red as the ring; he was certain of it. “Did Egg—Prince Aegon, I mean—give you the ring I already owned?” Dunk already possessed one of gilded copper, the only gift he gave himself upon receiving his first proper wage. Egg could have only taken that.
“He did,” Prince Baelor beamed. “My nephew took much delight in spiriting it away, then returning it to its proper place after the deed was complete.” He lifted a silver bell and rang it. “You are not vexed, I hope.”
“I am not,” Dunk said quietly. He looked down at the ring. No other lord had gone to such trouble for his sake without asking recompense in return; the gesture moved him and made him love the prince even more. “I shall treasure this always.”
Prince Baelor merely smiled, yet his eyes glittered with a rare pleasure.
Not long after, the cook was shown into the room, bearing matched crimson bowls with jet ripples and swirls. He set them down before Dunk and the prince, bowed deeply, and took his leave. Dunk leaned forward to breathe in the steam. The broth was made with crushed ginger; already, he could feel his stomach settling from the scent.
“The good captain tells me we will sight land before sunset,” Prince Baelor remarked after his first spoonful. “We can soon put this damp creeping behind us.”
Dunk felt an immense surge of relief. “That would be welcome, Your Grace.” He spooned up more of the broth. The heat of it was soothing as it washed down his throat. “To feel the ground beneath my feet once more.”
“Just so,” Prince Baelor said. “Pray remain and speak with me. There is still much for you and me to talk of.”
They spent the rest of the voyage speaking of many matters, both great and trifling. For Dunk, it was more than just duty; it was a gift beyond price, for it was as close as he could hope to get to the prince and to witness aspects of the man few saw. He would never squander such a grace so rarely given to others. He did not know when it would come his way again.
Prince Baelor was as gracious within the confines of his quarters as he was without. He served Dunk wine himself, then indulged him with the delicate sweetmeats Dunk was fond of. The prince asked Dunk for one of the many stories about old Ser Arlan and the years Dunk tended him as his squire, then offered a tale of his own. Prince Baelor had lived a longer and richer life than even he—Dunk—had, and so, Dunk listened, he learnt, and he committed all that he heard to the safekeeping of memory, the way he always did.
When Prince Baelor dismissed him as the appointed hour of their arrival neared, it was with a reluctance Dunk could not fathom. Nonetheless, the knight obeyed and took to his own little room, to refresh himself and change into his raiment. His tunics and doublets were new; his armour and helm too. Dunk hefted a shirt of mail, weighing it the way he had the first day he received it. The iron was fine and castle-forged, and it gleamed in the lamp light. When he draped it over his doublet, it settled against it like a second skin. Dunk twisted this way and that. The mail moved with ease, and it was light against his frame. It would serve, he told himself as he drew on his surcoat—soft tawny linen edged in green and brown and gold. It would serve very well indeed.
By the time Dunk emerged from his chamber—his sword at his hip—the ship had dropped its anchor, and the sky had cleared, its few remaining clouds aflame from the light of the westering sun. After taking a moment to bid farewell to the ship, he stepped down into one of the landing boats with renewed vigour and greater command than he knew he had. When Prince Baelor took his place beside him, Dunk neither reddened nor struggled for words even as he discreetly admired the prince in his black tunic and mantle. He spoke as a knight should, and conducted himself as a knight ought. If Prince Baelor had perceived a change in his nature, he did not let it show.
A command from the captain was called out, and the boats were lowered into the water. “Jena was fond—more than fond—of sunsets,” Prince Baelor said wistfully. “There were days when I would discover her seated by the windows of our bedchamber come eventide, her eyes fixed on the world beyond.”
“It is quite a sight, Your Grace,” Dunk said cautiously. “The sun setting over the city.”
Prince Baelor sniffed. “Did Ser Arlan like sunsets?”
“He did,” Dunk mused. “The old man would sit under a tree, watch, and say, ‘Another day done, eh, Dunk? But there is always the morrow, and the promise a new sunrise brings with it.’”
“The promise a new sunrise brings with it.” Prince Baelor looked at him with an expression that held neither grief nor wrath, but a third strange quality Dunk could not name. “Most apt.”
They did not speak the rest of the crossing, but passed the time in companionable silence instead.
Dunk looked ahead as the rowers put their backs to the oars, brushing his hand against the salty water that sprayed against his cheek and slouching to make himself smaller in the cramped space. Not far from the boat, the harbour of Weeping Town stretched out on either side of the shore. To the far west, the Red Mountains rose, up and up, until they touched the sky and their sharp peaks bled orange and red in the dying light. The market town itself was smaller in size and people than King’s Landing, but its tiled roofs and signs of guilds and storehouses still boasted of wealth. Ships of every shape could be seen, their sails such a riot of colour that it all hurt Dunk’s eyes. Porters stooped with the weight of their loads as they carried bundles and bales to other merchants and other ships, and men of high office boarded or alighted from vessels, barking out commands and inspecting wares while their attendants fought to keep up.
Weeping Town was a favourite of Lady Jena’s, Prince Baelor finally told him. She had visited it often with her lady mother when she was a child, and she had once stood by the very pier they neared to greet him, the man who would go on to become her husband. A man waited just beyond it even now, holding a black banner blazoned with the white anchor of House Whitehead. Dunk shot a glance at Prince Baelor. The prince was a vision of the utmost composure. He rose when the men lifted their oars, and Dunk threw a rope for labourers to take, his footing sure as the boat was secured to a mooring.
The knight was the first to heave himself onto the dock. “Give me your hand, Your Grace,” he said.
Prince Baelor did not hesitate to accept Dunk’s offer, his slender hand lingering in Dunk’s meaty one longer than custom decreed, much to the knight’s surprise and confusion. Still, he helped the prince up, and when the stranger with the banner crossed to them, he took a moment to gather himself.
“Hail and well met, Your Grace,” the man said, and bowed. “I am Ser Ashter of House Whitehead. Ser Harrin bade me to welcome you in his name. He rides forth to meet you even as we speak.” He gestured to a trio of young squires who stepped away from the throng, leading horses richly caparisoned in sable and white silk. “My lord father beseeches you to make use of our steeds for as long as you remain here.”
“Lord Braedon has my thanks for it,” Prince Baelor said.
He mounted his destrier, a blood bay Ser Ashter called ‘Swift Wind’. The stallion was as splendid as he was biddable, and took to the prince with ease. Yet when it came to Dunk’s own mount, the knight was not so fortunate. The beast Prince Baelor had invited him to take was 'Grey Mist,' a courser whose magnificent appearance was only surpassed by the fierceness of his temper.
The prettiest always did have a temper. Nevertheless, Dunk persevered even as the others left their boats and took to their horses. Grey Mist whinnied and reared, ready to give his unknown rider battle. Yet the knight averted his eyes so as not to frighten the beast or give him challenge. He kept perfectly still, grasping the animal’s reins with light hands and drawing him closer and closer.
“Be easy now,” Dunk crooned softly. “Be quiet. There is no war for you here.”
He slowly reached up and caressed Grey Mist’s neck. The horse did not shy away, but Dunk kept whispering gentle words and rubbing the stallion’s coat until he calmed long enough for the knight to take to his saddle.
“I must beg your pardon,” Ser Ashter said from atop his palfrey, abashed. “Grey Mist is not always like this.”
“No harm was done, m’lord,” Dunk said. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Prince Baelor smiling. It made him smile as well. “Let us ride on.”
The Kingsguard rode out first to clear a path ahead. The rest of the company dug their heels into the flanks of their mounts and followed.
Of the crowds that scrambled to get out of the way, many were startled to see a prince of the blood in a place like Weeping Town. Several called out to Prince Baelor as he rode past them, while others simply ducked into crooked alleys and beneath peaked roofs in their haste to scatter. Dunk kept a steady watch on those who pressed too close. The enmity between the Marcher Lords and the Dornishmen had only just begun to wane, and the prince was as much the blood of Dorne as he was of Old Valyria. There could have been men who meant him ill will.
Suddenly, a blare of trumpets rang out against the stout buildings and thick walls, and the sound of hooves pounding over wood and rain-softened earth soon reached their ears.
“Who goes there?” Ser Roland cried, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword. “Name yourself!”
By then, the other party had reached them. “Ser Harrin Dondarrion, if it please you!” answered the rider who led the group—a lordling in a black woollen surcoat richly adorned with white stars. He reined his horse to a stop and removed his helm, exposing a dashing face and a shock of red-gold hair. “Here to greet the prince!”
“Ser Harrin!” Prince Baelor called out warmly. He urged Swiftwind forward. “It has been a long while, good brother!”
“Too long, I wager.” Ser Harrin grinned. “Come! The Broken Shield awaits us.”
The Broken Shield lay a good two miles further inland—a large stone structure with tiled roofs and shuttered windows painted a rich, leafy green. When they reached its wooden gates, the first stars had already appeared in the darkened sky, and the air had grown chill. Pot-boys ran out with torches and lit those already placed in sconces along the walls, providing the inn’s guests with brighter light. The inn’s yard was empty of other patrons; its rooms, no doubt, given over to the royal party for the night. He dismounted and gave Grey Mist over to a squire for grooming. The horse displayed a flash of his temper, snapping sharply at the lad’s face as if attempting to bite it off.
“Easy,” Dunk quickly soothed. “Do not fuss. Hmm? Go with him.” He passed the reins to the boy. “He will give you no trouble now.”
The squire looked doubtful. He still did as he was bid, and Grey Mist followed him without further trouble, though the horse gave the boy a menacing glare. Dunk watched them go, unable to grasp how the gods could fashion such an inconstant creature.
He turned and went in search of the prince, his boots squelching over slick grass and mud. Prince Baelor was standing by the doorway, speaking with Ser Harrin. They turned when Dunk cleared his throat.
“Your grace,” Dunk said, and bowed. “M’lord.”
“Good brother,” Prince Baelor began, “this is Ser Duncan the Tall, captain of my household guard.”
“My comfort for your loss,” Dunk told Ser Harrin. “Lady Jena was a fine and gentle lady, m’lord. The realm is all the poorer in her absence.”
“As is our family,” Ser Harrin told him. “And my own good brother here.” A spark of light cast away the shadows that had gathered in his amber eyes. “Come in and sit, pray. A meal has been prepared for us.”
Dunk nodded his acceptance, grateful he had not reopened an old wound with careless talk. He walked behind the prince as they entered the inn’s common room, an airy space that smelt faintly of peatsmoke and cooked meat. Serving men stepped forward on the Dondarrion knight’s command, with platters of fry bread and roasted capons and skewers of onions and lamb basted with honey and herbs. Dunk took his seat and tried not to shift. The chair was comfortable enough for his massive frame, but it creaked too much for his liking. He turned his sight to his meal, which he found plentiful and tasty and filling. Kitchen boys ambled from lord to lord—pressing cups into their hands—while a stout, jolly-faced woman trailed after them, halting only to pour from a tankard measures of a vintage found only in the Stormlands. Dunk ate his fill and drank half a cup for courtesy’s sake. The wine was red and fortified; too much would have addled his wits.
Ser Harrin picked up a skewer and nibbled at the tender meat. Honey and grease dripped down his chin. “The prince speaks of you with great esteem in his letters,” he mumbled between sticky mouthfuls. “But he has not told me all. Where do you come from, Ser Duncan? Who are your family?”
Dunk suddenly felt out of place. Every man seated with him was a knight or high lord hailing from families with ancient names and roots that ran deep. He was not. “I am from F-flea Bottom,” he stammered truthfully. “A-as for my kin, there are none; none that I know of.”
“A pity,” Ser Harrin said. “No matter. You serve our prince well. That is enough.” He drank deep and held his cup aloft for more.
“You shall find good contest among the men when you train,” Ser Ashter said, “and mayhap put what you learn to greater use when defending the prince from the fair ladies fighting each other for his affections.”
Though the Whitehead knight spoke in good humour, the prince remained unmoved. “I confess, I no longer seek such gentle companionship,” Prince Baelor said, though not unkindly. “I do not wish to wed again.” He looked at Dunk with that strange quality the knight saw on the boat. It made him forget his meal and ponder his words.
“I meant no insult, Your Grace,” Ser Ashter said.
“None was taken,” Prince Baelor said. He smiled. “Let us continue on to other matters.”
Ser Aster tilted his head, and the notion of Prince Baelor in the company of another noblewoman was no longer spoken of.
As the night waxed and a quarter moon ascended beyond the open windows, a squire took to his lute, filling the air with soft music. Dunk half-listened to it and the lordly speech that rose and fell around him. Prince Baelor and Ser Harrin each spoke of what the other had not witnessed, tales of King’s Landing and the Boneway most of all. That captured Dunk’s interest. He had seen the paintings, and had heard the talk, but hearing it described from the lips of a man whose very life was devoted to guarding the northern gateway of that treacherous pass was a different matter entirely. He hoped to see it someday. Perhaps he would, if his prince ever thought to call on the holdfasts along the way.
Prince Baelor then finished his meal and rose. “Forgive me,” he told Ser Harrin, “but missives to the king await. I bid you all a peaceful night.”
The prince caught Dunk’s fleeting attention. Yet it was not he who compelled Dunk to remain, but Ser Harrin instead. Prince Baelor’s good brother was studying him with a look that was shrewd but held no malice. After many of the others departed for their own beds, the knight handed his plate to a servant passing by and got to his feet.
“I do not mean to intrude,” he said, coming over to Dunk’s side. “I could not help but admire the jewel on your finger.” He sat beside him and gestured to the stone ring. “May I ask the name of the Dornishwoman who courts you?”
Dunk peered into his empty cup. “She is of no consequence.” Prince Baelor had not called for secrecy when he presented the ring, but Dunk did not name him all the same. “This is a trinket, m’lord, nothing more.”
“I am not so certain.” Ser Harrin took Dunk’s right hand into his. “This is the heartstone. It is found only in the bosom of the Red Mountains.”
“Is that so?”
Ser Harrin nodded. “They say a warrior of great renown bled upon the Dornish sands while shielding the woman he loved. He endured and lived, but when he attempted to return to her side, the gods sought to hinder him. The woman this warrior loved was lowborn, you see—too poor and inconsequential to stand beside a man held in such high favour by the divine. So they raised the Red Mountains around each drop of his blood as it hardened to stone, leaving him weak and captive to their will.”
The knight paused for a moment, then added, “Only the woman they conspired against was a determined creature. She did not fear the gods or their wrath. She braved the jagged rocks to find her champion’s life-essence, not caring for the wounds they inflicted upon her own person. What she could carry, she softened with her tears, and gave it back to him. It was enough to give him the strength he needed to free himself from the gods’ hold.” He shrugged. “It is just a myth many have left in the shadows of the past; yet there are those in Dorne who still remember and pass it on as a crib tale to their children.”
Dunk was unable to speak. The ring gifted him was more than just a token of friendship, or even admiration that a lord held toward his vassal. It spoke of feelings that spread far deeper.
“I did not know of such a tale,” he said, once he had discovered, and loosened, his tongue. He was grateful the light did not reveal much; he was certain his ears were already red.
“Now you do,” Ser Harrin said. “Pray who is the woman who bestowed such a gift?”
Dunk blurted, “I-I cannot say.” He hoped that this would be the end of such talk, but it was not to be so. Ser Harrin was as persistent as a hound with a meaty bone.
“You cannot say.” Ser Harrin leaned in, so no one else would hear. “Is this lady a Dornish princess of the blood? Is that why you truly follow the prince to Sunspear? You have no other means to see her?”
“I… I cannot give you the answers you seek,” Dunk said. “My pardons for that.”
Ser Harrin clapped him hard on the shoulder and laughed. “A good man never speaks of a woman’s secrets. Your lady is fortunate, whoever she may be.”
“Aye,” Dunk muttered. “Most fortunate.” He set aside the remnants of his meal and pushed back his chair. “My thanks for your company, m’lord. Until the morrow.”
“Until the morrow, Ser Duncan.”
Dunk sought the stairs, his heart pounding frantically in his chest. The man he once believed was far beyond the likes of him was now closer to his reach. The ring—if Ser Harrin spoke true—was proof of it. He considered what he would say, and what he would do. How did one even raise such a matter with a prince he was only supposed to serve? Dunk did not know. He would have uttered a prayer to the Crone, beseeching her for wise counsel, but he knew not what to say. Ser Arlan had taught him the ways of horse and sword and lance, but never the litanies of the faithful. Perhaps the right words would present themselves at the opportune moment. Dunk hoped such would indeed be the case.
When he ascended to the upper floor, Ser Roland greeted him at the top of the steps. The knight led him to Prince Baelor’s room without further delay. Dunk was to take the first watch within, while Ser Donnel took the first watch outside it.
Ser Donnel, already standing at attention by the door, threw it open. “Ser Duncan, Your Grace,” he announced. He caught a glimpse of the ring and gave Dunk a knowing look, but the corners of his lips curled up.
Dunk slipped inside and waited until the door was closed behind him. “Your Grace,” he said. “May we speak plainly before my duties begin?”
Prince Baelor, seated at a little table by the window, put down his quill and bade Dunk take the chair opposite his. “Speak, Ser Duncan.”
Dunk sat down and lowered his head. He was too flustered to begin, or even look Prince Baelor in the eye. He opened his mouth to speak, struggled to form the words, and then closed it. Somewhere along the upper corridor, a knight began to sing. His clear voice drifted across the floor and filled the silence that enveloped the two men.
“Ser Duncan?” Prince Baelor said. He poured them each a cup of spiced mead. “Is aught amiss?”
“I…” Dunk said, then hesitated. He accepted his cup, drained it in three deep swallows, and finally found something that passed for courage. At length, he confessed, “’Tis the ring, Your Grace. Ser Harrin told me the tale of the stone’s making.” He lowered his voice. “Why did you give it to me?”
Prince Baelor leaned into his seat. Light from nearby candles danced in his eyes. “Ser Harrin sees much,” he said quietly. “Too much for his own good, and ours. You said naught of me, I hope.”
“I did not, Your Grace,” Dunk admitted, his cheeks aflame. “I give you my word on that.”
“Then let us, as you said, speak plainly,” Prince Baelor said. “After you and I crossed paths—no… I must go further back. After Jena was ripped from my embrace, I… I closed my heart to the very notion of loving another. It felt wrong—a betrayal of what my lady and I shared.” He took a deep, steadying breath and continued. “Then, at Ashford, the gods set a humble hedge knight in my path. Imagine my amazement when I took him into my service, and he pierced the armour I fashioned around myself with his unwavering honour and uncommon kindness. I denied it to myself at first—dubbed it a fickle passion that would pass in the night. But the longer this knight remained in my acquaintance, the harder it became for me to look away. This is why I gave you that ring; it is my wish for us to be more than prince and knight.”
The prince sighed. “I believed that I had enough time to speak of it with you. And I would have, had my good brother’s act not forced my hand. Know this, Ser Duncan. There will be no coercion. I will never claim what is not given to me freely. If you say nay, I shall make peace with it and we will continue as we are: lord and servant, nothing more.”
“If I say no, Your Grace, will you take back this ring?”
“No, and never. The ring is a gift. You may take it into your safekeeping for however long you wish.”
Dunk was overcome. Awe and fear ripped through him, each choosing to war with the other. Then, after they had ebbed away, the weight that had pressed down on him for six turns of the moon slowly lifted. Such a freedom made it all the easier for him to make a confession of his own.
“For half a year,” Dunk said, “I did not just seek to serve you.” He swallowed and plunged on. “I-I sought more, Your Grace—more than any knight ever should. I-I still do. I am your man,” he swore earnestly, “and I am yours—in every way you long to have me.”
The prince’s breath hitched. “As I am yours,” he said. “Then is this your word that we may begin anew?” he asked. “Not merely as a prince and his knight, but as two souls embarking on life’s great journey together?”
“It is, Your Grace,” Dunk said, and looked up. Prince Baelor’s eyes softened when he did. “But I do not know if it is wise.” He recalled Ser Donnel’s strange look. “I think… I think Ser Donnel suspects.”
“Ser Donnel knows of my secret,” Prince Baelor explained. “It was he who procured the stone in my name, and it was he who took it to the smith to have it shaped. I fear I could not carry out the deed myself; too many know of my appearance. We are perfectly safe with him; I assure you of this.”
“Oh,” Dunk said, feeling foolish. “Then I will not speak a word to anyone else. Not everyone will approve.”
Prince Baelor nodded. “They will not,” he agreed. “But let us not dwell on that. Let us give thanks to the gods for this night instead, Ser Duncan, and the promise a new sunrise will bring us.”
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i think people get so used to their own creative work that they forget how amazing it is so i’m making this post as a reminder You are the only person capable of making art the exact way you make it. nobody else on earth can do that. there are always going to be those little habits and intricacies and details that simply cannot be replicated whether it’s in writing or painting or textiles and you make life all the better for it i love my friends’ art i love art from strangers im trying to love my own art I LOVE YOU!!! THE PERSON READING THIS!!!!!!! YOU ARE A PART OF THIS WORLD NEVER EVER STOP MAKING THINGS THAT CAN IMPACT IT
I think that we as a society should get more comfortable with the idea that sometimes our friends will be attracted to us and sometimes we will be attracted to our friends and nothing needs to come of that.
You don't have to date. You don't have to stop being friends. You can just keep hanging out. Self control and respect exists.
And sometimes you will date your friend and figure out that your dynamic worked better when you were friends. And then you can go back to being friends. It's really quite simple. Mature and cool, even.
Even requited attraction doesn't need to be acted upon. Two people can be mutually attracted to each other and still decide not to date or not to change the dynamic of their friendship. People who are dating can mutually decide it worked better as a friendship, even if the attraction persists.
Feelings are just feelings. Not all feelings need to be realized as actions. It's very mature and cool to still treat people like people even after learning about their feelings, whatever they are.
There's absolutely been multiple moments when Egg has said something sarcastic, and Maekar turns his back to Egg with his hand on his face. Egg assumes he's made Maekar mad, but in reality it's Maekar trying to hide his laughter
Yes, he does giggle once he's alone. But he's not going to let Egg hear it because he can't encourage that kind of behavior (as if he isn't the blueprint)
There's absolutely been multiple moments when Egg has said something sarcastic, and Maekar turns his back to Egg with his hand on his face. Egg assumes he's made Maekar mad, but in reality it's Maekar trying to hide his laughter
Yes, he does giggle once he's alone. But he's not going to let Egg hear it because he can't encourage that kind of behavior (as if he isn't the blueprint)
There's absolutely been multiple moments when Egg has said something sarcastic, and Maekar turns his back to Egg with his hand on his face. Egg assumes he's made Maekar mad, but in reality it's Maekar trying to hide his laughter
Yes, he does giggle once he's alone. But he's not going to let Egg hear it because he can't encourage that kind of behavior (as if he isn't the blueprint)
