was going to wait to post this but then I realized it's not that deep
enjoy the first 2000ish words of an unedited targaryens losing a third blackfyre rebellion, baelor lives for now, ten years after ashford au.
full fic will maybe someday if I'm lucky come out to around 40,000 words, since this is literally just the intro and has not actually touched any of the plot yet
The camp was quiet, save for the sound of heavy autumn rains pounding against the waxed canvas of the tents. Baleor and his host had made their camp along the banks of a swollen river, but had been careful to pitch their tents far enough away that if the rain continued and the river overflowed onto the banks they would not be washed away in the night. Wouldn't that be the final blow, Baelor thought, to lose half my strength to a swift current.
He could not afford any more losses, outnumbered as he already was by the Blackfyre forces. Outnumbered, and out-manouvered. He stared down at the map in front of him, pinned to the rickety writing desk, and cluttered by half finished letters and war plans. There was nothing he had not seen before, no path to victory he had not previously considered. The map and its set pieces told the truth of the situation; the war was all but lost. He sighed deeply, and leaned back in his chair.
āShould we pray for a dragon then?āDunk asked, sardonically. The knight was sitting on his bedroll, leaned up against Baelor's chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, and his head resting on his Princeās thigh. He was sharpening his sword, though Baelor knew that Dunkās squire had done that already, and Dunk had done it himself earlier that evening as well. Still, the rhythmic metallic grating of steel on whetstone was almost soothing.
Dunk had no mind for military tactics, no mind and no care. He was a man of duty, and would do as Baelor commanded, fight bravely when called to, but the strategies and planning were of no interest to him. He knew though, Baelor was sure, how dire their position was. You didnāt see as many battles as they had and not see which way the tide of war was turning.
āIf we had a dragon what's to stop Bittersteel from having one as wellā Baelor said. He let his hand fall to rest on Dunk's head, idly running his fingers through his hair. Dunk's hair had grown long, personal grooming being of little import now that he no longer needed to be seen at court. He had grown his beard out too, thick and bushy, and Baelor often told him he looked like a Northman. Dunk had told him, with all the disdain he could manage, that Northmen had dark hair, not fair, and Baelor had said even farther north then, a wildling. Dunk had laughed at that, and said that perhaps that might be his next great adventure when the war was finished, beyond the wall.
āDo bastards get dragons?ā Dunk asked, his tone not as casual as it might have been discussing hypothetical dragons. He tended to get a bitter edge to him these days, when matters of bastardry and inheritances and birthrights came up. It made Baelor feel unspeakably selfish, to have tethered Dunk to this life that did not suit him, with Princes and Kings, and pretenders, and usurpers. These are not the concerns of a hedge knight, Baelor thought, but Dunk had not been a hedge knight for a long time now, and as wretched as Baelor knew it to be, he found himself grateful for that.
āThey could, it's a matter of blood, not birth. Dragons know nothing of wedlockā Baelor said
āIt makes little sense to me. You say the Gods gave the Targaryens dragons, but the Gods hate bastards, yet bastards can have dragonsā
āGods and dragons are not the sameā
āThey are close enough in my mindā Dunk said, turning his head to look up at Baelor, his blue eyes shining in the dim lamplight.
āBlasphemy, Duncanā Baelor chided.
Dunk pulled an unhappy face and looked away again,āFuck the godsā he muttered under his breath. Dunk had never been a pious man. He might light a candle for the warrior, before a battle or tourney and would pray with Baelor, if it were asked of him. Baelor tried not to ask. He found himself looking to the gods for answers more and more as of late. Perhaps it was arrogance, but he rarely prayed to the warrior. He knew his own strength in battle, had been tested again and again and again, and emerged victorious, so he left the Warrior to the other men. The Mother was a new favorite, to protect Matarys. The Crone, to guide him out of this madness he had found himself in. The Stranger, for a quick end when his time came. The Father, each morning, and each night, and sometimes in between depending on how heretical Dunk was being on the day, to judge Dunk justly, to see that he was a good man, to beg that for all Dunk would not ask forgiveness from the Gods for his sins might be be forgiven anyways. The closer they came to the end of this war, an end that would almost certainly not favor them, the more Baelor found himself lingering on the after. He had made his peace with the thought of his own end, he might see Valarr again, he might see Aerys and Rhaegel, wherever souls went when men died. Dunk though, he worried for. So he prayed for the two of them, and hoped what they said about Targaryens being closer to Gods than men was true, and that it would be enough.
Dunk did not make it easy for him though, saying things like that. Baelor tugged his hair, a small reprimand. āEnough of that,ā Baelor said.
Dunk, who was bolder now than he had been years ago, was not cowed. āOr what? Will the Stranger take me here and now?ā He snorted dismissively, āLet himā.
āPleaseā Baelor, his voice sounding small and desperate even to his own ears, āPlease do not say things like that, I beg youā. His grip in Dunk's hair tightened, not in reprimand this time, it was more urgent. The panicked grip of a man holding something very precious about to be taken away.
This had more effect. Baelor did not plead or beg. He spoke and men listened, that was the way of things. Dunk knew this, and must've realized he had gone too far. He did not apologize. Baelor had never known the man to apologize for something he fully intended, but he made an attempt at a truce.
āI think it is time to retireā Dunk said, and Baelor released his hold on him. He gave the map on his desk one last hard look. There's nothing to be done for it tonight, he thought. He was tired, he wanted to sleep, wanted to not think about anything besides Dunk curled around him, strong arms holding him tight to his chest. I could finish my letters though, so they might be sent out first thing on the morrow, a niggling voice in his head said. I could do more.
Perhaps sensing his hesitation, Dunk removed the choice. āCome to bedā he said, then with a sly smile āIāll make it worth your while.ā He stood, grabbing Baelor around the waist and pulling him up. Baelor went willingly. He stepped into Dunk's space, as closely as he could, their chests pressed against each other, and when he tilted his head up, he was rewarded with a kiss, slow and sweet and gentle. Dunk was always gentle with him. At first, all those years ago, Baelor took it for shyness. Dunk had been young, inexperienced, all averted eyes and timid touches, calling Baelor āYour Graceā even when he was inside of him. He recalled the first time, Dunk, sweet, perfect Dunk, going so agonizingly slow, whispering hushed apologies, his lips grazing Baelorās ear as he spoke, āSorry, sorry Your Grace, I just-ā harsh breathes, hands tight on Baelorās hips holding him still, āI just donāt want to hurt you, I want it to be good.ā That had been during the long summer, when the realm was at peace, and like a fool Baelor thought he had all the time in the world, so he let Dunk go off with Egg on their grand adventures, and when they were in Kings Landing Dunk and Baelor would fall into bed together, and every time was as sweet as the first. Then the droughts hit, and the second Blackfyre rebellion-failure though it was-, and everything started to go to pieces all at once. Baelor called his man home, for he needed every good man he had as close as he could have them, and because suddenly it started to feel like he might not have much time with Dunk at all. He kept Dunk close, made him his personal guard to excuse all the time they spent together, and let Dunk prove his valor in small battles and tourneys so when the time was right, years later, he presented Dunk with a white cloak, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Dunk had come into himself over the years, but he still handled Baelor as if he was something precious. Once Baelor had protested this treatment, telling Dunk he was not a maiden, but now he found himself longing for it. The more they warred and fought and battled, each day harder than the next, the more Baelor wanted Dunk's soft touch. Dunk, always better to him than Baelor deserved, was happy to oblige.
Baelor let himself be maneuvered to the camp bed, a small thing, not made for two, and certainly not if one of them was Dunkās size. Dunk usually slept on his own bedroll next to Baelorās bed, for the sake of propriety as much as a concession to Dunkās size. A war camp was not half as private as Baelorās chambers in Kings Landing, with only the canvas of the tent separating them from the thousand other men nearby. People already talked about the two of them, whispers and rumors, and Baelor was sure at least one of Dunkās sworn brothers must have a keen idea of what went on behind closed doors, given that they stood guard outside Baelorās chambers, and Dunk was not half as quiet as he seemed to think he was, once in the throes of pleasure. They did not often risk this in the camp, but the rain was heavy enough to keep men in their own tents and for the sound to cover any indiscreet noises that might be coming from Baelorās.
They fell onto the bed, Dunk sprawled atop of Baelor, his weight pinning him down. Baelorās hands went under Dunkās tunic, clutching at his back, giving him no means to pull away. Not that Dunk would want to pull away; he had wasted no time in getting his mouth back on Baelor, kisses along his jaw, teeth gently nipping at his neck.
Baelor pushed his hips up to grind against Dunkās, and felt Dunk was already hard in his breeches. He repeated the motion, rolling his hips slowly, relishing the moan the friction drew from Dunk.
āI needā Dunk said, pausing to meet Baelorās lips with his own once more, tongue pushing into Baelorās mouth, hot and slick, āmore of youā he finished, when he had drawn back. He pulled away for just long enough to yank his tunic over his head. Baelor followed suit, removing his own shirt, and then got a hand between them to start working at the laces on Dunkās breeches.
as you all know I'm a dunk/baelor stan but have any of the dunk/maeker people thought of a les mis inspired au where maeker is javert and dunk is jean valjean? bc I think that would go crazy hard
like go to spotify pull up les mis, listen to the confrontation and just think about it
dunk and baelor get together, and dunk sneaks into baelor's chambers to sleep every night, but one night baelor wakes up and dunk is gone. and he's trying to figure out why dunk would just leave in the middle of the night, but then he hears snoring, and looks over the edge of the bed and dunk is sleeping on the floor. and baelor wakes him up and is like what are you doing down there, and dunk tells him that since he's spent so long sleeping rough, under trees and in the hedges and whatnot, sometimes the bed is too soft and he can't get comfortable but he doesn't want to leave Baelor so he just sleeps on the ground next to the bed and then sneaks back into bed before Baelor wakes up, and it actually happens fairly frequently this is just the first time he got caught
idk man, something about dunk just not being able to adjust to a different life but trying to for baelor just really hits me in the heart
The specific humiliation of sharing your writing with someone and then watching them read it in front of you in real time. they pause. why did they pause. that was a bad pause. now they're nodding but what does the nod mean. now they look up and say "wow" and you need to know IMMEDIATELY what kind of wow that was. there are at least six different wows and only one of them is good and you have aged fourteen years waiting to find out which one.
well aware this is an au for an audience of one (myself) but consider:
dunk as one of those hoof trimming asmr youtube channels. itās got a stupid name like The Hoof Lad or something
baelor as someone who gets this randomly shown on his algorithm and watches his videos as a sort of guilty pleasure, listening to his lovely accent and watching his large hands at work.
baelor going to summerhall and visiting the stables and meeting the new farrier who, lo and behold, is gorgeous and broad and gentle with a voice heād recognize anywhere
evil horse would be a d1 farrier hater for sure, I imagine she'd be the reason the last guy quit and Dunk got hired.
It's probs the only time baelor would ever feel bad for evil horses behavior bc she's making poor dunks job harder. He's like Lady you have to lock in or you'll ruin my chances with the hot guy.
Lady's like I'll kill him with my hooves if he tries anything suspicious
another lil snippet, half this fic is going to end up posted here before it ever makes it to ao3.
in this one, dunk discusses a very serious matter
āItās like they say in the songs you knowā Ser Willmoore said with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows, his impish tone promising trouble. Itās always trouble with this one Dunk thought, and somehow he drags me into it.
āWhat is like in the songs?ā Dunk asked warily, not turning to look at Ser Willmoore. His eyes were locked on the bout in front of him, Prince Baelor sparring furiously against Ser Roland Crakehall and Ser Donnel of Duskendale, two against one. If I donāt pay him too much attention, mayhaps he will leave me be. Ser Willmoore was a small man, but made up for his slight stature with an abundance of wit, and was too clever by half. Dunk had been on the butt end of a great number of Willmooreās japes and tricks of wordplay, but the man had a kind heart, and it was never cruelly done. Still, Dunk had quite enough of looking a fool for one day, so he tread carefully.
āThe princeās cockā Willmoore said plainly. Dunkās head whirled around like a struck quintain, the action in front of him forgotten.
āNo.ā Said Dunk. He tried to sound firm, for all the good it would do. I will not participate in Willmoreās folly. Not on this matter.
āYes,ā Ser Willmoore said. It had done no good then, It was not in Ser Willmooreās nature to quit a bit of fun once he had gotten started. Dunk braced himself for more.
āGiant, veinyā he continued with great pleasure. Dunk knew he must be red to the tips of his ears, he could feel the heat rising in his face. He was no prude, but talking about the Princeās cock in the middle of the training yard while the prince was mere yards away was more than Dunk could handle.
Still, curiosity got the better of him. āHow would you know,ā he asked. He tried to manage his tone, to sound disbelieving rather than interested, for he had no interest in the Princeās cock. As far as Willmoore was concerned anyways.
Ser Willmoore was alight with mischief now and Dunk knew had made a mistake by taking the bait. He steers me right where he wants me, Dunk thought, and I fall for it every time. Ser Willmore leaned closer to Dunk. So close Dunk could feel his breath on his ear, and said, like he was telling a great secret āBecause Iāve seen itā.
āNo,ā was once more the only response Dunk could manage.
āA great many timesā
āYouāve seen the Princeās cock a great many timesā
āAye, that is what Iāve said is it notā
āHowā Dunk asked. He grimaced after the word left his mouth. He should not know. He did not want to know.
āThe same way you might see any manās cock. Common men and princes arenāt so different once the small clothes come off. Of course, I wouldnāt expect you to know anything of that Ser Duncan, virginal and virtuous as you are. Tell me, are you still saving yourself for marriageā.
As it were, Dunk was not saving himself for anything. He could hardly argue against his lack of experience in such matters, concerning princes or common men, or cocks or otherwise. Besides a stolen kiss from a tavern girl years past heād had little opportunity for such things. Now that he had his own coin, he supposed he could pay for the pleasure, but the thought appealed to him little. If Tanselle hadnāt gone, well that appealed to him a great deal. He dreamt of her sometimes. Dreams that left him hard and aching in his smallclothes. There were other dreams too, dreams that he told himself meant nothing, and what his brain did when he was sleeping was beyond his control. Dreams that had Dunk entertaining a conversation about the Princeās cock, because in truth this was far from the first time he had thought of it.
It was risky to entertain this conversation. A risky thing for Ser Willmoore to broach the topic, on two counts. Ser Willmoore had placed his own secret on Dunk, and one never knew how a man might react to that sort of thing. But worse, he was suggesting the prince enjoyed the company of other men. Dunk had heard such rumors elsewhere, mutters of Prince Baelorās Dornish tastes, but thought little of them. Words are wind, he often told Egg, when his squire allowed ill words to affect him. Men talked a great deal about things they knew nothing about. This was true anywhere, Dunk had heard many a farmer or poor villager prattle on about the King or the Princes or Lords of noble households when he had lived amongst the hedges with Ser Arlan. He heard even more prattiling now amongst the nobles. A tale could make its way around the whole of Summerhall in less than an afternoon. Passing from ear to ear, changing a bit with each telling until there was not a hint of truth remaining. Egg had informed Dunk that it would be even worse in Kings Landing, and worst of all wherever Bloodraven involved himself.
Still, Ser Willmoore seemed to have no fear that this tale would spread. He knows I will not tell, because he knows I am interested, thought Dunk.
Dunk considered the idea. Ser Willmoore and Prince Baelor. Not entirely implausible. Dunk had never heard other men suggest such things about Ser Willmoore, with any partner, but he had just got that from the horseās mouth. Willmoore was handsome enough. Dunk looked him up and down once. More than handsome enough. Short, yes, and slender like a maid, but Dunk knew from sparring with the man that he was stronger than he looked. He wore his dark hair long, to his shoulders, and his eyes were a deep green like forest moss. He was technically highborn as well, which Dunk supposed might matter to a Prince, though House Reed was not well respected beyond the North. Dunk thought of him with Baelor, and found the idea was not unattractive at all.
āIām not saving myself for marriage,ā Dunk said. He ignored the rest of what Willmoore had said, lest he give voice to any of his more treacherous thoughts.
He neednāt give voice to them to be found out though, Dunk could read it plainly on Ser Willmooreās face that the other man had followed his thoughts. āNo, not for marriage then I thinkā Ser Willmoore said.
thanks for reading, also if anyone knows how to use italics on this hellsite lmk bc the formatting gets fucked whenever I copy and paste from word.
Last line game: share the last line you wrote (and tag as many people as words, or however many you want).
āI wouldnāt! Lyonel!ā Dunk yells after him, before apparently deciding to let Lyonel sulk in peace, which is good, which is excellent, which is exactly what Lyonel wanted.
If you see this, and want to do your own, consider yourself tagged.
"A quarter of Flea Bottom was some kind of dragon seed. Of all the bastards to be, that was the worst kind. You learned to ignore itāit was only polite.ā
And there was that old rhyme: Aegon the Rutter, Realm-Cutter, took his fill and left us in the gutter.
@motherrthing @raethereptile and anyone else who sees this and is in the middle of writing something!
"Ser Willem has not been the same man since Ashford Meadow" Prince Baelor said. Dunk considered the Prince, his tired eyes, his slightly hitched gait, the way his grip on Dunk's arm was not the same strong hand that had knighted him, the kings guard hovering too close at his side. No, Dunk thought, not the same man at all, but he was not thinking of Ser Willem.
everyone lives the hangover inspired au where Dunk, Valarr, Daeron, and Egg go to storms end for Lyonel's wedding (he's not happy about it either), proceed to get absolutely hammered the night before the wedding, wake up in the morning and realize they've lost Lyonel.
Dunk and Valarr are in an absolute panic (they were meant to be the responsible ones), meanwhile Daeron is like guys I wake up in ditches not knowing how I got there all the time, this is not even a big deal, and Egg is just happy to be along for the ride.
so they've got like twelve hours before Lyonel needs to be in the Sept getting married, and the last place anyone saw him was dancing on a table in the great hall.
they find out Dunk accidently married some random girl, and Egg and Valarr are like shit Baelor is going to be so mad. and Dunk's like okay yeah it's not ideal that I got accidentally married but why would Baelor care, and the boys are just like ... knowing glances.
at some point Valarr was definitely hitting the Prince Harry "King" written on his chest, girl all over him, situation.
if westeros had tabloids they'd all be so cooked.
anyways I forget what else happens in the hangover but you get it
immediately after an interaction: i have GOT to get more normal oh god i need to get more normal immediately i have to get more normal or they're going to hunt me down they're going to hunt me down and flay me for sport
during an interaction: and why not put a little spin on it? why not add some conversational zest?
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