Draekon - Starfyre - a pale blue she-dragon with white-gold wings and horns with a slender build, hatched in the cradle, silencing any and all who would claim the long awaited heir was neither noble or Targaryen enough to follow his Dam to the throne. A fierce and cunning creature, there was nothing Draekon loved more than to fly.
Aelana - Vaeraxes - a dark green dragon with golden horns and wings, not hatched in the cradle but claimed later on Dragonstone. Chosen specifically because he was bigger than her brother’s Starfyre
Haenar - Dawnbreaker - deep purple with wings and horns of copper-gold. Haenar’s egg hatched but the hatchling was malformed and died soon after, but the boy was encouraged to claim a dragon by his sister and brother while staying on Dragonstone during their Dam’s confinement with their last sibling. Aelana wanted him to claim the fearsome Meleys or Seasmoke, but found a life long companion in Dawnbreaker whose gentle but protective nature suited Haenar just fine.
Aelon - Torrent - black with blue wings and horns. Hatched in the cradle only days after returning from Storm’s End. Ferocious and bad tempered.
Aevor - Riptide - blue with black wings and horns. Hatched in the cradle only days after returning from Storm’s End. Cunning and patient.
Lucaera - Bloom - pink-gold and white, hatched in the cradle. Puffs smoke at the wet nurses when they come to feed her princess, only letting Baelor close. Spends much of her early life lighting candles so Lucaera can read late into the night.
(Some shorts from various projects featuring my fave brothers. Some will be HammerAnvil others will be platonic, I will tag appropriately)
(Not Omegaverse, AU where Baelor has a third son)
Baelor does not wake for four days after the Trial.
It is the morning of the first day when Maekar finds his smallest nephew at his elbow, his star-filled eye piercing the darkness of Baelor’s room. A little hand wraps around his wrist, and Maekar tears his glassy gaze away from his brother to his brother’s favourite son.
It is an odd thing, he thinks, to have a favourite. All his own sons are difficult in their own ways, and he loves them as much as he can, but he can’t ever recall the same joy crossing his own features as when Baelor’s twin toned gaze lands on his little dragon. He hopes to see it again soon.
“Uncle,” Draekon says quietly. “Can you help me, please?”
Maekar blinks. “With what, nephew?” He asks. His nephew looks small, still in his clothes from the day before, mud on his boots and trousers
Draekon’s eyes go to the floor. “Valarr is gone home, to grandfather,” he says, upset. “And Kepa is…”
The guilt already settled like lead in his chest doubles in size. Draekon had likely seen him strike his dear father, had been there when the blacksmith wrenched the helm from Baelor’s head and exposed the horror beneath caused by Maekar’s mace. What does that do to a boy? To see his father so injured?
“I’m hungry,” Draekon tells him, like it’s something shameful.
“Then ask the servants for a meal,” Maekar explains.
“Baelor does everything for you,” Maekar realises, feeling something terrible crack open in his chest at the boy’s nod.
Oh, Baelor, he thinks. When his father had voiced concern that Baelor was spoiling his youngest son, he hadn’t thought it this severe.
Maekar stands with a wince, stepping out into the hall to catch a maid.
“My nephew has not been served his meals since the night before last,” he says, perhaps more severely than he intends. His brother would be furious to know they had all neglected his little son to the point of starving. “Have a fresh meal brought up immediately, with citrus cakes if you have any. Orange, preferably.”
The maid nods and scurries off, and he returns to his brother’s room to find Draekon curled up next to the still form of his father, tiny and trembling.
“Draekon, come off there,” he says, and slides his arms under the boy despite the ache in his own shoulders and chest. Draekon curls into him, beginning to weep quietly into Maekar’s shoulder. He’s so small, lighter than even Rhae at this age. No wonder his brother never seems to tire of carrying him. “Your Kepa needs his rest, little one. Come, sit with me while we wait for your meal.”
Ser Duncan is no where to be seen when the three younger sons of Daeron II arrive at the gates of their ancestral castle, where they spent much of the happier times of their childhood. The castle itself is as eerie as ever, servants hurrying about to prepare for three additional princes and their small retinue.
It’s not until they reach the living quarters of the palace that the smell hits them; distress, sour and cloying, accompanied by the copper of blood and black smoke of a dragon in pain. Maekar, with his sharper nose, breaks into a run, rushing down the hall to the grand doors of the prince’s chamber and forcing the doors open as Aerys and Rhaegel chase after him.
The change in scent is dizzying, from the despair of a distressed omega to the sweet, milky scent of a new pup, and Maekar almost trips over as he comes into the suite and follows the scent down the winding hall that leads to the main bed chamber. Pomegranate and honeysuckle and summer flowers, the scent of his childhood, companionship, the clack of training swords and laughter and an endless summer, a crooked smile and twin coloured eyes that Maekar only pictures when he thinks of his elder brother.
Baelor is humming when Maekar rounds the corner into the main bedchamber, a soft song Maekar vaguely remembers their mother singing, sitting upon the bed as the sun filters into the room, turning it and him golden in its rays. He’s dressed, though not in court raiment, a light dornish coat of black silk with dancing red dragons on either side of the coat, over a dark wine coloured tunic of soft linen. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand resting in a pile of red and black fabric, curls hanging soft over his forehead.
“Baelor!” Rhaegel is the first to speak, moving around Maekar. Baelor stands and embraces him, smiling.
“I did not hear the harbour bells!” Their eldest brother says.
“We asked it not to be rung,” Aerys tells him, resting his book on a table sturdy enough to hold its weight. “To surprise you.”
“Well I am surprised,” Baelor embraces Aerys, patting him on the back, and Maekar hardly has the time to react before his brother is embracing him as well. He relaxes into it; he and Baelor had quarrelled before he went into confinement; Baelor had wanted him to keep the office of Hand, had intended to stay on Dragonstone after he lost this babe as well.
Maekar had not been kind about his objection.
Maekar is about to speak, apologise, when a soft wail breaks the silence and Baelor pulls away from him and goes to the bundle of fabric on the bed, tutting as he lifts a tiny pup out of the swaddling blanket.
“Just in time to meet your uncles,” he says softly. “I’m sure mother and father already told you his name. But this is Draekon.”
Maekar’s arms move automatically when Baelor hands him the child, tinier than even Rhae had been, with his brother’s colouring and deep purple eyes with a burst of blue around the centre of the left one. The boy makes a noise at being handed around, but settles as Maekar begins to rock him.
“Baelor, he’s perfect,” Maekar tells him as his brother beams.
AU where Dunk is egg’s year 3 teacher and Egg’s worried his dad is gonna fire Dunk bc Egg’s been acting out at school so he convinces his uncle to come pretend to be his dad.
Baelor walks into the classroom to this 6’5” beefcake of a primary school teacher and promptly blue screens, nods his way through the parent teacher interview and lets Duncan walk him and Egg out of the building.
It’s not until they’re at Baelor’s car and Dunk is writing his number down on a piece of paper that Dunk says “by the way, you can tell Aegon I taught his sister last year and have met Maekar ten or twelve times now. I’ll expect him tomorrow for the real conference, and you at dinner next Friday” that Baelor realises they didn’t get away with anything
Reblog this if you want readers to come into your ask box and ask for the “director’s commentary” on a particular story, section of a story, or set of lines.
Or, send in a ⭐star⭐ to have the author select a section they’ve been dying to talk about!
So, a few days ago I was reading a very lovely Dunk/Baelor story where they were “cursed” to always be touching.
And then it vanished.
Dear author, I hope everything is well, and that it was a creative choice, or necessity, not the result of harassment, a bot attack, or any other unpleasant experience.
...I’m an old lady, I worry :(
(and since I'm already spamming multiple tags, I guess I should just ask: is there a Discord channel for talking about Dunk/Baelor, or even a more general one where you can talk about them?) (asking for a friend)
It’s not until he walks into the second grade classroom at Ashford Academy that Maekar realises that he owes his son an apology. Egg had been telling him that his teacher had been acting strangely, had looked sad all the time, and Maekar had told him he was likely just unwell. Baelor would have said something if something had happened with Duncan, surely.
Then again, he hadn’t spoken to his brother more than a few words in the last few weeks. Someone was leaking information to Blackfyre Inc. and had the whole company in a frenzy trying to find who.
Duncan looks terrible, hunched over his desk with his long hair pulled back messily, a rough beard on his normally well groomed face, clothes rumpled where they’re usually neatly ironed. But it’s his eyes that have Maekar almost take a step back when the teacher looks up. They’re sunken deep, almost bruised from lack of sleep, raw and red from crying and bloodshot so badly the blue of them are startling.
“Duncan,” he says, shocked.
Duncan swallows, averting his gaze. “Please, I’m just your son’s teacher now,” he says softly. “I’d l-like to go over his maths homework. He-he hasn’t been handing it in on time a-and he’s fallen behind in his reading exercises—“
“Duncan,” Maekar interrupts. “Let me call Baelor. You’re upset, you shouldn’t be at work—“
At the mention of his brother’s name, something terrible and broken passes over the young man’s face, and he crumples, burying his face in his hands, shoulders shaking.
“Baelor broke up with me,” Duncan admits, sending a bolt of dread through Maekar. “I-I think I pushed him too far and hurt him and he kicked me out! I don’t even know what I did wrong and he was *so angry* at me and I—“
“Duncan, Dunk,” he tries the nickname he’s heard multiple people call the young man, kneeling next to his chair to grab his shoulders. Even Egg calls him that on occasion. “Calm down, what do you mean Baelor broke up with you? What happened?”
“I-we had a big weekend…went away, just us in a cottage north London,” Dunk sniffles, scrubbing at his sore face. Maekar doesn’t even think to feel uncomfortable. “I thought…I thought he enjoyed himself. Thought we both did. But then I came home on Monday and he’s thrown all my things in a box and hurled his engagement ring at my head and told me to get out. Told me to go find someone else! He wouldn’t even talk to me! Won’t answer my calls and I-I don’t know what I did wrong!”
Maekar frowns. His brother has never been a reactive type, certainly has never been the type to fly into a rage or make rash decisions. Even if he was hurt, even if Duncan supposedly hurt him.
“Let’s get you home,” Maekar says gently. “I’m your last meeting tonight, right? I always try to take the last slot.”
Duncan nods weakly. “I can drive,” he croaks.
“No you fucking cannot,” Maekar tells him. “Come on, get your things, and give me your keys. I’ll have someone get your car later and drop it to your place.”
Duncan fishes his car keys out of his desk drawer and packs up, shoving folders and papers and his laptop into his satchel before grabbing his coat from the hook by the door. He looks like a miserable, massive puppy, hands wrapped around the tops of his arms like he might fall apart if he’s not holding himself together.
They’re a few minutes out from the boy’s flat when Duncan clears his throat.
“You’ll check on him, right?” The boy asks, and Maekar doesn’t need to look at him to know he’s crying. “You don’t have to— he obviously doesn’t want to talk to me or nothing, and…well I understand. But I still love him, and I don’t want him hurting all alone with no one to keep him out of that head of his…and I guess he won’t talk to you neither if you didn’t know…but please. Please make sure he’s alright. You don’t even have to tell me how he is, I just…I love him. I want him to be okay.”
“I’ll go check on him right after I drop you home,” Maekar promises. He was already heading over regardless of Duncan’s request. He sits in his car and watches Duncan climb the steps to his flat, only leaving when he sees the light in his window flick on.
Baelor’s house is in Mayfair, and with evening traffic it’s late by the time he gets there. He pounds on the door hard enough that his hand aches, but nothing prepares him for the sight of his brother when the door opens.
Even during the worst of the divorce, Baelor had stood tall. But the man in front of him is pale and curled in on himself, eyes glassy and raw, beard unkempt and hair askew. There's scratches on his neck, scabbed over in places, bloodied fingernails and torn skin around the nails themselves.
"Maekar," Baelor says quietly, twin toned eyes lowered to the ground. "I wasn't expecting you. I'm...I'm sorry, I'm busy right now."
"I just had a PTC with Duncan," Maekar says, and Baelor flinches at the man's name. "He's a fucking wreck, brother. He said you two broke up? After everything you two went through when Aerion was making your lives hell, I really thought..."
Baelor swallows, shaking his head vigorously. "Dunk—Duncan and I are through," he says, his voice breaking. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Don't want to—Baelor! You're both obviously miserable about all this!" Maekar reaches out to grab his brother's arm, but Baelor flinches back. "Baelor, fucking talk to me!"
"No, not...I can't," Baelor tells him desperately. "...I have to work on the Bingley case. It's due in court tomorrow."
Maekar goes still, and quickly schools his expression as his mind begins to race. The Bingley case had been the first case he and Baelor had worked on together as lawyers, right after Maekar had gotten his license. They had spent most of their time going over it at a small café two blocks away from the family law firm.
Maekar hoped he wasn't insane.
"Alright," Maekar says. "Tomorrow? What time is the hearing?"
"Eleven," Baelor tells him.
"Good luck," Maekar replies, and steps away as Baelor shuts the door behind him.
He's at the cafe almost fifteen minutes before the meeting time, drumming his fingers on the worn table in the back corner as he stares at the door with an intensity he's sure would cause it to catch fire if it were possible. But feels some of that awful tension leave his body when his brother steps into the cafe and makes a beeline to him.
He's on his feet in an instant, catching Baelor as his older brother wraps him in a fierce hug, burying his face in the shoulder of his suit jacket as he trembles in his grip. "Daemon," Baelor croaks softly, and Maekar feels all that awful tension return tenfold. "And Aegor. They've bugged my house, they have...have footage. They're making me...making me..."
"You're the leak," Maekar realises.
Baelor nods against his shoulder. "My phone is bugged as well, and I don't know who to trust at the company. I...they made me send Dunk away. So he wouldn't figure out something was wrong."
"Fuck, Baelor," Maekar clutches at him. "How long have you been trying to get me alone to tell me?"
"Weeks," Baelor admits weakly. "Dunk, last night you said he was—"
"A fucking wreck," Maekar tells him. "He's blaming himself, doesn't look like he's slept in weeks. Even Egg is worried about him...he begged me to go see you."
Baelor nods against his shoulder, and Maekar holds him for a few more moments before pulling away. His brother still looks a wreck, but there's a lightness to him that hadn't been there the night before. "Baelor," Maekar grips his shoulder. "We'll fix this. We beat them once, we'll do it again. Are they tracking you?"
"No, not as far as I know," Baelor tells him. "I'm not being followed when I leave the house. Just at home and at the office...I think they believe they have too scared...for a while they did."
"After court today, we'll head to Duncan's," Maekar tells him, and Baelor's eyes widen. "Then, we can gameplan and figure out what our next move is once we have somewhere we can talk."
-
I take prompts! Feel free to DM me as well! I love talking about these two!
Since I’m writing a lot of Omegaverse I thought I might post some stuff about them!
Draekon “Bright-Eye” Targaryen
Born late 209AC on Dragonstone, their first born was the long awaited heir for Baelor after suffering terrible losses that left him childless for many years. Conceived in the aftermath of Ashford Tourney, Baelor and Duncan rushed to wed when the existence of the child became apparent to prevent him being born a bastard. The image of his Dam, Draekon is second in line to the throne and bears the weight of it heavily, named Bright-Eye for the star shaped burst of pale blue in his otherwise dark purple left eye, he is an intelligent but quiet boy, never straying far from Baelor when he can help it, but beneath the shell of the perfect heir hides a ferocious young dragon eager to prove himself to his parents and the realm.
Aelana Targaryen
Born 211 AC in King’s Landing, Aelana is the definition of a Targaryen Princess; strong willed and stubborn, with dragonfire in her veins. A better swordsman than her older brother and a better rider than her younger brother, she is as comfortable in ring-mail as she is in silk, endlessly distressing her maids, septas and parents, and likens herself a future Hand of the King once her brother Draekon takes the throne. It’s suspected her stubbornness comes from the fact Baelor rode against Daemon II Blackfyre at Whitewalls and fought in the short lived Second Blackfyre rebellion while unknowingly carrying her, a fact Duncan has not forgotten yet.
Haenar Targaryen
Born 212AC on Dragonstone, Baelor grew so great with child when carrying him it was thought he carried twins, only to birth a boy twice the size of his first son. Initially lorded as a future Dragonknight, and some whispered a second Maegor given the difference between brothers, it became evident quite quickly that he had not just inherited his sire’s size but also his gentle nature. Despite being almost as big as his older brother at half his age, Haenar never strays far from Draekon from the moment he could walk, and if not with Draekon then he is with Aelana, pulled along to assist in her mischief.
Aelon and Aevor Targaryen
Born 214 AC at Storm’s End on the last day of Spring, the twins, known as the Summer Princes, have kept their parents on their toes since day one. Aelon is impatient and headstrong, while Aevor is mischievous and quick witted, both of them constantly scheming and avoiding their lessons in favour of making trouble in the keep, often being wrangled by their parents and their eldest brother (when they don’t convince him to join in on the fun). While Draekon shares similarities with their Dam, it is the twins who take after Baelor the most, sharing his twin coloured eyes and Dornish looks.
Lucaera Targaryen
Born 217 AC on Dragonstone, Lucaera was a surprise for both her parents and the court, as Baelor had thought his childbearing years well past him. Fearful and knowing the risks of carrying a babe so late in life, Baelor made arrangements for his brother, Maekar, to stand as regent should he not survive the birthing bed and began preparing his heir, Draekon, for the throne, at the time only seven. But despite everything, the little princess came easily, cried loudly, and brought joy to her parents and the realm. A studious girl, she was everything her sister was not, sweet and gentle, with a love of books much like her uncle Aerys, losing her self in ancient legend and Valyrian scrolls, insisting her older brothers carry her new selection from the library to her rooms, and back again when she was done.
There’s something to be said about Targaryen possessiveness, like a dragon guarding its horde with the fury of fire and blood. Baelor knows he has it, the hunger he feels when gazing upon his Alpha, the furious jealousy when other Omegas in the court attempt to charm Duncan out of their mating nest; something he had discovered was not in fact a product of pregnancy running rampant on his mind, and had not left him in the almost two years since he birthed their precious pup.
Perhaps it’s because Draekon is so young, or perhaps it might be despite his common born Sire that he has a touch more Targaryen dragon blood in him than Baelor himself, but Draekon’s possessiveness rears its head around the same time his little dragon begins to talk.
Muña had been his first word, bringing Baelor to tears as the pup chirps what Baelor had until recently believed he would never be called. Mine had been his second, followed very quickly by No.
He spoke his first sentence at eleven months, shoving Maekar’s hand from Baelor’s arm with a squeaking growl and snapped “no! Muña mine!” At his brother with a ferocity that had reduced all of them, King Daeron included, to laughter.
The pup disliked being from Baelor almost as much as Baelor disliked being parted from him, the hiccuping sobs and heavy tears that came whenever Baelor was forced to put him down breaking his heart asunder.
“You spoil that boy,” his mother tells him, though it is fond.
“He is mine to spoil,” is always Baelor’s response. Never let it be said he is not as possessive as his child.
Draekon is almost a year and a half old, still small and sweet in his arms, when Duncan approaches Baelor after an afternoon in the gardens with his mother. His alpha is dressed simply, in a blue tunic and trousers and dark boots. His long hair tied back with a loop of leather, with his hands still bound from training in the yard, and Baelor almost gravitates towards his mate as Duncan approaches them.
No sooner had Duncan stepped into Baelor’s space that a small growl erupted from their son. “No! Mine!” The boy declares, pushing ineffectually at Duncan’s chest.
Baelor laughs at their son. “You must learn to share, sweetling,” he says, kissing his black curls.
“No!” Draekon replies, pouting, and then turns to glare at Duncan. “Go away!”
Duncan stares at their little son, then plucks the boy from Baelor’s grip and brings Draekon up to press their foreheads together.
“I’ll have you know I was here first, pup,” Duncan tells him seriously, and then buries his face in Draekon’s throat and blows berries into his skin, causing the little pup to shriek with laughter.
Baelor laughs as well, his teeth itching with fondness at the sight of them.
Duncan deposits their babe back in his arms a moment later, Draekon’s fingers gripping Baelor’s robes fiercely, pouting once more at having been removed from Baelor’s arms.
“You know,” Myriah says, coming up beside her son and reaching out to stroke her grandson’s cheek. “It’s said that when an older babe becomes protective of their carrier, it means the Omega is with child once more.”
Baelor frowns. “I highly doubt there is much truth in that, mother,” he says.
-
I take prompts! Please feel free to message or DM me!
It’s an old thing, from the seventies, made of faded yellowed plastic with a bent antenna and brittle dials, sitting on the windowsill above the sink because if it’s moved it may fall apart.
But the sound quality is still good, only whining and crackling on the high notes, and still picks up all the stations.
That’s how Baelor finds his partner, swaying slightly to the music as he makes them lunch. Dunk’s hair is pulled back in a flower shaped claw clip (a gift from one of his students), sleeves of his sweater rolled up to his elbows, carefully spreading out relish on fresh buns, salads and spread out around him and the skillet oiled and hot ready for the steaks he plans to put on in a moment. He’s singing along to the song, though it’s plain he doesn’t actually know the words.
Baelor can’t help but grin foolishly at him, lovesick, as he leans in the doorway of the kitchen. He laughs softly when Dunk does a little spin to check the skillet, and his lover’s head comes up, meeting his eyes and matching his grin.
“Have a good nap, sweetheart?” Dunk says.
“You were right, it was what I needed,” Baelor admits. He’s been stressing about his family’s arrival, forming into a headache that left him cranky and mean. Dunk had basically put him to bed like an irate toddler some three hours ago, and he’d woken alone but feeling more himself.
“Good,” Dunk smiles, and then tilts his head as the song changes, something slower by an artist Baelor thinks he should know.
Dunk holds out his hand, and Baelor takes it, making a surprised noise when he’s yanked into Dunk’s arms and spun around the kitchen in a dance. It feels ridiculous, letting himself be danced around the central island by this man who has changed so much of his life this last year, as Dunk sings the song to him sweetly. At least he knows the lyrics to this one.
And I don't know how it gets better than this,
You take my hand and drag me head first,
Fearless
But something warm begins to spread through him, heart a drum under his ribs as Dunk holds him tight.
“I love you,” he says suddenly.
Dunk’s grin brightens even more, if that’s possible, and suddenly Baelor is sitting up on the kitchen counter, his lover between his thighs as Dunk frames his face with his massive hands and kisses him like he’s precious.
“I love you too, sweetheart,” he replies. “Now how about you sit there so I have something pretty to look at while I finish making lunch?”
Baelor blushes hot, and Dunk kisses his warmed cheek before pulling away and going back to making lunch, singing his bad lyrics and dancing to himself, a matching love sick grin on his face.
His life has changed so much, but he knows he wouldn’t change it for anything.
-
Btw I take prompts! Feel free to message or ask me!
It is late evening the two days after their son came screaming into the world, and Baelor had done little else but hold him and stare, count his fingers and toes, scent his hair and gaze into his eyes; deep purple with a burst of blue in his left eye.
“You need to eat, love,” Dunk tells him, bringing a tray with fruit and bread and jams and juice.
Baelor reluctantly tears his eyes away from their son, the little one’s tiny hand wrapped around the end of his finger.
“Alright, alright,” Baelor shifts, wincing, and lets Dunk lay the tray on his lap. He looks down again at their son, shifting his hold and cradling the babe in his hands. From there, he holds Draekon out to his mate.
“Can you hold him while I eat?” Baelor asks.
“Baelor—“
“He is your son as well, Duncan,” Baelor reminds him softly. “And you have yet to hold him. Do not think I did not notice when you shied away when the midwife offered him to you while I was forced to give him up to rid myself of the afterbirth. Hold him, please.”
“What if I hurt him?” Dunk asks softly, terrified. “What if I drop him? You finally have your son, Baelor. What if I take him away from you because I’m—“
“His Sire,” Baelor interrupts. “And my Alpha. There is no one in this world I trust with Draekon more than you.”
Dunk’s eyes are big and wet as he stares down at their baby.
“Support his head, do not let it fall back too far,” Baelor tells him, smiling softly. “And keep your hand—that’s it.”
Dunk takes their son, cradling him against his chest with two massive hands. The Knight looks shocked, face slack as he stares down at Draekon’s little swaddled body.
And then his face cracks and crumples, tears rolling hot down his face. “He’s small,” he chokes.
Baelor almost says he didn’t feel small coming out of him, but Dunk already feels guilty about the tearing. “He is,” he says softly. “He’s perfect.”
“He looks like you,” Dunk sobs, ridiculous and sweet. “I’m glad he looks like you, can’t have a prince with my plain face.”
“Duncan, you’re hardly plain,” Baelor says, beginning on his fruit. “And he just has my colouring. You might find he’ll take after you as he gets older.”
“I want him to look like you,” Dunk tells him firmly, as if sheer stubbornness will influence their son’s appearance. “You waited so long to have him, he should look like you. I don’t need none that look like me. I’m happy with how he is.”
Baelor doesn’t say that there’s no guarantee that he can carry another babe, that Draekon is a miracle, a gift from the gods, that it’s most like that he’ll be an only child.
He shoves a slice of melon into his mouth before he lingers on that too long. He would give Duncan a dozen children if he could.
A servant comes to clear away his tray when he’s finished, Duncan too enchanted by their son to take the tray himself.
Baelor can’t help but stare, watching Duncan rock their little one, feeling a warmth akin to early heat coil in his belly at the sight of his massive gentle knight continue to weep at the sight of their child.
“Duncan,” Baelor says softly, getting his attention. “Thank you for giving him to me. I never…I never thought I would ever have a thriving child. A child I could watch grow. A child who might laugh and run and play. Who I might one day teach to joust. Thank you, Duncan.”
There’s a half dozen or so pots simmering and bubbling away on the stove top, the oven humming to the side, and a cast iron grill sizzling with butter when Baelor walks into the kitchen at Dragonstone. His mother is at Duncan’s elbow, chattering about her own culinary experience; an heiress she may have been in her youth but she enjoyed cooking her family’s meals. Sharing her own heritage with them. It’s one of Baelor’s greatest shames that he never took her up on her offer to teach him as a boy.
“You have an eye for flavours, Duncan,” she tells him as she tastes the fragrant orange coloured sauce simmering in front of her. “Moroccan?”
“And you have a smart tongue, Mrs Targaryen,” Duncan replies. “It’s going with the lamb, I’m hoping the spice will bring out the herbs on the meat.”
“Oh I dare say I may need you to cook for my next luncheon,” Myriah says.
Duncan just laughs.
“Is there anything I can help with?” Baelor asks as he comes to stand at his partner’s elbow.
He should have fled at the spark in Dunk’s eye.
“Just the person I’ve been waiting for,” Dunk says, and Baelor clamps his mouth shut before he makes an undignified noise when Dunk’s hands come around his hips and he’s lifted up onto the kitchen bench. “Sit here and look pretty for me. I need someone to tell me if these flavours work.”
His face goes hot as the black stone grill, and it only grows worse when he hears his mother’s muffled laughter from Duncan’s other side.
“I dare say I haven’t seen my son turn that shade since he was a boy, Duncan,” Myriah chuckles.
“Mother,” he manages.
“Hush,” Duncan tells him, and presents a spoon of something worryingly dark and sticky. “Open.”
Baelor does as he’s told and opens his mouth in time for Dunk to press the spoon, still hot but not unpleasantly so, onto his tongue.
It’s sweet, heavily spiced and warms his mouth almost immediately, coating the inside of it like peanut butter. He has to all but suck it off the spoon, and swallow more than once to get enough of it down to speak.
“That is…really good,” he says, tongue tacky. “What is it?”
“Dessert,” Dunk tells him. “It’s rum and spiced berry compote. It’ll go over the apple pie I made earlier.”
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