ReptileRae

Fandom Related Nonsense, and Tumblr Book Clubs ✍️ RaeTheReader on ao3 ✒️ @writing-desk-rae for fanfiction shenanigans 😍 @thegallerybyrae for the art I like to share

[raethereptile]

Rae's Trick or Treat Recipe Book 2023

The Super Duper Cake

Mudslide Cake

Honey Loaf

Bakestones

Cream Cookies

Pear Baked Custard

Bara Brith

Date and Walnut Loaf

Bananananananana Bread

The Bizarre Avocado Cupcake-Muffin-Things

Attempt to get Rae's Secret Chocolate Brownie Recipe: Unsuccessful!

Better luck next time!

Edit: Dried Fruit House Blend Explained

[motherrthing]

monday writing dump pt ii

a bit more from the tourney

The sound of steel shod hooves pounding across the ground was constant, a never ending roll of  thunder, preceding the storm of swords that would follow. Every few minutes the crack of a lance would add to the din, followed by the ring of steel on steel, or a great cheer from the crowd. The jousting had begun two days prior, but with so many entered in the lists the opening days had been dedicated to green boys, free riders, and hedge knights, with the winners continuing on to compete against knights of higher birth and great renown, who had been given a bye into the second round of competition. Dunk fell somewhere in the middle; his place among knights of great renown was indisputable, he had been a champion more times than he had ever dreamed, and had further secured his legacy on the battlefield, fighting alongside Baelor through three Blackfyre rebellions, but there was no excusing his low birth. Baelor had argued for him to be seeded higher, more upset about the slight than Dunk himself, but it wouldn’t do to offend any lords by ranking an upjumped hedge knight as their equal. 

A page poked his head into Dunk’s pavilion, “Ser Duncan, you’re two out,” he said, and was gone as quickly as he came.

Dunk slapped his hands against his knees and stood, “Best be getting ready then.” He already had most of his armor on, and only needed to put on his gauntlets and his helm.

The tent flap opened again. “Two out, I know,” he said absently, leaning down to tighten the straps of his spurs.

“They don’t usually send a prince to deliver those sort of messages,” Baelor said wryly. Dunk stood abruptly at the familiar voice. He hadn’t expected to see Baelor this morning. With the number of noble houses in attendance, Dunk had assumed Baelor would be occupied with his royal duties, sitting in the stands with King Daeron, entertaining lords and ladies, or if not, that he would be getting ready to compete himself. But he was not armored, wearing plain breeches and a deep green doublet. His only concession to his status was the thin gold circlet on his head. 

“I suppose not,” Dunk said, “Are you in the lists today?”

“Not today, I’ll ride on the morrow,” Baelor said.

“The master of the games has seeded you awfully high for someone that hasn’t ridden a tilt in the better part of a decade.” Dunk said. His squire made a small choked noise, forever uneasy with the familiar way Dunk addressed Baelor. He had long since moved on from trying to mind his courtesies with Baelor when they weren’t at court, and even then their closeness raised eyebrows.

“Gordie, go get Aurochs’ bridle on, I’ll be right behind you,” Dunk dismissed his squire, he quite thought Baelor had intended to catch him alone. The boy bowed to Baelor respectfully, and left. 

“Riding the old man are you?” Baelor asked. Aurochs truthfully was on the brink of retirement, but Dunk had felt oddly sentimental about this whole tourney, and had thought it might be a fitting send off for the old warhorse to compete in such fine company one last time before going out to paddock. But that answer wasn't half as amusing as the other thought Dunk had. 

He fought to keep the grin off his face and said, “I thought I’d save that for this evening actually.” 

Baelor snorted, “Perhaps if you win, as a reward.”

“Would you grant me your favor then, to improve my odds?” 

“It hardly seems right, I might ride against you on the morrow.”

“Aye, I'll need the favor of a handsome prince to get me through that” 

“Too right,” Baelor said. “You’ll have it then, but I expect a good showing out of you for it.”

Dunk wasn't sure what Baelor might give him; it wasn't as if he was some maiden carrying around a ribbon or flower to give out. He thought perhaps one of his rings, or some other bit of jewelry, Gods knew he had enough of it to spare, but Baelor had something else in mind entirely. He made a small noise of surprise as Baelor grabbed him by his breastplate and pulled him forward, so that their chests were pressed together, the steel of Dunk's breastplate against Baelor's fine velvet doublet, and kissed him. He lingered on Dunk’s lips for only a moment, before kissing along the line of his jaw, and down his neck. 

“Baelor,” Dunk said, aiming for warning and landing soundly on whining instead. He could feel Baelor's lips curl into a smile against his neck where he was still nipping, and sucking, and kissing, worrying at the same spot so that it would surely leave a mark. He groaned, and fisted a gauntleted hand in Baelor’s hair, pulling him back firmly. Baelor tilted his head up to meet Dunk’s eyes, entirely unapologetic.

“Anyone could come in,” Dunk said. His resolve was slipping quickly though, Baelor’s hands having migrated to grab at Dunk’s ass. 

“Let them, and if they have anything to say I'll raise their taxes, and marry their daughters off to ugly, impotent little lordlings. Besides, Ser Donnel is standing guard.” 

“I’m sure when Ser Donnel joined the kingsguard he did not think his great service to the realm would be making sure nobody catches the crown prince molesting his lover in a tent.”

“Ser Donnel has been assigned to my guard for twenty-five years, I assure you he's been party to far worse than this.” Baelor raised his voice, “Isn't that right Ser Donnel.”

There was a pause, Dunk could not hear it, but he was sure Ser Donnel must have done the put upon sigh he did whenever Baelor was being difficult. “As you say, Your Grace.” 

[motherrthing]

monday dump pt iii

goes with this one

“My breastplate,” Dunk gasped, “I think, I, I-” he could not breathe, he didn't recall it happening but he must have taken a blow with a mace or warhammer, something blunt and heavy that would crater his armor, dig it into him, that was the only thing that could explain the horrible pressure in his chest. His hands scrabbled uselessly against the breastplate, he needed it off, needed it off now. Where was Egg? He should be here to help get him out of this. If he could just get this damn breastplate off then he could breathe and it would all be fine.

A pair of steady hands closed over his, holding them still. “Breathe Ser,” Baelor said. He did not sound panicked, or even worried. Didn't he realize that Dunk couldn't breathe. That his armor was caved into his chest making it impossible. He tried to yank his hands away, but Baelor's grip was firm.

“Your breastplate is fine, you are fine,” Baelor said, his voice low and soft. Slowly, he guided Dunk's hands to feel along his armor, not the frantic searching Dunk had been doing, but sure, methodical movements. There were no dents, not a single scratch even. “See?” He said, “Not a mark.”

Dunk tried to speak, to tell Baelor that it didn't matter, that something was still wrong, but when he opened his mouth nothing came out besides a horrible wheezing.

Baelor made soft hushing sounds at him, the sort you might use for a crying child, and somewhere beneath this panic Dunk felt a flash of embarrassment. He was not a green boy, he had seen battle many times as a squire, but it had been different, to be in the middle of it, rather than watching from the rear. Ser Arlan would have given him a clout in the ear for panicking, and told him a squire had to be every bit as brave as the knight he served, if Dunk had ever acted like this in front of him. The thought made the heavy feeling in his chest worse. All that talk of being as brave as Baelor Breakspear seemed incredibly stupid now.

“Easy Duncan,” Baelor murmured. “Let's get this off of you.” Dunk wanted to protest, the thought of Baelor doing a squire's job for him was nearly unbearable, but he could not find the words, and he did badly want to be out of his armor. Without waiting for a response, Baelor set to work, quickly undoing the buckles and fastenings of Dunk's plate, the whole time saying soothing little phrases, so kind and gentle that he could hardly stand it.

When he finally managed a deep breath without any trouble and Baelor said, “Good Duncan, you're doing so good for me,” Dunk thought for one humiliating moment that the softness of it all might bring him to tears.

He started to come back to himself as the pieces fell away, the panic dissipating like morning fog. He was far from relieved. In its place settled a heavy shame, to have acted so foolishly in front of his prince. A mace blow, as if I could have missed such a thing, Dunk thought, cursing his own stupidity.

“I can do the rest,” Dunk said, when Baelor had finished with his upper body. His voice was oddly hoarse. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that, Your Grace,” If the prince had been pleased with his bravery in combat, he surely would be reconsidering his impression of Dunk after that miserable display.

“I've seen worse,” Baelor said, like it were nothing at all, “War is not easy on good men.” He was still working at Dunk's armor, kneeling in front of him now to undo the laces attaching his cuisses. Dunk wanted to pull him to his feet, wanted to get on his own knees and make his apologies that way. He resisted the urge.

“You manage it,” Dunk said. Ser Donnel and Ser Roland too, and all the other men. He was the only one that had to be comforted like a babe.

“It gets easier with time, and experience. Some men adapt better than others.”

“And if I never do?” Dunk asked. He wondered if Baelor would send him away, back to the hedges, or perhaps find him some minor position in the household, standing guard in the keep somewhere. It was lucky, in a devastating sort of way, that this had happened before he was made a member of the kingsguard. Baelor had discussed the matter with him, not long ago, and had told Dunk that he was too young, too green, to be given a white cloak just yet. At the time it had mattered little to Dunk, as Baelor's sworn sword he was treated as a de facto member of the kingsguard by the others, had extra privileges afforded to him that household knights did not. That would change now, Dunk was certain.

“Tell me, do you believe your courage will fail you during battle, or is it only after that concerns you?”

The actual fighting had been the easy part. Once his helm was on, his vision narrowed to only what he could see through his eye slits, it had been as simple and natural as breathing. Perhaps that was what frightened him, how easy it was to lose himself in it, how quickly his enemies turned from men to obstacles standing in his way. How easy it had been, to cut down man after man, without a second's hesitation. They would do the same to you, Dunk reminded himself, they would do the same to Prince Baelor. He knew the answer then.

“No, I am no coward in that regard,” Dunk said, “I can fight. I will fight.”

“Then I fail to see a problem. You will continue to serve me, as you have done today, and we will deal with the after when it comes.” The last of his armor was off now, and Baelor stood to look Dunk in the eyes, his gaze was strangely soft, almost affectionate.

“You should not have to deal with me, Your Grace, my troubles should not concern a prince.”

“All men worth having require some measure of dealing with, and I make it my concern to know what my men need to serve. Ser Donnel goes to the Sept, before and after every battle if he can, Ser Roland must be put on the first watch, or else he will go find trouble when his blood is up. Whatever you need, I am happy to provide.”

“You can't mean that,” Dunk said. It was different than going to a Sept, or needing to be kept from drinking and whoring.

“I do mean it, I think more than you can possibly imagine.” Baelor said.

[motherrthing]

in celebration of me not bombing my interview, have a few words from a companion piece to the pre-dunk/baelor about to ride into battle

might finish this by monday, might not 🤷🏼‍♀️

“Seven hells Dunk, I didn't know you had that in you,” Ser Roland said, riding up next to Dunk to slap him on the back.

The battle had been won handily, and Baelor and his kingsguard were making their way back to camp, stopping here and there so that Baelor might have a word or two with his men; reassurances to the wounded, praise for those who had fought particularly bravely. Dunk rode close at his side, almost too close, and, despite Ser Roland’s attempts to rehash the battle blow by blow, had been silent since the conclusion of the fighting, save for him asking quietly if Baelor were well.

“Leave him be Roland,” Ser Donnel said from Baelor's other side, “we don't all share your lust for war.”

“Lust for war? Not at all, I have a lust for life, nothing makes a man feel more alive than a good brush with death.”

Ser Donnel shook his head, “You didn't have a brush with death, Dunk cut down any man that got within ten feet of His Grace before you'd even raised your sword. Count yourself lucky our oaths are for life or you'd be out of a job.”

The tips of Dunk's ears went red. “Right. Sorry,” he muttered, looking away.

“Aye, that was my brush with death, I thought Dunk might slay me for being too close to the prince.”

Baleor glanced at Dunk, but the man did not acknowledge either Ser Roland or Ser Donnel, he was staring fixedly ahead at some point between the ears of his destrier.

“Ser Duncan,” Baelor tried, and got no response. He gently nudged Dunk's stirrup with his boot, his sabaton clanking against the iron. Dunk jolted and looked at Baelor with wide eyes, as though seeing him for the first time. A small cut on his brow was bleeding sluggishly, the blood smeared from where Dunk had tried to wipe it away with a gauntleted hand, but he appeared otherwise unharmed.

“You did well,” Baelor said. It was woefully inadequate. Dunk had made an excellent showing for his first proper battle. “No man could fault your bravery, you've done your Ser Arlan proud.” Done me proud, Baelor might've said.

“You flatter me, Your Grace,” Dunk said, “And you, you are-”

“Well? Yes, you've already asked me that,” Baelor said gently.

[americanelegy]

I’d be unstoppable if I wasn’t so sleepy all the time.

[cathswaite]

snippet from a shapeshifter dunk au wherein the stress of to7 causes dunk to involuntarily revert to and get stuck in his animal form:

In the aftermath of the Trial of Seven, Baelor had awoken bruised, bloodied, and to the news that Ser Duncan the Tall had vanished from Ashford.

Aegon had been inconsolable, sulking and furious and despairing in turns. Maekar had been livid, had cursed the ungrateful hedge knight with every insult under the sun. Valarr hadn't been nearly so crass, but he'd clearly shared the sentiment. As for Baelor? It had—stung, he supposed. By rights, Baelor had only extricated Ser Duncan from a situation of his family's making. But still he'd thought—he'd hoped—that Ser Duncan might've stayed. It seemed like the sort of thing he would do, chivalrous and honor-bound as he was. But the cold reality of his absence proved it was likely wishful thinking.

Nevertheless, there were matters far more pressing than the disappearance of a hedge knight. They'd recoursed to Summerhall, but despite Maekar's overtures, he'd no desire to linger. He did, however, take Aegon with him. Maekar's face had been pinched at the offer, but he'd conceded; the boy had only become more volatile and withdrawn on the journey back, and further proximity with his father and brothers, all of whom he blamed in varying degrees for the harm and loss of his knight, hardly seemed wise.

And so they'd set off. Aegon had been mulishly intent on staying as far arear of the entourage as possible, riding the brown destrier that Ser Duncan had left and clutching the reins of the other two, insistent on carrying out his "squiring duties" and sleeping in a bedroll outdoors alongside the other knights. Were Baelor in better condition he'd curb his nephew's behavior, but as it stood, traveling while infirm was taking its toll, and it seemed harmless enough that he hadn't paid much further attention.

It was a decision he'd regretted dearly when he'd left his tent late one evening, eager to take in the clean forest air. They were deep within the Kingswood, but making good time as they traveled along the Kingsroad. He made out a flicker of torchlight deeper within the woods, and would have immediately raised the alarm had he not heard his nephew's voice.

"Sorry, Ser," the boy whispered in hushed tones. "This was all I could bring you for dinner today. Perhaps I can manage some stew tomorrow, if it pleases." As Baelor approached, even more alarming: "Is it stuck in your teeth, Ser?" A pause. "Let me help you with that!"

And Baelor was striding forward, wroth at the prospect of Aegon, a prince of the blood, naively doing the bidding of some malign vagrant, but then he burst into the small clearing, and the reality was much, much worse.

"Aegon," he said. Low, careful. "Come here. Now."

His nephew's head whipped towards him, hesitating, before gaining a stubborn set. "It's not what it looks like, uncle!"

"No?" Baelor gritted out. "Because it looks like I'll soon have to explain to Maekar why his son has lost an arm, if not his life."

"You don't understand!" Incorrect. Baelor understood perfectly. When your nephew has a whole limb shoved deep within the maw of a terrifyingly large wolf, there feels quite little room for interpretation. "Ser is my friend!"

[elbiotipo]

"warm, shallow seas" is one of the most beautiful phrases in paleontology and it's everywhere... these mollusks lived in warm, shallow seas... scientists think that photosynthetic life evolved in warm, shallow seas... in that era the Earth was covered by warm, shallow seas...

I wish I was resting by an antediluvian warm, shallow sea

[madtomedgar]

Currently really into the ship dynamic of like. Fucking nasty would be less filthy and more normal and less intimate and intense and way less disturbing to walk in on/witness than Whatever The Fuck Is Going On There.

[ca314159bara]

if you're having trouble sleeping the best you can do is put a bright object close to your face and look at it for at least 30 minutes. if that doesn't work you can close your eyes but make sure to think really hard about a bunch of bullshit

[duckbunny]

you are fifteen thousand generations removed from stone tools

[duckbunny]

to be clear you are fifteen thousand generations removed from the invention of stone tools. not from the end of stone tools. modern humans are still using stone tools.

[pseudomasochist]

Flawless tags, @baddywronglegs

[fractoluminescence]

I thought you meant we were descendents -of- stone tools

[duckbunny]

your father was a handaxe and your mother smelt of microliths

[inscrutablecryptid]

I am back! And writing on my work break

((Part 2 of the Flea Bottom Tour))

Dunk leaps into that cramped little Fleabottom alley, lips peeled back in an honest-to-gods snarl, fights like a devil from the deepest pits of the Seven Hells. First one's run through with his sword, the second slammed so hard against the wall that his skull cracks. Number 3 gets in a single lucky hit that only makes Dunk madder. He gets his throat slashed, and number 4 is yanked close and gets his neck broken. 5 and 6 are tougher, also mean fleabottom natives and not taken by surprise as badly as their comrades. 5 gets killed by 6 by accident when Dunk literally throws him at the other. 6 lands a few nasty hits but doesn't really slow Dunk down. He also gets his skull smashed against the wall. 7 had his sword pointed at Maekar, but the prince pushes 7 into Dunks reach when the moment presents itself. Dunk grabs him by the face, fingers gouging out his eyes, and then breaks his neck.

They're left there, breathing hard in the sudden quiet, Dunk from rage and exertion, Maekar in utter fear. Slowly, slowly Dunk approaches, going to his knees when Maekar flinches. Holds out his bloody hands, once again the quiet gentle giant that Maekar knows.

And Maekar just stumbles forward, practically throwing himself into Dunks arms. He honestly thought he was going to die. But Ser Duncan came. He saved him. He's shaking and silent, trying to dig his forehead into Dunks collarbone. And Dunk holds him, trembling a little himself (no more of his family will die on the streets of Fleabottom, no more).

But they can't stay there. Part of the conspiracy is the start of the Spring "Sickness". ((Somewhere there is a dunkbaelor fic with Dunk time traveling and being a dragon shifter, and that author has the spring sickness as a mass poisoning event instead of a plague. It's a fab idea and a fab fic)) so to save literally everyone from the Sickness, Dunk and Maekar can't head back to the keep, can't even contact anyone because who all is part of this conspiracy??and start running around the back alleys of Kings Landing to disable the poison traps in all the wells and water infrastructure.

Maekar actually gets to know Dunk. He gets to see a side of him that maybe even Baelor doesn't get to. Dunk of Fleabottom, coarse and growling and so so angry. Because Dunk is going through it, getting a PTSD flashback every time he turns a corner.

Eventually they take a break, curl up in some corner, a spot Dunk used to hide in with Rafe. It's too small for two grown men, especially of their size, but they basically entertwine themselves to fit anyway. It's cold and it's cramped and they're both hurt a bit (a lot), but Maekar, against all odds, feels safe.

Dunk tells him about Rafe, about the sister murdered right in front of him when he was barely any older than Egg. Maekar tries to wrap himself even more around Dunk. He understands, now, that every time Dunk is kind it is a conscious, deliberate choice. He had every reason not to be, but he chooses to be good. This is when Maekar really truly falls hard for the knight, when he puts him up on that pedestal that only Baelor has occupied until now.

Meanwhile, Baelor is going absolutely BONKERS in the Red Keep. Where are his husbands brother and sworn sword?? Where??? The pile of bodies Dunk left behind gets found, but no Dunk, no Maekar. The court gets to see just how dragon like Baelor can get.

Dunk and Maekar start running around again, getting into more shenanigans. They've almost done it. All the poison traps are disabled! They maybe celebrated that with an impulsive kiss! And they're on their way back, dodging or killing conspirators as they go, when they're cornered.

They both go feral, fighting with all they've got. They do better than literally anyone else could have. But they've spent days hurt, sleeping in 15 minute increments in smelly alleys. And as last assailant falls dead, Dunk stumbles.

“Get up, you oaf!”

It was not supposed to be like this.

[raethereptile]

I know you said no criticism about the Hammerhedgeanvil poet, soldier, king triad post, but I actually don't think this os criticism. I just think that actually there's no wrong way to put those three in that dynamic. I really think you could make a case for them being any way round.

(And I really do love which way round ypu have them, you know I do)

(the no criticism thing was mostly a joke 😂😅 all are welcome in my asks about anything at any time, but especially about akotsk right now)

So when I tell you I stared at that post for like 5 minutes trying to decide which was which I am not over exaggerating, I had thoughts!

My initial instinct was that Baelor as king, Maekar as soldier, and Dunk as poet.

Baelor who would have been a great king, had he but lived. Maekar the warrior, even onto his own downfall, even onto Baelor in the end. Dunk with his love for life, who stumbled over his words, but is so sincere and full of heart. What else could they be.

But then I thought of Baelor Breakspear, hero of redgrass, of course he could be the soldier. Maekar who learns to measure his words, offers a gentleness in his speech even when he is still his abrasive self, so full of grief, yes there's something of a poet in him. And Dunk, Dunk the kingmaker, the king defender, Dunk who roams the realm and serves the realm and defends the realm and perhaps guides the realm through the king that he raised. Yes maybe he could be the king.

But in the end, who could Dunk be but who he was, sworn sword and knight and kingsgaurd. The soldier Dunk had to be. Who could Baelor be but the poet, with his sweet, careful words and gentle voice and his love for the stories and the songs. Who saw the stories they would tell of that day and rose to the occasion. And Maekar, oh Maekar, First and Last of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. King and kinslayer, it never should have been him. It was always going to be him. Who else could it be.

[mi-ciudad]

lets call in sick tomorrow and go to the natural history museum

[fealtypledger]

imagining a world where arlan dies just a tad too early for dunk to claim he’s a knight and he instead meets steely pate who takes him on as an apprentice

[yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy]

Do you think Baelor has Dunk call him “kepa” while he’s balls deep in his knight, or does Dunk accidentally blurt out “Papa” one night and Baelor teaches him the Valyrian word for father on the spot so they can both come more efficiently.

[longstoryshort-143]

the horrors persist but so do books, art, hot chocolate, winter nights, the moon, the sea, the stars, sunsets, literature, libraries, cats, flowers, stories, love and the wistful feeling you get when you finally return home

[sith-shenanigans]

*looks at polyamorous triad* so which of you is the soldier and which is the poet and which is the king

[sith-shenanigans]

this is the perfect reblog post cancelled