big fan of shakespeare villains who step onto the stage and immediately announce “I am here and I am evil. I am here to do mischief.” and then that’s exactly what they do for the next two hours. no other motive is ever explained. at the end they fail. kings
people keep tagging this ‘fernando alonso’ and i was like who tf is that???? so I looked it up and he’s a race car driver. from spain. so, for sure my favorite shakespeare character
The light glistened in the prince's eyes, and for a heartbeat one of them shone a different hue. It felt as if the gods themselves had granted Dunk one chance to fight for Baelor, as he had promised. "Perhaps I was fated to die for him after all," he thought.
the FURY in Lyonel's face the WORRY in Duncan's, Egg about to STRANGLE HIS SON and Small Duncan shamed but in LOVE. AUGH this is so so so beautiful, i especially love the detail of the divider, where it could be Lyonel's cloak (did he not offer his cloak to Duncan, in a fashion? brotherhood, company, love, the safety of his House?), but it's also a wing, and maybe it's the wing of the dragon who fell, Baelor still haunting the narrative 2 or 3 decades later, but maybe it's the wing of Aegon and Small Duncan, and Egg gave Dunk his cloak too, the white cloak that now Dunk is chained to for better or for ill, and he stopped being Dunk so many years ago, now he's Ser Duncan the Tall, of the Kingsguard, but do you imagine that when he stepped out into the Dragonpit and faced against Lyonel rather than with him, do you imagine that Lyonel called him 'Ser Dunk' just to goad him? Did Duncan feel a pang of doubt? Did he look at Small Duncan watching in the wings with his strange and pretty commoner bride and push that doubt away?
sorry hang on a sec
Spring it was, when Lord Baratheon began his rebellion, and spring it was still when it were ended, the sun pouring down 'pon the Dragonpit as molten as gold. Through the ruined dome it shone, so high above that Duncan could scarcely see the beams that once had crowned it; it was only the shafts of light he saw, the dust and the dirt and the lingering ash from a thousand burnt bodies dancing in them, and the man across the way, aglow within his gilt armor and his splendid antlered helm.
It was on the tip of his tongue to call out. To offer some pleading jest to break the silence. We've gotten old, maybe -- he with the streaks of grey in his hair, and Lyonel gone pure white, still soft and curled as shearling. The only hint left of bold Baratheon black in the hints about his mouth, the last clinging vestiges of vigor: though hale he still was, and hearty enough, he wore all of his six-and-sixty years on his face, in the creases around his mouth, in the raven's feet beside his eyes. A face made for smiling, that, yet now set in a ponderous frown. Waiting, the both of them, for the septon to finish speaking. For the horn to be blown.
You do not need to do this, ser, Aegon had said, last night, had it only been last night? In the dim small council chamber, discussing what might happen, what the next step would be should Duncan fall, and Aegon--
(Aegon, now, always Aegon, Your Grace, my king, as he was Duncan, Ser Duncan, of the Kingsguard. He could not remember when last someone had called him by his name, and not the one Egg had chosen for him years and years ago.)
--had said I would not make you, and Duncan had stopped him. You aren't, he'd said. He'd been thinking of little Prince Duncan at the time. How when he'd been born his hair had curled, just a bit, and how sometimes when the light caught him right Duncan could imagine, maybe, maybe...
If he could have done it over again. If he could have fought again, what might he have done different? The great dragon falling into his arms, the wretched, mewling helplessness, crying out up, up, as he would for a foundered horse. What sequence betwixt the trial and the dying could he have changed if he were only faster, stronger, better trained? If he were Ser Duncan the Tall, and not merely Dunk of Flea Bottom?
"Well." The voice came through the light, through all that glorious, golden pall. Lyonel leaned through it, helm still 'neath his arm. "Here we are, Ser Dunk."
Dunk. How many people remembered him by that name? Ridiculous, Lyonel had called him once -- his name or his nature, he had never been able to fathom. But danced with him still, that beautiful stag, shared food and drink, fought for him, bled for him. Once, he had thought...had he imagined it? The appreciative cast of Lyonel's gaze, the wanting, the sweltering heat between their bodies as they'd pranced and stomped and clapped. The hand on his thigh like a lover's caress as Lyonel had offered him everything he'd thought he'd wanted: a home, a House, service to a kind and honorable lord, more, perhaps, I would love you like... He could have had it, and...why had he thrown it away?
A different plea on his tongue now: it's not too late. Not for him. Not for Lyonel. We could go, just go, run away -- Essos, maybe. Foolish, of course. Thousands of people were watching, up in the stands, waiting for news in the streets outside. Even if the king granted them clemency, what then? There would be no peace, not for them. Haunted, both of them, by everything that could have been. The king who wasn't. The daughter who ought have been queen.
He turned his head, just slight, and saw him there -- little Duncan, the little prince, with his dark hair and his violet eyes and his long, sad face. Sitting beside Aegon in the stands, in pride of place, with the beautiful lass beside him -- Jenny, was her name, and she danced under the stars and she cleaned her own dishes after she dined, and Duncan liked her despite himself, and liked even better that little Duncan loved her.
For a moment, through the sunlight, he thought he saw -- in that long face, that familiar face, one eye of violet, another of common brown, and then the light came right again and it was little Duncan, whom he'd held since he was born, who had spit up on Duncan's shoulder as a babe and braided his hair at six, who'd called him 'uncle' since before he could read, who had once asked Duncan for advice on how girls liked to be kissed. A different dragon, aye, but one still worth fighting for.
So he swallowed it down, that foolish, child's urge -- to take Lyonel and a bit of coin and find a ship and go. Bitter, it was, to swallow that hope. Bitter down to the dregs.
"Here we are," Duncan said, and Lyonel smiled at him. He wished, a last foolish wish, that Lyonel would call him by name again. Just to hear it. Just once more.
"Come, ser." The horn blew, a wailing blast that shook the air. Lyonel set his helm upon his head, the smile -- small, angry -- gone from view. "I remember you liked to dance."
"Doesn't everyone?" Dunk said, and his eyes were hot and stinging as he drew his sword.
It’s trial by combat between Lyonel and Dunk, and it’s gone on longer than most. Nearly an hour of swinging heavy shields and dodging each other’s blows. They’re both exhausted but Lyonel won’t yield. Dunk offers him the chance, offers it again, pleads with him. The erstwhile Storm King is adamant, he only laughs, parries and continues pressing Dunk to do more, do worse.
Dunk had feared it from the beginning, that Lyonel meant this to be his own end. He’s sure now that it’s true, but he cannot bear it. He can find no words to persuade his beloved friend-Dunk the Lunk, words were never his strength. He couldn’t think of them when he was fresh and clear-headed, even less so now. So he turns from letting his mind scramble for the words to fix this, and lets his body take him back, back to the joy, the love that his feet never forgot.
He brings a foot down on Lyonel’s, pure muscle memory, stomping hard. The storm lord looks up at him with wide, wild eyes. He yields.
how insane must it have felt to be an actor table reading for bbc merlin. alright anthony this week, you are driven mad by memories of the children you killed in your genocide. next week? bald.
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