People shocked that the Targaryen’s were not liked by the small folk…brother they were colonial dictators with medieval nukes who Habsburged themselves into insanity
Maekar closed his eyes, all tension he'd just lost in his body coming back at a unparalleled speed.
Of all the fucking times for Aerion to show up.
After 4 years in self imposed exile after being forced into court mandated therapy and a year in a juvenile detention centre. (Although even Maekar could admit it was more like a resort for rich kids than an actual correctional unit) Aerion decided now was the perfect time to come home.
No call, no text, nothing.
Then he has the audacity to burst into his office, storming to its side room while giving some fucking granious speech about the prodigal son coming home. Only to yell at him, his father, for being in the middle of some very important business.
Although he could see there why Aerion may have a problem.
Since the business was knotting the omega who'd been a pivotal person in Aerions guilty charge.
Still.
He could at least leave and close the fucking door instead of standing there trying to berate him.
Beneath him Duncan whined, face buried deep into the daybed Maekar had bought specifically for them.
"Will you shut the fuck up boy! Leave this fucking room, close the fucking door and go to the reception room until I'm ready to deal with you"
As his father snarled at him, Aerion started back in disbelief at being scolded like a child.
Hissing Aerion snapped " I will but know I'm ashamed to see my father fall so far in what he's willing to mate with"
Storming out before his father could answer back Aerion slammed the door shut before flouncing his way into the living room. Refusing to stand in the reception room like a stranger.
There he saw Daeron, surprisingly sober and a lot healthier looking than before.
"I see you decided to come back without any warning" his tone light as he bounced a child on his lap.
"I shouldn't have to announce myself when its my ho- What the fuck is that"
Large blue eyes stared directly into Aerions as he stared at the babe like it was a rat that had just scurried into the kitchen.
The thing then blew a spit bubble, causing Aerion to break the staring contest he was holding with the babe.
Ive seen a couple of single dad Dunk with Egg being the kid
But what if Dunk is the birthing parent & had a one night stand with Maekar but never caught the guys name
So Egg is just his.
This could be modern AU or main akotsk AU
For modern Egg is not impressed that all these frankly undeserving dudes r all over his father. Also Aerion in the moderm version would also be at least trying (wrong) to get with Dunk & this instantly becomes war with Egg. Baelor is the first one to notice cos Egg scowls at him when his hand lingers too long on Dunk's arm & he looks for all the world like Baelor's little brother. Then Daeron ends up roped into helping Dunk redye Egg's hair (in a modern AU he shaved it off when he was 7, mix of sensory issues & blonde being boring, so they compromised on hair dye) & he notices the white blonde roots & the eyes & it clicks (he faints) (tho worth it cos it's into Dunk's arms). So one by one Dunk's paramours realise while Dunk is non the wiser. Made worse if this version of Dunk got blackout drunk enough that he doesnt even remember the man's face. All of the Targaryens are freaking out & individually either trying to hide it or trying to reveal it in the smoothest way possible.
For a non modern version of this Dunk would be CONVINCED he accidentally fucked a Blackfyre & now has a particularly politically dangerous bastard² baby. So Egg is an Egg all his life, until the rare occasions Dunk gets his hands on Tyroshi dyes (Egg desperately misses the hideous shade of green he had for 2 months) (he has a blank canvas for dye!). So Ser Arlan dies, Egg is even more of a mouthy little shit to the lords than in canon. Lyonel's assumption about Egg's parentage is actually correct. Dunk actively tries to hide his baby from the Targaryens, but he cant help but mention, when it's brought up that Maekar's eldest is missing, that Dunk understands for he wouldn't be able to imagine anything happening to his own child. This piques the princes interest. So they (quite pathetically) follow Dunk around, falling for how cute he is with his son. & after a while Maekar is like waiiit i recognise that tall knight!!! OMG THAT WAS A DECADE AGO & HIS PALE HAIRED BRAT IS 10.
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
Dunkaerion having all their dunkaerionlings all look like Aerion, and him being very smug about it, Dunk doesn't care at all as long as they're healthy and grow to be kind and just.
Then Dunk dies, too young, barely a creak in his bones, nary a gray in his hair.
And as the children grow to look more and more like Aerion, he can't help but resent them, because he's forgetting what his husband looks like and not one of his children carry Dunk's kind blue eyes, nor his shy smile, nor his reddish blond hair.
Aerion hates it.
He hates that when he looks at his children, he sees himself, maybe his father here, or his brother there, but none looks like his husband, none that looks like Dunk.
Are his children really pieces of his husband? because the way 4 pairs of Targaryen violet looks at him feels like every moment he took his husband for granted, every brag and boast, every smug look and prided smirk.
At some point he hates Dunk. For being a lowborn, for being born in Fleabottom, for not having a House, for not having a family.
maybe Dunk had a family who shared the same kicked-puppy eyes, shared the same laugh, same smile, had Aerion's need for a piece of Dunk been sated, then maybe, he wouldn't have heard Dunk's voice call him from the goblet of wildfire
①when he first saw you, you were everything he did not look for in a wife. you turned out to be stubborn, from the very beginning you made it clear that he would not get obedience from you, and you were too confident. of course, he knew you were a lady from high society, so your way of life was not that different. but the main thing aerion caught was how spoiled you were. he expected to see a traditional bride: one who would flinch from every wrong look and obey every word — like septas who worshipped the god. instead, he got you.
he never intended to tolerate anyone’s whims — whether from his own family, and especially not from his wife. and if someone had asked him directly, he would have confidently said that he had no idea how it happened. but there were signs.
①they told him to show you around the gardens of your future castle — so you saw everything and got used to the place. and he, naturally, refused. why would he waste his time and entertain you like a fucking servant? but under maekar’s supervision, he agreed after all.
he walked too fast. you clearly fell behind and did not intend to hurry or run after him. noticing that, he suddenly turned around. “do you have the legs of a five year old? can you walk faster?”
you did not even speed up. “i can,” you answered calmly. “but i will not. you walk like a horse and my legs are tired.”
he only looked at you for a few moments. “you are acting like a child.”
you shrugged and kept walking at your own pace. but you noticed how he slowly, almost unnoticeably, slowed down to walk next to you.
â‘ at the wedding, when the hour of the common cup came, you took the heavy silver cup from the steward's hands. you hesitated. you brought it to your face, smelled the sharp sour wine, and the corners of your lips dropped.
"i will not drink this," your voice sounded quiet but petulant. you pushed the cup away, almost spilling the wine on the white cloth.
"it is part of the rite," he answered, enough for you to understand how important it was.
you frowned. tiredness hid in the creases of your forehead, your lips were pressed tight. the candles danced in your eyes. "it is too sour," you said, like a child who did not want to take bitter medicine. "i do not like it."
aerion slowly turned his head to you. his eyes, usually feverishly bright, now looked at you with close attention. he was silent for a few heartbeats, then slowly turned his head and nodded to a servant.
"change all the wine to sweet."
and later, at the feast.
the feast was only growing stronger: the music became deafening, the laughter of neighbors too sharp, and the gazes of the drunken lords too intrusive. you felt your head start to hum from the chaos.
you touched aerion’s shoulder, interrupting his conversation with daeron. “it is too noisy here.”
aerion raised an eyebrow and looked at you as if you'd said something foolish. “this is a feast. did you expect silence like at a funeral?”
you did not answer — you just pressed your lips together and turned away, staring into emptiness. he immediately felt the change: you no longer tugged at his sleeve, no longer criticized the serving of dishes, and no longer rolled your eyes at the stupid jokes of the retinue.
aerion exhaled loudly, cutting daeron off mid-sentence. he suddenly stood up, firmly grabbed your hand, and pulled you with him, forcing you to rise.
“we are leaving.”
â‘ "i want candied flowers."
aerion raised his eyes from the scroll slowly, as if he did not hear you correctly.
"flowers," you explained, brushing your hair in front of the mirror. "the ones they make in highgarden. white, pink, in sugar glaze. they say they melt on the tongue like the first snow."
he rolled his eyes, the gesture came out almost too dramatic. "it is pointless," he dropped. "highgarden is weeks away."
you pressed your lips and turned away to the window, not saying another word. the evening passed in a heavy silence, you went to bed with your back to him.
he did not apologize. aerion targaryen never apologized, you learned that long ago.
on the fourth morning, you entered your chambers and stopped at the threshold. on the dressing table was a casket. black wood with silver inlay, too elegant to be just a box. you opened the lid.
flowers lay in rows. roses, violets, petals of plants unknown to you — each covered in the thinnest crust of hardened sugar, sparkling like frost. you breathed in the delicate scent and smiled brightly, looking at him as he stood by the fireplace.
"do not ask for more."
you took a white flower and brought it to your lips. the sugar crunched on your teeth, the petal melted — and he was right. like the first snow. "they are cold," you remarked.
your husband only raised one eyebrow. "the road is long."
"should have been faster."
he slowly walked closer, thinking about how he no longer even felt angry at such remarks of yours, only fully accepting them. "next time," he said, "go yourself. and we shall see how fast you return with flowers in your hands."
you took another one. a pink one. "you would not allow it," you answered him back, "for your wife to freeze somewhere on a distant road."
aerion closed his eyes. he was silent for a long time. and then the corner of his lips twitched. "no," he said so quietly that you barely heard. "i would not."
①night fell on the castle, heavy as a blanket of lead. you did not speak for several hours — since he said: "no. i only got you the valyrian steel last moon" when you asked for a necklace of that rare blue stone.
you did not argue and did not fight, but simply went silent and lay on the very edge of the bed, turned away to the wall and did not even fix the blanket — let it be cold, let him get out to his own chambers.
aerion sat in a chair by the fireplace for a long time, drank wine, looked at the fire. he was right, and he knew it: you were unbearable, capricious, demanding the impossible with such an air as if the air around you should turn into gold. any other husband would have sent you to a family estate long ago to learn humility. but you were not just anyone. and he was not any other husband.
aerion set aside the glass, stood up, walked to the bed and looked at your back — offended, beautiful and sometimes (always) unbearable. he did not lie down at once: first he just sat on the edge, then slowly stretched out beside you.
you felt how he moved closer — the mattress sank under his weight, the warmth from his body reached your back. his hand lay on your waist.
"do not touch me," you whispered to the wall.
he did not remove his hand. on the contrary — he pulled you closer, insistently and pressed his chest to your back, buried his face in your hair and was silent for so long that you thought — he fell asleep.
"in a week," he said suddenly into the top of your head, muffled and tired. "your necklace will arrive."
â‘ well, he remembered everything about you.
he might seem busy talking to the lords, but his gaze was always on you. if you kept your hand on the fabric of someone's dress for even a second or looked with interest at an unusual brooch on a guest's shoulder, aerion noted it to himself. a week later, exactly the same thing, only more expensive and of better quality, waited for you in your chambers.
if you tried to express delight or ask how he knew, he only jerked his shoulder irritably. last moon, you kept your eyes on a silver tiara in a merchant's shop — for exactly one second, no longer. a week later, it lay in a casket on your table. you did not even remember it.
"it will suit you," he said, seeing your questioning look.
①you were often capricious — sometimes because of trifles, the wrong fabric, the wrong taste, a word said at the wrong time. it would irritate anyone else to the limit. it irritated aerion too. for a second.
today was the fitting of a new dress. you turned in front of the polished steel mirror for an eternity, frowned, and pulled the lace on the sleeves. "it is terrible," you announced, pulling a ribbon off your shoulder. "the color makes me pale, and the style is baggy, as if i am a servant."
aerion raised his gaze and looked at the dress, then at you. "the dress is just a dress."
you froze, slowly turning your back to him — so proud, offended, with pressed lips and tense shoulders, as if he just insulted your entire existence.
"fine," he said more quietly, almost tiredly, and rose from his chair. he walked closer, stopped by your shoulder. "tell me how it should be."
you turned fully — still sulking, still with a stone face, but in your eyes was already that same spark which he learned to recognize since your first wedding night.
"silk, not brocade, the color lavender, not blue, lace only on the collar and take the waist in by three fingers." aerion listened, did not interrupt, and then nodded to the tailor, ordering him to begin.
he looked at you — there was no irritation in his gaze, only endless patience of a man who surrendered long ago and was even glad of it. "is that all?" he asked. you thought for a second. "and pearls along the hem." aerion closed his eyes, then opened them. "fine. pearls along the hem."
â‘ he loves when you sulk. when you cross your arms on your chest and turn away with pouting lips.
at first, of course, he ignored it — he pretended that he was busy, that it did not concern him, he even spoke to some knight louder as if on purpose, but he still looked at you out of the corner of his eye. the pause stretched, you did not move, did not even look in his direction — and he could not stand this. "again?" he said with light irritation, but he already walked closer, leaned down, and caught your gaze. "what now?"
"nothing," you stubbornly shook your head and turned away again. he exhaled, his hand laying on your chin. he turned your face to him, squinting slightly. "you do not know how to do 'nothing'," he said quietly.
you were silent and pouted your lips again, making him lean down and kiss you shortly and softly. he pulled away first and looked closely. "now?" you still frowned, but already weaker. "still nothing."
he laughed quietly — almost unnoticeably, only the corner of his lips twitched — and kissed you again, longer this time, warmer, as if he tried to fix your mood just like that. "is that better?" he asked in a low voice. you paused as if you thought about it, then nodded slightly. "perhaps."
①aerion targaryen wasn't stupid. he distinguished a real tantrum from a theatrical one, a sincere offense from a fake one. he knew when you were truly tired, and when you simply wanted his attention. and still — every damn time — he gave it to you.
because the point was not whether you outplayed him or not.
If it wasn't because I got too many pans on the stove, and because I’ve already written too many “fav guy turns into a creature, to explore man’s conflict with his bestial sides” fics, you bet your ass I would be writing a werewolf!Dunk AU
Like, look at this man, and his steadfast and devoted nature, sociability, kind temper, yet capacity for great violence when it matters. Whose job / swore and oath literally to protect the innocent and all that. Look at him and tell me he wouldn't be a great werewolf?
Or, well, not precisely werewolf. I want a werehound. More specifically, I want this man to turn into a great hulking Pyrenean Mastiff.
​
Are people gonna be disappointed when they learn he’s not a wolf, but just some “common mutt”? Bet your ass they are, right up until they actually see him. Someone will probably clock what breed he is, and that only heightens the absurdity because that’s a guardian dog. Those guys are bred to fight wolves and make bears think twice.
​
Not to mention, what do you mean he’s big as a dire wolf?!!?!
​
Just like his human shape, he's unnaturally big even for his breed. And he’s not even fully grown. He’s gonna think his weird proportions are because he’s a werecreature man, but no. He’s just young, so he’s all legs and big paws. Give him a couple of years and a proper diet, and he’s gonna be the size of a large polar bear.
​
The burial of Ser Arlan is gonna be done by hand, half transformed into paws as he tries not to break down and start whimpering. Â
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He’s still gonna meet Egg like in canon. But Egg will be wondering about Dunk’s weird mannerisms, but not think much of it until one brisk night, when he ends up suddenly waking up overheating because he’s basically buried under a bear. Â
​
Lyonel is gonna clock him as something non human almost immediately. That’s half the reason he tries to stomp on his feet. And in Dunk’s befuddlement of the situation, he accidentally flashes him with eyes that reflect weirdly under the low light, and teeth that should not belong in a human mouth. Lyonel is delighted. Here is something interesting. Something rare that should not be calling itself a hedge knight and dressed like a farmer. (He’s still not gonna join him at Storms End but now there’s another component to why not.)
​
Baelor and Maekar do not clock it when he appeals for them to vouch for him, despite the fact that they really should. Were creatures used to be a lot more commonly employed by the crown, but for some reason or another, they fell out of favour, the population got diminished, or some other reasons for them to now be rare. Â
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Ashford still goes down. He still ends up in a trial of seven, but this time the thing that stumbles up after collapsing into the mud is not a man, but a very pissed off werehound.
​
Suffice to say, the Ashford tourney goes very quiet and then very much not. The stand goes wild. The following fight is short. What is a sword against a creature with chainmail over a loose hide and a solid, double layered coat, who can move twice as fast as you, even when encumbered by the remains of armour made for a man?
​
And as soon as he gets his teeth properly in you? Â
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Aerion’s sword shoulder will never be the same. Â
​
There you are, a prince in the dirt under the weight of a common mutt. Its teeth are in your face, it’s slobbering over you. You look at this creature who punctured your vambrace with its fucking teeth like it was nothing, and who’s about to clamp its jaws over your throat. A MUTT bested a dragon. The rage and embarrassment will haunt you for the rest of your life.
​
Dunk will transform back enough to grab Aerion by the throat, hand still tipped with fur and claws, through a throat made for growling, and between teeth made for rendering flesh, the demand for him to rescind his accusation still rings clear across the field.
Hope you all like this! I haven't written fanfiction or headcanons in years so forgive me if this is a mess.
I feel like there's barely any stormhedge in this but I had to balance it with actually explaining how the hell those two got to where they are now. It will eventually end in a Lyonel x Dunk x Baelor love triangle but plot dictates that Baelor is too busy (and married) to be involved until much later. I have no clue if I should tag this with ships so i am leaving it out for now. If you want more detail on anything, or just want another part to the story, shoot me an ask!!!
The Prequel:
The campaign against the Vulture king happens way sooner than it does in canon, about 2 years after Rafe's death and the start of Dunk's squireship with Arlan, with much stronger forces. It is still close enough to the Blackfyre rebellion that the Dornish outlaws think they have a better chance of winning against the strained resources of the 7 kingdoms.
Because of this, the Stormlands, led by House Baratheon, drum up their own military force in response, and Arlan joins up with Dunk in tow.
The last battle is a success but during the fight Ser Arlan puts himself between one of the outlaws and a young knight that was knocked to the ground, and is killed defending the boy.
Because he has nowhere else to go, and because the boy Arlan defended was actually a newly knighted Baratheon cousin, they offer to take Dunk in as a squire for one of their sworn knights.
Dunk has nowhere else to go, and knows better than to turn down the opportunity for a roof over his head, so he agrees and is shuttled off to Storm's end with the rest of the Baratheon army until they can figure out who will take him
It's at this point that he catches Lyonel's attention, because even as a too-tall grieving 18-year-old Dunk is still utterly fascinating for some reason.
After hearing about Dunk's circumstances he decides on his own that Dunk will be his squire, and nobody bothers to argue because they don't think letting the second son of Lord Baratheon take on a squire of no particular lineage will cause any issues. Lyonel is a loose canon but Dunk doesn't have any family to offend if Lyonel does something nuts (and the other squires and staff will keep an eye out so that he doesn't drag Dunk into anything too wild)
The years go on, Lord and Lady Baratheon were very wrong about how much trouble the knight an his new squire could get into, but by the time it gets to be a hassle Dunk has managed to charm most of the keep's inhabitants with his earnest-ness and dubious ability to talk Lyonel down from his more destructive ideas. It mostly involves distracting him with something that has faster gratification.
Dunk has an immensely better childhood, he gets plenty of food to actually sate his hunger, and ends up at his book-canon height and just as broad. He also gets a decent education along with the other squires, probably better than normal actually because the others are from noble houses and still need to learn geography, diplomacy, etc. and because Lyonel has a habit of dragging Dunk to his meetings as a cupbearer.
Dunk struggles to get the hang of reading or writing but he picks up on things well enough over the years, and spends enough time dealing with courtiers that he learns how to use his appearance to his advantage.
He learns to keep quiet around people who don't know him better, and combined with his height it leads them to assume he's stupid and say things in front of him that they otherwise wouldn't say to a man with such close connections to an heir of Storm's End
At this point Lyonel has an older brother who is the official heir, so other than showing up to meetings as a formality he is left to his own devices, so of course he and Dunk get into some absolute messes over the years.
Pretty soon into Dunk's squire-ship they start to develop feelings for each other, but it takes some time for things to happen because Dunk is still grieving Arlan and Lyonel genuinely likes Dunk and doesn't want to ruin things by pushing.
Dunk's time as Lyonel's squire lasts for about 3 years, for most of which they are romantically involved (Dunk eventually cracked and kissed Lyonel, it took absolutely no time for things to escalate from there)
Despite being deemed ready for knighthood around the 3rd year mark, the death of Lyonel's older brother lead to Dunk staying un-knighted for another year. Lyonel cannot handle the risk he will lose Dunk, and Dunk is unwilling to leave Lyonel to deal with his grief and the sudden changes alone.
Another year passes, Dunk's responsibilities have pretty firmly shifted from squiring to being Lyonel's right-hand man. He still trains, rides horses, etc. with Lyonel but for the most part it's just to help his lover burn off the stress.
Other than that he serves as a cupbearer whenever Lyonel needs a friendly face in the room to keep his temper from boiling over, acts as a go-between for Lyonel, etc.
It earns him the epithet of Stormhound, because he's 'the stray dog that Lyonel picked up'. You can thank a certain Dondarrion for that one.
Eventually though, things settle down and Lyonel can tell that Dunk is getting restless. They had come to an agreement in years prior that when Dunk was knighted, he would leave to be a hedge knight one last time, to honor Ser Arlan and properly grieve him.
So, after the year is up, Lyonel officially knights Dunk, and in a bit of an uproar for the rest of the keep, frees him from his service to House Baratheon, allowing him to roam freely as a hedge-knight on the promise he will return in a few years time.
Dunk leaves, and wanders as a knight, far better trained and equipped than he was with Arlan. He rarely participates in tourneys because he's still a shitty jouster compared to Lyonel (and refuses to acknowledge that it's a high standard to reach), but goes around helping people.
Eventually, he hears about the tourney at Ashford, and that a certain Lord would be in attendance for the first time since his brother's death, so Dunk packs his things to meet him there.
----
Disclaimer that the idea of Dunk squiring for Lyonel is NOT my original idea, it comes from @snarwor and their fantastic stormhedge fic, Garnet (disclaimer that their series is meant to be fantastic plotless debauchery ♥, so please read the tags and consume at your own risk!!). I could not stop thinking about how different things would have gone for everyone if Dunk had more stability and resources, and more importantly companions to rely on.
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