#ser donnel

[nastyakotsk]

#404

[chaoticvintagelesbian]

lol love your post about the disappearing acts Dunk sometimes does. Could imagine he doesn't quite understand he is practically a royal now so he can't just go anywhere. Maybe he gets a kingsguard following him around, maybe Ser Donnel and they become buddies but Ser Donnel is STRESSED every time he loses sight of Duncan

Or maybe the soulmates are grilling Ser Donnel what Dunk got up to for the entire day (every one has duties and can't be there all the time) and they require insane amount of detail

Your works has made me go FERAL

After Egg's grand plan, Ser Donnel's job becomes a lot harder.

Dunk goes to see Sweetfoot for five minutes? Maekar has his mace out, Baelor is ordering a search party, Daeron is drinking again, Valarr is drinking unholy amounts of coffee & sending ravens, and Lyonel is trying to fight the Targaryens. Ser Donnel is trying & failing to hold everything together.

Dunk accidentally becomes his best friend through the power of them both being the only sane ones.

Rip Ser Donnel's sleep schedule & stress levels

[asphodelink]

✮⋆ YOU AND SER DONNEL'S MUTUAL YEARNING

Summary: A dual POV between you and Ser Donnel, exploring your mutual daydreaming and longing for one another.

He stands where the garden path meets the royal apartments, calm as ever, silver catching the last of the light. His shoulders are squared under pale enamel and steel. Ser Donnel of Duskendale, sworn to guard doors, kings, and the paths you pretend you are not walking.

The creak of his armor is a summons you answer before you know you've heard it. The measured cadence of his boots upon the stone draws your eyes as surely as prayer calls the faithful. And when he steps aside to let a servant pass, offering some quiet courtesy, your ribs tighten around a heart that has long since forgotten sense.

Your friends tease, sometimes. They call you dreamy, press petals into your palm, and trade rumors like ribbons. You laugh with them and practice politeness with young lords twice a day, but your eyes, traitors that they are, seek out gray at the temples in a sea of gilded boys. 

You found yourself wondering what it would be like to sit next to him at a long table after supper and hear him speak of battles the way old soldiers do. You want to be the one to wipe the blood from his lip after a hard spar. You want to turn his hand over and press your thumb to the ridge of scar across his knuckles. You rehearse it sometimes, in the moments before sleep. The thought shames you a little. 

What a fool's errand, to have given your heart to a man already sworn. He belongs to his vow the way a sword belongs to its scabbard. You have heard every warning the septas and septons could offer, yet none of it stills the wanting in your chest whenever his boots echo across the stone at midnight.

Naive girl, you tell yourself, to fall for a sworn knight twice your age. No song will make a man like him look at a girl like you. The thought visits you every night before sleep, and every night it fails to take hold.

But what you do not know is that, across the garden, behind a face trained never to betray a thought, Ser Donnel keeps watch over doors and thinks of you all the same, until every threshold begins to feel like the edge of a precipice.

He knows his vows like a catechism. To be steel. To be silent. To stand between a blade and the royal throat. Yet in the quiet hours, he cannot help but reckon with every reason he is unworthy of you.

Pathetic old man. What could he offer a young lady of the court? A pauldron for a pillow? A worn name whose shine comes from another man’s crown? His hands are good for holding shields and nothing delicate. He is twice your age in all the ways that matter, and bound besides. But it is not just the age that weighs on him. 

A Kingsguard’s vow does not end at thirty, or fifty, or whenever a man grows tired of it. It ends only with his death. There is no retiring from it.

Still, when your laughter splashes across the garden’s shell fountain and he hears the faint ring of a spoon against a saucer, his head turns before he can stop it. He knows your walk by sound alone. He knows which step along the western corridor makes you hesitate, where you pause before a tapestry of stags beneath winter snow. He learns the rhythm of your humming as you pass him on the stairs.

Once, after a joust, he sat on his horse at the end of the run and looked toward the gallery and caught your wandering face. A foolish thought arrived at him like a splinter. If the day had gone differently, if he were a different man in a different life unbuckled from his vow, he would have ridden to your end of the gallery.

I would win, he thought, and lift the crown, and set it on your head in front of every lord and fool in the capital. My Queen of Love and Beauty.

He thinks of the Rebellion sometimes. The crossing at Redgrass Field, the screaming of horses, the brother-knights beside him who did not ride home. He had not feared death there. He had done his accounting and found it balanced: no wife, no children, no unfinished thing. A life given cleanly to a cause. He had been glad of the cleanliness.

Now when he thinks of that field he finds your name on the far side of it.

If there were another war, he thought. If the dice fell wrong again, and I were to lie in some trampled field with my face to a sky going grey, I would want to go with the thought of you, my lady. Not of vows kept or crowns defended. But you, with your book in your lap, and your eyes doing that thing where they find me and go very still before you look away.

When the night of the king’s feast arrives, it is all sugared and sharp, the hall a river of candlelight, diamonds trembling in the ladies’ hair like drops upon a chandelier. The king is in a good temper. The prince moves as though lit from within. The press of voices stirs both courage and folly in equal measure. Music unspools from lute and reed pipe, and in Ser Donnel something gives way.

So he crosses the floor, his years gathered about him like a cloak, and bows before you without clatter. He cannot remember the last time he bowed like this, not to a monarch but to a hope. He says your name like a prayer he fears will end, and asks for your hand beneath the bright, noisy splendor of the hall. Your hand finds his at once.

Dancing is never his trade, yet he moves as though the steps are familiar paths leading to a well he has drawn from all his life. Your palm rests upon his shoulder. His hand settles at your waist with such care it might be devotion given form. The world narrows to a hum threaded with your breath. Your lashes lift, and every careful barrier you have kept over your longing falls away. He does not look away.

He thinks, recklessly, that vows might yet allow this as an exception. That holding you close is not breaking but bearing, keeping you within the reach of his arm as something sovereign ought to be kept. Your cheek tips toward his knuckles as they brush, and the hall’s thousand eyes blur into lantern-smears.

The song becomes a golden cord binding him to you, strand after strand unspooling between you. In the hidden place within duty where a boy still survives, he swears to keep you here, even as he knows such a vow cannot hold.

You are thinking of the pattern of his breath, the faint nick on his thumb, the way he chose you in a room that has never chosen gently. The words gather behind your teeth, hot and bright. I want you, Ser Donnel. Take me where vows become softer things, not chains but silk.

But the words do not leave you. They turn inward instead, circling the mind, never crossing into speech.

When the songs end, the final note skims away like a swan lifting from water. A young lord with a polished grin and a future draped across his shoulders steps forward and bows. “My lady, may I?” he says, all practicing sweetness. Donnel’s fingers tighten around yours.

“Of course,” you hear yourself say, courtly and composed. It is not what you mean. What you mean would still the musicians and send the king’s gaze rising like a banner. But you dip and turn. Your palm slips from the place you had longed to hold for far too long.

Ser Donnel lets you go as though he has been burned. He folds his hands behind his back so he does not reach for you. He has never wanted anything so fiercely as to cross that distance and keep you near him, within reach of his touch and his vow both. He moves to the edge of the hall where duty waits, patient as a hound, and takes his place among stone and shadow.

You dance with the young lord and hear none of the music. You pivot and perform and think with every turn: I will not let this become a mistake. I will not let him disappear into corridors filled with unspoken things. Your smile fools no one who matters. Donnel sees the fracture at its corner and takes it as both a blessing he does not deserve and a torment he has earned.

The night ends with stars spilled across the courtyard slate. The king retires. Crown princes laugh somewhere down a corridor you do not follow. Servants douse the flames until the hall smells faintly of smoke and beeswax. Your ladies drift away in pairs like petals on the wind. You stand for a long moment in a doorway dividing music from moonlight and try to decide which world is kinder.

His boots sound behind you and stop. “My lady,” he says.

His voice is that space between a blade and a throat again. He is all line and shadow, lamplight tracing the edge of his jaw. Up close, you see the fine threads of gray like frost on a hedge before dawn. He has never looked more like a gate you wish to pass through.

“Ser Donnel,” you answer, and his name trembles on your tongue. 

“The west garden is where I am posted,” he says, the words measured like steps along a wall walk. “The training yard at first light is quiet, saved for fools and men who cannot sleep.”

He does not speak plainly, yet nothing in him is idle. Each word is set with care, each pause carrying weight beyond sound, a message shaped in restraint rather than speech.

“And I happen to think the statues are prettiest there,” you reply.

You step back into moonlight, and he watches you go not like a guard watching a passage, but like a man left standing at the edge of a road he cannot cross and will not abandon.

When dawn breaks, the yard wears a pale shroud. He is there already, rubbing at an old ache in his shoulder, breath snapping through drills that make younger men curse. You arrive with your cloak drawn tight at your throat and courage too quiet for ballads. The air hangs cold and still around you.

“You are up early, my lady,” he says. His voice is even, a blade kept sheathed yet ready.

“So are you, Ser Donnel.”

“I am paid to be.”

“And I am not,” you answer. “So one of us is a fool.”

A faint smile touches his mouth before he reins it in. “Aye,” he replies. “One of us is.”

You stand together overlooking the yard, the raked dirt still dark with dew, the torches along the wall burning pale beneath a sky not yet committed to morning. It is not comfortable, exactly. But it is not the silence of strangers either. It is the silence of two people who have circled the same fire long enough that sitting beside it feels less like a choice than an admission.

You could still hide your longing in pretty lies. Instead, you reach for the truth like a blade at his belt.

“Last night, during the dance,” you say. Your voice is steady, but it betrays you all the same. “I did not want to let go.” 

You pause, and the next words come slower, like they cost you something to spend. “I do not say this lightly, and I may regret saying it at all. But I am tired of carrying this alone, not knowing if I carry it for nothing.”

For an instant he is surprised, the years slipped clean from his shoulders. Then he gathers them back because he must.

“My lady,” he begins, and the words come heavy with caution. He means to lay them before you plainly, the truth made gentle by being named. But instead they turn inward on him, sharp as steel drawn too close to flesh, and something in his chest tightens like a struck thing.

If only you knew how long I have wanted you, too. But I cannot.

I am sworn. I am a man made for oaths and heraldry, with little else to offer. Your life holds rooms I was never meant to enter without breaking something holy. The world is cruel, and I had long since made my peace with that.

Until you.

“You do not carry it for nothing.” His voice roughens on the words, like they were not built for use. “I would not have you think that. Not for one day longer.”

“I know your vows,” you cut in gently. 

“I know their shape. I do not ask you to break them. Only, if there is a way to stand near without shattering, I would stand there. With you.”

Silence takes measure of you both. A moth flutters against hot glass. He looks at you like the first sunrise he remembers after a long winter watch.

At the edge of the yard, where stones have cracked and been left to crack, a thin stalk of chicory has pushed through the gap, blue and stubborn against the cold. He crouches and snaps it free before holding it out to you.

"Chicory," he says. "It grows where nothing else cares to. I have always admired a thing that holds on without being asked to.” 

You take the little blue flower from him and watch him go. The yard fills in around the space he leaves behind. Only the flower remains in your hand, and a heart behaving very badly.

The next morning you find another on the bench in the garden. The same pale blue, freshly cut, laid at the center of the stone. He had come before the rest of the world stirred. He places it there and walks away without waiting to see. You stand over it longer than intended. Then you lift it and tuck it into your braid, feeling it brush your cheek all morning like a whisper.

That noon, the corridor outside the great hall is crowded with the restless tide of court life, pages darting between nobles, servants bearing platters and pitchers, ladies trailing silk and conversation in their wake. Amid all of it, there is the flower. Worn above your ear, tucked carefully into your braid. 

When you walk past him in the hallway, his pace never falters. When he draws level with you, his gaze finds the chicory for the briefest instant before lifting to your eyes. They catch the light at the sight of you.

“My lady.” The same two words he gives every lady in this hall, worn smooth from years of use. But he has never once said them and meant only you. This time, he does.

“Ser,” you answer, a smile breaking through, reserved only for the knight who has long stolen your heart. By the time anyone might think to notice, you are already several paces apart, the crowd folding between you like water closing over a stone.

Only then do you understand what he has been trying to say. Men like Ser Donnel build their confessions from smaller things. A place remembered. A path crossed at the same hour each day. Care given shape and set quietly into the world, asking for nothing in return.

After that, the language only deepens. It lives in glances that linger a moment too long before duty pulls you both away. In routines neither of you admits to keeping. A glimpse of him across the courtyard is enough to carry you through an afternoon. Your laughter drifting from an open gallery is enough to walk him through a night watch.

Neither of you names what is between you. To name it would be dangerous. To deny it would be impossible. So it stays there, woven through gardens and corridors and chance meetings in the halls. Nearness, day after day, with the one true thing left unsaid.

And it is, for now, the only kingdom either of you needs.

Tag requests: @h3k3t @saera-targbooks @baelors-bae

[thedruids-keep]

After The Hobbit, LOTR, Vikings, Vikings Valhalla. Some of the damn finest males be from the GOT world.......

Ser Donnel, Ser...now [sigh, inhale]

Now how to get him to sully that pretty white cloak

[thedeadsfavoriteautistic]

The Heir and the Prophetess-Chapter 4: The Weight of Quiet Things

⚠️ Tumblr Warnings

coming of age / court life

political lessons & duty

light romance (soft, early)

protective dynamics (sworn shield)

prophetic dreams / foreshadowing

canon-typical tension

✨ Summary

A month into life at court, Maegelle begins to find her place.

She gains a sworn shield, learns how rulers must think, and watches the world of knights and politics unfold around her.

But as she grows more certain in the waking world—

Her dreams begin to change.

And this time, they do not bring dragons. Only darkness.

The second month in the Red Keep felt different.

The castle had begun to settle around Maegelle like a cloak she was slowly learning how to wear.

Servants no longer watched her with open curiosity. She knew which staircases were quietest in the mornings. She knew which guards nodded politely and which ones pretended not to stare at the silver-haired girl with dragon dreams.

And most importantly—

She was no longer afraid to walk the halls alone.

It was Prince Baelor who brought the matter forward.

One morning after breakfast, when the royal family still lingered around the long table, Baelor set down his cup and spoke in his calm, steady voice.

“There is another matter we should attend to.”

King Daeron glanced up.

“Oh?”

Baelor’s gaze shifted toward Maegelle.

“My niece has been in the Red Keep for more than a month now.”

Maegelle straightened slightly.

“Yes, Uncle.”

Baelor nodded.

“And it occurs to me she walks the halls with no sworn shield of her own.”

King Daeron raised an eyebrow.

“That is an oversight.”

Queen Myriah looked thoughtful.

“It is.”

Matarys leaned across the table.

“Can I volunteer?”

“No,” Baelor said immediately.

Matarys leaned back with a sigh.

“I try to be helpful.”

Baelor ignored him.

“There is a knight in our service I believe would suit the role.”

The doors of the hall opened then, and a tall knight entered with measured steps.

He removed his helm and knelt.

“Ser Donnel of Duskendale, Your Grace.”

Maegelle studied him quietly.

He was younger than many knights she had seen in the yard—perhaps her age—with dark hair and a calm, watchful face. His white king's guard armor shone in the morning sun.

King Daeron nodded.

“Rise, Ser Donnel.”

The knight stood.

Baelor gestured toward Maegelle.

“My niece, Princess Maegelle Targaryen, is to remain in the Red Keep as ward of the crown and future consort to my son.”

Ser Donnel inclined his head respectfully toward her.

“It would be my honor to serve.”

Baelor looked at Maegelle.

“The choice should be yours.”

Maegelle blinked slightly.

“Mine?”

“Yes.”

Baelor’s voice remained even.

“A sworn shield should be someone you trust.”

Maegelle looked back at the knight.

Ser Donnel met her gaze steadily, neither proud nor overly humble.

Simply waiting.

“Have you served here long?” she asked.

“Five years, Princess,” he replied.

“And before that?”

“In the Stormlands. I fought in the final battles against the Blackfyre rebels.”

Maegelle considered that.

“And why accept this duty?”

Ser Donnel answered simply.

“Because protecting the blood of the dragon is an honorable charge.”

Maegelle looked toward King Daeron briefly.

The king gave a small approving nod.

Finally she turned back to the knight.

“Then I would be glad to have you as my sworn shield, Ser Donnel.”

Ser Donnel dropped to one knee once more.

“I swear before gods and men to guard your life with my own, Princess.”

“I will not require that,” Maegelle said softly.

Ser Donnel allowed himself the faintest smile.

“Most people do not.”

Valarr, sitting across the table, looked quietly pleased.

Matarys leaned toward Aegon’s empty chair and whispered to himself,

“I wanted the job.”

Later that same morning, Baelor stopped Maegelle as she was leaving the hall.

“My niece,” he said calmly. “Would you walk with me a moment?”

Maegelle inclined her head.

“Of course, Uncle.”

They walked together through one of the long galleries overlooking the inner courtyard where knights already trained below.

After a moment Baelor spoke.

“If two lords arrive at court with the same grievance, each claiming the other stole cattle from his lands… how would you judge the matter?”

Maegelle blinked.

“I… would ask for proof.”

“Both men insist they have proof.”

She hesitated.

“Then I would ask who benefits from lying.”

Baelor glanced at her.

“Go on.”

“If one lord gains nothing from the lie… but the other gains land or gold, then I would look closer at him.”

Baelor nodded slightly.

“A reasonable answer.”

They continued walking.

“If a lord refuses a royal tax because his people are starving… should the crown punish him?”

Maegelle thought longer this time.

“No.”

Baelor raised an eyebrow.

“No?”

“Punishing him will not make the people less hungry,” she said quietly. “It will only make them angry.”

“And what would you do instead?”

“Send grain if we have it.”

Baelor stopped walking.

“And if we do not?”

Maegelle looked out across the courtyard.

“Then we make sure the lord knows the crown is trying to help.”

Baelor studied her carefully.

“You listen before answering,” he said.

“I try to.”

“That will serve you well.”

Late in the month King Daeron announced a small tourney for visiting knights.

Colorful tents filled the fields outside the city walls.

Maegelle sat beside Queen Myriah and Princess Jena beneath a shaded pavilion.

Ser Donnel now stood quietly behind her chair.

Matarys leaned over the railing watching the lists.

“This one will fall,” he declared.

“He has not even started riding yet,” Jena said dryly.

“That is why he will fall.”

Then the trumpets sounded.

Prince Valarr rode into the lists.

Maegelle felt her hands tighten slightly in her lap.

“You are worried,” Jena observed.

“I am not.”

“Yes, you are.”

The horses thundered forward.

The crack of splintering wood echoed across the field.

Valarr’s opponent hit the ground hard.

The crowd erupted.

Matarys cheered wildly.

Maegelle exhaled slowly.

Behind her, Ser Donnel murmured approvingly,

“A clean strike.”

Valarr won two more passes that afternoon.

When he returned, dusty but smiling, his eyes found Maegelle’s first.

She smiled shyly.

He smiled back.

The dream came that night.

There were no dragons.

No fire.

Only a dark corridor lit by flickering torches.

At the end of the hall stood Princess Jena beside a tall window.

“Come see,” Jena called gently.

Maegelle tried to move toward her—

But the torches began to dim.

One by one.

The sound of waves grew louder against the castle walls.

Too loud.

The wind rushed through the corridor.

The final torch went out.

And Jena stood alone in the dark.

Maegelle woke suddenly.

Her heart was racing.

She sat upright in the silent chamber.

For a long moment she simply listened to the wind outside the window.

Then she whispered softly to herself,

“I do not understand that one.”

Outside, the sea moved quietly against the shore.

And somewhere in the castle—

The future waited.

[nastyakotsk]

#541