#duncan the tall imagine

[alannybunnue]

Can I please request a fic where Lady Beesbury and Duncan meet while she’s still betrothed to Aerion?

Of course, my sweet summer child :3

Beware that some things might be triggering :)

->

She hated these events

Not Tourneys in general, just those where she had to be at the side of her betrothed, the mad prince, Aerion Targaryen.

Of course, some still don't know that he is a mad man, including her own father, Lord Beesbury, who was convinced he was the perfect match for his only child.

He was wrong, Aerion was a monster.

Always snobby of his Valyrian blood and how he was a Dragon in human form, in which is why he mostly mocked and insulted the Lady in multiple ways. He wasn't keen on this betrothal, for she was no blood of the dragon.

She had to watch him glamour himself during the challenge against Ser Humfrey Hardyng, kinda wishing Aerion would fail or, if she was lucky enough, killed. But life wasn't about what she wanted.

But there was another Knight who caught her attention, one carrying a shield with the sigil of a green shooting star above an elm tree proper on sunset - "an odd one indeed" - she thought to herself, giggling a bit.

Afterwards, she was one more time, beside the Prince, watching a puppet show performed by a lovely tall woman and her group, however, the story went to a length where Lady Beesbury knew that it wouldn't end well, seeing as Aerion's demeanor changes as soon as the dragon in the tale dies.

He screams, calls it "Treason", he destroys the puppets and attacks the puppeteers, the girl couldn't say a word, no one could stop him. But in the moment he broke the fingers of the poor woman, he was immediately attacked by someone else, that same knight from before.

He was arrested for attacking a royal, and due to the lies of both Aerion and Daeron, his drunken brother, he was also accused of kidnapping Prince Aegon, her betrothed demanded a trial of seven.

The little Lady watched and felt guilty over the situation, she didn't knew why, but either way, she knew he was innocent. She went to me one of her cousins, Ser Humfrey Beesbury and begged him to fight with Duncan, thankfully he agreed.

But a feeling that she should see the poor knight still haunted her. So soon she found herself in front of the place he was locked in before the Trial.

Duncan didn't expected someone to appear that night, especially this little Lady who he recalled by being beside Prince Aerion, she looked at him with pity, or so he believes.

"G-Greetings Sir..." - She stutters a bit, obviously trying to find the right words - "I wanted to apologize in behalf of my betrothed, Prince Aerion and..."

"Why?" - He asked, obviously confused of this woman's intentions with this, she was quiet for a moment, just as confused with his question - "Why are you doing this? Against your intended?"

She gulped. Lady Beesbury was no fool, it was obvious that she was risking herself there, only the Gods would know what Aerion would do if he discovered this, he would feel humiliated by her actions.

But she was not ignorant.

"I am not blind to injustice, Sir" - She responded, keeping her composure - "I saw the evil deeds of my intended, what he did to that puppeteer and what he is doing to you...it's unfair."

Duncan just watched, didn't speak a word, he can say that he was confused by the situation, maybe he admired the lady's words, although he couldn't judge whether they were true or not...

But there's was a weird feeling on him that was crawling at the back of his neck.

Noticing the weird silence in the room, Lady Beesbury finished off - "I wish you good fortune in the Trial, Sir Duncan."

The feeling started to grow.

Soon the Trial started, each side had their allies, the girl watched attentively, hoping for the best, mostly for the hedge knight.

Most of the knights at his side were terribly wounded, including her own cousin, but in the end, Duncan was able to make Aerion yield.

The lady was more than relieved.

Afterwards, Aerion was exiled for his false accusations and Duncan was free for all charges.

The young woman decided to see the knight before he leaves, she found him patching some of his wounds.

"Would you allow me to assist you, Sir Duncan?" - She asked, the man simply nodded, that was answered enough, she sat beside him and continued patching him.

He watched the lady attentively, more than before, now that she was closer, he could see every little detail in her features, her perfections and imperfections, which made that feeling grew stronger.

"Sir?" - She looked at him, making him return to reality instantly, and regaining his composure - "...I must give you my condolences for your cousin, milady" - He used the loss of Sir Beesbury to distract her from the elefant in the room.

"Sir Humphrey..." - She stopped to think of the right words one more time - "died fighting for an innocent and honourable man and for that i am glad to be his cousin, even if we weren't close, he brought honor to his name and the name of our house." - She said as she finished to care for Duncan.

The gentleness of her soft hands, the kind words that left her mouth, the warm expression in her features were driving the knight completely mad, he felt as if he had to consume her, right then and there, take her for himself and never let go.

By Gods, not even Tanselle made him feel this way.

And he didn't thought of it in the moment, as his body got closer to hers.

The lady was conflicted, once the knight quickly grabbed her by the waist and pull her lips to his, she has never felt this way, the hunger and despair coming from him was too obvious to be denied and she wasn't afraid of it.

But she never felt so desired before, it may be due to the months of humiliation coming from her intended, but this was wrong and she knew it.

But there's nothing she could do, the knight was stronger than her and...deep down she wanted to continue.

She wanted him to continue.

No matter the consequences.

[springs-hurts]

Our 'Egg' Aegon V Targareyn is doing everything he can to change my heart and I've started liking him and also his sons(except jahareys ig) so Aegon VI you better be a Targ cause I kinda like you as well and support targ restoration (no, not really)

[miley1442111]

(part 2) choices and chances- art donaldson

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a/n: i imagined a fem reader but as per usual, imagine what you like :)

summary: the last time you're second-place to tashi

pairing: art donaldson x reader

warnings: angst, feelings of disappointment, hurt, etc. +

PART 2 of 12

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Art ran through the science building, tennis bag swinging from his back as he raced through students to get to you. Patrick was hot on his heels, shouting ‘where are you going?’ and ‘can you slow down?!’. 

Art did not slow down. Art kept running. 

He knew this was his last and final chance, that if he didn’t make it to this, he would lose you for good. He was still sweaty from a warm-up session with Tashi 10 minutes ago, his hat was practically falling off his head but he couldn’t have cared less. 

As he came to a halting stop outside the lab you were having an exam in, his heart dropped when he saw the lights off and the chairs empty. He checked the time, 2:48pm. Your exam finished at 2:30, right?

Art opened your texts and scrolled back to the text in which you had told him about the date of your final exam, asking him to pick you up at 2:00pm. 

“Fuck!” Art shouted, gaining many stares from the students around him. He quickly dialled your number (he had learnt it by heart) only to be met with an automated voice telling him that his number was blocked. “Fuck!” 

His tennis bag was swung to the floor and he sat against the wall, anger and shame eating at him. You had a match against Tashi and a final science lab today, and he was too busy with Tashi, helping her warm up when he should've been with you. 

“Hey, at least you’re off the hook,” Patrick patted him on the shoulder and Art blew up. 

“I don’t want to be off the hook! I want her to be angry with me, I want her to see me, to want to see me! I want her to fight with me, because that’s all we fucking do nowdays and it’s all my fucking fault! Once again, I ruined the best chance I’ve ever had with tennis!” He shouted, standing up tall in front of Patrick. “And yes, Patrick, I’m aware that you’re dating Tashi and that you think I’m jealous, well I’m fucking not! I just want my girlfriend to still want to be my girlfriend! My Y/n to still be my Y/n! So don’t come to me every fucking time Tashi pisses you off, telling me that ‘I can have her’ because I don’t fucking want her!”

Patrick sat there stunned. Art had never raised his voice at him.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go find my girlfriend,” Art said after gaining his composure once more, and starting to walk down the hall. 

“Ex-girlfriend!” Patrick shouted after him, rubbing salt in the wound. Art flipped him his middle finger, and set off to find you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Art didn’t find you before the match, but he was sitting beside an upset Patrick. 

You came out in your Nike tennis outfit, Tashi in her Adidas, and the match began. 

What ensued was real tennis. Tashi was talented, yes. But you, you were on fire. You beat Tashi Duncan. You actually beat Tashi Duncan. 

Art couldn’t have been more proud. Or worried. 

What if this actually was his last chance and he blew it on Tashi?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He knocked on your dorm door with a bunch of lilies in his hand, your favourite. He had a whole plan, he would apologise, grovel, congratulate, then fuck you. Then, he’d spend all weekend with you and go into San Francisco for a city break. 

You opened the door wearing one of his sweaters, a sleepy, but upset look in your eyes. “What?”

“Can we talk?” He asked, a smile on his face at your beautiful and drowsy state. 

“Fine,” you rolled your eyes and stepped outside instead of letting him in. Odd. 

“I’m so sorry, I thought that the final ended at 2:30 and when I got there you were gone-”

“What time did you get there?” You asked, crossing your arms across your chest. 

“2:30?” he lied. 

“No you didn’t. I waited until 2:40 for you Art, fucking praying you would show up, don’t lie to me.”

Art sighed. “I’m sorry baby.”

“Look Art, I’m getting really tired of being second place to everyone, sorry- to Tashi, in your life so please just let me go,” you asked. “Now, I would really like to get back into my dorm.”

Art knew he had to fight for you. “Please, I wanted to make it up to you, I thought he could go to San-Fran this weekend, just you and me, no tennis, no distractions.”

“I have a match this weekend Art,” you rolled your eyes and Art sighed, realising he’d forgotten. “Y’know, the one you promised me you’d be at so you could meet my parents?”

“Yes of course, you know I’ll be there, I meant after we could go to San-Fran,” he smiled, his hands on your hips. 

“Don’t bother coming, we’re done,” you shoved his hands off your body and walked back to your door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a very hot guy from my science class who would like to fuck me again, so I’ll see you around Arthur.”

You slammed the door in his face and his heart broke, he had lost you. 

He had made his choices, and lost all of his chances.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

navigation for my blog :) (criminal minds, obx, the bear, marvel, top gun, the hunger games :)

PART 3: choices and meetings

art donaldson masterlist :)

[callahanisms]

body talk

seeing challengers was a mistake guys because all i can think about is challengers and how much i love challengers and how cinema is back after people declared the death of cinema like three years ago and how much i wanna go see challengers again—

anyways uhhhh did challengers make me hop onto the mike faist train? yes. because i love a man that clearly worships his wife and kisses boys.

character: art donaldson

for vibes: "physical" by olivia newton-john

context: stanford university. 2007.

if you had a choice, you wouldn't be working as a receptionist in the gym. instead, you'd work in the infirmary. it was more in line with your desire to pursue sports medicine.

your father himself was an athlete who sustained a career ending injury and went into sports medicine. you wanted to follow in his footsteps.

but for now, you were working as a receptionist at the gym for your federal work study. college wasn't going to pay for itself unfortunately and your parents could only provide so much support.

art donaldson recognized you while you guys were at a party. "you're the person at the desk in the gym!" he sounded so excited. almost like a puppy.

"yeah..." you look down at your red solo cup. "you're like a regular. with tashi duncan."

"you know her?"

"well, i've talked to her a few times. she's great." who wouldn't like her honestly? you weren't the biggest fan of tennis but whenever tashi duncan played, she always managed to make it magical.

"you're also in my bio class, right?"

"you're in my bio class?"

"oh don't tell me you didn't notice."

you shrug. "i didn't. you're not very...noticeable, i guess."

art took personal offense to that statement.

okay not entirely. because to some extent, you were right. he wasn't as noticeable as some of the other people in class, like the lacrosse player on the guys team or the girl from the basketball team, both of whom you seem to be close with.

growing closer to art was just a matter of being in a lot of classes together, something you didn't realize during the first month of college.

to be fair, it was a lot.

but the good thing about having a lot of classes with him was that it meant you always had a go to person for group projects. and god were professors adamant about assigning group work.

at the very least, you had a workout buddy when you guys were free. sometimes, you were even joined by tashi duncan. so it was cool to be able to work out with a famous tennis player.

perhaps the gym is where you started to notice art's...physicality.

he wasn't entirely imposing, aside from being quite tall. but he had a surprising amount of muscle. perhaps the tank tops he wore didn't help much. it left little to the imagination.

because of your familiarity with the body and your desire to go into sports medicine, art called you when he was feeling a bit sore.

he opens the door with a smile, seeing you with your bag and clementines. "what's the fruit for?"

"just in case you get hungry." you step in and remove your shoes. "just lay down."

"bed or floor?"

"whichever you prefer. the bed might be more comfy. we'd have to move stuff around if you were on the floor. oh and take off your shirt."

"what?" he could feel his cheeks beginning to heat up.

"take off your shirt. a massage won't be that effective with your shirt on."

"alright. umm..." art just does what you ask of him, taking his shirt off and setting it aside on his desk chair. he gets on the bed and lays down, front side down.

you pull out a bottle of lotion and crawl onto the bed, straddling him at his waist. you are unaware of how red he is feeling you against him.

you feel around his back for bit, asking him where in particular is tight. once you got a good idea, you squirt some lotion onto your hands, rub it a bit, then begin to massage.

art would be embarrassed from the sounds that came out of him. but he was craving for the relief from his overworked and tired muscles. he could feel just how deep your hands went in, twisting and rubbing. your hands felt so good. they glided smoothly and your touch soothed him greatly.

"damn dude. when was the last time you massaged yourself?"

"don't know." he mutters, burying his lower face into his own pillow. he could feel himself growing warmer all over his body.

your palm pressing into him, dragging itself through his muscles, rubbing baby lotion into his skin so he's soft.

your hand reaches a part of his lower back, your palm rubbing through the muscle. and he moans.

you stop for a moment. "something wrong?"

"no...nothing's wrong..." he mutters.

"you sure?"

"yes. keep going."

he enjoys the way your hands move lower, and lower. he wants them to sneak to the front. massage him a different way.

your hands linger on a particular spot of his back though, feeling the defined muscle. there's something particularly...satisfying, about running your hands over his body. you were tempted to feel more. especially his arms.

art's arms were utterly gorgeous, as if sculpted out of marble by a renaissance artist themselves.

"i think you're all good."

"all done already?" he smelled like baby lotion. whatever that mean.

"unless you want me to massage elsewhere." you get off of him and he turns on his side to look at you.

the tank top you were wearing was a little bit tight.

art gently grabs your wrist. "magical hands you know."

"it's beneficial to learn how to massage. for your own betterment and health. though i will happily help you with the spots you can't reach."

he rubs circles into your wrists. "are they tired?"

"a little. it was because i took an exam yesterday. writing in those blue booklets is absolute torture."

"that's fair." his eyes flicker up to yours. the room was warm, the atmosphere right. "do you...like my body?"

"it's nice. you're very beautiful." you smile.

art pulls you forward, your legs hitting the wooden bedframe of the shitty college provided furniture.

"do you want to feel it?"

you bite your lip. "i think i do."

[odessa-2]

HUBLANDER MELBOURNE ☀️

OK ladies, so I ended up going. Long story short, I was given a spare ticket and decided to seize the moment. It was stinking hot, and a terribly organised event (it was literally in a shed). Despite this, I am glad I did go. My long held observations/beliefs of Sam's character, who he really is as a man, and the fantasy man, single Sam push, were proven correct. I did get a photo with Sam, and I must confess he really is incredibly good-looking. Even better in the flesh. A doll. He's hyper vigilant, astutely aware of his surrounds (eyes darting everywhere) , very polite and gentlemanly and professional.

He looked tanned and fresh and endured hoards of horny grannies fawning over him for hours on end and was attentive to everyone. The organisers of the event stuck Sam, Duncan, Charles and John in a small tin shed that had no air con, that must've been about 50 degrees celsius inside ,where they stood and posed with frenzied women for over 3 hours. They looked visibly overheated (shame on the organisers). Sam didn't faulter. Polite to a tee.

Would you believe that Sam had to use the same toilets as the plebs?! Yep, you heard correctly. Shocking work by the organisers. I actually had to desperately pee at one point but waited until I saw Sam come out of the toilets. In-between panels, the actors were staying upstairs in the loft level, and I saw the uber eats delivery man run upstairs to bring them food. The organisers didn't even feed their guests!

Sam is Jamie to these women and he knows it. Starz knows it. I saw the crazed obsession with my own eyes. I saw how his people; his team have shaped him and moulded him(for his public persona) to appeal to these women and this fantasy notion. They want their Jamie. They want single Sam, and that's what they (starz) give them. There is no room for anything else but Single Sam. And Sam professionally obliges. What he puts out to the public at the conventions is scripted and measured. He is very guarded. I could see it unfold in front of me with great clarity. There were women there who didn't want him with Caitriona (they weren't interested in the Caitriona titbits Sam gave), 50 and 60 year old women who actually think they stand a chance. Tragic. Sam is gorgeous and charming and Starz has used that to sell. And quite frankly, after witnessing this display, I can see why he has a fascade going on. I can see why he would want the public completely removed from his personal life and family. I get it.

Another observation of mine, I know this goes without saying, but he is definitely not gay for those who are insistent. He gives off zero gay vibes. He is not effeminate in the slightest, and I found him to be quite more masculine than I'd imagined. He reads people well and can't keep still. What else can I tell you? He has nice skin, piercing blue eyes (like really crystal blue) and exceptionally tall. He does his job very well and has high emotional intelligence. Starz uses his good looks and they pimp him out to the fan base.

Now don't get me wrong, i met lots of lovely women there today who were sweet and kind and exited. But hearing women's conversations at the event; he really is their fantasy. They were squealing and many saying how they wished they could grab his bum or 💋 him. There's no room for Caitriona. Just fantasy Sam.

Odessa says hi Sam 👋...you were a real trooper.

I'll share some more titbits from the panel tomorrow when my splitting headache hopefully dissipates.

[artdcnaldson]

OMG

imagine babysitter x artashi finding out you have a second job. that babysitting/nannying isn’t your only job. like imagine tashi coming into american eagle looking for some jeans (bc the super expensive ones aren’t long enough for her tall figure) and her seeing you there and you have to like up-sell all the jeans and stuff, and you go over that night and they make you quit because she can tell it sucks the life out of you😖

PLEASEEEE <3

Tashi DUNCAN <3

It's so awkward when she walks in and sees you in a random mall store. Because there's a quiet.... interest? She asks for your recommendations, you awkwardly run through them, picking jeans you know would look incredible on her, insisting that they're not cheap jeans just because they're affordable jeans. Almost like you're embarrassed that you're not working at Burberry.

She buys a ton of jeans, and a sweatshirt you manage to convince her is super comfy, and she'll absolutely love it.

"You're good at your job," she says as she swipes her Amex. Still, it feels like she's almost trying to do you a favor by shopping, so you don't feel so... inadequate.

On Monday, she's quiet at breakfast after Lily has disappeared with her tutor and Art has gone off to practice on their private courts with their private trainer. "I didn't know you had a second job."

You swallow and nod. "Yep." You take a tiny bite of the protein pancakes their private chef made and almost laugh at the differences between your lives. "I like the employee discount."

Tashi nods, and you can see the gears turning in her head. "You know Art and I want to take care of you. If you need something you just have to ask. We'd never tell you no."

And you know that. And you hate your second job, and being told to just check in the back one more time, and being yelled at when the line is long like it's your fault the storefront is criminally understaffed.

"I don't like being a burden."

Tashi rolls her eyes. "Quit the stupid job you hate and stop being such a masochist. We'll take care of you. You know that."

When she puts it like that, it seems so simple. Tashi and Art are going to take care of you. You do know that.

[sapphim]

"Have you ever fought darkspawn before?" the head Warden, Duncan, asks—which Micah supposes must be what passes for small talk among Grey Wardens. He's watching her with those dark eyes of his and the thoughtfully serious look Micah is coming to realize is his typical expression.

"Mmm. A couple. Not supposed to hunt in the tunnels but, you know." She shrugs pointedly. "And sometimes you find a vein of something nice the miners haven't quite cleaned out yet, if you're looking. 'Course, you see eyes looking at you in the dark about yea high—" she gestures with her hand around head high (her head, anyway) "—and that means you run like the ceiling's caving in on your sorry ass, 'cause there's usually more where that came from."

"I've never seen anything crawling around in the Deep Roads that looks even a little bit edible," says another Warden. Ronald? Randall? One of the clean-shaven ones. She has got to get their names down. From where she's standing the humans may as well all be "the very tall guy" and "that other also very tall guy," which isn't even a little bit helpful for keeping them straight.

"Doesn't matter how edible it looks, you're hungry enough," she says. "Vermin, you know? Rats, nugs, deepstalkers..."

"Bet those taste foul."

"I'll eat a deepstalker. I'm not a coward," says another Warden (the extra big one nearly swallowed up by his own bushy beard), like it's a competition. For all she knows, maybe it is.

"You'll eat anything, Gregor." A few wardens chuckle at that. A shared joke she's not privy to.

"When the nobles go out on their expeditions, you know, they'll only be graced by the presence of the great warrior caste. But when it's just the warriors—not the miners, they don't want you to know where the good stuff is hiding—sometimes they'll hire on dusters as extra bodies. The pay's not awful, if you don't mind the maybe not coming home part." Micah kicks at a rock, and it skitters between their feet and out ahead of them. It aches, she thinks. Her face, for sure, as well as every other part of her body—but mostly her heart. She puts that thought away again.

"I tried to hire on one, once. I can swing a pick and shift rocks around or whatever they want done, right? And I'm mean with a knife. But they were real weird about it. Like they thought I was gonna hike up my skirts—skirts which, I don't think I have to tell you, I wasn't wearing, by the way—and proposition them to put a baby in me while we were down there."

She lets out a short, sharp humorless laugh. "Can you imagine? 'Course, I was younger then but, believe me, just as ugly. But they got weird ideas about brands, you know. Some of 'em they look at you and all they see is a cunt."

No smart response to that, she notes. One of the Wardens—the young one, she thinks, bringing up the rear—clears his throat awkwardly, and she can hear him wince as the sound echoes around the tunnel.

"Even after your exceptional showing in the proving?" Duncan asks, and she looks up from her feet to find him watching her with that same steady gaze, unperturbed. "What do you think it was that they saw in you then?"

Micah coughs, reaches up to rub at her nose—still busted all to fuck and hurts like it too—better to rub at the back of her neck instead. "Dunno," she says, looking away. "Been busy with, you know. Haven't had time to think yet." She wonders if he saw the swell of pride she felt when their eyes had met. Exceptional, he'd said—damn right she was.

"You're, uh..." That's young Warden again. "You—yes, you're a very impressive fighter. We were all impressed... obviously. But also you're. Not ugly."

Surprised, she laughs again, a much nicer sounding sound than before. "You're real sweet, kid, but I know what I look like. Well, actually—" She feels the swollen lump of her nose again, more gingerly this time. "I haven't had a chance to check out the new damage yet, but I know I look like I've been kicked in the face repeatedly, 'cause that's exactly what happened."

Micah aims a grin over her shoulder at him, and hopes whatever that does to her busted up face looks more friendly than frightful. The kids—she can't help but think of them as kids, the young Warden and the other new recruit, the elven mage—have been trailing behind at the rear of the group since they left Orzammar. She hasn't seen enough humans and elves to feel confident guessing the age of any of the others but these two don't look like they could possibly be much older than the girls—and thinking about her nieces twists painfully in her chest in a way that makes it hard to breathe and almost impossible to keep walking forward. Away. So she's been taking one step at a time and trying not to think about. Well.

"Nothin' wrong with being ugly, anyway. Some people just are. And I'd hate to be pretty." She runs a hand through her short shorn hair, then down to feel the at this point probably week-old bristle growing on her jaw. Never was fond of dealing with a headful of hair. "Those girls got their own problems to worry about."

"How do you cook a deepstalker, anyway?" asks the Warden from earlier. "They've gotta be nothing but skin and bones. And, you know, the teeth."

"Still hung up on that, Rondall?" chides another.

"I'm just curious."

"Dunno," Micah says. "Rica—my niece—won't let me do the cooking anymore." One foot in front of the other. "So consider that your warning, if you're expecting to get a hot meal outta me."

"We'll find out if you're as bad as Alistair when it's your turn in the rotation, then." ("Hey!" the young one—must be Alistair—interjects at that.)

"Hey, new kid, can you cook?" asks the big bushy one. Greg? Greg something.

Micah glances back at the new kid, his bright eyes wide with alarm at having been abruptly singled out. They glitter like gems in the dark. "Uh," he says. "I've never tried?"

"Oh boy," says one.

"We're really in for it," says another.

"Do you think they just magic it up out of thin air or what?" muses a third.

"Would you all remember that we presently have a job to do?" Duncan reproves, but he sounds amused.

"What job? Tarimel's on point. Hey, Tarimel, any darkspawn up there?"

"No darkspawn," the elven Warden confirms. Not the recruit, mage kid, but the scout with the bow. Easier to keep track of when there's only two of them. Neither all that chatty, either. Unlike the humans.

"See? No darkspawn yet. Job covered."

"That's strange though, yeah? Should have met resistance by now."

"What, this close to Orzammar?"

"Exactly this close to Orzammar. They're always trying to raid it. Isn't that right, Duncan?"

Micah lets the Wardens talk—Duncan saying something about the Legion of the Dead, now—and lags behind to walk with the youngsters.

"—any darkspawn, just stick close with me," the kid (Alasdair?) is saying quietly to the young mage, who nods glumly. He winces in pain with every step, Micah can see now that she's looking, leaning on that staff of his for support.

The young Warden (oh, that's right, it's Alistair) perks up when he notices her approach. "Sorry I called you pretty back there," he says with a cheeky grin, clearly having found his footing. "Won't happen again." Oh, she does like him.

"You know, I don't think that you did call me pretty."

"Oh, I guess I didn't. Well you look like you got trampled by a rabid bronto, so there's that."

"Stone," she groans, "feels like it too."

"I could do something for that," the mage says, "uh, when we rest."

You should look to yourself first, she wants to say. Instead she says, "Uh, thanks, maybe. Like... magic stuff, right?" She's not clear about the magic stuff.

"I was training as a spirit healer, in the Circle," the kid says. "Before..." He trails off.

Yeah. Before.

"Those... aren't new boots you've got there?" she asks, to change the subject. They're thoroughly worn, but he's grimacing with every step.

"Well, they're Tarimel's boots, is the problem," Alistair tells her.

"Got it," she says. "Do mages uh." She's vastly out of her depth here. "Do they... not wear shoes?" She heard something like that once, she thinks. Or was it... elves? Probably not.

"We're not allowed to go anywhere," the kid says, which isn't exactly an answer.

"And now you're in the Deep Roads," Alistair chips in, sardonically. "Yay."

"Yay," the mage sighs, with even less feeling. "I liked Orzammar better."

"Yeah, kid, me too," Micah says quietly.

"Sorry."

She sighs. "Don't be. Not your fault."

"Micaaaaah," Alistair drawls. "Do you keep calling us kid because you don't remember our names?"

Stone, Micah thinks. It was Alistair, right? "I remember one of your names," she says. Probably.

"Ooh, which one? Prove it. Say one of our names right now."

"My name's Rafael," says Rafael.

"Dammit, Raf," says Alistair.

"Thank you, Rafael," Micah says, pointedly polite. "My name's Micah. It's good to meet you." And then, because she is feeling quite a bit more cheerful than she was just a few minutes ago, she adds, "And don't be a shit, Alistair."

[ofsappho]

THE KNIFE OF MUAD'DIB (Paul x OC!Reader x Chani) Part III: Duncan

Wherein na-Duke Paul Atreides is not the Bene Gesserit's only prospect for the Kwisatz Haderach. Raised by Paul's side as his playmate and servant, Chryse, the Bene Gesserit's cuckoo child, will forge a new future for her master.

(previously posted on AO3 as Themis)

(Note: I invented some stuff/added some new terminology to make up for worldbuilding that didn't happen in canon. If you have questions just send me an ask!)

PART III: DUNCAN

Duncan did not consider himself an unnecessarily stubborn man. Though he was initially wary of including Lady Jessica’s young Bene Gesserit handmaiden in Paul’s combat training, a year had proven that Paul flourished with the addition of a sparring opponent who matched him in strength and size.

One, two, three. His pupils’ current sparring bout played out in front of him in the training room. The sound of each blow and each block echoed off the walls like a heartbeat. “Arms up, Paul.” Duncan cautioned.

At the reminder, the youth straightened up and his gangly arms, now starting to finally bulk out to Paul’s poorly-hidden satisfaction, came up to properly defend his head and torso. His black curls stuck to his forehead with sweat while a fierce expression furrowed his young brow.

That expression brought a fond smile to Duncan’s face. Paul’s father looked like that when he fought.

Since he had added full contact sparring to Paul’s training, Duncan was pleased to note that the boy continued to earn that privilege with his devotion to every lesson. His scrawny charge appeared early in the training room with eagerness written across his open face every day.

Of course, he still got into mischief and roped his companion into it frequently - that was just Paul’s way. His attitude had greatly improved since that final, fateful temper tantrum and since his lady mother enlisted that girl into her household.

At twelve, Paul had begun to settle into the features that Duncan imagined he would retain into adulthood. Though he could hardly match his tutor in stature or build now, he was growing like a weed. The boy would easily be as tall as him one day, if not taller.

He could still remember the squirming little bundle Leto had pressed into his arms mere hours after Paul’s birth. When the infant’s eyes had met his, he saw the same emerald green eyes of the Duke and his father before him. Duncan felt privileged to have been able to watch that baby grow into a capable, earnest boy.

Paul was, in a way, the son of his heart.

Even though he seemed to be growing into the very image of his father, Duncan could see himself in Paul too. When he was only a toddler, Paul did his very best to imitate the swordmaster’s mannerisms. That child had been so sincere that all who saw him couldn’t help but chuckle.

Now, Paul had grown to unconsciously mimic the way Duncan carried himself, the length of his stride, the way he gestured with his hands. There was no better legacy the warrior wished to leave behind than this youth, a true child of the three of them - Leto, Jessica, and Duncan.

He had taken to combat with the same ease his father had, at nearly the same age, the swordmaster thought as he watched with fondness and pride. Paul darted, quick as a hunter-seeker, past Chryse’s strikes only to counter with his own.

That his liege had entrusted Paul’s training to him was a great honor. The boy in front of him, fighting with a keenness much older than his age, could yet match his noble father in excellence. Whether or not Paul would exceed him remained to be seen.

One did not so easily clear the bar set by Leto Atreides. The Ginaz swordmaster remembered how at newly fifteen, coral disk in hand, he had been sent to join Duke Mintor Atreides’ household and accompany his son and heir, na-Duke Leto Atreides. 

His lord had always been different. Leto had been a mere teenager when they first met, itching to prove his might against the Harkonnens in battle, yet he was wise and principled in a way that Duncan had never known.

Ginaz built master swordsmen and tacticians, not people. Not lords.

After their first spar, after the way Leto clasped his hand and pulled him up from the ground after the na-Duke had sent him sprawling, Duncan knew he would follow that man to the edge of the Imperium and beyond.

There might have been shame and failure in defeat at the hands of a different man. There was no shame in his heart when Leto raised him up, as there was no shame in bowing to the might of the wind.

Later that night, Leto had clasped their calloused hands together, and Duncan remembered thinking, he is half of my soul.

Even the Emperor knew of the then na-Duke Leto’s integrity and the effortless way he commanded respect and loyalty. Thufir Hawat, the most fearsome Mentat in the Imperium, had sworn his fealty to Leto as he had to Mintor and Paulos. The legendary bard-warrior, Gurney Halleck, was plucked out of the Harkonnen slave-pits by Leto and pledged his life to him in return.

The Duke earned every ounce of allegiance given to him.

From that first day on, the Ginaz swordmaster knew he would follow House Atreides until the end of his life. For what was glory, if not serving Leto and his family with all Duncan had? To give his life over to the keeper of his soul?

He would die for his lord without question. The Duke knew this and pressed a more difficult task upon the swordmaster - to live for him, should Leto die first, so that Duncan could protect Paul.

One, two, three. The two children danced around each other on the floor mats before Paul pushed Chryse back far enough that she could not reach him without an answering attack that would do real damage. She stopped for a moment, her gaze darting around the room to catalog everything like a Mentat, and waited for Paul to catch his breath.

“Again,” Duncan commanded, his voice harsher than it should be.

A sigh escaped him at the sight of her barely concealed flinch. He really shouldn’t have barked at her like that. Chryse had never done anything to Paul or Duke Leto. Her presence had lifted Paul’s spirits and challenged him to strive further by all accounts, including his own. The retainer watched the children fight a while longer before halting practice for the day. The two of them gathered cups of water and returned to the mat to stretch, Paul’s carefree chatter filling the room.

Duncan had only lived this long through trusting in his instincts. Around Bene Gesserit, his instincts told him that there was something terribly wrong with these women.

All that said, he and Jessica had come to a consensus many years ago over their shared lord and lover. She made Leto happy. When the woman presented his soulmate with a son and heir, the Duke had never been more pleased. Duncan would die to protect that happiness. He would never go so far as to call her a friend, but they were cordial with one another, and he served and protected her as was his duty.

Though it didn’t matter how cordial and respectful she was to the swordmaster or how many smiles she brought to Leto’s face, Duncan trusted any member of her order about as far as he could throw one.

Her little handmaiden unnerved him in the same way they did.

The day Chryse joined her household, Jessica had pulled him aside. He remembered being taken aback by the wild, desperate fear in her eyes. That smooth voice of hers had only the barest quiver when she informed him of the girl that the Imperial truthsayer delivered in-person to Caladan.

At her words, the swordmaster straightened up while one of his hands strayed to the long sword, sheathed at his belt. “Is she going to pose a threat?” He growled out. That truthsayer be damned. The whole Bene Gesserit be damned. He would protect Leto and Paul at any cost.

He counted the time she took to respond in heartbeats. With each beat that passed, ire set deeper into his bones, and he stepped closer to the lady to press for her answer.

Jessica looked away from Duncan to her pale hands as if examining the tendons that lay beneath the skin. In the moment before she answered, her imperious expression twisted into what looked like shame. Duncan blinked, and the guilt was gone so fast, he wondered if he’d imagined it. 

“...No.”

Their gazes met. He trusted her to protect their family. Jessica knew that. While her trepidation alone was enough to mark this unknown girl as a threat in Duncan’s mind, he had faith that Jessica would never let anyone bring harm to House Atreides. To Leto.

Duncan perused her face, looking for any hint of a lie. She seemed truthful enough. “Alright.” He stepped back. That was hardly a satisfactory answer, but Duncan would let it lie as Jessica was indiscernible once more.

She neatly tucked her hands behind her back, out of his sight. “Her name is Chryse. She is to be my handmaiden when she grows older, but for now, I’d like her to accompany Paul to his sparring lessons with you.” Duncan knew Jessica well enough to know when she was giving a command, one framed diplomatically as a request.

The urge to refuse that command was strong, but he instantly understood what she meant under her poised words. Jessica would never jeopardize Paul and Leto by allowing a known threat into their house. This girl was an unknown. Should anything happen under his supervision, Jessica knew he would protect Paul. Duncan did not doubt that she’d arranged other minders for the little handmaiden when he wouldn’t be there.

He would obey his lady’s command, and the two of them would guard Paul against this unknown.

Chryse was quiet, quieter than any child of her age he’d ever known. They had met for the first time when a giddy Paul had dragged her behind him, both to show off his new companion and to seek Duncan’s approval.

She and Jessica shared the same placid countenance that all Bene Gesserit had, a countenance that unnerved him every time he experienced it. The ice in her face only melted when Paul looked to her to ensure her attention during one of his rambles about the latest filmbook he’d seen or when Paul asked her some sort of open-ended question with the bright curiosity of a young child.

When anyone set choices in front of her, the girl seemed overwhelmed and lost. Chryse shied away from decisions, and Paul seemed to enjoy earnestly guiding her through them, even if he hadn’t entirely realized he was doing so. Duncan was grateful Paul didn’t have an ounce of selfishness or ill-intent towards her, for her sake.

There was something wrong with her. The swordmaster was sure of it, and that surety set him on edge. Duncan had observed her during their first lesson - when Chryse fought, Duncan felt that combat was intrinsic to her and required no conscious effort on her part. As if she was constructed instead of raised.

Halleck’s beloved Orange Catholic Bible came to mind. Thou shalt not make a machine in the likeness of a human mind.

Hunter-seekers were constructed for combat, too, though those machines had to be operated by someone else, somewhere else. He feared that someone, somewhere, was operating this girl.

Duncan Idaho knew that time was not an enemy, unlike what many other men thought. It was an ally. So he waited, and he watched.

Of course, Duncan had sparred with her himself before so much as letting her near Paul with a bokken. The girl-child didn’t only land one hit - she landed many. She left bruises. For a few moments during the fight, he almost stopped seeing her as a child in his care, not more than ten standard years old. Chryse was another enemy, another Harkonnen or Sardaukar, and Duncan Idaho couldn’t see past that until she was sprawled on the training mat beneath him, the tip of his bokken under her small jaw. One particularly forceful blow and he’d have broken her neck. The child hadn’t responded or whispered a word in protest. She merely continued to look up at Duncan with her large, guileless eyes, like a calf going to slaughter.

In the year since their first meeting, Chryse had managed to put his initial fears to rest. She had a very marked reluctance to physically injure Paul when the two of them sparred and would go out of her way to avoid doing so, even if that action put her at a disadvantage. It frustrated the boy to no end, but Duncan preferred it to the alternative. There were no threats or thwarted assassination attempts from her or anyone else. It seemed like the only people who held Chryse’s reins were them.

But Duncan was not completely heartless. The more time she spent with Paul, the less overwhelmed she seemed. Chryse’s movements were still uncanny, but he watched her slowly become more like a child and less like a weapon, like a winter melted into spring. The girl tended towards a rather endearing wide-eyed naïveté and innocent wonder.

The two of them had grown since their first meeting in directions that complimented the other. Paul wasn’t nearly as restless and dissatisfied as he had been. She grounded him and made him happy in a way the adults in his life simply couldn’t. The boy had continued to guide and nurture her, and Chryse had continued to trust in him enthusiastically. They reminded Duncan of the young vines Jessica tended to in the gardens, intrinsically and unconsciously intertwined as they reached for the sun.

Time was an ally. Duncan had time to continue watching her and ensure she wouldn’t grow into her potential as a threat. Paul had time to grow into his potential as a soldier, a warrior who could defend himself.

A servant appeared in the doorway. “Pardon me, Sir. Lady Jessica requests her handmaiden’s assistance in her presence-chamber.” He nodded his assent quickly and gestured for Chryse to follow after the attendant. The girl hesitated for a moment, seemingly ill at ease. Duncan didn’t miss her unease or the way she tamped down on it with force.

Paul had rounded on Duncan as soon as she’d left without a backward glance, endearingly chattering on about their lesson. “I think I did better today with the grappling? I’m trying-” For the moment, the swordmaster would put away his concerns, and he turned his attention to the boy in front of him.

Paul attempted to duck away from Duncan’s hand but failed to avoid a fond ruffle of his dark hair. “You did well, Paul.” The retainer didn’t give out empty praise - Duncan knew his honesty would benefit Paul the most. Chryse was unnervingly quick at picking up the forms and throws she learned, but Paul even now had a bright mind that could anticipate her moves in advance and adjust instantly to compensate. He had an innate control of every spar; there again, Duncan could see Leto in him. 

“I’m proud of you.”

Paul stopped short at his words. He looked then like the small child Paul had been, a child who clung to Duncan’s every word and often looked for his approval and attention. Before he could respond, the tutor continued. “Listen to me. I know you know that one day, you must be Duke Atreides. To you, that seems far away and impossible right now.” Duncan could see Paul’s uncertainty whenever his future as the Duke was brought up as clear as day, for all of the boy’s feigned confidence and maturity.

The Dukedom was his by right of birth. But the potential and capability to be a great man, a great leader, a great Duke; that was all Paul. No great ancestor or accomplished relative could have given Paul that. While the boy didn’t have an inherently boastful or vain temperament, Paul lacked true confidence in spades. Without it, he would fail.  “I have never lied to you, and I do not intend to start now. When that time comes, you will be deserving of it. I promise you.”

The boy grew somber at the weight behind Duncan’s words, and his green eyes stayed fixed on the man’s face.

The Harkonnens circled ever closer, their military might backed by the obscene riches they drained from Arrakis. 

At the emperor’s command, Leto had been called before the Landsraad that week to negotiate a dispute between their quadrant and an adjacent quadrant.

The Great Houses under Leto’s jurisdiction as Warden of Centaurus Quadrant had risen against the Great Houses of Bode Quadrant. The skirmishes grew bloodier by the day. If House Atreides could not keep the peace, the emperor wouldn’t hesitate to strip them of the wardenship. Padishah Shaddam IV looked for every chance to undermine Leto.

The moment they finished in the training room, Duncan planned to head straight to the war chamber to coordinate the deployment of Atreides troops to the many planets under their dominion, under Leto’s orders. Ideally, they would halt the bloodshed entirely, but judging from the most recent intelligence from Hawat, protracted disputes were the more realistic outcome.

As sheltered as his childhood was, Paul had only known peace. Duncan did not doubt that peace would be in shorter supply when the boy reached the age of majority. Dukehood was his right, and Paul needed to know it. Belief in that right was all that stood between him and his possible destruction.

Paul straightened up under Duncan’s gaze. “Leading our House is your right, Paul. It is what you are owed. You need to own it.” Steel settled in the boy’s gaze, and Duncan grew pleased at the sight of it. Paul would take his words to heart.

When Paul responded, his voice seemed to echo off the walls with a gravity that far outstripped his age. “I understand.” There were still a million and one different ways the boy could falter, and hundreds of thousands of other factors that might end their House. 

But the youth standing before him wore an expression of ancient understanding, some otherworldly wellspring of memory and experience. There was no reasonable explanation for how Paul had come to that understanding right here, right now, but it was so intrinsic that Duncan didn’t question it at the moment.

The moment between them passed, and the peculiar awareness that had taken over this twelve-year-old boy went with it. What in the Imperium had just happened?

As if nothing odd had occurred, Paul bowed as he always did at the end of sparring lessons. “May I be excused?” Duncan silently nodded and watched as Paul dashed from the room, no doubt in search of his mother or Gurney Halleck, or off to his room to put on another one of those filmbooks he liked so much.

The swordmaster had felt the same distinctive unease around Paul that he felt around Bene Gesserit. Duncan knew how to pick his battles, though, and the boy seemed fine and, most importantly, safe enough. Under Jessica’s careful eye, Paul was not likely to harm himself somehow with… whatever that was. It would suffice for now, and later Duncan would press Jessica into a conversation about what sort of alien mess her religious cult had undoubtedly dragged Paul into. While he didn’t have any proof those witches were involved, it seemed highly unlikely that they didn’t have anything to do with it.

If he needed to guard Paul against himself, he would do it. Right now, though, Duncan had a more pressing priority of holding the quadrant together so Leto could return from the Landsraad safely and in victory.

He could feel a headache building behind his eyes. With a resigned sigh, Duncan left the training room.

Ah yes the iconic queer dynamic of "lord and the knight who would die for him and the lord's lady)

Tagging: @redskull199987@itsemy01@blahzaiblahsheep@herebereblogs @spacenotwar @assorted-fandom-things @hogwartshouse @mylenne-16

[goodqueenaly]

Realistically speaking, how would Brienne or anyone else react to any speculation or reveal that she is Dunk's descendant?

To be clear, I don’t think Brienne (or anyone else in the main story, for that matter) will ever find out that she is a descendant of Ser Duncan the Tall. If the Dunk-Tarth connection plays out the way I think it will (and much of my speculation in this post is going to be using that theory as a baseline), then we’re talking about a romantic/sexual relationship that happened some 80 years prior to the start of ASOIAF; even if Brienne’s ancestor was conceived at a different time from what I imagine, this ancestor certainly has to have existed by 259 AC, when Dunk died at Summerhall. We’re talking, in other words, about at least the better part of half a century, if not close to a century, of difference in time from the birth of this ancestor to the main novels - far too long, probably, for anyone with living memory of this relationship to report on what happened. Too, if Dunk conceived a child with Daella who was in turn passed off as the child of Lord (?) Tarth, then who apart from Dunk and Daella themselves would have known that this affair happened? I suppose it’s remotely possible that someone could, say, get a supernatural vision of the past including this relationship, but I don’t see how this vision would fit into the narrative without feeling awkward and unnecessary. Ultimately, I don’t think Brienne needs to discover the answer to a question neither she nor anyone else around her is asking; this is a mystery we as readers, observing all (or, at least, all of what we’ve been told) of Westerosi history at the same moment, care far more about than anyone in the current novels does. 

Anyway, putting all of that aside, it’s difficult to know what Brienne might think if she learned that she was a biological descendant of Duncan the Tall. On the one hand, if Dunk conceived a child with Daella while he was a knight of the Kingsguard (not to mention while Daella was married to (again, presumably) Lord Tarth), then Brienne might struggle with the idea that her ancestor broke his Kingsguard vows for the sake of a sexual affair (and again, with a royal princess, no less). After all, cultural memory on Tarth does not simply idealize the heroic figure of Ser Galladon of Morne- literally referred to as “the Perfect Knight” - but specifically links that perfection, in part, to the obviously chaste romance between Ser Galladon and the Maiden - the beau ideal of unconsummated chivalric devotion. Nor indeed might Brienne look kindly on her would-be great-grandfather using (so it might seem, at least) the closeness of his role as Daella’s royal guardian to pursue a sexual relationship with her. After all, Brienne had experienced severe shock and disillusionment upon learning that the knights of Renly’s camp at Highgarden who had curried her favor, and even (as Hyle Hunt did) treated her as their equal, had only done so in order to claim her as a sexual conquest in return for a monetary prize. Would Brienne sneer at Duncan the Tall, with respect to his affair with Daella, much in the way she did (at least initially) at Jaime - that he, Dunk, had “scorned and soiled” that “rare and precious gift” Dunk had (in part ostensibly) received, to be a knight and a knight of the Kingsguard? Would she consider Dunk no better than the sleazy knights who had viewed her, Brienne, as no more than a source of casual sex - that her great-grandfather had had no more respect for her great-grandmother’s virtue and his own honor as a knight than men like Ben Bushy and Will the Stork had had for her virtue and their honor?

On the other hand, it would of course be wrong to characterize Brienne as a person who has no concept of romantic attraction and love, even - and, indeed, especially - in the context of knightly service. Brienne’s desperation to serve Renly, and especially to join his Rainbown Guard, stemmed in no small part from Brienne’s very strong, though obviously unrequited, romantic love for Renly. Likewise, though this paragraph is naturally too brief to cover the complex relationship between Jaime and Brienne, her experiences with him have inextricably intertwined romance, chivalric duty, and the meaning of knighthood. (Nor, to be fair, should we ignore the fact that, according to Yandel, “[m]any of the folk of Tarth, highborn and low alike, claim descent from” Galladon of Morne, necessarily implying that Galladon had any number of romantic relationships that resulted in children.) Would Brienne compare her own desire to serve Renly as an expression of her love for him to, as it may have been, Dunk’s romantic devotion to Daella, framed and abetted by his service as a knight of the Kingsguard (when, indeed, he may have been sent specifically as her protector and sworn shield to Tarth)? Would Brienne understand where, perhaps, Dunk’s own romantic feelings toward Daella may have developed and evolved as his knightly service to her continue, when she, Brienne, had herself seen a notable change in her feelings toward Jaime as her quasi-knightly role with him progressed?

Moreover, all of the above speculation is without having a clear understanding of how the Tarths (much less anyone else in Westeros) remember Dunk (not to mention, for that matter, Daella). The presence of Dunk’s shield in the Evenfall Hall armory remains the only direct allusion to Dunk that we know of on Tarth today, a frustratingly vague reminder of his (presumed) time there. We have no idea what Brienne thinks of Dunk as a person (as opposed to simply the possessor, unidentified by her in the moment, of a shield she much admired as a child), much less as a person with a direct impact on the history of her House, and still less how the reputation of Dunk may have changed (or not) over the course of the better part of a century since he had, perhaps, lived there. Because we don’t know Brienne’s opinion of Dunk, we cannot at all say how such an opinion might be impacted by the revelation that Dunk fathered a child who would go on to (presumably) be one of Brienne’s grandparents. 

[crabs-with-sticks]

⋆ "it's like i lived my whole life before the first light." I feel like this would fit so well for Brosca x Alistair!

Thanks for the prompt! Still in early days in my playthrough with Cor, so trying to figure out her voice and mannerisms still. For @dadrunkwriting

Cor Brosca & Alistair, SFW, 740 words

It was a late night in camp; Wynne had gone to her tent hours ago, and the others had followed in short order. Cor was restless, and though she knew she should rest for the long day of walking that would inevitable come tomorrow, she couldn’t bring herself to, instead laying stretched out beside the dying campfire. She stared up at the sky; the two moons hanging in serene and haunting light, and the stars scattered across the sky like a titan had dropped them by accident.

Everybody had gone to bed except Alistair, Cor found out, jumping as the tall warden slumped noisly across the fire from her.

“Whatcha doing?” Alistair asked, tone both teasing and curious.

Cor threw a pebble in his general direction, smirking as the man yelped in a boyish fashion. “Is there a grey warden curfew or something you forgot to tell me about?”

“Nooo, but we also don’t often lie down next to the fire, and I’m not quite sure if you’re trying to sleep here or you’re having a mental breakdown,” he paused, “or both. Both is possible too.”

“Well its neither of those so don’t worry.”

She followed the sound of him walking round to her, and glanced over to see him lying down next to her. “So what are you doing then? Enlighten me. For my own peace of mind. Can’t have you loosing your marbles and leaving all the warden-ing to me.”

“Just shut up and look,” she said with a grin, elbowing him in the side. She gave her attention back to the vast expanse of sky, the deep blues fading into purples and even reds at the very corners.

“So what are we looking at?” Alistair asked.

“What are we looking at?! What did you think we would be looking at?! The sky of course!”

“Oh yes, mmm, very… skyish.”

She sat upright and looked at him, “don’t tell me all you humans take this for granted?!”

“It’s just the sky,” he said.

Cor snorted as she sunk back down shaking her head. “Oh, ‘just the sky’. You know I’d never even seen the sky until a few weeks ago when Duncan saved me,” she laughed self conciously, shaking her head, “you know I was scared I would fall into it? Thats what they say happens down where I’m from. That if you go up to the surface, without the stone to protect you, theres nothing stopping it.”

“You’re telling me you thought you’d just fly up into the sky and die?”

“Don’t make me throw something at you again Alistair! Because I can and I will. But I don’t think its so ridiculous. I lived pretty much my whole life in Dust Town, and I knew people who had been on the surface, but it just seemed so far removed. Some far off land. But they always talked about the sun, how it was so bright and warm, and the sky so blue, nothing at all like Orzammar. Except the lava maybe, that’s similar to the sun I guess.”

“I’m sorry, the lava?”

“Yeah the lava. And you can fall into the lava, so I guess it made sense that you could fall into this ‘sun’.”

“I’d still like to go back to the lava bit.”

“Now you know how I felt about the sky.”

“Okay, point taken.”

“They never said anything about the night sky though. I never imagined something so beautiful. To think I could have gone my whole life without seeing this. That I could have just spent my days down there in the dark, never seeing true light for the first time. I mean, did I even know what light was before this?”

“Not sure if you know this but we have these things called constellations. They’re like very pretty stick drawings in the sky, but with the stars. I can show you some if you want. Though I can’t promise not to make any up.”

Cor smiled up at the sky, “as long as I can make them up as well.”

“Deal.”

Alistair pointed up at the sky, directing her gaze to a particular cluster of stars “so there’s this one constellation that they say is a dragon, but that’s boring so I think its a mabari.”

“Oh wow, and is that my sister riding into battle on it swinging a giant mace?!” Cor added, fully sincere.

Alistair grinned, “now you’re getting the hang of it.”

[twosides--samecoin]

Hi!! Happy weekend! I’d love to hear about some of your ocs headcanons 🍬🌻💩 :]

Here's Jack and Olivia, 2/3 of Long Time Running's main cast - with a bonus heacanon unique to my Dogmeat! You can read the fic -> here <-

Jack Ward is my canon M!SoSu. He was a professional boxer and retired when he was conscripted for the Anchorage campaign and sent to FoB Juneau.

When Med-Tek failed, Jack pushed RJ on a vertibird destined for Vault 150 - a remote Canadian Vault that tested Duncan's illness on its residents. Two weeks later, Olivia Dallaire, my OC F!SoSu, stepped out of a vertibird and onto the hill overlooking Sanctuary and Boston. She'd be an Olympic judoka if there was still Olympics.

🍬On the topic of family: One of the themes in my fic is about the intersection and contrast between found family and adoption as well as miscommunication. Jack sees a younger version of himself in Olivia, but in a subversion of the failed-coach-training-his-actually-promising-protege trope, Jack had the title fight successes and Olivia really never will. All the same, he takes a shine to her. After meeting Father at the Institute, Jack let go of the idea of recovering his family. When he met Olivia, he felt like, "My god, this is the child Nora and I were supposed to have". Problem is, she's uh, a grown-ass 23 year-old woman. Who just immigrated to a different country and has her own trauma to unpack. And the sudden reemergence of his want to be a dad is moving faster than his ability to discuss being family with her. He faces serious role strain between his best friendship with RJ and the fatherhood he feels toward Olivia when he sees RJ differently as he begins to feel protective over her.

💩 Something ridiculous: My Dogmeat can break the fourth wall. The characters cannot hear him in the fic, but the reader can read his thoughts. One of my childhood fave movies is All Dogs Go To Heaven. The main dog is a German Shepherd, voiced by Burt Reynolds. This is how I hear him.

I was born in '94, so those 80's-90's "talking animal" genre movies were really formative for me. Anastasia, An American Tail - themes of lost family, adventure, immigration. Even RJ's story has strong Secrets of NIMH parallels. I'd reached a point where my fic felt self-serious, like it was so grounded in harsh reality and dumpster fire mental health that I forgot to have fun. Saluting Don Bluth by imagining Charlie B. Barkin and Anne-Marie the Orphan as Dogmeat and Olivia was me throwing my hands up and saying, "Fine! Fuck it! We can have fun!"

🌼 Happiness, how'd you get to be happiness: Lately, getting to know each other has been a source of happiness for both Jack and Olivia. Jack as the canon SoSu has all the problems we do when we play the game - wrangling several warring factions that all expect his presence; ignoring Father/the Institute; managing a small empire of settlements. Olivia as the SoSu of her own Vault is navigating immigration and being around people again. The heart-meltingest fluff I have published so far is father-daughter moments. Excerpt below the cut!

Long Time Running Chapter 13: Sabré Olvidar:

Jack glanced at Olivia’s marigold cable-knit sweater and jeans, rolled up at the cuffs. He realized most of her clothing from home that wasn’t her Vault suit was oversized and patched several times over. 

A deep flush of sadness erupted within. He coughed and returned to the topic of conversation. “Well, um.. What.. What do you think of the animals you let go?” 

“I just thank them for giving me a pretty view. I mean, just look at them.” She let go of their hug and stepped back. “If you look at it like this, the window makes them look like a painting.” 

She beamed at the radstag pair - four heads and too many legs. 

Jack obliged the request and stepped back. The window framed the radstags, trees and tall grasses well, like a living photograph. He appreciated the scene with the same intensity as a painting in a museum.  

He broke his gaze away and looked around at the cabin. “Well.. What brings us down here today, anyway?” he asked.

“I was thinking,” she turned away from the radstags. “Um, there wasn’t anyone here last time I visited, and there’s no one here now, and.. Y’know, it’s pretty close to town.. Does anyone own this place?” 

“Truth be told, Miss Olivia,” he replied. “I don’t think anyone’s taken interest in this cabin since the bombs fell. Doesn’t seem to me like anyone owns it.” 

She wrung her hands and shifted her weight as she looked around. “Um.. can I..” 

Jack awaited the question with patience and a smile. “Yes?”

“Can I have it? Please?” she pleaded.

His heart melted anew. Oh, Jesus, not that face, not that face. He decided to mess with her and put on an apprehensive tone. “I dunno.. It’s a big responsibility, being a homeowner..”

She hung on his every word with wide-eyed worry. 

“The cost for materials, the labor.. In this economy, too.. Ouch.” He grimaced, both to ham up the theatrics and to force his mouth away from a smile.

“I-I’ll work, I’ll get a job, I promise-” 

He could no longer keep up the act. “Oh, fine, sure. It’s yours!” 

Olivia gasped and threw her arms around Jack’s torso. Coffee spilled out of her mug with a graceful dive and landed on the floor with an audible splash.

“Thank you thank you thank you thank you- Oh, I have so much work to do-” she let go of Jack and listed the repairs. “I need a door and I have to clean the fireplace and I need to find new windows and-” 

Jack beamed as she bounced around the room. Her braid whipped through the air as she tallied up her needs. Getting to know his little bundle of contradictions was fun. 

“-nails and lumber and.. And that spot on the porch that’s sagging.. I have a lot to do if I want this ready for winter.” 

“Alright, then, that settles it,” he said. “Let’s get a move on.” 

“Where to?” she asked.

“Well, like you said, winter’s on the way. Let’s get building.” 

She smiled, somehow wider than her smile already was. “Yeah! Let’s do it!”

She ran out the door and jumped off the stairs instead of walking down. “Where can we go shopping for supplies?” she asked, turning back to him.

Jack followed and took the steps as normal. “We’ll see what we have in Sanctuary before we look elsewhere. I’ll have to get you a workbench down here.” 

Olivia hopped and skipped ahead. “My own workbench, I-” 

She wasn’t watching her step and nearly tripped. 

«Tabarnak!» she swore. Olivia threw her hands up in mock-offense. “Who put this root here, eh?” 

She laughed off the transgression, tucked the stem of the hubflower behind her ear and turned her pirate smile toward Sanctuary.

Jack Ward, ol’ 111 himself, was thoroughly charmed. Miss Olivia Dallaire contained multitudes. 

Sweet, funny, capable, sensitive. A reader, a fighter, an animal-lover and an occasional jokester who stopped to smell the roses.  

He remembered the leadup to Arturo’s last title fight, when he lived at the house with Jack and Nora. 

One night in the later stages of her pregnancy, Nora laid on the couch as Arturo and Jack sat on the floor surrounded by the pieces of a yet-to-be constructed crib.

Arturo lectured their unborn child on the syntax, phonetics and style guide of French Canadian cursing.

«Esti de câlice de tabarnak!» Arturo exclaimed. "That is what we say when the baby crib is hard to build! You better like it!"

Jack wiped a tear from his cheek as he followed Olivia to Sanctuary.

Arturo would have been so proud to be your uncle. So proud.

[alannybunnue]

All of Lady Beesbury’s kids take after their daddy and grew up to be very tall. Some of them are already taller than their mama by the time they’re about to hit puberty.

At the age of 10, Baelor could carry his mother around the Honeyholt without sweating.

Yeah, but there were children who grown to be a little like her mother....

Jonquil and Olenna were 2 inches taller than their mother 🙃

[anonymousboxcar]

Ever since hearing about/watching the 2021 Awdry Christmas lecture, I’ve been thinking about how Awdry’s notes refer to Duke as both a “he” and “she.”

In my headcanon/AU, I imagine Duke hearing that typo. Maybe it’s in a monograph that’s going around. Maybe it’s still a YouTube video in that universe, streamed on a laptop for the SKR’s engines. Regardless of how, Duke blinks at being called a “she.”

The others ask if it bothers him. He tells the truth: no, it doesn’t. There’s no harm behind it. “It was simply an accident,” he says. Yet he feels a pang in his cylinders.

Soon, he realizes that he didn’t want it to be an accident.

All his life, Duke assumed that he was only a “he.” His builders and managers told him so. He did feel like a “he” a lot of the time, and he didn’t have the space or energy to probe any deeper on the MSR.

But he’s on the SR now. He knows nobody’ll kick up a fuss, trusts everyone here. So he asks them all to call him a “she” some days — on days when “he” doesn’t settle quite right.

And it feels wonderful. It’s the same joy she felt when Stuart and Falcon called her Granpuff for the first time. “I’m not one for sentimentalities,” she says one evening, “but I truly feel… fuller, in a sense.”

Later, Rheneas and Rusty suggest the idea of different lamp irons for Duke. On days when Duke’s a “he,” he can wear a lamp with a copper handle. On days when Duke’s a “she,” she can wear a lamp with a brass handle. Duke loves this, taking it up once the works have the lamps ready. It’s quick and efficient communication.

“For once, ye’re plain-speakin’,” Duncan says once he sees the lamps. But he’s smiling. Duke smiles back, chuckling at Rusty’s eye-roll.

The only real bit of angst Duke feels over this whole thing is her name. She wants to keep it because she’s very proud of it, but she worries that His Grace wouldn’t think it proper anymore. “I couldn’t bear it if he asked me to be ‘Duchess’ on those days,” he admits.

“He won’t do that,” Skarloey tells him. “And even if he asks, you don’t have to give him anything. This isn’t a train to pull, after all. It’s something entirely yours.”

“We’re with you, Granpuff,” Peter Sam says, soft and gentle.

Sir Handel sits up tall. “He’ll have to get through us.”

In the end, Sir Robert expresses happiness on Duke’s behalf. “A title is supposed to empower you. If you feel strengthened by it, emboldened by it, then I’d say it’s the right fit!”

Duke is grateful. (So are Sir Handel and Peter Sam, who shelve their plans of vengeance on Sir Robert for saying anything different.) And life goes on even brighter and richer than before.

[atopvisenyashill]

How would asoiaf characters react to being teleported to our modern world?

characters i think would adjust mostly okay:

catelyn stark - imagine a catelyn who actually gets to use her intelligence as like, a lawyer or something. i'm weeping right now.

sansa stark

arya stark

jon snow - you can’t tell me this man wouldn’t get to the modern day and not immediately throw on a “this is what a feminist looks like” shirt unironically

brienne of tarth

arianne martell

doran martel - get this man a dietician so he can manage his ailments dammit

oberyn martell

asha greyjoy

theon greyjoy - first of all, get this man some anti psychotics but second of all, theon is the definition of “he should have been at the club”

joncon - for very similar reasons to theon actually lol. also like, a doctor for his hand or whatever.

jaime lannister - the thing about the real world is that if jaime joins the army and then realizes he’s willingly become part of the imperialist war machine, he can just finish out his time and then not join up again. he can literally just quit his job & become a pacifist or whatever the fuck.

samwell tarly

stannis baratheon - i think it'll be a shock but once he realizes he doesn't have to fuck women - or ANYONE really if he doesn't want to - and that there's a lot of people who find "strong silent and kind of a dick" a hot personality to have, he's gonna get lit, he's a baratheon after all he just needs the right circumstances

duncan the tall - put this man on a horse farm he'll have that shit running like a navy captain within a month, i believe this

characters i think would struggle a bit

cersei lannister - can’t murder but can take t, so there’s some trade offs here. she also has a terrible time adjusting in general so 50/50 she loses it or becomes buck angel.

tyrion lannister - again can’t murder, but once he gets over that, i think he will really enjoy being rich in this century. imagine tyrion on dating apps. he’ll be fine lmao

bran stark - i think bran would struggle without his direwolf connection but he will recover once he gets a wheelchair and a psychiatrist

davos seaworth - he's not a man that adjusts that well (imo) but there's nothing about him that screams "can only exist in a vaguely medieval context"

quentyn martell - he's just so sweet, someone's gonna bump him on the street and not apologize and it's gonna cause a meltdown but it's okay because doran and oberyn are throwing a rager with good music and good food and he'll be fine when he just has some carbs

characters i think would rather be k worded

ned stark

daenerys targaryen - listen, unless she gets to bring her dragons to fly around the chicago skyline, i think she's gonna be miserable.

basically every other greyjoy

barristan selmy

arys oakheart

tywin lannister

[librosamarillos]

passed down like folk songs

chapter 1: evergreen

Maegor Targaryen x OC

Also on Ao3

index         next chapter >

Tags: hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, angst, mature themes, targaryen incest, violence, Maegor is a red flag himself, characters are ooc probably, MINORS DNI

After terrorising @heartstalked’s inbox with my blurbs as 🍼anon, here’s a fic based on all the breeding kink asks, but we’re gonna suffer first I’m afraid. Is this proofread? Nope. Is this just taylor swift inspired fic? Of course it is.

Dragonstone was not what she was expecting. Nothing like what she was used to in Starfall, surrounded completely by the beautiful forest. It felt cold and strange, but she held onto her father’s hand and kept walking.

Rowan wasn’t entirely sure why she was there, she was only eight, and children weren’t normally asked to join their fathers at their work. Her father, Lord Duncan Evergreen, was a favourite among Queen Visenya’s council, and was summoned to Dragonstone often. As Rowan glanced up at him, he looked a bit nervous. She wasn’t sure if that made her feel any better.

The Queen was one she was anxious to meet. She’d never seen Visenya Targaryen up close, only hearing her father’s tales of her. And of course the rumours around the Reach, about this strange family, flooded her mind, most of them about the Queen herself. Of her sternness, her coldness in comparison to her sister wife, Queen Rhaenys, that she was a witch and fed people that displeased her to her terrifying dragon Vhagar. It made her shiver. Although her father told her to pay no mind, she couldn’t help it.

House Evergreen was a small, but very wealthy house in the Reach, providing the kingdom with wood, honey and berries. Lord Duncan was the second son, his brother Lucas inheriting their house’s seat in Starfall, in the mountains. In the last year, he had lost his beloved wife, the Lady Edith. The loss of his wife affected both him and his only daughter, Rowan, greatly. His brother had offered to have her stay with them while he worked for the Queen, but before he left, she told him to bring his daughter with him.

And there they were now, making their way to the gate of the castle that looked so strange and foreign to her. It appeared so cold and distant. A loud roar startled the little girl, who clung onto her father for dear life, as a giant dragon flew above them, wandering in the sea. The great beasts didn’t fill her with wonder, they terrified her.

“It’s alright, my sweet, Vhagar is only hunting. You’ll get used to it.” her father’s calm voice reassured her.

Rowan could only nod, as she discovered her voice could not leave her throat. How often had her father seen the dragon up close that he was so calm? From the book he brought her on Old Valyria, she knew Vhagar was the name of the god of war, and from the stories she heard, Vhagar truly lived up to the name, as did Queen Visenya, she was sure.

As they entered the castle, Rowan let go of her father’s hand to fix her hair from all the wind. She knew they’d be lead to the Queen herself, and she didn’t want to make a bad impression. Her father smiled.

“You look lovely, do not fret.” he chuckled, patting her head lightly.

The guards lead them, not to the throne room, as she assumed, but to a smaller room, one that possibly held meetings. There, in the center of the room, sat the Queen. The gown she wore was much simpler than the one Queen Rhaenys wore when Rowan saw her, but she liked it best. When she imagined a warrior queen, the image of Visenya certainly fulfilled what she pictured. She stood tall, her silver hair in an intricate braid, her purple eyes stern, studying her.

“Lord Evergreen, welcome back to Dragonstone.” her voice was formal and deep, her eyes shifting from her to her father.

“Thank you, your grace, it is always an honour to be here.” he said, giving a small bow.

The Queen made her way to them, making Rowan nervously squeeze her father’s hand, which he gave a reassuring squeeze back.

“If I may introduce my daughter, the Lady Rowan.” he smiled, looking at his child.

“Your grace.” Rowan said shyly, giving a curtsy, as the Queen looked at her.

“I hope you enjoy your stay here Lady Rowan. Your father has told me you enjoy reading; feel free to go to the library any time you wish.” Visenya gave the young girl a small smile, as her face lit up.

“Truly? Thank you, your grace, thank you!” Rowan smiled, now at ease.

Visenya watched the young girl from the window, as she walked around with her father. She remembered how hard his wife’s death hit him, she imagined how much worse it would’ve been for the girl. It felt wrong to invite him to her council for so many moons at a time and leaving his daughter behind. Duncan Evergreen grew to be her most trusted advisor. She could even call him a friend, had they not been so bound by formalities. And from what she saw, his daughter was a little miniature of him. They both had the same auburn curls, freckled faces, bright green eyes and friendly smiles. She was his pride and joy, Visenya could tell, from the way he talked about her. She seemed like a sweet girl.

There wasn’t much to do for a child in Dragonstone, she had to admit, but if all her father said was true, Rowan would spend most of her time devouring the books in the library. There were no other children on the island, other than her own son, Maegor, who had no interest in anything other children seemed to enjoy. By last year, he started to use a real blade in his training, Visenya thought proudly. He was going to be a great warrior, she knew it. The maesters didn’t find him to be the most pleasant child to be around, so perhaps it would do him some good to make a friend.

Visenya thought back to King’s Landing. That’s where she should be, that’s where her son should be growing up. Surrounded by his future subjects and his parents by his side. She sighed. She knew this was for the best. Maegor was strong, she knew he could handle what life threw at him, but she was still inclined to shield him from pain as much as she could. He didn’t have to go through what she’s lived through her whole life. She wasn’t entirely sure if it was him she was protecting or herself.

Perhaps both.

She felt like she was being watched. Rowan, admittedly, was quite lost, all of the hallways appearing the same to her. It was all the same cold stone walls in her eyes, she wasn’t sure how she’d find her way around for six whole moons. For a while, she couldn’t find anyone, not a maid, a servant, a maester, nobody. It was starting to freak her out, when she had the feeling somebody was there. She froze, unsure of what to say.

“Uh… hello?” her voice was barely above a whisper, her eyes wide.

She nearly jumped when she turned around to see a boy her age standing behind her. How had she now heard him? He eyed her suspiciously, as if he was sizing her up. She calmed herself and blinked in surprise. She knew the Queen had a son, and this was definitely him. He truly looked just like his father, but he had his mother’s eyes.

She had briefly met his half brother, Prince Aenys, back in King’s Landing. The two brothers could not be more different. Aenys was cheery, welcoming and smiled freely and brightly, whereas Maegor seemed reserved, serious, even a bit scary.

“What are you doing here?” he asked sternly.

“I- I got lost. All the hallways look the same to me.” she admitted, feeling incredibly embarrassed in that moment.

“I see.” he said, as if he hadn’t thought this through, an awkward silence falling between them.

He was taller than her, wearing his sparring clothes, she assumed. He had his hair cut short, just like the King did. She wondered why he was not raised with his brother in the capital. The city was booming, there was always something to do, somewhere to go, unlike here. But perhaps the Prince did not enjoy the city? Rowan awkwardly played with the fabric of her dress, unsure of what to say, but luckily, he broke the silence first.

“You’re Lord Duncan’s daughter.” he stated, as it was clear as day.

“And you’re Queen Visenya’s son.” she replied, earning a nod.

“Prince Maegor.” he introduced himself to her.

“Rowan. My prince.” she replied, with a small curtsy.

“Mother asked for you and your father to join everyone for dinner. You should get ready.” he stated, pausing for a moment, remembering that she was lost. “Follow me.”

Before she could answer, he grabbed her hand and started walking, dragging her along with him. After a silent five minutes, they were somehow outside of her chambers. He let go of her hand, and she looked up at him in awe.

“How did you know these were my chambers?” she asked, her eyes wide.

He almost let out a scoff.

“I live here. I know which chambers they prepare for the guests. A man has to pay attention to what goes on around him.” he said, as if she should’ve known this by heart.

“Oh.” was all she could say, before biting her lip. “Well, thank you for your help, my prince. I’ll go prepare for supper.” she said, giving him a small shy smile, before disappearing into her rooms.

Maegor stood there for a moment, eyes fixed on her door, before returning to his own chambers to prepare for dinner.

Rowan quickly freshened up, pulling her hair free of the braid it was in and braided only the top half, twisting it into a bun. After some adjustment, she was satisfied with her work. She put on her evening dress and sat on the edge of her bed, playing with her rings nervously. Had she made a fool of herself in front of the prince? She hoped not. She wasn’t doing anything wrong, but she still felt ashamed of being lost and needing help the first time she met the only other person her age on the island. If he hated her, it would be a grueling six moons.

She truly pondered why the Queen resided here in Dragonstone with her son. If all the stories her parents told her were true, then it was Visenya that did most of the hard work during the conquest, thus, should she not be in the capital reaping her rewards? King Aegon and Queen Rhaenys certainly seemed to do so, the Queen basking in the glory of her fawning singers and poets, enjoying lavish feasts in her name, the most expensive dresses and jewels. Did their sister not enjoy such a life, was that it? Then again, she was the one most feared out of the three.

Rowan truly could not grasp how Aegon wed his own sisters. It was truly a disgusting thing to think about, she couldn’t imagine marrying her cousins, let alone any brother if she had one. She didn’t dare say a word though. That seemed to be the silent understanding, at least in the Reach. Although unnatural and gross, if one valued their life, they held their tongue. But that didn’t stop whispers. Her father explained it was custom to do such things in Valyria, as they wanted to contain the ability to ride a dragon within their own family, but that didn’t stop her grimace.

She thought back to the King. He was a formal man, barely acknowledging her, only doing so when he extended his condolences about her mother’s death. Queen Rhaenys, however, seemed warm. Too warm. She had opened her arms, looking at her expectantly, her pale violet eyes urging her to come in her embrace, which is what Rowan, albeit very reluctantly, did. She offered her words of comfort, petting her curly hair, while her husband looked fondly at them. Although Rowan should feel honoured that a Queen was comforting her like this, she felt uneasy. Her warmth felt empty, just like her words. Rowan decided she didn’t like her very much. Something within her said so, and it felt like a warning. So she thanked her, with a polite smile and kind words.

The Prince Aenys, who was quite older than her, at ten and six, also extended his condolences. Rowan felt at ease, enjoying his presence much more than the King and Queen’s. She did think it was quite funny that his parents gave him the same name as his mother, save for one letter. What a strange family this was.

She was glad her father worked for Queen Visenya. Although scary, Rowan felt quite at ease with her. Perhaps it was the fact that she paid attention when her father had mentioned her interests to her, when she made the generous offer of free range to the library. Or the fact that she didn’t sense any false niceties. And of course, her father trusted her.

Much to Visenya’s surprise, the two children became fast friends. She wasn’t sure how, but in just a few moons, you could not find one without the other. She was glad to see her son smile freely around his newfound friend, and the girl also seemed more at ease than when she first arrived at the castle. Indeed, she found the air lighter with another child here, although she did love the quiet solitude Dragonstone offered her.

She had become quite fond of Rowan herself. Duncan’s daughter was a sweet child, ever the proper little lady. She was like a sponge with information, no doubt just like her father. Visenya had offered to teach her High Valyrian, since many of the books in the library were not in the common tongue. She thought she wouldn’t have the patience for it, but in yet another surprising turn of events, she found it calming, especially when she needed a break from her duties.

This was one of those days. She asked Rowan to sit in front of her vanity, handing her a book on gardening, since the subject was familiar to her, it would make it easier to remember. The young girl clumsily read out to her, while Visenya tried to braid her auburn curls, which appeared to be the most challenging of the two tasks. But Rowan didn’t complain, just smiled at her with encouragement, sometimes letting out a tiny giggle. Visenya couldn’t help but smile as well.

Maegor was her whole world, but she often wondered what it would be like to have a daughter, a little girl of her own. She saw a lot of her younger self in Rowan. She remembered how much she loved reading as a child, how she loved her time with Aegon at the citadel. But she found no time for it between training, battle, war and conquering kingdoms. It wasn’t the first love that was taken from her. She glanced at the little girl in front of her, her focused eyes in the mirror. She wondered what it would be like to have a daughter like her. She didn’t think herself capable of creating something so pure and sweet. Her Maegor was born a warrior, she saw the wild, raging fire in him reflecting her own and his father’s from the moment he had opened his eyes for the first time. In Rowan all she could see was the spark of a warm fireplace, calm, safe, warm.

“Did I say it wrong, your grace?” she asked.

“No, no, in fact you’ve improved since last time. Have you been practicing with Maegor?” Visenya offered her a small smile.

“Yes, he’s been kind enough to help me out.” she beamed, happy to spend more time with her son.

It did them both good to become friends. It lifted Rowan’s spirits from the loss of her mother, and brought Maegor out of his shell. The maesters even told her of the young Prince improving in all his subjects, now that he had Rowan join in. He seemed to relax around her.

After another failed braid, Visenya sighed in defeat and began to let the hair loose. Rowan had told her that her father would help her braid her hair when she needed help, so she thought she could show her some Valyrian style braids, which proved to be difficult on wild curls.

She felt Rowan’s eyes on her. The girl had this peaceful aura around her, and her gaze felt knowing. Like she could see right through a person. Normally, this would have Visenya on high alert, but something about her made her feel safe. Like she wanted someone to see her. To understand her. That’s what Rowan’s gaze felt like, a quiet understanding. That was the thing between women wasn’t it? The silent knowing look. Something Maegor would never know of as a man.

She snapped out of her thoughts.

“Are your bags ready for King’s Landing?” she asked, earning a nod.

“Yes, your grace!”

“You seem excited.” she pointed out.

“I am. I miss the capital quite a bit.” Rowan admitted.

“And you’re sure you don’t want to join Maegor and I on Vhagar? It would be much faster.” she chuckled at how quickly the girl’s smile dropped.

Rowan, unlike most children, was terrified of dragons and did not regard them with wonder and awe. She’d get used to them, surely, on Dragonstone especially. She’d scold Maegor for teasing her for it, as her fears were within reason. Children regarded the dragons with awe because they did not know the terror they could bring. Rowan, like the good pupil she was, did know.

“I only jest Rowan, do not worry.” she offered a sympathetic smile.

The sun was gentle on their faces as they sat on the field of grass, the warmth of spring finally here. It found Maegor laying down, with his eyes closed, his encounter with his father in the morning still weighing heavy on his mind. It found Rowan carefully making a flower crown, trying to find the right words to ease her friend’s obvious pain that he was trying to pass off like it was nothing. Like always.

“You’re doing it again.” he stated, without opening his eyes.

“Hm? What?” she asked, averting her attention from the flowers in her hands to Maegor’s face.

“Staring off, trying to find a solution to a problem you didn’t create.” he stated again, as if it was so obvious he didn’t even have to open his eyes.

Rowan sighed lightly. Maegor knew her too well, it seemed.

“It’s not like that. I just hate how he makes such a show of it all. You’re his son too.” she admitted, furrowing her brows at the thought.

“I know.” he sighed. “I wish he would remember that as well.”

A moment of silence passed before Maegor sat up, crossing his legs.

“It was humiliating. His hand asked if I were to still follow Aenys in succession when he had children, and he just avoided the question. In front of the whole council! And then kept going on and on about taking Aenys with him everywhere to prepare him for the throne. How much more obvious does he have to make it?” he vented, pulling on loose strands of grass.

Her heart broke hearing the hurt in his voice. She reached for his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“He’s an idiot not to see how capable you are. Everyone knows.” she said seriously while looking in his violet eyes.

“That’s treason, you know. Talking like that of your King?” his tone was serious, but a small smile was creeping on his lips.

“Weren’t you just making fun of me for sticking to the rules so much?” she asked teasingly, raising an eyebrow.

To that, Maegor let out a chuckle.

“I suppose so.”

Another moment of silence passed, something weighing heavy on Rowan’s mind.

“I don’t want you to be King.” she finally confessed, her eyes fixed on the flowers in her hands.

“What?” he asked, genuine surprise in his voice, as he dropped the strand of grass he was playing with.

“Kings never seem to be happy, not truly. Not the competent ones at least. And all I want is for you to be happy.” Rowan’s voice was soft as she spoke.

“And what if being King is what makes me happy?” he felt his heart flutter.

“Is that truly what would make you happy? Would it fill you with joy?” she asked, finally meeting his eyes, and for a moment, time felt like it stopped.

“Yes. I’d be the happiest on the throne, continuing my parents’ and my house’s legacy.” he said after a small pause, his voice serious once more.

Rowan nodded, her green eyes searching his for something. She then placed the flower crown carefully on his head. Had it been anyone else, he would’ve never accepted it, but it wasn’t anyone else. It was Rowan.

“If that’s what would make you happy, then I shall be your biggest advocate.” she said softly, with a smile. “I promise.”

He looked at her, wondering when he started feeling this way. Has it always been like this? Had her words and gentle smiles always made his heart beat this fast? He’d known her a year, and yet it felt like he’d known her forever. He felt his face get warm.

“…Thank you.”

taglist: @heartstalked @stupidocupido

[agentrouka-blog]

I just saw something on Twitter about this, but a user was saying that the Cleganes are descendants of Dunk. Though I thought that was Brienne? Since when were the Cleganes confirmed descendants? Op was a s@nsan shipper, so I didn’t want to quote tweet their post in case discourse started …

I don't think they are. It's certainly not confirmed.

"I like dogs better than knights. My father's father was kennelmaster at the Rock. One autumn year, Lord Tytos came between a lioness and her prey. The lioness didn't give a shit that she was Lannister's own sigil. Bitch tore into my lord's horse and would have done for my lord too, but my grandfather came up with the hounds. Three of his dogs died running her off. My grandfather lost a leg, so Lannister paid him for it with lands and a towerhouse, and took his son to squire. The three dogs on our banner are the three that died, in the yellow of autumn grass. (ACOK, Sansa II)

If they were, the kennelmaster grandfather would have to be Duncan's bastard son, fathered in the 220s. (Or his wife a bastard daughter.) I can't imagine that this detail would not feature front and center with the Clegane family history, given how recent their ascendence to titles and honors is. And if they don't know of the relation, then GRRM has made no point of implying it in the same way he has with Brienne or Hodor.

I mean, Duncan was probably not the only tall man in the Seven kingdoms to leave tall offspring. If he is their ancestor, it would be a fun and dark twist on the theme his own corrupted knighthood.