#duncan the tall imagine

[lemoncakesandwine]

Would you do 2 for Duncan the tall and Aegon's little sister who was married by maekar to aerion and he knew her since she was a child. After aerion's death some rumors say she played him into believing he would turn a dragon and so he killed himself. I imagine her a spoiled sweet and generous who was very close to aegon and despite her father's likeness to her it didn't spare her this marriage, aerion wasn't nice to her child/children you choose. Some say it was the reason she led him to this, as a child she used to really like dunc and whish he would take her on journeys like aegon and she used to believe a fairytale love is possible and in knights and princess. Maybe she still does

The End Of The Quest

Pairing: Duncan the tall & Fem. Reader (Targaryen Princess/Widow of Prince Aerion Targaryen/Second Person POV)

Art Prompt: No. 2 – The end of the quest

Themes: Soft/Fluff

Warnings: Implied/Referenced Character Death (Aerion Brightflame’s)

Wordcount: 2.7K words

Summary: After returning to the Red Keep after the end of his journey, Duncan calls on friends during a masque.

This can be read on AO3.

Duncan threaded his way around masked dancers as he strode toward the raised dais by the foot of the Iron Throne, his imposing figure and plain manner of dress a stark contrast to the fine silks and satins and splendid jewels that everyone else wore. A thousand candles stood in stands next to columns and tables and in elaborate candleholders that hung by thick chains driven into the vaulted ceiling, throwing their light onto shimmering silvered-looking glasses that had been affixed to the walls just for the occasion. These, in turn, reflected the golden light that fell upon them, illuminating all those caught within it and creating a bright and brilliant scene.

It was a masque, the first festivity of any kind to be held nigh on half a year after the death of Aerion Brightflame, the second son of the king. But it seemed that Aerion's presence was not missed in any shape or form. Many danced and laughed, others ate and drank their fill, and others still congregated within the shadows to devise amusements far away from the eyes of those with wagging tongues. Duncan considered the spectacle somewhat distasteful. At the same time, he could not find it within himself to fault them. They had seen the beast that lay beneath the imperious countenance and fiery raiment, even when his own sire could not for the longest time. And they had each passed on, of course, the strange tales that had bloomed to life after his passing. Aerion did not bring about his doom by just his own hand, they had said. Another had a role to play, they had also said. They had poured queer words into his ear, so the gossips claimed, and spurred on the ludicrous belief he possessed in him being a dragon garbed in human flesh. While these tales were not troubling by themselves, it was the name affixed to them that gave others pause: Aerion’s sister and his bride of two years.

It cannot be, Duncan often told himself. Y/n is generous and sweet and, perhaps, a bit too spoilt, but a kinslayer? Never.

He had heard these same tales during his travels, but he did his utmost not to give credence to them. Still, they persisted, and he fervently hoped—no, prayed—that there was no truth to any of it and that one day, all would be truly revealed.

“My prince!” He called warmly after having caught a glimpse of Prince Aegon, the man who once served him as his squire on his many journeys. He was by a corner, accepting a cup of wine from a servant. A woman dressed in wine-red velvet stood beside him, her black hair arrayed in a long and intricate braid. Duncan bowed his head when he reached them and addressed her next. “My lady. It warms my heart to see you. How fare you both?”

“We are both well,” Lady Betha Blackwood, Prince Aegon’s wife, returned. She beamed and held out her hand for Duncan to take and kiss, as was the custom during such affairs. “Though our children never tire of driving us to distraction. How fare you, ser? Did you find much success in your journey?”

“I am weary, my lady,” Duncan admitted after he released Lady Betha’s hand, “but the success I found was sweet. Pray where is his grace, the king? I wish to make my submissions and pass on certain letters to him.”

“My father is occupied for the present, my friend,” Prince Aegon said. His smile was just as affectionate as his lady’s, if not more so. “The Whents are to be elevated to a degree they had never imagined, and my father is placing the final flourishes on the change in their stations even as we speak.”

“So I have heard, my prince. I will speak to the king some other time, then, when a better moment presents itself.”

“Just so. Alas, my lady and I must make our excuses for now. We need to take a turn around the hall to speak with the others. Until we are done, would you care for my sister’s company? Seeing you would please her to no end.”

“I will call on her, my prince. Where is she?”

“She took herself to the garden out yonder. She said she would return when my lord father comes. He promised to do so later.”

“My thanks, my prince,” Duncan said. He bowed deeply and took his leave.

The garden Prince Aegon spoke of was a small patch of green that was surrounded by walls on three sides. It was nowhere as large as or as grand as the gardens of the inner and middle wards, and it did not hold as many trees as the Godswood. But it was pretty to look at all the same, with flowering rosebushes and slender poplar trees and a little marble pavilion for anyone seeking the comfort of cool shade on warm days. You were certain to be in that pavilion, he thought, for it was the place you would take yourself whenever you wished to dream of daring knights and princesses in need of rescuing and perilous quests that ended in great triumph and true love for those involved. Duncan strolled toward the door by the right side of the throne. It was the only way into the garden, and he had to, once again, make his way around revellers. Many kept out of his way, though some stopped him briefly to talk to him and question him. Duncan answered as best as he could, but conversing at length with others he was not intimately acquainted with was never his strong suit, so he made his excuses and crossed to the door as quickly as he could. It was already open, and no one lingered by it. Everyone was too occupied feasting and merrymaking instead.Duncan stepped over the lid onto a little path of smooth slate.

A stray wind carrying with it the scent of summer roses caressed his cheek and ruffled his sandy brown hair. It was cooler out here than within the hall he just left, and the sounds that poured out of it were muffled the further he went away from it.

Oh, to be riding across open fields, he thought, with none but my squire by my side.

He continued down the path, his boots clicking over the polished stone, until he reached the pavilion. The smell of roses was stronger here—they had grown thick but well-tended and in a veritable rainbow of breathtaking colours. You were here just as he believed you would be, seated upon the top step and clutching a flower of such uncommon hues that Duncan had to stop for a moment to admire it.

“What have you there, princess?” Duncan finally asked.

“A rose,” you said, “but it is unlike any rose you would find growing in the meadows and the fields. A Maester grew this in the glass house. He wished to infuse the colours of my house into such a flower. Here is the fruit of his labours.” You held up the bloom so he could see it better. The petals had a lush look to them; it was as if they had been cut from heavy velvet. They were also a grey so dark they almost appeared black, and they were edged in a shade of red that reminded Duncan of fresh blood. “He has not yet created an appropriate name, of course, but he hopes to in the High Valyrian tongue. I beseeched my father to give him more coin for his efforts. Such talents must be nurtured, for who knows what else he could accomplish?” Then you set down the rose, smiled at him, and added, “But enough of that. It is so good to see you again! How was your journey to the Vale and the Riverlands? Are you glad to see an end to your quest?”  

“I confess, I am not altogether pleased with having to end my travels,” Duncan allowed. “But despite this, there is still something comforting to be found in returning home, especially when one is in the company of dear friends.” He spread out his travel-stained cloak and sat cross-legged before you on the grass, for the pavilion steps were too narrow, and he was too big. “My journey to the Vale and Riverlands yielded much success for your father. You should see the Vale, princess. It is as otherworldly as the singers make it out to be. The Eyrie is like a castle found only in fairytales, with snow-white walls and windows of painted glass. When the sun rises or sets, a riot of colour greets the eye. And the men of Riverrun say bewitching women dwell within the waters that surround it. They say you could hear them of a night when they gather along the river shore to sing.”

“That all sounds so enchanting,” you breathed, your eyes wide in wonder. “Oh! To ride up the steep stone steps to the Eyrie! To watch the sun’s light fall upon its white walls while Alyssa's Tears attempt to reach the valley below it! And what of these bewitching women of the Riverlands, ser? Did you hear them as well?”

“I did not, I fear,” Duncan said. “These magical women kept away, and Lord Tully insisted on my making use of the rooms set aside for his guests instead of letting me find a bed with the rest of the men, so I would not have heard them even if they did swim by the walls of the keep. Perhaps I may hear them when I next travel to the Riverlands with the king.” He laid down a hand to lean against. “How fare you, princess? I heard of Prince Aerion’s passing, and I wish to offer my comfort. How have you borne his loss?”

“Exceedingly well,” you declared without hesitation, “much to my father’s eternal mortification. He thought I would mourn for a full year, if not longer. I stunned him by returning to more cheerful garments and my amusements as soon as decency allowed me to.”

“Which was?”

“Three weeks.”

“Prince Aerion was your brother, princess,” Duncan countered, though not ungently. “Not just some stranger you were compelled to take for a husband.”

“Oh aye,” you agreed bitterly. “Aerion was my brother and my husband. And he was a monster in the bargain. He always was, even when I was a child. You knew all of this; it should come as no surprise. My father knew these things too, and yet he offered me up to him. He should have wed me to Egg. Egg was always so kind to me. I could have been happy with him.”

“Your father did what he thought best, princess,” Duncan said. He lowered his gaze, ashamed, for he knew how much of a monster Aerion was. There were many who opposed the match, himself and Prince Aegon included, but the appeals made on your behalf fell on deaf ears. He sometimes asked himself if more could have been done to dissuade the king. “And perhaps he thought Prince Aerion would never harm you.” He paused for a moment and considered the wisdom of pressing ahead with the questions that had beset him since he heard the tales of Aerion’s death. Finally, he gathered his courage, and uttered, “There are… rumours… princess… concerning you and the manner of Prince Aerion’s death. They say that you—”

“Encouraged him to consume wildfire?” You laughed, amused rather than wroth. “Oh, ser,” you sniffed, as you wiped the tears that gathered in the corners of your eyes, “if only I could claim the credit for such a thing. Aerion very much doomed himself. I had naught to do with his demise. Please, set your heart at ease. My father made his own enquiries as soon as the first sordid tale of my involvement reached his ears. There is no truth to what is being said about me; I give you my word on this.” 

“Then why is nothing being done to stop them?” Duncan demanded, surprised by your revelation. Suddenly, he remembered where he was and immediately lowered his voice. “These stories will ruin your good name and harm your future prospects!”

“I told my father much the same,” you revealed after you had composed yourself. “I demanded that he put an end to the lies with a blade to the tongue if need be. His Lord Hand thought it unwise. He said that if we punished those who spread the tales, we would tell the world that they know something we wish to keep hidden, instead of proving them to be liars. He urged us to be patient, that as soon as a fresh scandal presents itself, everyone will forget the manner of my husband’s passing.” You leaned forward, your eyes bright as a plan formed in your mind. It was bold and likely to be denied, but you could not help but let it take root and grow. A change was sorely needed, and Duncan would be the ideal knight to take you on. He was sweet and kind; he would keep you safe; and, truth be told, you had always been rather fond of him. “They may forget even sooner if I take myself away from the capital and I am no longer present to be fodder for their wild conjectures. Pray take me with you on your next quest, ser. I wish to see something of the realm that is not presented to me through the safety of a carriage or a well-guarded camp.”

Duncan was taken aback, and for a long while, he did not know what to say in reply. You were a woman, and a widowed princess besides. There was already a mark upon your name, and while there was evidently no truth to it, there was still much danger to you while you were by his side without a formal retinue to attend you. 

“This I cannot agree to,” he insisted, rising. “A woman has never accompanied a knight on his journeys, not unless she served him by attending to the menial tasks of each day or warmed his bed. And your father will say nay. He will. I know it.”

“But I desire to join you!” You cried and leapt to your feet. “I am weary of the Red Keep! Please, take me with you! I want to see the world singers wax poetic about in their stories and songs. Who knows? Perhaps I may even encounter love that is spoken of only in tales.” 

It was a hope you had always clung onto, even during your marriage to Aerion. You wished to see more of the world and experience for yourself all that you had read and been told about by others. You wished to savour for yourself the fiery love that was spoken of only in song. And many held Duncan in high esteem, your brother Aegon most of all. Surely such a scheme could come to fruition if the right appeal was made, and a Septa or two were taken on to mind you during your journey.

Duncan seemed to believe otherwise. “The king will say nay,” he echoed. “Even if you approach him and appeal to him as a daughter to a father, he will say nay. Approaching him would be futile.”

“He may consider if I pleaded my case with teary eyes,” you said, determined to see your plan through. “Or if I swore to make a great spectacle of myself in the city square if he refused. I have done it before.”

Duncan grinned despite his reservations. “And how many times have you tasted success on that score?”

“Many times,” you returned. Then you sighed when he looked on, unconvinced by your boast. “Sometimes. Oh, very well! Just the two occasions. But I must try. Will you agree to take me with you if he says yes?”

Duncan relented. He knew better than to argue when you pressed your lips into a pout. “If the king agrees,” he said, albeit reluctantly. “And if you can find appropriate ladies to mind you. Now come. It is time you and I returned to the feast.”

tags: @lady-dragon-rider

[witchlingcirce]

I’ve been rereading a knight of the seven kingdoms and the dragon dreams part have really stood out to me, especially since we know how that Duncan died during the tragedy of Summerhall

I so wanna know if in his final moments or even while the fire was starting if these prophecies came back to him, like I wonder if it him think that he knew about his death this whole time???

[ghostgirl-22]

heyy i literally love ur work and i’ve been seeing some posts abt this on tiktok but do u think u could write a professor!mike faist or art donaldson x student!reader and make it so he’s tutoring the reader but things go south and things get freaky 👅👅

hmm okay so i did peep the mike faist of it all but I couldn’t bring myself to go full rpf. So here’s theater professor!Mike Faist Art Donaldson. Or whatever <3

Pairing: theater professor!art (imagine these clothes but dilf!art hair lol) x afab!reader

cw: heed the warnings. NSFW, MDNI, age gap— Art is at least in his 40s reader early 20s, power imbalance— student/teacher, tw: dubcon if you squint. reader definitely wants this but also arts definitely perving. Improper use of Shakespeare. what it says in the ask.

—-

Theater professor!Art tall, a bit nerdy, he’s chronically late so he walks fast. He’s always a little flustered as he enters the theater, crossbody messenger bag slung over his shoulder, with his helmet tucked under his arm (for his scooter ride to work, he’d never ride a motorcycle…too unsafe). He wears some variation of a long sleeved button down with the sleeves rolled up, tucked into some varied color of khaki pants nearly everyday and he’s everyone’s favorite teacher. And it’s not just because the class is easy. 

Lots of students take his course who have little to no respect for the fine arts. All different majors and minors. He knows why they enroll.  He’s used to pretty girls (and boys) basically half his age sitting up front to try and get his attention and he knows what the student body says about him. He knows all about the PILF list (professors I’d like to…) he even happens to know he’s sitting quite near the top of that list. Just behind his ex Tashi Duncan who teaches classical literature and oscillating back and forth with his other ex Patrick Zweig who happens to be every business major’s favorite Economics professor. He still finds it odd that they’re dating now. Whatever. 

It’s not an easy class by the way. 

Especially not for you…

Intro to Fine Arts is impressively difficult. You’re pretty sure you’ve probably become Shakespeare's biggest hater over the course of the semester. You don’t understand a word of it and what’s worse is that you don’t care. 

Art can tell. 

Usually it wouldn’t bother him. He doesn’t care if his students don’t like Shakespeare. He’s usually not involved in his students' lives at all. He’s never crossed that line. He’s not that kind of professor.

But for some reason you bother him. God. You get under his skin.

Maybe it’s because you’re so loud with your wrong opinions. You’ll argue that things mean what they don’t mean just for the fun of it. And with such confidence that you have some of your classmates believing you more than him and he has a fucking PhD in this stuff. Then you’ll sit there smug and self satisfied because you won the argument. 

It’s frustrating.  

You’re frustrating. 

And not that he notices at all. But you are hot…in a filthy, carnal sort of way. Your lips always wet with gloss, your clothes too tight, showing off way too much skin. And he’s not looking… but honestly you know the theater is always cold. You really should start wearing padded bras if your shirts are gonna be so tight.  Maybe with more support so you don’t jiggle as much during the warm up exercises that he chooses for that specific purpose. Actually you could stand to cover up a lot more, all over. 

But thats not why he made you stay late for his office hours. Really. Its not. He just needs to tutor you a little. One on one. He can’t have the other students getting wrong information from you.

But even now, when you show up in his cramped windowless office, perched on the other side of his desk which is littered with playbooks, you have him stressed. you’ve been wearing that dress all day and honestly it's just too short.  If you bent over his desk, even a little bit, he’d have a full view of whatever you’ve got on underneath. He shifts in his seat. It's just inappropriate. 

God. He should focus on what he can teach you.“Okay try it from right here. And stop being so literal.”

You roll your eyes and glance at the Much Ado About Nothing playbook at the line where his finger is pointed. “I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap…” You laugh. “How can you die in a lap?”

“I told you the words we say today had different meanings in Shakespeare's time.”

“Well no kidding, i know that.”

Art scoffs, you know everything. 

“I know we don't say thy and thou and… thent…anymore.” You continue.

”We never said thent.“ Art points out.

“What I don’t get is why any of this matters?” You keep going as if he didn’t speak.

You don’t know why you’re so combative with Professor Donaldson. You think you just like to get him worked up so you can make him remember you. You love watching his jaw tighten, his skin flush, hearing the way he passionately defends old dead playwrights. It turns you on actually. Not the dead playwrights but the way he lights up. Little bits of arrogance peeking through that sweet “aww shucks” persona everyone loves. You think it turns him on too. It makes you wet. Sometimes during class you press your legs together and slip your hand between your thighs just to ease the tension a little. Keeping your gaze fixed on him, while you tease yourself. You wish you could touch yourself right now, watching his Adam’s apple bob while his soft gaze hardens. 

“It matters because the themes matter. It matters because humanity matters.” He explains trying to keep his tone measured.

“So find new themes, this guy’s been dead for a thousand years.” Also wrong.

Art can’t believe what he's hearing. And it doesn’t help that you seem flustered, breathing harder, chest rising and falling, the thin fabric of that short dress showing him everything… fuck…you might as well be naked. He’s losing his patience.

“Get up.”

“Why?”

“I'm going to show you what it means.”

You look like you want to argue (pre-law you always want to argue) but you get up from your chair anyway. “Okay?”  

“Come here…” he pats his thighs. “I think you’d learn it better if I show you.” He says softly. He knows he shouldn’t… knows it’s inappropriate. But you really need to understand what words mean. He’s just teaching you, really. 

You don’t even hesitate. Settling right on top of him, your back to his chest. 

“Good girl. Now grab the play.”

You take a breath and wiggle a bit your ass grinding along his swollen cock. God you knew he fucking liked it.

“Don’t worry about that...” He says lightly. It’s not his fault, your dress is too short, making him hard for no fucking reason. He needs to put his hands somewhere and your bare thighs are right there. He sets his palms down and feels the way your breathing changes. 

“Mmkay now read it again.” 

His voice is soft and directly in your ear now, it makes you shiver. You wiggle your hips again. 

“Go on,” he coaxes. 

“I will live in thy heart…” you feel his hand move up to your chest. 

You chew on your lip, wiggling some more as he cups you, before slipping it just inside your dress to play with your nipple. He squeezes it gently, before circling it with his fingertips. “What’s next?” 

“D-die in thy lap,” you swallow. 

“That’s a little more complicated, isn’t it?” He moves his other hand down your thigh. He really shouldn’t be doing this in his office. The door is closed but it isn’t locked. Anyone could walk in and catch you both. God it shouldn’t make him harder. He knows he’s not gonna stop, he’s finally had a taste of you,  felt one of your full perky tits, your perfect ass wiggling along his swollen cock. He’s just itching for more. He eases his way down along your inner thighs and you start to open up for him, the little dress riding further up your thighs. He presses two fingers against your panties, already soaked through and clinging to your warm cunt. 

He takes a sharp breath. “Fuck, it’s so wet for me already…maybe its not that complicated.” He eases your panties to the side and slips his long thick fingers inside you, you can feel the folds of your pussy beating your pulse around his intrusion and you moan. 

“Shh I know…” he hums. “Fuck its so easy, huh? You're so ready. Do you get it now?”  He’s rubbing gentle circles inside you, the pressure and intensity of the sensation rising and falling as he moves closer and closer to your clit. “Or do I need to fuck you?” 

You moan and open wider, hooking your feet behind his ankles. Hips starting to rock as your head lulls back against his shoulder. 

“I still don’t get it Professor Donaldson,” you whine. “I think I need more guidance.”

“Mmhm… I can tell.” He presses little kisses along your throat while you ride his fingers.

“Oh fuck..” you moan, voice pitchy and loud. “professor, it feels so, so good.”

“Shhh,” Art breathes working them a little faster. “You have to be a good girl and keep it down unless we’re talking about school work.” 

“Yes sir.” You gasp. 

Fuck. He can’t pretend he hasn’t thought about doing this to you. He thinks about it every day, you’re so goddam tempting, but he was trying to control himself, trying so hard to be good. He is good. He’s not doing anything wrong. He’s just teaching you… helping you understand Shakespeare. He should probably replace his fingers, just to really drive it home… so to speak. 

He unzips while trying to keep your squirming to a minimum. He’s so close. By the time he sinks into your heated cunt he nearly blacks out for how good it feels. “Holy shit, so fucking tight for me,” he grunts as you moan for him. “Fuck… start again. Read the whole scene.”

Your hands are all shaky gripping his thighs as you try to focus on Much Ado About Nothing. You can feel him thrusting in and out of your dripping cunt as you bounce on his lap. All while trying to recite the stupid scene. He whispers “good girl” between each line. Humming his soft little grunts of pleasure in your ear. God this is insane.

“I will l-live… I w-will live in thy… in thy heart…” you’re practically panting, his fingers playing with your clit while he fucks you.

“Mmhm.”

“Fuck professor… I’m so…. ‘m gonna cum.” 

“Almost finished, come on,” he pushes. 

“In thy heart,” you moan as the dam suddenly bursts and you make a mess all over his lap. 

“Fuck, oh fuck,” He gasps… pushing you off in a hurry as he starts to spill. You watch as he jerks himself through climax, some of it splattering on your dress and the old wooden desk. 

Even after he’s help cleaned you up, he’s still pretty sure you learned nothing. “Die in thy lap…like Le petit mort… the little death” he tries, but you never studied French and you’re not particularly impressed by the French either. 

And maybe he feels a little bad that after all that you still don’t get it. You’ll never be a true artist in any sense of the word, but after a few more evening tutoring sessions you definitely come to appreciate how good Art can make you feel so… a win is a win. 

(Kinda sucks i know but its x reader and i wrote it at midnight after recovering from a migraine. Cut me some slack y’all)

[miley1442111]

(part 2) choices and chances- art donaldson

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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

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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.

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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?

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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.

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

PART 3: choices and meetings

art donaldson masterlist :)

[dogmotels]

is there any chance you could draw Ser Duncan the Tall???

I haven’t read any of the novellas but this is sort of how I imagine him. (& bonus egg)

[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.

[mad-danelle]

I think that the craziest butterfly effect in A Song of Ice and Fire is that if Maester Cerrick wasn’t Iron born, the story as we know it wouldn’t have happened. Let me explain. In the second Dunk and Egg story Ser Duncan the Tall fights in a trail by combat with the Knight Lucas Inchfield, aka the Long inch. During the fight, Duncan kills the Long inch, but in the process he drowns himself. The only reason Dunk is alive is because he is saved by Maester Cerrick, who happens to be iron Born so he knows how to bring back a drowned man. It can be assumed that Cerrick only knows this BECAUSE he’s Iron born. Imagine what would have happened if he wasn’t. Dunk would have died, and his squire Egg, (Prince Aegon in disguise) never would have finished his travels with Dunk. Duncan never would have been in Aegon’s kings guard. And Duncan never would have killed Daemon blackfyre III. Crazy to think about how a random Maester in a minor castle in the reach who just so happened to be iron born affected the history of Westeros.

[girliism]

tashi duncan x mistress!reader pt.2 (first part)

-

it’s been months. three long months since the dondalsons took you on as lily’s nanny.

you fit right in perfectly. lily adored you, and art adored that lily adored you. you were particularly family at this point. they had added your name and number to lily’s emergency contact list at school, you came to every dance recital and tennis match, they even had you say over on fridays for dinner.

“the streak was cooked amazingly, art.” you were even on first name bases now. “why, thank you.” art was so easy when it came to complements. he loved getting them. “why don’t i help you with the dishes?” you offered, handing him a plate and having your touch linger a little to long.

“he’s got it.” tashi spoke, eyeing you intensely. “why don’t you get lily ready for bed instead, hm.” her fingers traced the rimmed of her wine glass, and you had to stop your breath from hitching at the sight. “okay, come on lils.” the young girl jumped up from her seat and took your hand.

-

“you done in there lily?” you called to her into the bathroom. you got back a muffled. “almost.”

you took this time to walk around her room. pink and purple themed. stuffed animals covered her bed and the bookcase across from it is filled with childhood classics. the one thing you always picked and up and studied was the framed picture of lily and her parents and the beach. it sat on her night table. three smiling faces stared back to you, but you only cared about one. the one on the left, belonging to a tall bronze women in a one piece bathing suit. she had sunglasses on and her wedding ring sparkled even in the photo.

“all done!” lily entering the room caused you to quickly put the picture back where you found it.

“alright!” you pulled the covers on her bed back so she could slip under. “good night, lily bug, i’ll see you monday.” you placed a comforting kiss on her forehead before leaving her to her book.

the sight that waited for you when you got back to the kitchen had your stomach churning with jealousy and disgust.

“lily’s all ready for bed.” you announced loudly, breaking the couple apart, but art kept his hand a little to low on tashi’s waist. they were gonna have sex tonight. the thought infiltrated your mind.

“again, i’m glad you enjoyed dinner. remember we don’t need you next week so you’re off.” art reminded you.

daddy daughter weekend.

“thanks for having me as always. have a good night!” you said with a smile as kind as you could muster. they walked you to the door and sent you out with a “get home safe!” but you didn’t go home you never did, not right away. you parked across the street and just watched the house like you always do.

tashi had completely ignored you tonight. it seemed like as the months went on, when she realized you weren’t going anywhere she got meaner. so different than the tashi you use to know. the one that loved you.

it was that husband of hers, it was this marriage she was so hellbent on staying in. she refused to see how much better you were. for her, for lily.

-

you’ve never abused the key that the dondalsons gave you. you’ve never had a reason too, but with lily and art out of town it was a perfect time for you and tashi to talk. you just happen to get there early. slipping the key into lock and twisted until you heard a soft click.

it was so eerily quiet as you walked through the empty house. your footsteps and breathing being the only sounds.

the mix of tashi and art smells hit you right when you walked into their master bedroom. you’ve never been in here before, but it was exactly like you imagined. clean and sleek. the bed was perfectly made, you could see the softness radiating off of the cream colored sheets, the vanity across the bed against the wall was neat, neater than anything vanity you’ve ever owned, the closet was color coordinated, of course.

you ran your hands across the dress shirts on art’s side of the closet, letting the smooth fabric slip through your fingers. soon you were toeing off your shoes and socks, taking off you clothes and what’s under it before grabbing one of the blue shirts off the hanger. your arms slipped though the sleeves that were way too big on you. you continued to snoop throughout the closet until you the front door open and faint “hello.”

-

the front door was unlocked when tashi opened it which confused her. art and lily were still in the hamptons and her moms car wasnt in the driveway. the only other person off the top of her head that had a key was herself.

it was quiet in the house, everything was in place and she got no answer when she called out. tashi sagged her shoulders and placed her things on the kitchen counter. whatever threat that had her tease was seemly not there. that was until she felt arms wrap around her waist.

“welcome home.” you whispered into the skin of her neck.

tashi immediately pushed away from you turning around. she took in your appearance. you were dress in only her husbands oversized shirt that was slipping off your shoulder and she could see your nipples poking through the fabric.

“the fuck are you doing here?”

her sternness caught you off guard. “just wanted to talk..”

tashi scoffed at this. “you can’t be here, ok. you need to go.” you pouted. “why? when we can finally be alone together.” you stepped closer to the older woman reaching out to her, but she pushed you away. “i’ve already told you. there is no more being alone together, there is no more us.” you could hear your own heart breaking. was everything a lie?

you threw your arms around her neck and crowded her personal space. “but you said you loved me.” your voice whined as you were on the verge of tears. “you lied to me.” tashi could feel the stream of tears flowing from you and hitting her neck. out of sympathy and a certain fondness for you she let her guard down, and let you hold her tighter.

you liked it here, in the crook of tashi’s neck. smelling her perfume and feeling the softness of her skin. you couldn’t stop yourself laying small kisses. when tashi didn’t pull away you pressed messier ones on her neck before baring your teeth down.

“brat!” tashi hissed, her hand coming up to grab and yank you away by your hair. you should have been ashamed for the moan the escaped.

“you’re just a spoiled brat, truly. i give you an inch you take a mile.” tashi scolded you while walking in a direction of her bedroom, her hand still in your hair dragging you behind her. “i break up with you on good terms, i let you keep the apartment i got you, i keep paying your rent, and what do you do? you worm your way into my life—into my family’s life all because you can’t take no for an answer.”

you got tossed onto the bed. “just want you to-” she cut you off.

“to what?” the way tashi stood over you was so menacing. “want me to be with you, leave my family for you? want me to touch you…” she leaned closer to you. closer than she’s been these last three months “want me to touch you like this?” her ringed hand landed on your cheek once and then again but harder. on the third slap she took hold of your jaw swiping her thumb across your bottom lip.

you let mouth fall open and your tongue point out to ghost a lick over her digit.

tashi exhaled. you were bad for her sanity, but that didn’t stop her from rushing to place her lips against yours in kisses that was long overdue.

you fell into a familiar rhythm with tashi taking the lead and you whining and bucking up into her. tashi feed her tongue pass your lips and her hands toyed with the bottons on your shirt.

“you think you’re so cute, huh? playing dress up in my husband’s clothes.”

she pooped open the last bottons exposing your body to her. you spread your legs wider, your pussy already slick and clenching around nothing. tashi traced her fingers down the center of your body, brushing her knuckles against your cunt.

“a-ah, please.” you hips chased her touch.

tashi slowly sank to her knees. “i think you can beg better than that.” you took in a deep breath. “please tashi, need you. you know i do. s’been so long. please p-please.” tashi took pity on your sad face and placed a teasing lick on your clit. you slouch back, a moan sounding out loud as tashi’s kitten licks got harsher.

her tough flattened and moved up from your opening to your clit that she sucked into her mouth. “o-oh fuck.” your fingers slip down to get tangled in her hair. “you taste just as good as the last time i had you.” tashi sat back on her heels, her pointer and ring finger probing at your wet entrance. “how often do you think of me when you touch yourself?” she questioned as her fingers slid in.

“all the -fuck- all the time. every night.”

despite how long it’s been tashi still knew all the right spots to hit to get your legs shaking and your back arching. her fingers moved skillfully in and out of you, stretching you open for a third finger that she slowly eased in.

“you’re taking me so well. why can’t you be this good all time?” she leaned down to place her mouth back on your pussy.

with her fingers fucking you, and her tongue twisting and twirling you weren’t gonna last much longer. “tashi!” you squealed. “god, i’m close—i’m close.” your muttering and moaning increased, your legs closed around tashi’s head while she fucked you though your orgasm.

tashi pulled her fingers free, and kissed up your body playfully biting your waist. she stopped when she got to your tits. her soft hands gripped both of them, squeezing. brown eyes looked up at you as she wrapped her lips around your nipple, switching back and forth. you quietly murmur her name and she’s moving again. a kiss on your throat. a kiss on your chin. a kiss on your cheeks and nose then a kiss on your lips. you could taste yourself on her.

you follow her mouth when she pulled away. tashi stood tall to pull off her dark blue cashmere sweater, and take off her pants and underwear in one go. her tan body now bare, your finger itched to touch her.

“keep that on.” tashi spoke, referring to art’s button up that you were about to remove.

the women above you got on her hands and knees on the bed crawling towards you. you scooted yourself back until you hit the the pillows, unable to go anywhere else.

“missed you tash.” your arms wrapped around tashi’s body pulling her down on top of you. “why’d you have to leave me. we can- we can still be together, i don’t care about art. stay with him, but also be with me. please.” you pouted up at her with real tears in your eyes.

“oh, baby.” tashi sighed. she wanted to be mad at you breaking into her life (and home), for getting involved with lily, but she couldn’t. not when you look at her like you were now. “oh, baby, i’m sorry.” she kissed her apologies into your skin, grinding her pussy slowly into yours.

you moaned through your cries as tashi slotted her pussy against yours. your legs tangled up in a way that only made sense to the two of you.

tashi set a steady pace. her hips moving forward and backwards, the glide being easy from how wet you both were. your clits kissed and your back arched. tashi rutted against you faster, harder, her head falling back.

“oh, god -shit- baby, f-feels so good.”

art was great in bed, but there were just some needs he couldn’t satisfy.

“you know i missed you too.” tashi confessed. “can never admit it, but i miss this, having you like this. miss t-talking -a-aah- to you about things.”

you smiled up at her, grabbing hold of her waist as an anchor so you could roll your hips up to meet hers. your eyes took in her every movement. how her breath quicken, how her tits lightly bounced, her flushed face.

“you’re so beautiful.”

tashi rested her cheek on your knee. she dropped your leg and leaned down to kiss you, soft and sweet. your noses bumping, and lips moving feverishly. “gonna make me cum.” tashi said against your lips, grinding her pussy down harder. you shook your head whining. “wanna taste you, want you to cum in my mouth.” your hands grabbed at arms trying to pulling her up. tashi unwinded yours legs and crawled further up your body.

your mouth watered at the sight tashi’s soaked core hovering over your face. you hooked your arms around tashi’s legs, and pulled her down to sit fully on your face. you moaned at the taste, sending vibrations through tashi’s body. your tongue moved through folds, the tip teasing at her entrance.

“just like that. fuck, i’m close.” she whined, now ridding your face. one hand hand in your hair the other gripping the head board. tashi’s body twitched and tighten.

“fuckfuckfuck.” her strong legs closed in around your face, trapping you there. you didn’t let up, licking and sucking harder, welcoming the gush of arousal that leaked out of her. short whimpers and low moans came from tashi as you licked her clean, before releasing her to collapse next to you on the bed.

you both took the time to catch your breath. you walked your fingers over to her hand next to you interlocking them.

“they don’t get back for three more days.” tashi announced, squeezing your hand. you bit back a giddy smile begging to break free. “so, i can stay here?” you rolled over pressing yourself into her side.”

tashi paused for a moment and looked down at you. she could see the excitement in your eyes.

“yes, you can stay here.”

tashi winced at your squeal as you threw your body over top of hers.

-

[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.

[thevampiremarie]

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

[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."

[bg3daydream]

A warden's journey (Alistair x Warden fanfiction) Chapter 1

Alistair x Female Cousland Warden

Summary: A retelling of Dragon Age Origins, focused on the relationship between Alistair and the warden (Elissa Cousland), starting in Ostagar. This is meant to be a medium/long slow-burn fic.

Chapter 1: Meeting Alistair, joining the wardens, getting ready for the battle. 3700 words.

Masterlist of my fics / AO3

Elissa Cousland looked around as she walked through the forest, holding her sword, wary of finding another group of darkspawn. They had fought one mere minutes ago. She hadn’t known what to expect but those things were vicious. Neither she nor the others had been hurt, but she knew it was mostly thanks to Alistair sensing the darkspawn, which had stopped the monsters from ambushing the group and gave them the upper hand. 

Alistair walked before her and the other recruits, alternating between looking at the map and scanning the woods for threats. Hopefully, he’d be able to feel darkspawn again, should they get close.

Elissa hadn’t known Alistair for long, they’d barely just met, but she hadn’t seen him looking so focused and serious before. He’d seem easygoing and a bit careless even, but now it was like she was seeing him as a grey warden for the first time.

However, when he looked back at her, his serious face gave way to a smile. It was silly, she’d just met Alistair, yet his smile had her smiling too, reassuring her somehow.

Elissa hadn’t known what to expect when Duncan had told her to go find Alistar, the newest grey warden, who Duncan had recruited too, and who was supposed to show her the ropes of this grey warden thing she’d fallen into.

She’d imagined someone somber and serious like Duncan, cunning, or maybe an arrogant want-to-be knight, or a disgraced, dismissive, spoiled son of a noble…whoever that Alistair was, Elissa had been sure she’d dislike him.

When she’d found him sassying a mage, her previous thoughts seemed to have been confirmed. Alistair was tall, strong and handsome, and Elissa had been sure he was going to be a prideful, cocky asshole, but just a couple of minutes talking to him had proved how wrong she'd been on her assumptions. 

He was not somber and serious, neither spoiled or arrogant, not in the slightest. Alistair had been actually friendly, more than Elissa could have expected from someone in their situation and more than she knew she’d been in that first moment. He also seemed oddly glad that she was there, and ready to help her should she need it. She might not want to admit it, but after everything that had happened and she’d gone through, it’d been nice to find a friendly, comforting face who offered help.

She might not know him, but among everything that was happening, Elissa had decided she liked Alistair well enough and was glad to have him around, instead of some other waden. 

He could be awkward sometimes, but he was kind, and if his silly jokes made Elissa roll her eyes, she had to admit that more often than not it brought a smile to her lips, despite herself. If there had to be someone to be her grey warden mentor and companion, then she thought she’d been lucky enough it was Alistair.

As they got ready, her other companions had talked about their lives before being recruited, but not Alistair. After seeing him fight, Elissa still suspected him of having been some sort of knight or nobleman. If he was a nobleman, though, he was no one Elissa had heard about before.

All he'd said was that he’d only joined the grey wardens six months prior so he was a junior warden, and Elissa wondered where and how had he learned to fight the way he did.

Alistair looked at the map again as they walked, then around as he nodded. “I think we’re near the place where the treaties should be.”

“Let’s hope so…”

They needed those and then they could go back inside Ostagar’s walls. They already had the darkspawn’s blood that Duncan had asked them to get. It was needed for the joining, apparently, and Elissa didn’t know what to think of it. 

For how friendly Alistair had seemed up to that point, he hadn’t answered any of her questions about it. The joining was secret, he was sworn to keep it secret, and he’d been surprisingly firm about it. He was a good gray warden, a loyal man, but damn irritating to Elissa at that moment.

She might like Alistair well enough, but she didn’t like this grey warden business and secrecy at all, and she had a feeling it was about to get worse.

*

Their little group was silent as they made their way back to Ostagar, and Elissa couldn’t blame them. It wasn’t only the fear of darkspawn, she was also sure everyone was ruminating about the odd encounter they just had but nobody wished to talk more about it.

After all, it wasn’t every day that you met with a witch of the wilds and her supposed daughter. Until that day, Elissa’d have said such a thing wasn’t real, just nursery rhymes and fantasy stories. 

She was still unsure of what to think. Maybe Morrigan and Flemeth weren’t witches of the wilds but just two apostates having a laugh by messing with them. Still, she’d to admit that both women had unsettled her.

It didn’t matter, though, they had the treaties, and that had to be enough.

“Finally,” one of her companions murmured when the Ostagar’s camp came into sight, and Elissa found herself nodding.

“Let’s get the blood and treaties to Duncan and get this joining over with,” she said, trying to sound firm.

The grim look that Alistair, who seemed out of jokes, gave her, did nothing to improve her sour mood.

*

Now Elissa understood why Alistair had seemed so somber about the joining, why the grey wardens vowed not to speak about it. Not only did you have to drink the blood of darkspawn, it could kill you, as evidenced by the man who lay dead at their feet. Daveth had been the first to try and now was dead, after what had seemed agonizing pain.

Elissa understood the panic in Ser Jory’s eyes, which surely mirrored her own, as he backed away, repeating how he had a wife and a baby on the way, how he hadn’t agreed to this. Duncan didn’t stop, unmoving and cold, unflinching even when Ser Jory took out his sword.

Elissa made to do the same, she didn’t like how Duncan had cornered Jory. Perhaps between them both, they could stop Duncan and this madness. Before she could reach the sword, though, Alistair placed a firm hand on her arm, stopping her, as if he’d known what she was going to do.

Of course, Alistair wouldn’t take their side. He was a proper grey warden and he had seemed totally loyal and devoted to Duncan. Elissa couldn’t believe that someone who had seemed so friendly and kind could approve of something like this. Maybe she had been wrong about him.

Before any of them could do anything, not even blink, Duncan had taken out his dagger, running Jory through it before he could attack or do anything at all.

Elissa looked at the scene wide-eyed, her horror at the whole ordeal growing.

Duncan seemed unbothered and Elissa glanced at Alistair. His face was grim, his lips pursed, and at least he seemed affected by it, but he hadn’t done anything to stop it, besides preventing Elissa from ending like ser Jory.

“That was a pity,” Duncan said as he stepped away from the corpse and turned to face Elissa, “but the joining is not yet complete. You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint for the greater good.”

He offered Elissa the chalice, though the word ‘offered’ would be too soft, since he forced the chalice into her hands, looking at her with severe eyes, and she knew without a doubt that, if she did anything but drink, she’d end up like Ser Jory…and so, she drank.

“From this moment, you are a grey warden,” Duncan said as he took the chalice from her hands, and any angry words that Elissa might have wanted to spat at him died as a wave of pain hit her.

Her body felt on fire, as if liquid fire were running through her veins, her stomach churned and felt like melting, a pain worse than anything she had experienced before, each agonizing second worse than the one before, until she lost consciousness.

Merciful oblivion seemed to surround her now, putting a stop to the pain, but the welcomed darkness was short-lived, as the figure of a dragon appeared, his eyes full of malice seeming to observe her, as its mouth opened in the loudest growl Elissa had ever heard, showing big, sharp teeth.

She woke up with her heart beating wild against her ribs, a pounding headache, and the world spinning around as she tried to sit up, too dizzy to focus her gaze. Still, she could make the figure of Duncan standing next to her.

“She lives.”

“Thanks the Maker.” Alistair was crouched at her side, looking at her with a mix of worry and relief. “How are you feeling? Did you have dreams?” He fired the questions at her as if she were in a state to reply. “I had terrible dreams after my joining.”

Elissa glared at him without saying anything, though she was not sure she could speak at all, and she willed the world to stop spinning and her head to stop pounding.

“The dreams come as you begin sensing the darkspawn,” Duncan said. “That and many other things will be explained in the months to come, but for now, there are more pressing matters. Take some time but when you are ready you need to accompany me to a meeting with the king.”

Duncan walked away without giving her any time to say anything, and Elissa buried her face in her hands, leaning over bent knees. The agonizing pain was gone but she still felt dizzy and unwell, as if she was going to be sick. There was a coppery, disgusting taste on her tongue, and her stomach clenched painfully, but she managed not to gag.

Through the corner of her eye, she saw Alistair still looking at her with concern, and she scoffed. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you care I was fed darkspawn blood and feel like shit,” she hissed at Alistair. “Like you care two people died.”

“I care!” Alistair huffed before looking at the corpses with sorrow. “It was worse than I thought. Only one died in my joining, but it was…horrible.”

Alistair shuddered and Elissa could see he was haunted by it, but she didn’t have it in her to be empathetic at that moment, not with this, not with him.

“It was not darkspawn blood that killed Ser Jory,” she pointed out harshly. “It was Duncan. He killed him.”

“It’s…it’s horrible and it shouldn’t have happened, but it had to be done.” Alistair got up and took a couple of steps away from her, and Elissa scoffed his words, shaking her head. “He was going to attack Duncan, and he couldn’t let him go, the joining must be kept secret.”

“He had a wife and a baby on the way! He was a good man!” Elissa yelled at Alistair and regretted it when it made her headache worse.

Alistair looked almost guilty for a second but then he shook his head. “It had to be done, he knew about the joining, he couldn’t just leave, he might have told people about it and we have to keep it secret.”

“We shouldn’t!” Another stab of pain in her head made Elissa regret raising her voice. “It’s…it’s wrong, people should know what could happen at the joining.” It wouldn’t matter to people like her, who were pretty much forced to join, but some people wanted to be a grey warden and help, and they should know they could die before even becoming one.

“Yes, and who would join then?” Alistair sounded annoyed. “Not you, for sure. Maybe not even me. And we still need grey wardens to fight against darkspawn and blights. It has to be done.”

“I’d have had to join anyway, I didn’t choose this,” Elissa scoffed.

“Did Duncan use the right of conscription?” Alistair’s eyes widened in wonder and Elissa had to wonder how much of her recruitment Duncan had told him.

“Not really, he didn’t have to. My family was being murdered and he said he’d only help if I joined,” Elissa answered bitterly.

“Oh, right, your family…I heard about it, I just…didn’t know what to say…” Alistair trailed off, his voice getting lower and lower, while he looked down awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. “But…I’m really sorry.”

Elissa scoffed but, damn him, he seemed genuine. She didn’t want to think about her family, though. Couldn’t. She finally attempted to get up, even if the world spun, and looked at the corpses.

“What do we do with them?” Was there any sort of warden ritual? Or they just let them rot for not overcoming the joining?

Alistair looked at the bodies, contrite. “I’ll take care of it, bury them, you go to the king’s meeting.”

“You’re not coming?”

“Me? Pfff.” Alistair let out an awkward snort. “No. Besides, they didn’t call for me but for you.”

“You’ve been a warden longer than me.”

“And you’re the noble daughter of one of the most important teyrns in Ferelden. Beats me.” Alistair shrugged. “They asked for you, you don’t want to make them wait. I’ll take care of this. Go.”

Elissa looked from Alistar to the corpses, back to Alistair, and nodded before walking away. She'd had enough of corpses and people dying on her. Let Alistair take care of it.

*

Elissa was dismissed from the meeting before it ended, not that she cared. It wouldn’t matter what she said, and she still didn’t know why she was called, besides the king’s fascination with the wardens, and being told some empty, formal condolences and even emptier promises to investigate what had happened to her family and make it right once the battle was over.

Whatever, she could make it right by finding her brother and killing Howe. She just hoped the king was right when he said they’d win the battle without a problem. She didn’t know what to think, though, not of him nor of Loghain.

As she made for the warden’s campfire, unsure of where to go otherwise, she saw Alistar walking towards it too, and he approached her when he saw her.

“It’s done,” he said, somber, and Elissa nodded. “What are they talking about?”

“They’re discussing strategy…well, arguing about it.” Elissa rolled her eyes. “And they’ve decided what you and I are going to do.” Alistair looked at her expectantly. “We have to go to some tower and light the beacon to signal Loghain’s men.”

“What?! We’re not fighting in the battle?!” Alistair stopped walking, outraged. “Why?!”

Elissa just shrugged. “Duncan will explain more later, he told us to wait.”

“Alright…” Alistair grumbled.

They sat around the fire and Elissa looked at Alistair. He’d seemed to think she was invited to the meeting for her status, and she kept wondering if Alistair was a nobleborn too. Wouldn’t have him been invited too, then? Maybe he was minor nobility. Maybe he wasn’t nobility at all, he didn’t act like one after all. But he was a trained warrior for sure, maybe one of the best Elissa had met, and she had met her fair share of good warriors at her father’s tayrn and during her training. Perhaps he wasn’t nobility but he’d been trained as a knight…

“Something wrong?” Alistair asked, uncomfortable, taking her out of her thoughts, and Elissa realized she’d been staring at him.

“No…just…Where did you learn to fight?” She asked bluntly.

“What?” Alistair blinked at her.

“You’re a good warrior, you trained before becoming a warden, where?” She insisted. “Were you a knight before? A nobleman?”

“A nobleman, me? Pfff!” Alistair snorted, rolling his eyes as if the notion was ridiculous, but it looked a bit too much for show and he seemed rather uncomfortable.

Elissa squinted at him, suspicious, but they weren’t really friends, they had barely just met, and if he didn’t want to talk about his family or say who he was before, who was she to ask? It obviously made him uncomfortable and perhaps he had good reasons not to want to think about it, just like herself, perhaps it brought him grief too, so she didn’t want to press it.

“I didn’t mean to be nosy, I’m sorry.”

Alistair let out a long sigh, looking to the side before looking at her and speaking again.

“It’s fine…I’m just a bastard, literally.” He shrugged. “Just the regular son of a servant woman who worked in an earl’s house. She died having me.”

“Oh…” 

Elissa might be a noblewoman, but she was not sheltered. She knew it was not that rare for men of the nobility to father bastards and take advantage of servants, like perhaps it had happened to Alistair’s mother. She was proud to say her father was not one of those, at least not to her knowledge.

Alistar had sounded nonchalant and matter-of-factly, but still, Elissa was sorry that her questions had probably brought him grief. He shouldn’t have pried when he’d seemed uncomfortable.

“Yeah…so you know, if you call me a bastard, you’d actually be saying something right. Heh.” Alistar shrugged, deflecting to humor as Elissa had noticed he tended to do. “So to answer your question, I was raised at the Chantry and they trained me to be a templar. That's where I learned to fight.”

“You’re a templar?!” Elissa hadn’t meant to pry again, but she couldn’t help it, staring at Alistar. Wasn’t he full of surprises?

“I am a grey warden,” he deadpanned, and if he tried to sound humorous, he only sounded awkward. “But…no. I never took the vows, I just trained as one for…a long while.”

“It’s just…you don’t seem…I don’t know…like a templar...” Elissa couldn’t imagine him like the few templars she'd met. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean it in a bad way.”

Alistar chucked and, for some reason, Elissa was glad to see that his smile was back. “You’re fine. Chantry life was not for me, neither was templar life. I don’t think I fit. The other templars didn’t seem to like me much, and the revered mother despised me.”

Elissa had just met Alistair and yet she had a hard time wondering how someone could despise him. Sure, he’d irritated her sometimes, and she was upset about the warden’s secrets, but still, Alistair seemed kind and like a good enough man.

“So you left?” 

“Nah, I couldn’t.” Alistair didn’t elaborate on it. “But six months ago, Duncan was passing through and saw me training, and said to the revered mother he wanted me for the wardens. She was so mad, I don’t know why if she hated me, but she looked like she was about to fight Duncan with his own sword.” Alistair snorted.  “But he said he’d use the rite of conscription so she had to let me go, and here I am.”

“You'd rather be a warden than a templar,” Elissa mused. If she’d been asked to choose, before knowing the warden’s dark secrets, she’d have probably chosen wardens too. But she’d rather be neither. “Even with the joining and everything else.”

“Of course! I told you, our vows and what we do are important, we protect people from the darkspawn and the blight,” Alistair sounded so enthusiastic, he really believed it, and Elissa feared it might end up rubbing on her too. She did like their mission, but not the means to it, all the secrets and manipulation.

“I hated living at the Chantry and nobody thought I belonged there, I was so, so glad when Duncan told me we were leaving.” Alistair grinned, and Elissa was once again aware of how handsome he was. “And the other wardens, wait until you meet them, they’re great. They really made me feel welcome, it feels like we’re a family, you’ll see. I know you’re not happy Duncan chose you but give us a chance.”

Now Elissa understood why Alistair seemed to love being a warden so much, why he cared and looked up to Duncan like that. For him, it felt like he’d been saved from a life he hated and had been given a family. But it was not the same for her.

“I’m sure the wardens are…nice.” Elissa didn’t know what to think, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to be unkind to Alistair after all he’d shared with her, it somehow felt close to kicking a puppy. “But I already have a family, I have to find my brother, and then we’ve to get vengeance on Howe for what he did.”

“Oh, right…” Alistair fidgeted as if awkward. “Don’t hate me for saying it but when we become wardens, we leave our past lives behind.” Elissa bit her tongue so she wouldn’t say what she thought, it was not Alistar’s fault. She was going to search for her brother and kill Howe no matter what any warden said. “But…when all this battle is over, I can ask Duncan if he’d let me help you with that.”

“You don’t have to, but thank you.” Elissa blinked at him, taken by surprise. “Alistair…” Elissa took a deep breath and forced the words out. “You’re right, I’m not happy that Duncan chose me and I hate that I was forced to become a warden but…I’m glad that you were here, that you were the one he brought to mentor us or whatever.”

Even if Alistair said the other wardens were nice, she had met her fair share of scheming, mean people, as the daughter of the Highever teyrn, as she'd met Duncan all too well. She knew she could have fared much worse than having Alistair assigned as her partner warden. At least on that, she knew she'd been lucky.

“Mentor, me? Pff.” Alistair snorted. “But…I’m glad too, that you survived the joining, that you are here…”

Elissa gave him half a smile, unsure of what to say, and she noticed Duncan approaching. She nodded at Alistar to look back at the other men, as she got back to her feet.

“Time to get moving I guess.”

*

NA:

Here I am, 15 years after Origins came out, writing an Alistair fic. I just love him.

I'm not sure if there will be much interest in this, but I have the beginning of next chapter writen, so if someone is interested, please let me know, and I'll keep posting. Otherwise if I write only for myself (who can watch it as a movie in her head instead) I'm not sure I'll have the will to finish it. I haven't writen a long fic in more than 5 years.

Anyway, thanks for reading, if you liked this, please let me know in a comment, and as always, reblogs are more than welcome.

Excuse my English, it’s not my first language.

[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. 

[gardenwalrus]

Malcolm MacAlister Hall interview with Jane Asher, 'Forget Cakes… Jane Asher Talks about being Lazy, Leopard-Skin Boots and Learning to Live with the Darker Side of Life', Good Housekeeping (1 Feb. 2003)

Full article

When you think Jane Asher, you think cool, auburn, alabaster. You also think nice cake-lady. But, as is the case with anyone who has a spotless media record, there’s a great deal more going on. She is deeper, darker, lazier, more passionate than you would ever imagine. The perfect image that she’s acquired obscures this other Jane Asher, who knocks off The Times crossword for relaxation, describes herself as ‘left-leaning’ and discusses the idiocies of politicians with her husband, the cartoonist Gerald Scarfe, as he works on his drawings. ‘If you’re dealing with politics all the time you’ve got to be cynical, haven’t you?’ she says. When we meet, it’s the day after the Commons vote on extending adoption rights to gay and unmarried couples, and Jane is fizzing.

‘The debacle of Duncan Smith telling Tory MPs they had to take the three-line whip [meaning that every member must attend and vote according to the party line] - from a man who must be reasonably intelligent, it’s the stupidity that’s so mind-blowing,’ she says angrily. She speaks with a passion you wouldn’t begin to glean from reading between the lines of her biography: stage and film actress; astoundingly prolific author (18 books on cake design, home entertaining and childcare, plus three well-received novels); shrewd businesswoman (she has her own cake shop in Chelsea and Jane Asher branded goods are sold in Debenhams and supermarkets); mother of three children (Katie, 28, Alexander, 20, and Rory, 18); and wife of 30 years. At 56, she looks mesmerisingly beautiful to a jealousy-inducing degree: slim as a teenager and with an English-rose complexion, she genuinely appears 20 years younger than she really is. So, Jane: lucky genes, cosmetic miracle, or savage health and beauty regime? ‘I put it down to a combination of stress and stairs,’ she says. ‘There’s such an obsession now with reducing stress, but stress is just a natural part of living. And I grew up in a very tall house, and I still live in one now. I’ve had to run up and down stairs all my life.’ The tall house she grew up in was Wimpole Street in central London. Her father was an eminent consultant endocrinologist who identified Munchausen’s syndrome - where the patient feigns an illness to get admitted to hospital - and but for his modesty, it would have been labelled Asher’s syndrome. Her mother was a professor of music and an oboe teacher at the Royal Academy of Music. It was a happy, middle-class childhood. She and her sister Clare, now an Ofsted inspector, learned to curtsey at Miss Lambert’s School in Paddington. At 17, when she was working for the Radio Times, she was sent to cover a pop concert at the Albert Hall and met Paul McCartney in a corridor. He reportedly described her as a ‘rave London bird’. And the heavy-fringed Jane became the most famous girlfriend in Britain. It lasted five years, until she came home unexpectedly one day to find him with another girl. She walked out, and although he wrote And I Love Her and We Can Work It Out for her, she never returned. McCartney was said to be devastated. To this day, she has never spoken about it publicly. She has never spoken, either, about the death of her adored father who, struck by a terminal illness, committed suicide when she was in her early 20s. She has always politely insisted that these two events should not become just more public property. Her novels, surprisingly to some, have addressed serious issues - the traumas of infertility, betrayal and obsession. ‘Everyone gasps: “They’re so dark!”’ she says, ‘but life’s bleak and disturbing, isn’t it, really? We all float along pretending it isn’t, but when you stop to think about what’s going on at any moment, there’s probably a child screaming in pain within 10 miles of wherever you are. I don’t want to sound like a pessimist, but it’s bloody awful.

‘I don’t know why, but my fiction does tend to look at the blacker side. But hopefully with humour as well - as in life. In fiction, although it’s all invented, you probably are letting out more of yourself: your beliefs, your feelings, your attitude to things. I think when I’m writing fiction it’s almost like a bit of the real Jane is speaking to the reader.’ At weekends, the ‘real Jane’ likes to gather the family around her at their large house overlooking the Thames. ‘That’s when I do enjoy cooking for them all,’ she says. ‘Weekday cooking gets a bit boring when you’ve just got to feed everyone every day, but at weekends when I’ve got a bit more time I like experimenting with new things. It’s relaxing.’ Her family and her marriage to Gerald are clearly her foundation. ‘He’s just lovely and funny and we think the same way about things,’ she says. ‘Not that a 30-year marriage is all easy and wonderful, of course. But I’m very lucky I picked such a lovely man. It’s wonderful to have someone who loves you whatever you look like and whatever you do - I always think about that when he sees me in my bath cap, the most unattractive object in the world,’ she says, amid gales of laughter. ‘If you can pass the bath-cap test, I think you’ve got a very strong marriage.’ On most other subjects, she dismisses her achievements. ‘I’ve never been clever enough to plan a career for myself. I just sort of lurch from one thing to another,’ she says. ‘As a writer I have to have a deadline or I would never do it. It’s a combination of being lazy but also not being able to say no to things. But I’m just as happy lying on a sofa watching an old film and doing nothing. I don’t find it difficult to switch off and ignore piles of things I should have done. ‘Obviously I wrote all the books and did all the cake things because of the children. I didn’t want to leave them when they were young, and I could do those things from home.’ She made a conscious decision to put her children before her acting career, and turned down countless roles. ‘It wasn’t always easy. There were things I would have really liked to do, mostly plays. But I don’t regret it for a second. I think it’s made a huge difference, hopefully, to all of them being as happy as they are, that Gerald and I were around all through their childhood.’ And now that her children are grown, she has taken a role so far removed from anything else she’s done that it almost beggars belief. But it’s precisely because her children are now more independent and she fancies doing ‘something that’s terrific fun and in mainstream television again’ that she’s taking the unlikely role of the new proprietor of Crossroads Hotel. The revamped soap, set in a Birmingham hotel, is not in its third incarnation, and Jane will be playing Angel Samson, owner and queen bee of this buzzing hive of sex, intrigue, high-voltage frocks and clashing personalities. The word around the studio corridors is that the new, and hopefully improved, soap is going to be like Dynasty in the Midlands. Angel is described as being a superbitch, but what’s Jane Asher doing in the middle of this cat-fight? Can she even do bitchy?

‘Oh, yes,’ she says. ‘We’ve just done a scene where I’m absolutely horrible to Kate, the hotel manager, who’s played by Jane Gurnett. There’s nothing more fun than having a fight with someone you get one with. And,’ she adds, ‘we’ve got lots of wonderful frocks.’ She jumps up to riffle through her stage wardrobe, pulling out sequinned dresses and sky-high stiletto leopard print boots. ‘These are so tottery,’ she exclaims. ‘They make me feel like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.’ Despite her girlish enthusiasm for the role - and its frocks - she admits that this is the sort of part she might have once turned down. ‘If I’m honest, 20 years ago I probably wouldn’t have wanted to go into a soap, but they’ve changed so much. Now you get every kind of actor popping up in them, and they’re such a big part of our culture. When this came up, I really didn’t hesitate.’ The time was just right, it seems, for Jane Asher to mess with our perception of her again.

[benwalkerupdates]

19 April 2007 - Ben in an interview for broadway.com with Katie Riegel. Read the original HERE

Age: "Can I plead the fifth?"

Currently: Making his Broadway debut in Inherit the Wind as Bertram Cates, the dramatized version of schoolteacher John Scopes, who was put on trial in 1925 for teaching evolution in the notorious "monkey trial."

Hometown: Cartersville, Georgia.

Training Days: As a teen, Walker attended the famed Interlochen summer arts camp in Michigan to test whether his hankering for acting was just a phase. "I thought, 'If I can handle this, I must really like it,'" he says. "I got bitten by the bug there, and that was that." He then attended Juilliard's prestigious acting program, an experience that elicits a burst of adjectives from the playful actor: "Fantastic. Hard. Beyond hard. Challenging. Some of the best teachers and directors and writers in the world are there," he says pausing reflectively. "And then me," he cracks. "I don't know how I got in."

Nose No Bounds: While in his final year at Juilliard, Walker landed his first film, playing the 19-year-old version of Liam Neeson's title character in Kinsey. "I was so over-stimulated that I don't really remember much of it," he says of the film shoot. "I had no idea what I was doing. They had a prosthetic nose glued to my face, and here I was running around with my pants down on a movie set. I was petrified. It was truly wild." Following post-grad roles in a few indie flicks and The Notorious Bettie Page, Walker landed the part of Harlon Block, one of the six famous Iwo Jima flag-raisers in Clint Eastwood's Flags of our Fathers, and shipped out to Iceland to film. "It was more work than you'd imagine," he says. "Not that I thought it was going to be playtime. But the physical rigor of it was intense: enduring cold and simple things like that, as opposed to…my character's motivation," he says with a grin.

Spring-time: While honing his on-screen skills, Walker also chalked up some nice theater roles, including a well-reviewed turn last summer as Mercutio in eyeliner and a dress, no less in Williamstown's production of Romeo and Juliet. "Mercutio's the only part to play in that show," he declares. "Sword fight, shout, die…sleep 'till curtain call!" He's also the unlikely source for a trivia tidbit for Spring Awakening buffs: Walker starred as Melchior in the 2005 Lincoln Center workshop of the popular Duncan Sheik/Steven Sater tuner. So is he disappointed that he didn't get to see the show to its Broadway bow? "No," he says simply. "I mean, I couldn't. Look at me. I'm six feet tall! And as much as I want to bare my ass to the Broadway fan base…no. I think it works so well now. I saw it, and [Jonathan Groff] can take it! You got it, bud. It's that good."

Find Me Funny: "Yeah, I tell dirty jokes," Walker says with a wink when asked about his surprising side gig as a stand-up comedian. "The first two years of Juilliard, they don't allow you to perform for the public, and that was bothersome," he explains. "So I started doing open mics. It was a little late-night thing I could do and not tell anybody about. I don't think any teachers are going to show up at Gladys' Comedy Hole! But it's kind of grown into this beast." Showing off a hoodie emblazoned with the logo of his group, "Find the Funny," he says, "We have some of the best young stand-ups in the city doing our [bi-monthly] show. I don't know that I'm a comic, but it's a challenge. That's the great thing about being an actor: You can be anything. 'Could I be on trial? I dunno. Let's do the show tonight!'"

Learning from Legends: "I'm livin' the dream," Walker says, shifting tone to discuss making his Broadway debut in Inherit the Wind. "I heard Doug Hughes was directing it. When I was in school I was watching these theatrical events take place—Doubt, Frozen—and Doug's name was always attached. He and the fates smiled on me with this." How about his legendary co-stars, Brian Dennehy and Christopher Plummer? "Who?" he says playfully. "Their track records are more than impressive, and their skill and craft are unprecedented, but at the same time, they're genuine, kind men who love telling a story with a group of people. Period." Sharing scenes with Plummer, who plays Henry Drummond, the lawyer defending Walker's character for teaching evolution, has taught him tons. "Regardless of the amount of experience he's had, he's continually trying to rediscover himself as an actor," Walker says. "Every night, you'd better be on your game, because it's going to be different. And that's impressive, given the amount of experience he's bringing to this—that he's still doing it every day; that he's still playful. [My character] is lucky to have a lawyer like Drummond…and I'm lucky to have an actor like Christopher Plummer to sit next to."