that voice did not belong to the tent . it slipped into the dim like something carried on memory rather than air , soft enough that he thought it might have risen from his own thoughts . the canvas above him sagged in tired folds , shadows pooling in the seams where lamplight had once been . without the maesters bustling , without hands prodding and cloth tightening , the silence felt thick . almost watchful .

' ser … ? '

his good eye lifted slowly , dragging against the stiffness of dried blood and swelling . the other remained sealed shut , a dark weight that pulsed in time with his heartbeat . the world was halved . light on one side . nothing on the other . depth uncertain . edges wavering . for a moment , he did not see her . he saw instead the field as it had been hours before──── … churned earth , torn grass , banners snapping against a merciless sky . he remembered the first time he thought he’d seen her that day . near the edge of the stands . cloth drawn low over her hair . too still amongst the shifting bodies and bright silks . he had blinked once … a single blink to clear sweat from his lashes . she vanished .

the second time had been worse . steel had rung against steel , helm had glanced hard against his temple , and the world had narrowed to noise and heat and breath torn from his lungs . through the blur he had seen her again──── walnut eyes across chaos , fixed on him as though she could hold him upright by sheer will . and then another blow had fallen , and white had swallowed everything whole .

he had told himself it was the strike . men saw ghosts when their skulls were struck hard enough──── ser arlan told him as much .

the tent rustled faintly now , the flap shifting as if nudged by wind … or by someone stepping through it . his gaze struggled to focus , swimming before settling on a shape that did not dissolve this time . familiar . far too close to be memory . she moved nearer . the scent of iron lingered in the tent , stubborn . mingling with dried herbs and stale canvas . he became aware of his own breathing again──── ... shallow , tight , bound by linen wrapped too firmly around cracked ribs . each inhale scraped . each exhale trembled slightly before leaving him .

when her thumb brushed his cheek , it was so light he almost mistook it for the ghost of another thought . but it was warm . warm enough that the sensation travelled through him slower than pain , deeper than the ache in his bones . his brow furrowed faintly , pulling at fresh stitches . if this was a fevered imagining , it was cruel in its gentleness . if his mind had splintered beneath steel , it had chosen her voice to haunt him . he hoped the seven were kinder than that …

oh , you fool ...

dunk did not answer at once . his heart could not bare accepting this without another one of his senses to confirm , he had no more blind faith to spare . so , he watched her as one might watch a distant shoreline through fog , unsure if it would hold shape or fade with the shifting of light . he felt detached from his own limbs , as though he occupied his body only partially . as though some part of him remained out there on the field still , kneeling in the dirt with a dying prince in his arms .

slowly , he lifted one hand from his knee . the movement was clumsy . heavy . his shoulder protested with a dull grind , and he nearly stopped there . halfway between doubt and need . his fingers hovered in the air between them , suspended . because if he reached and found nothing … if his hand closed on emptiness , if she flickered out the way she had before──── then he would know that the blow had taken something from him that could not be bound with linen . and he was not certain he could bear another loss tonight .

his fingers moved the rest of the way , brushing against the sleeve of her dress . cloth met skin . there was resistance . weight . warmth beneath it . he stilled immediately , as though any sudden motion might frighten the moment into dissolving . his hand did not grasp . it rested there , tentative , testing the truth of her existence . his good eye lifted to her face again , searching with quiet intensity .

when he finally spoke , his voice was low and hoarse , roughened by dust and restraint . “ … i saw you . ” the words scraped out of him slowly . he paused to draw another shallow breath , wincing as the binding bit into his ribs . “ thought i did . ” his gaze did not leave her now . “ twice . ” a faint swallow . dry . uncertain . “ or maybe i was … seein' things . i don't know wish i'd prefer , i hope you saw the good . and turned away for the bad . ”

there was no accusation in him . no demand for explanation . only confusion laid bare . if she had been there , then she had seen everything ; the blood , the fall , the way baelor had sagged in his grasp like a felled oak . and if she had not … then perhaps it was The Mother making herself known amidst knightly bloodshed . his fingers remained against her sleeve , unmoving , as if he feared the slightest shift would prove him a fool .

his voice caught on the first word , dry and fractured , as though unused for something so gentle . “ how────how is your finger , my lady . “

rarely was anyone truly at her eye level, and she preferred it that way. the quickest way to command a room was to stand tall with confidence after all, and what kind of performer was she if she didn’t add in a few extra inches to her costuming?

but from their few encounters, she noticed he was not like that.

for a man of his stature, he shied away from space ──── shrank into it. even now as he laid on the cot did he seem small. but it was a man like this who stood  firm  not  too  unlike  a  tree  rooted  in  place when coming to her aid & it was a man like this who had gotten a targaryen to rescind his accusations.

smaller when it came to himself, taller when it came to others.

on the crimson soaked field, she first met his eyes before the blow. he stood tall ──── like he did when he came into the performance tent swinging ──── sitting ’pon his horse, a spitting image of a fairy tale knight.   it  juxtaposed  the  awkward  image  of  his  lanky  height  next  to  his  tiny  squire  the  small  prince  from  all  the  times  before.   here,   his  eyes  were  a  piercing  blue,   pinning  down  the  nobles  and  peasants  alike;   she  was  not  the  target  of  his  pleading,   but  the  tide  pulls  her  in  regardless.   the  second  time  was  after  the  crowd  was  so  certain  that  death  had  come  for  him.   had  her  hand  not  been  injured,   it  would’ve  been  balled  up  with  her  knuckles  tightly  wound.

the  memory  hurts,   but  does  her  no  harm ──── and yet,  yet  … 

“ i  hope  you  saw  the  good,  and  turned  away  for  the  bad  … ” but  there  was  no  curtains  drawn  for  his  performance.   NO  TRICKS   ／   NO GIMMICKS:   only  the  honest,   brutal  violence  a  trial  could  bring.  a  raven’s  cry  carried  overtop  the  held  breath  of  the  crowd,   and  part  of  her  thought  him  a  good  thespian.   their  attention,  her attention,  was  solely  monopolized  by  him. to  look  away  would  be  to  ignore  injustice.   they  had  already  done  it  once  with  her,   and  tanselle  would  be  no better  than  them if  she  did  the  same  to  him.   and  so  she  watched. no  matter  the  amount  of  strikes,   no  matter  the  battering,   he  never  yielded.   his  figure  tremored  under  the  force  of  his  own  blows;  an  angered  bull  denied  its  charge,  all  forward  and  no  grace.   the  cracks  of  bone  heard  even  from  the  back  of  the  crowd.

“ my  finger?  you  ought  to  worry  about  yourself  first,  ser. ”   footsteps  as  quaint  as  a  tomcat’s,   she  closed  the  distance  with  little  hesitance  now.   she  did  not  pull  away,  and  from  here,   she  could  see  the  firelight  flicker  orange  across  his  bruised  face,   across  the  tightness  in  his  jaw,   across  fingers  that  looked  not  all  too  dissimilar  to  her  own.

his  voice  was  rough,   and  his  concern  was  heard  the  way  one  hears  the  cracked  string  of  a  lute  ────  not  loud,   but  unmistakable.   “ i  told  myself, ”  she  began,   voice  low,   steady,   as  though  she  was  placing  something  fragile  between  them.   “ just  one  look.   one  glance.   i  needed  to  see  you  before  i──  …  i  left.   i  could  not  walk  to  dorne  with  your  sentencing  looming  over  my  mind. ”   a  shift  &  her  fingers  curl  around  his  this  time,   fabric  slipping  away  from  him  and  replaced  by  flesh,   deliberate  &  warm.

violence  did  not  look  comfortable  on  him,   he  did  not  carry  it  with  the  same  arrogance  other  knights  did.   she  recognized  it  though.   recognized  the  way  survival,   when  repeated  too  often,  begins  to  look  like  guilt.   had  it  been  any  other  knight  of  the  realm,   tanselle  was  sure  the  first  words  from  their  mouths  would  not  be  so  selfless  like  his.   she’d  be  pushed  to  compensate,   to  pay  back  for  the  righteous  deed.

but  he  only  asked  if  she  was  well.

“ i  am  fine,   thankfully  only  one  broke. ”   her  throat  felt  dry,   and  words  were  left  unspoken.   it  broke  by  the  joint,    on  her  good  hand  too.   she  wouldn’t  be  able  to  man  her  puppets  or  paint  or  so  much  as  step  on  stage  until  it  heals.  her  finger  did  not  hurt  as  much  as  her  pride.   “ gods,   they  broke  you  to  pieces. ”  her  free  hand  reached  down,   gently  cupping  the  side  of  his  face  as  her  thumb  traced  under  the  dagger  cut  eye.

all  men  are  fools,   and  all  men  are  knights. so  where  does  that  leave  her?

prtntious ...

――――― [ … ] independent multi-muse .

featuring DC Comics , fandomless , fantasy , and horror verses . an exploration of creation and collapse ; of wills that build , destroy , and rebuild again . semi new to the platform but eager to writer with you all .

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. 　 ˚　. ✦　　　 　﹙⠀ some become stories. ⠀﹚

independent roleplay account, imagined by #𝑗𝑢𝑛𝑒. multimuse, crafted from headcanons & inspired by associated media. writer is 23, & goes by she / her. minors dni.

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𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ( 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒐. )

percy jackson and the olympians ┈┈┈ percy jackson, nico di angelo, summer holt (oc)

a closed starter for @astrifervs < 3

the maesters had come and gone , fussing over him with their old , vinegar stiff hands . they had prodded at cracked ribs and split skin , bound him tight with linen where it was needed , pressed poultices on bruises that throbbed like drums in his bones . they had offered milk of the poppy . he had refused . he wanted to feel it all . every ache . every bruise . every failure . now the tent was quiet . their lanterns had been snuffed or carried away , leaving shadows pooling in corners where the canvas sagged low . dunk sat on the hard cot , one arm draped over his knees , his body too riddled with pain to move . the adrenaline of the trial had burned out hours ago , leaving him raw , trembling , and heavy with a weight that no sword or shield had prepared him for .

baelor breakspear had died in his arms .

the thought came first as shock . then as guilt . then as a quiet , gnawing certainty : this was his doing , no matter how intricate the dominos of fate were set up ... this started with a lowly hedge knight . he had wanted to be better than flea bottom . better than hungry hands , broken backs , scraped knees , and fists . he had wanted to be a knight who remembered the small , who lifted them where he could . and now a prince was dead . a kingdom grieved . and for all his striving , all his clumsy , earnest attempts at honour, he had caused more pain than he had ever helped .

he tried to straighten . his ribs cried out . his shoulder ached with every tiny shift . his head throbbed where the helmet had pressed into bruised skin and engorged eye . his hands , wide and calloused , rested on his knees , trembling with a mix of fatigue and shame . he could almost feel the prince’s warmth still there , a ghost pressing into his palms .

ser duncan the tall , this chosen identity ... he had been called it plenty today . by lords . by knights . by whispering men whose eyes had widened at the sight of him standing in the trial . but the name felt hollow . knighted in name only ... not knighted at all . ' ser dunk ' did not think in poetry . he thought in simple terms , in concrete measures . baelor died . he stood . . all else was words . all else was meaningless .

the pain pressed into him , sharp ... and he let it . he did not flinch . he did not curse . he did not cry . he simply sat there , aware of every ache , every pulse , every hollow space where adrenaline had once made him feel larger than life .

the princeling’s voice was snarling in her ear, its grating tone muffled by the sound of her own cries ──── ripped and torn from her lungs. her fingers bent abnormally & the pain was beyond her recent memories ; a sudden emptiness that comes as death draws near. was this just? what law of the realm dictated this censorship of art? a dragon killed. a treasonous act. a crowd that gawked at her for the wrong reasons. she’d have laid her life for her art ──── would’ve  done  so  with  a  trembling  heart  and  a  curse  on  her  tongue.   naivety  was  the  right  for  the  young  to  exploit,   but  she  lived  long  enough  to  know  times  of  peace  meant  nothing.   for this  was  not  justice  served  by  a  beloved  prince,   this  was  tyranny  done  by  rotting  hands  that  sought to  cure  its  boredom. and who was she to deny a prince? salvation found itself in the shape of a figure bursting through the crowd. despite herself, the verses weave together in her pain dazed mind ──── AND NO QUARRELL A KNIGHT OUGHT TO TAKE ／ BUT FOR A TRUTH, OR FOR THE COMMON’S SAKE. what had driven him to step forward, to shield her, to give himself over to near-certain death by striking a prince with his bare fists. she wondered if aerion’s rank had even crossed his mind before he acted, perhaps he had seen only a man hurting her. perhaps he only saw someone in need. in the end, it mattered little.

her aunt and uncle had already left for dorne. “ people like us are better off well forgotten. ” her uncle had hissed, packing their belongings. “ you’d be doing him a disservice in staying. what if they catch you? you’d be hanged without a second glance. ” but she couldn’t leave. the tent abandoned & deserted, troupe torn between staying & leaving, tanselle stood at a crossroads. it was the memory of the towering figure who had approached without frightening her, the pale blue eyes alight with fury, the bent back driving blow after blow downward that solidified her choice.

the shield was left in soot—stained hands, steely pate’s gruff acceptance buying her time. she’s known him for only a few days, but peasants kept a silent understanding amongst each other. he strengthened her alibi. tanselle, as far as the kingsguard knew, was marching alongside her aunt and uncle down the winding road ──── tall grass kissing the hem of her tattered dress as the wind rustled trees’ leaves.

cloth wrapped over her head, standing far from the stands, she dons a new role: becoming a part of the audience. it took just one glance into the field to spot him. there he sat ’pon a stallion, so far from looking like a hedge knight and more like a land knight. dressed in silver glinting armour, it appeared as though he too took on a new role. his  trial had  been  a  bloody  massacre ──── & guilt  festered,  had  this  not  begun  because  of  her?   she  swears  she  caught  his  eyes    ( singular,  after  the  nasty  cut  dug  into  his  tarsal  plate )   some  time  during  the  trial,   crystalline  blue  meeting  walnut.   her  own  wrapped  hand  ached  while  watching ;   biting  down  on  her  lip  as  to  not  speak  up.

stand  up.   why  didn’t  you  look  the  other  way  when  you  could?  stand  up.  do not let them beat you,   stand  up.

his  triumph  had  been  overshadowed  by  a  pall  of  grief; little  egg  had  been  the  messenger  of  his  whereabouts.   it  took  a  promise  of  privacy  to  convince  her.  no  maesters,   no  guardsmen  walking the grounds,   just  him.

“ ser ... ? ” her voice lingers in the air, soft as budding spring. she comes closer, a glimpse of knuckles against fabric ──── it’s open, rustling ’neath the weight of her push. “ i heard you’d be here. ” it closes behind, a fluttering sound akin to a foreboding omen and in a way, it was. the tent was barren, less somewhere to recover and more so somewhere to die. the faint scent of ichor lingered, clinging to the air & became more clear as she steps closer.