𝕰𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖓

updated: 24/02/'26

Introduction

₊⊹.𖧧.⋆˚𖥸✧˚೯⁺

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐢𝐭

imagines:

𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧 𝐎𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝

An eternity without you.

Don't let go.

In the fire of war

𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐢 𝐃𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧

Closest to heaven

Gentle sin

Oh… Oh no, he’s hot.

Dont do that again..or do.

𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐢 𝐃𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧

If You Don’t Want Me Near You, Just Say It.

Unity.

𝐁𝐨𝐟𝐮𝐫

A cozy morning.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲

An unexpected journey to middle earth

part one

part two

part three

₊⊹.𖧧.⋆˚𖥸✧˚೯⁺

𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

𝐀𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐧

The one he looks at.

The night before the road

₊⊹.𖧧.⋆˚𖥸✧˚೯⁺

𝐀 𝐤𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐬

𝐒𝐞𝐫 𝐃𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐥

A shield against the crowd

Thick as a castle wall

𝐁𝐚𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐫 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧

The one that got away

Baelor Targaryen x female!reader

Second and last part of the one that got away.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The transition from the mortal world to the next was not a violent wrenching, but a slow, rhythmic unspooling. For fifty long years, you had been the solemn, elegant widow of the Breakspear. You had outlived your husband, outlived your beautiful son Valarr, and endured the cruel, steady decay of a Targaryen dynasty that seemed to lose its mind the moment Baelor’s heart stopped beating in the mud of Ashford Meadow.

Down on earth, they had praised your stoicism. They called you the steady anchor of the realm. But inside your chest, your heart had remained frozen in time, permanently shattered on that afternoon when Steely Pate pulled off a broken helmet and your world collapsed into your lap.

Through every long, freezing winter night in the Red Keep, as you stared at the empty space beside you in bed, a singular, quiet refrain had become your religion. A desperate, silent bargaining with the Seven Upper Heavens that you breathed into the dark:

Dear Lord, when I get to heaven, please let me bring my man. Don't make me walk the golden fields alone. Let me have him back.

And then, the final breath left your mortal body.

There was no lingering agony of the sickness that had finally claimed your old, withered frame. Instead, a sudden, blinding warmth washed over you. The heavy, dark mourning silks you had worn for half a century dissolved into a gown of soft, ethereal white that felt like summer wind against your skin. You looked down at your hands—the liver spots, the wrinkles, and the trembling of old age were gone. Your skin was smooth, youthful, and glowing with a vital, eternal light.

You stood in an endless expanse of rolling green hills, bathed in a perpetual, magnificent twilight. The sky above was a shifting canvas of deep violet, soft rose, and gold. The air smelled faintly of crushed mint, woodsmoke, and the clean, crisp scent of a fresh autumn morning.

It was paradise. But as you looked around the vast, empty meadow, a terrifying, suffocating panic seized your chest.

The fields were still. The silence was deafening.

"Baelor?" your voice came out clear and young, a sound you hadn't heard in decades. You took a desperate step forward, your bare feet brushing against the cool, dew-kissed grass. "Baelor! Where are you?"

No answer came. Tears prickled the edges of your eyes. Was this your punishment for surviving? An eternity of solitary beauty? If he wasn't here, this heaven was nothing more than a magnificent tomb. You had spent a lifetime waiting to find the one that got away, and the thought of being denied him now made your soul ache with a cosmic, unyielding grief.

"I have never known you to be so impatient, my love."

The voice cut through the twilight like a physical touch. It was deep, rich, and carried that distinct, gentle warmth that had once commanded the entire Seven Kingdoms but had always spoken to you in whispers.

You spun around, the breath catching violently in your throat.

Standing just a few paces away, completely untouched by the horrific wounds of his death, was Baelor. He wasn't wearing his heavy, suffocating war-gear, nor the crown prince's high-collared velvet. He wore a simple tunic of charcoal gray, his dark hair catching the golden light of the horizon. His broad shoulders were relaxed, and his striking violet eyes—the eyes you had spent fifty years trying to reconstruct from fading memories—were fixed on you with a love so fiercely consuming it felt like a physical weight.

He looked exactly as he had the night before the trial. Strong. Noble. Beautiful.

"Baelor," his name tore from your lips as a broken, breathless sob.

You didn't walk; you ran. Your white skirts billowed behind you as your bare feet flew across the grass, erasing the decades of separation in a matter of seconds.

Baelor didn't hesitate. He took two massive, sweeping strides forward and caught you as you launched your body against his. The impact was solid and breathtaking. His massive, powerful arms wrapped securely around your waist, lifting you entirely off the ground and pulling you so tightly against his broad chest that you could feel the rhythmic, steady thrum of his heartbeat—a phantom pulse of the eternity you now shared.

You buried your face into the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders as if you were a drowning person catching a lifeline. He smelled of rain, cedarwood, and the unmistakable, comforting heat of his skin. The tears you had held back through fifty years of playing the stoic, unbroken matriarch finally broke, spilling hot and fast against his collarbone.

"I have you," Baelor whispered fiercely, his voice thick with a profound, choked emotion. He pressed his face deeply into your hair, his hands trembling slightly as he held you, anchoring you to him as if he, too, had been terrified this moment wouldn't come. "I have you, my sweet. I'm here. I'm right here."

"I was so afraid," you sobbed into his skin, your fingers moving up to frame his face, frantically tracing his jaw, his cheekbones, his temples—finding nothing but flawless, warm perfection. "I prayed to the gods every single night... I told them I didn't want a heaven if you weren't in it. I didn't want paradise without my man."

Baelor let out a soft, breathy laugh that vibrated directly against your chest. He lowered you just enough so your feet touched the grass, but he didn't loosen his grip on your waist by even a fraction. He leaned back to look down at you, his large palms coming up to gently cup your face, his thumbs wiping away the tears tracking down your cheeks.

"Do you truly think the gods could keep me from you?" he murmured, his eyes shining with a desperate, timeless hunger. "I have stood on the edge of this meadow since the day I left you, watching. I saw how bravely you carried my name. I saw how you held our family together through the dark, how you comforted our son, how you became the conscience of a crumbling realm. You were magnificent, my love. But every day you spent down there was an age to me up here. I refused to take a single step further into this light until I could hold your hand."

He leaned down, his forehead resting heavily against yours, his warm breath mingling with your own.

"The gods knew my soul belonged to you," Baelor whispered, his lips brushing against yours as he answered the very prayer you had carried in your heart for half a century. "When you got to heaven, they had no choice but to let you keep me."

Then, he kissed you.

It was a kiss that held the crushing weight of fifty years of longing, burning it all down to ash in a single, magnificent second. It was the warmth of the summer sun after a lifetime of bitter winter—deep, thorough, and entirely consuming. Baelor’s grip on your waist tightened, pulling you so flush against his hard chest that you felt completely enveloped by his mass. There were no crowns to wear, no kingdoms to hold together, and no tragic lances waiting in the dark. The one that got away had been caught, held fast in an embrace that time itself could no longer touch.

When he finally pulled back a fraction, both of your breaths were ragged, a soft, radiant happiness lighting up his noble features.

In the distance, the soft, shifting mists of the afterlife parted more fully. From the gentle slope of a nearby hill, a familiar, youthful silhouette appeared. Valarr stood there, stripped of the pale, sickly look that the Great Spring Sickness had cruelly given him in his final hours on earth. He looked strong, vibrant, and a brilliant, boyish smile broke across his face as he raised a hand in welcome to his mother.

Baelor looked down at you, his large fingers intertwining perfectly with yours, his thumb tracing the back of your hand.

Duncan the tall x reader

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The heat inside the makeshift smithy at the edge of the tourney grounds was thick enough to choke on, smelling of charcoal, hot iron, and the sharp, metallic tang of shaved steel. You had volunteered to help patch up the tattered livery and leather straps of Dunk’s armor before the morrow’s tilting, but your hands had gone completely still over the needle and thread.

You were staring. You couldn't help it.

Dunk was standing by a rain barrel, his back to you, having just shed the heavy wool tunic he usually wore to conceal his sheer mass. He had lifted a massive wooden bucket brimming with well water, and with a casual, effortless tilt of his thick arms, he poured the icy water straight over his head.

It was only in moments like this, away from the cluttering crowds and the distracting noise of the hedge knights' camp, that the sheer, staggering reality of his size truly hit you.

He was vast.

Six foot seven, and closer to seven feet, the smallfolk whispered, but numbers did no justice to the physical presence of the man. His shoulders were a broad, unbroken expanse of heavy, sun-bronzed muscle, scarred here and there by the rough reality of a sellsword’s life, but unyielding as oak. As the water cascaded down his back, it clung to the deep ridges of his spine and defined the massive, powerful slope of his lats, highlighting a frame that looked less like a standard man and more like a pillar carved out of the earth itself.

He shook his head like a great hound, spraying water droplets into the dusty air, and let out a low, rumbling groan of relief that vibrated right through the soles of your boots.

When he turned around, wiping his dripping face with a rough rag, you forgot how to breathe.

The chest tapering down into his lean waist was thick enough to absorb the blow of a warhorse. His biceps were easily the size of a grown man’s thigh, corded with thick veins that pulsed with a quiet, terrifying strength. Yet, looking at him, you didn't feel afraid. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a sudden, dizzying warmth blooming low in your stomach, driven by a primal, intoxicating realization of just how easily this man could crush you—and how entirely safe you were in his shadow.

Dunk caught you looking. His bright blue eyes blinked through the wet strands of his sun-streaked hair, and a sudden, endearing flush of crimson crept up his thick neck, clashing beautifully with his rugged jaw.

"Something wrong with the leather?" he asked, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that seemed to echo in his massive chest. He dropped his arms, and the movement caused the muscles in his chest to flex prominently. "I know it’s a bit torn up. Old Ser Arlan didn't leave much in the way of coin for fine repair."

"No," you breathed, your voice sounding remarkably smaller than usual. You cleared your throat, forcing your eyes up from the ridged contours of his abdomen to his face. "No, the leather is fine, Dunk. I was just... thinking."

He took a step toward you, and the sheer length of his stride brought him into your personal space instantly. Standing before you, he completely blocked out the light from the forge fire, casting a massive, protective shadow over your entire form. You had to crane your neck fully back just to maintain eye contact with him.

"Thinking on what?" he asked softly. He reached out to take a mended strap from the table beside you.

As he did, his hand brushed against yours. His hand was enormous. His knuckles were thick, calloused, and scarred from a lifetime of fighting, his palm so wide that it could easily engulf both of your hands with room to spare. The sheer contrast between your sizes made your pulse spike. He was an absolute giant of a man, built for violence and warfare, a tower of muscle and steel that could tear down castle gates.

Dunk noticed your gaze drifting to his hand, then back up to his towering height. He paused, a sheepish, slightly self-conscious smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit that looked absurdly charming on a man of his stature.

"I’m a bit much to look at, I suppose," he mumbled, misinterpreting your wide-eyed silence. "A big, clumsy oaf of a hedge knight. Lanky, old Ser Arlan used to say, before I filled out."

"You're not clumsy, Dunk," you said, finding your voice at last. Guided by a sudden, bold impulse, you reached out and pressed your palm flat against the center of his chest.

His skin was burning hot, the coarse hair beneath your fingers crisp, and beneath the heavy muscle, you could feel the steady, thunderous rhythm of his heart. Your hand looked microscopic against him. You slid your palm slowly upward, tracing the hard, unyielding line of his collarbone, feeling the sheer density of his frame. He was pure, solid power.

Dunk froze, his breath catching sharply in his throat. He looked down at you, his blue eyes blowing wide, completely captivated and entirely at your mercy despite out-weighing you twofold.

"You're just... so big," you whispered, the confession slipping out, thick with a reverence that made his pupils dilate. "So incredibly strong."

A low, ragged breath escaped his parted lips. The vulnerability on his rugged face softened the terrifying imposing nature of his body. Slowly, as if terrified he might break you, his massive, calloused hand came up, his thick fingers gently bracketing your waist. The heat of his palm burned through your kirtle, his grip covering nearly half your torso, giving you a taste of the effortless, overwhelming strength hidden beneath his skin.

He pulled you just an inch closer, anchoring you against his massive frame, leaving no doubt in your mind that you were entirely, beautifully consumed by his size.

The heat of his palm against your waist seemed to melt away the last of the air between you. Dunk stared down at you, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged rhythms beneath your hand. For all his terrifying size and the sheer, brutal power coiled in his muscles, he was looking at you as if you held his entire world in your hands.

"You shouldn't say things like that to me," he rumbled, his voice dropping to a gravelly, low register that sent a delicious shiver straight down your spine. "I'm thick as a castle wall, you know that. I won't know what to do with myself if you keep looking at me like I'm something grand."

"But you are," you whispered, your fingers curling into the short, crisp hair of his chest, pulling yourself just a fraction closer until the tips of your breasts brushed against his bare skin. "You're everything, Dunk."

A low, guttural sound escaped the back of his throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender.

The hesitation that usually governed his gentle nature vanished. His massive hand at your waist tightened, his thick fingers digging in with a firm, possessive pressure that made you gasp against his chest. Before the breath could fully leave your lips, Dunk leaned down, his enormous shadow completely swallowing you as his mouth crashed onto yours.

The kiss was like a physical shockwave. Dunk didn't know how to love halfway; he kissed you with the same overwhelming force that he brought to the tilting grounds, but wrapped in a desperate, intoxicating tenderness. His lips were warm and slightly parted, tasting of iron, salt, and the fierce heat of the forge.

You let out a soft whine, your hands flying up his chest, past the hard slope of his collarbones to wrap securely around his thick neck. Tangling your fingers into the damp, sun-streaked hair at the base of his skull, you pulled him down deeper, silently begging him for more of his weight.

Dunk groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating directly into your chest. Losing his footing on reality entirely, his second hand came up, his massive palm cupping the back of your head, his thick fingers threading through your hair to tilt your face up to his exact angle. He pressed into you, his massive, hard chest flattening against yours, pinning you slightly against the edge of the sturdy wooden workbench behind you.

The sensation of being completely crowded by him, of his broad shoulders blocking out the entire world and his heavy thighs bracing against yours, made your head spin. He was so incredibly solid, an unyielding tower of muscle that entirely consumed your senses. Every instinct in your body flared with a wild, dizzying thrill at just how easily he could overpower you, yet the way his lips moved against yours was entirely reverent, treating you like the rarest silk in the Seven Kingdoms.

He drank the breath from your lungs, deep and thorough, until your knees felt like water. Sensing your sway, Dunk’s arm slid from your waist down to the small of your back, his bicep flexing like a band of iron as he effortlessly lifted you an inch off the ground, holding your weight against him as if you weighed nothing at all.

When he finally pulled away, it was only by a fraction of an inch. His forehead rested heavily against yours, both of your breaths mingling in hot, ragged gasps in the dim space of the smithy.

Dunk’s eyes slowly fluttered open, dark blue and glazed with a heavy, fierce affection. His thumb, thick and rough with calluses, gently brushed across your swollen lower lip, tracing the wetness left behind by his kiss. A soft, self-conscious smile tugged at his mouth, though his grip on your back didn't loosen even a fraction.

"I told you," he murmured, his deep voice wrapping around you like a heavy cloak, warm and utterly protective. "A big oaf."

You let out a breathless, giddy laugh, leaning your cheek against the burning skin of his massive shoulder, your small hands resting over his racing heart. "If you're an oaf, Dunk... then I never want to look at another knight again."

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Baelor Targaryen x female!reader

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The night before the trial, the air inside your pavilion was heavy with an unsettling stillness. The distant sounds of the camp—the murmuring of soldiers, the clinking of armor, and the nervous laughter of men who might die tomorrow—felt miles away.

Baelor stood by the central table, unbuckling his heavy sigil-engraved belt. His dark hair was damp with sweat, and the lines of exhaustion were etched deeply around his eyes.

"You’ve made your decision," you said softly, breaking the silence. It wasn’t a question. You knew your husband too well.

Baelor paused, turning his head to look at you. He let out a long, weary sigh and walked over to where you sat, kneeling gracefully before your chair so he could take both of your hands in his. His palms were warm, broad, and grounding.

"I have," Baelor murmured, his thumb gently tracing the back of your hand. "I am riding for Ser Duncan tomorrow. Alongside the Kingsguard, my brother, and my nephew."

Your heart seized, a cold dread twisting in your stomach. "Baelor... it is a Trial of the Seven. It’s madness. You are the Hand of the King, the Heir to the Iron Throne. You do not owe a wandering hedge knight your life."

"I owe the realm my justice," Baelor replied firmly, though his eyes softened as he looked at you. "If a prince can accuse a man falsely, twist the law to suit his cruelty, and face no consequence, then the crown means nothing. If I do not stand for what is right, who will?"

You stared at him, your throat tight with unshed tears. You loved him for this exact nobility—it was the very core of who Baelor was—but tomorrow, that same nobility would put him in front of lances and morningstars.

Slowly, you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his.

"Then you must promise me," you whispered fiercely, your breath shaking. "You fight for justice, Baelor, but you come back to me. To Valarr. Do not try to be a hero out of a singer's tale. Be careful. Watch Maekar—he is angry, and anger makes men reckless. Watch the Kingsguard. Promise me you will protect yourself first."

Baelor closed his eyes, bringing your hands up to press a tender, lingering kiss to your knuckles.

"I promise you, my love," he whispered against your skin, his voice steady and reassuring. "I will be careful. I’ll wear my heaviest steel, and I will return to this tent when the sun sets tomorrow."

You pulled back just enough to look into his dark eyes, nodding silently as you memorized every line of his face, praying with everything you had that the gods would hold him to his word.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

The roar of the crowd at Ashford Meadow had died down into a suffocating, panicked hum. The Trial of the Seven was over. Ser Duncan the Tall had survived, his name cleared, the honor of the smallfolk upheld. And your husband, Prince Baelor Targaryen—the Breakspear, the Hand of the King, the light of your life—stood victorious in the center of the tilting ground.

You stood just past the barriers, your hands tightly clasped against your chest. Your son, Valarr, had been pulled away just moments prior to attend to a minor squire's matter, leaving you alone to witness the aftermath.

Baelor looked magnificent, even battered and covered in the dust of the meadow. He walked with his usual regal stride toward the smith's tent, leaning slightly on his squire.

"Pate," Baelor’s voice was deep, but it sounded strangely hollow, echoing oddly beneath his great helm. "Help me with the helm. My crest is shorn away, and the... the air is thin."

Steely Pate nodded quickly, his rough hands working the heavy catches of the war-helm. "Aye, Your Grace. Right away."

You stepped closer, a sudden, cold dread seizing your chest. There was something wrong with the way Baelor was leaning. His breaths were too loud, rattling against the steel.

With a heavy grunt, Pate pulled the helmet free.

The sight made the breath catch violently in your throat. The back of Baelor's head was a horrific mass of shattered bone and dark, pooling blood—the devastating result of a terrible mace blow from his own brother, Maekar, hidden beneath the armor until this very moment.

Baelor blinked, his eyes unfocused, looking right through the smith. "My lord?" Pate whispered, his face draining of all color.

Baelor’s knees buckled.

"Baelor!"

You didn't think. You lunged forward, slipping past the panicked smith, your skirts bunching in the mud. As his massive, armored frame collapsed forward, you threw your body beneath him, catching his broad shoulders against your chest. The sheer weight of his armor nearly bore you down into the dirt, but you held him with a desperate, fierce strength.

He fell into your lap, his head cradled gently in your hands.

"Baelor, look at me. Look at me, my love," you choked out, your fingers immediately staining red as you held his head.

His dark eyes, usually so sharp and full of wisdom, drifted until they found your face. A faint, heartbreakingly soft smile touched his lips. He tried to speak—perhaps to tell you he loved you, perhaps to ask for Valarr—but no sound came out. The light in his eyes simply went out, like a candle snuffed by a sudden wind.

"No, no, no... Baelor, please!" you screamed into the open meadow, pulling his cooling face against your neck, sobbing hysterically as the realization washed over you. The crown prince was gone. Your world was gone.

The funeral was a blur of black silk, silver dragons, and the smell of burning wood. Highborn lords and ladies wept, speaking of the tragedy of the realm losing its greatest hope. But to you, they were mourning a crown; you were mourning a husband.

Your son, Valarr, stood beside you during the prayers, his jaw clenched so tightly it shook, a pale imitation of his father's stoic strength. But as the ceremony concluded and the bodies were prepared for their final journey to King's Landing, Valarr slipped away, unable to bear the heavy, suffocating condolences of the court. He sought solace somewhere in the quiet distance of the meadow, wanting to grieve his father in privacy.

You remained near the edge of the clearing, watching the smoke drift into the grey sky.

The heavy, dragging footsteps of a giant made you turn.

Ser Duncan the Tall approached slowly, his massive shoulders slumped, looking smaller than he ever had. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. He stopped a respectful distance away, his hands trembling at his sides.

"Your Grace," Dunk said, his voice cracking under an immense weight of sorrow. He couldn't even look you in the eye. "I... I don't have the words. If I hadn't asked him... if I hadn't been so stubborn about my honor, he never would have entered that clearing. He died because of me. He died for a hedge knight. I am so deeply, truly sorry."

He closed his eyes, bracing himself for your wrath, for the execution order, or at the very least, your hatred.

You looked at the young knight. You saw the raw, bleeding guilt eating him alive from the inside out. Slowly, you stepped toward him, your black veil shifting in the breeze.

"Look at me, Ser Duncan," you said softly.

Dunk forced his eyes open, looking down at you with pure misery.

"It is not your fault," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the grief tearing at your throat. "Do not carry a burden that does not belong to you. My husband did not die for a simple hedge knight. He died for justice. He died because he believed the laws of the realm should protect the smallest among us just as fiercely as the highest."

A tear slipped down Dunk's cheek, but he remained silent.

"Let me tell you about the man I loved," you continued, a faint, sad smile touching your lips as you looked past him, remembering. "Long before he was the Breakspear at Ashford, Baelor was a man who couldn't bear to see suffering. When he was just a boy, he gave his own winter cloaks to the smallfolk outside the Red Keep during a harsh freeze. He spent hours listening to the grievances of simple farmers, treating their words with the same gravity as a lord's decree. He was good, Ser Duncan. He was the best of us."

You stepped back, wrapping your dark shawl tighter around your shoulders. You looked at the giant knight one last time.

"He chose to fight for you because he saw that same goodness in you," you said gently. "Do not let his sacrifice be in vain. Go, Ser Duncan. Live a good life. Be the knight he believed you were."

Dunk bowed his head deeply, a profound, choked thank you leaving his lips.

You turned away from him, leaving the hedge knight with his future, and began the long, lonely walk across the trampled grass. In the distance, silhouetted against the fading light of the Ashford sun, stood Valarr, his shoulders shaking as he finally let his tears fall.

As you walked toward your son, you looked up at the sky, your heart aching with the lyrics of a song yet unwritten, mourning the brightest soul Westeros had ever known—the one that got away.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

Ser Duncan the tall x female!reader

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The tourney grounds at Ashford were a kaleidoscope of noise, color, and shifting bodies. Banners snapped in the brisk wind, hawkers screamed themselves hoarse over the price of meat pies, and the heavy thud of destriers’ hooves vibrated straight through the soles of your boots.

It was exhilarating, but it was also suffocating.

You stood on the edge of the main thoroughfare, wedged between a rowdy group of local smallfolk and a merchant's cart laden with casks of ale. Next to you, Egg—his straw hat pulled low to obscure his shaved head—was practically vibrating with excitement. He stood on his tiptoes, trying to peer over the wall of shoulders to see the squires preparing the lances.

"Ser Duncan! Look!" Egg shouted, pointing a small finger toward the eastern lists. "That’s the Fossoway crest! The red apple, not the green. Do you think he'll joust in the first tilt?"

Standing behind you both, looming like an oak tree among saplings, was Ser Duncan the Tall. He shifted his weight, his massive frame a natural barrier against the chaotic flow of the crowd. Dunk squinted toward the pavilions, his honest, weathered face crinkling in thought.

"Might be, Egg," Dunk said, his deep voice rumbling right above your ear. "But don't go wandering off to find out. Keep close. If I lose you in this press, I'll never find you again."

"I'm not a babe," Egg muttered, though he obediently took a half-step closer to Dunk’s side.

You smiled at the familiar bickering, but the warmth of the moment was quickly swallowed by a sudden, violent surge in the crowd. A roar went up from the stands—someone important had just ridden into the yard—and the thick sea of humanity buckled. A wave of spectators pushed backward to clear a path for a mounted knight's retinue, and the squeeze became instantly perilous.

A burly man in greasy leather stumbled back, his elbow nearly catching you in the jaw. You gasped, stepping back into the limited space behind you, but there was nowhere to go. You were about to be trampled or pinned against the rough, splintered wood of the merchant's cart.

Before panic could fully take root, a massive presence enveloped you from behind.

A large, calloused hand slid smoothly onto your waist.

The grip was gentle, careful not to bruise or alarm you, and entirely respectful of your space—yet it possessed a quiet, unyielding firmness that brooked no argument from the crowd around you. With a seamless, fluid motion, Dunk used that single hand to guide you backward and flush against his chest, completely lifting you out of harm's way and into the secure pocket of his shadow.

Your breath hitched. The sudden, overwhelming proximity to him sent a shockwave through your senses. Every bone in your body felt as though it had instantly melted into warm wax.

Dunk planted his boots and braced his broad shoulders, effectively forming a human fortress around you and Egg. The men who had been shoving a moment ago collided with Dunk's back and sides, only to bounce off him like water against stone. He didn't budge an inch.

"You alright?" Dunk asked, his voice dropping an octave, meant only for you.

You looked up, your back pressed securely against his tunic. Because of his towering height, you had to tilt your head all the way back. He was looking down at you, his hazel eyes filled with genuine, fierce concern. His hand was still resting on your waist, the heat of his palm burning right through the fabric of your kirtle.

"I—yes," you managed to breathe out, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, though no longer from fear of the crowd. "Yes, thank you, Ser Duncan."

A faint, endearing flush crept up Dunk’s neck, blooming across his cheeks as he realized he was still holding you. He didn't immediately pull his hand away, though. Instead, his thumb gave a tiny, almost imperceptible soothe against your hip before he slowly, reluctantly let his arm drop to his side.

"Good," he cleared his throat, looking away hastily to glare at a nearby drunkard who was getting too close. "Just... stay right there. Behind me. Both of you."

Egg glanced back, looking between you and the towering hedge knight with a knowing, entirely too-shrewd smirk on his young face. "Yes, Ser," Egg piped up, practically dripping with mock obedience. "We'll stay right where it's safe."

Dunk nudged the boy's shoulder with his boot, his blush deepening, but he didn't move an inch from where he stood. And as the crowd continued to roar and surge around you, you leaned just a fraction closer into Dunk's side, perfectly content to let the rest of the world rush by.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Here it is my fist a knight of the seven kingdoms fanfic, I have been rewatching it recently and I’m absolutely fallen in love with Duncan again.

(I just have something for big man)

Fili Durin x female!reader

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The Company’s campsite was rarely quiet, but tonight, the atmosphere was thick with the low, rumbling hum of dwarven chatter, the rhythmic scraping of a whetstone against steel, and the crackle of a roaring fire.

You sat a little ways back from the warmth, leaning against a moss-covered boulder, trying to patch a fraying seam in your traveling cloak. The firelight played tricks on your eyes, making the needlework twice as frustrating as it usually was.

"You're going to put your eye out if you keep frowning at it like that."

You looked up to see Fíli standing a few paces away. He had two wooden tankards of ale in his hands and that familiar, easygoing grin tugging at the corner of his lips. The fire caught the gold clasps in his braided hair, making them gleam against the dark backdrop of the woods.

"I am fighting for my life against a piece of thread," you admitted, letting your hands drop into your lap with a sigh. "And I think the thread is winning."

Fíli chuckled, stepping closer and offering you one of the tankards. "Here. A tactical retreat. Drink this, let your eyes rest, and then you can launch a counter-attack."

"My hero," you teased, taking the mug. Your fingers brushed against his—just a brief, casual second of contact—but it was enough to send a quiet spark straight up your arm.

Instead of heading back to where his brother, Kíli, was currently trying to juggle pinecones, Fíli hesitated. He cleared his throat, gesturing vaguely to the empty patch of grass beside you. "Mind if I sit?"

"Always."

He dropped down, his heavy fur coat rustling against yours as he settled in. For a few minutes, a comfortable silence stretched between you. You took a sip of the ale, enjoying the way the cool night air contrasted with the warmth of the fire and the steady, grounding presence of the blonde prince beside you.

You turned your head to say something—any casual remark about the trail or the weather—but when you looked at him, you caught him already staring at you.

He didn't look away. Instead, his gaze softened, tracing the line of your jaw, the stray hairs blowing across your face, and finally settling on your eyes. There was an intensity in his expression that hadn't been there a moment ago, something raw and unshielded.

Under his gaze, the words you had been about to say completely evaporated. Your mind went entirely, beautifully blank. You just sat there, holding your breath, caught in the gravity of him.

Fíli blinked, as if snapping out of a trance, and a sudden, uncharacteristic flush crept up his neck, dusting his cheeks beneath his golden beard. He looked down at his tankard, a breathless, self-deprecating laugh escaping him. He rubbed the back of his neck, his usual royal composure entirely deserting him.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a strange sort of frustration. "I'm doing it again."

"Doing what?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Fíli looked back up, his blue eyes searching yours, looking utterly defeated by whatever it was he was feeling.

"I genuinely don’t know why my brain just goes blank when I look at you," he confessed, shaking his head with a breathless laugh. "I think I’m going a little crazy."

Your heart did a violent, erratic dance against your ribs. "Crazy?"

"Completely," he said, shifting so he was facing you more fully, setting his drink aside. "I am a prince of Erebor. I’ve been trained to think on my feet, to command, to keep my wits about me in the middle of a battlefield. I can formulate a battle strategy under a hail of arrows. But I look at you, sitting here in the dirt with a needle and thread, and I forget my own name."

He reached out, his hand hovering for a fraction of a second before his knuckles gently brushed against your cheek, catching a strand of hair and tucking it behind your ear. His touch was incredibly warm against the crisp night air.

"It’s infuriating," he whispered, though his eyes were incredibly tender. "I spend all day thinking of things to say to you, clever things, funny things... and the moment you look back at me, it's just... gone. Total silence in my head. All I can think about is how much I want to be near you."

You swallowed hard, your hand trembling slightly as you set your own tankard down. The camp around you—the laughter of Bofur, the loud snores of Bombur, the clinking of weapons—all of it faded into distant background noise.

"Fíli," you breathed, leaning into his touch just a fraction. "You're not the only one. I completely forgot what I was about to say to you a second ago."

A slow, relieved smile broke through his anxiety, transforming his face. "Really?"

"Really," you smiled, reaching up to place your hand over his where it rested on your cheek. "If you're going crazy, at least we're losing our minds together."

Fíli let out a soft huff of laughter, his thumb caressing your cheekbone. The tension left his shoulders, replaced by a quiet, profound certainty. He leaned in a little closer, his forehead gently resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the cold air.

"I can live with that," he murmured, his eyes dropping to your lips before rising back to yours, silently asking for permission. "As long as I'm losing it over you."

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

But i will soon post again don’t be afraid!

Until then i am hoping everyone its doing good.

Part three

The company x female!reader

Summary: in which you officially enter Bag End, accidentally charm the Master of the House, and realize that being an Elf makes you much taller than the average Hobbit-sized ceiling.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The weight of the dwarves' collective suspicion was still heavy in the air, but the sudden, sharp creak of the round green door provided a much-needed distraction.

As Bilbo Baggins pulled the door open, his face was a mask of polite terror. He hadn't even finished his first "No, thank you!" before the physics of a dozen dwarves leaning against a door took over. With a chorus of surprised shouts and the clatter of weapons, the group tumbled forward.

Dori, Nori, Ori, Óin, Glóin, Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur collapsed into the hallway of Bag End in a chaotic heap of limbs, colorful hoods, and tangled beards. It was a literal wall of dwarf-flesh, groaning and grunting on the polished wooden floor.

You didn't wait for an invitation. Knowing exactly how crowded this hallway was about to get, you stepped over a stray boot—which you realized belonged to a disgruntled Glóin—and slipped inside. The transition from the cool night air to the warm, beeswax-scented atmosphere of the smial felt strangely grounding.

Gandalf ducked his head, his tall hat scraping against the low-hanging rafters as he strode in with the practiced ease of someone who had done this many times before. He barely looked down at the pile of dwarves, instead focusing on straightening his scarf.

You followed a few paces behind him, feeling painfully tall in the hobbit-sized corridor. As you passed a bewildered, sputtering Bilbo—who was currently trying to figure out how a wizard and a small army had invaded his privacy—you caught his eye.

Remembering your manners (and feeling a bit guilty for the chaos about to unfold in his kitchen), you gave him a small, awkward wave. Your fingers felt long and elegant, a stark contrast to the way you felt like a bumbling giant.

"Sorry about... all of this," you murmured, your voice soft and melodic.

Bilbo froze. He had been so preoccupied with the pile of dwarves on his rug that he hadn't fully processed your presence. His gaze traveled from your sturdy leather boots up to the mossy green of your tunic, and finally settled on your face.

His eyes widened as they hit your ears.

"An Elf?" he squeaked, his voice jumping an octave. He blinked rapidly, looking you up and down. To Bilbo, Elves were creatures of legend, usually found in the high woods or the valley of Rivendell—not standing in his hallway next to a pile of rowdy dwarves. "In... in Bag End? I mean, I’ve heard they’re very fond of... well, trees and starlight and such... but I didn't expect one to be... er... visiting."

He looked at your long, shimmering hair and then at the way you stood with a newfound, natural grace. Despite his panic over his pantry, his innate hobbit hospitality kicked in. It was a reflex he couldn't suppress, even in the face of a home invasion.

"You look a bit... peaked, my dear," Bilbo said, his shoulders dropping just an inch as he looked at your confused expression. "It’s a long way from wherever it is you’ve come from, I imagine. Perhaps... perhaps a cup of tea? I was just about to have one myself before... well, before the sky fell in."

You couldn't help but smile. It was so quintessentially Bilbo.

"Tea sounds wonderful, Mr. Baggins," you said. "Thank you."

Gandalf looked back over his shoulder, a glint of approval in his eyes as he watched the interaction. "A marvelous idea, Bilbo! And perhaps a few scones? Our friend here has traveled further than even a wizard’s map can show."

Bilbo nodded frantically, though his eyes darted back to the dwarves who were currently untangling themselves. Bofur had already stood up and was dusting off his hat, looking around at the pantry doors with a predatory gleam in his eye.

"Yes, yes, tea! And scones! And... oh dear, I think I have some cold chicken," Bilbo muttered to himself, momentarily forgetting his outrage in favor of his host duties.

He gestured vaguely toward the parlor. "Please, make yourself at home. Just... try not to knock over the grandfather clock. It’s an heirloom."

As Bilbo hurried off toward the kitchen, you stood in the hallway, watching the dwarves begin to explore Bag End with all the subtlety of a rockslide. You were inside. You were in the story. And for a moment, the scent of Bilbo’s tea brewing in the next room made the world of screens and dust feel like a very distant dream.

But the night was still young, and you knew the door hadn't finished opening just yet. There were more boots on the path, and a certain King Under the Mountain was still leagues away.

Thorin Oakenshield x gn!reader

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The halls of Erebor were cold, even with the Great Forge roaring once more. For Thorin Oakenshield, the chill didn't come from the stone, but from the quiet realization that his heart was no longer a fortress.

He stood on the battlements, his knuckles white as he gripped the frozen rampart. Below, the flickering lights of Dale twinkled like fallen stars, a reminder of a world rebuilding itself. He didn't need to turn to know you were there; he knew the weight of your step, the specific rhythm of your breathing. It was a familiarity that terrified him more than any dragon’s fire.

"The feast has begun," you said softly, coming to stand beside him. The wind caught your hair, and for a moment, the scent of pine and travel—the scent of the road that had brought you both here—cut through the smell of soot and old dust. "Bilbo is looking for someone to keep the dwarves from eating the table. And I... I was looking for you."

Thorin stared out at the darkened valley. "I am poor company tonight."

"You’re always poor company, Thorin. I’ve grown fond of the grumbling." You stepped closer, your shoulder nearly brushing his fur-lined cloak. "What is it? Is the gold-sickness whispering again? Or is it just the weight of the crown?"

"It is neither," he rasped, finally turning to look at you. The moonlight caught the silver in his beard and the deep, aching exhaustion in his eyes. "I don't want to love you. I don't like what that means for me."

The admission hung in the biting air, sharp and jagged. You didn't flinch, though your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. You searched his face, finding not the pride of a King, but the raw, exposed nerves of a man who had been stripped bare by tragedy.

"What do you think it means?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Thorin let out a breath that hitched in his chest, a ragged sound of defeat. He looked away, back toward the shadows of the mountain.

"It means I have something to lose again, and I’m not strong enough for that anymore."

He stepped toward you then, the heavy velvet of his robes rustling against the stone. His hand trembled as he reached out, hovering just inches from your face.

"I have spent my life losing everything," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, pained growl. "My home, my grandfather, my father... my very soul to the madness of my bloodline. I had finally reached a place where I was hollowed out. There was nothing left to break, for there was nothing left to hold. I was a weapon, forged for one purpose: to reclaim this rock."

His fingers finally closed the distance, brushing your cheek with a tenderness that felt like a plea.

"But then you came along. You shared my bread on the trail; you bandaged my wounds when I was too proud to ask. You filled the empty spaces I had spent decades boarding up. If the shadow takes me, or if the mountain falls again, I can endure it because I have endured it before. But I cannot endure the thought of the world existing without you in it."

He leaned in closer, his blue eyes searching yours for a way out—or perhaps a reason to stay.

"To love you is to give the world a weapon to use against me," he whispered. "It makes me a coward, for I am suddenly, desperately afraid to die. I find myself looking at the horizon and fearing the dawn, because every sunrise is a day closer to the moment I might lose you."

You reached up, covering his hand with yours, pressing his palm firmly against your face. His skin was calloused and warm, the hand of a warrior who had finally found something worth more than gold.

"Then be a coward with me, Thorin," you replied, your voice steady despite the tears pricking your eyes. "You've spent seventy years being a king of stone and shield. Try being a man of flesh for a while. Let the mountain stand on its own. Just for tonight, let yourself belong to someone, not something."

Part two

The company x female!reader

Summary: in which you become the subject of a Dwarven interrogation on Bilbo’s doorstep and realize that "Elven grace" is hard to maintain when you're being poked with an ear trumpet.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The sun had begun to dip below the rolling hills of the Shire, casting long, amber shadows across the manicured gardens of Hobbiton. You stood just outside the round, green door of Bag End, the wood-smoke scent of the chimneys mingling with the crisp evening air. Beside you, Gandalf stood like a weathered monolith, his staff planted firmly in the dirt, but you were acutely aware that you were no longer the tallest person in the immediate vicinity.

You were, however, the most scrutinized.

Clustered around the porch and spilling onto the stone walkway was a riot of colorful hoods, thick beards, and the heavy scent of wet wool and iron. The first wave of Thorin’s company had arrived, and they were currently treating you like a structural anomaly they couldn't quite calculate.

Dori, the eldest of the three brothers, was adjusting his fine cloak, his eyes darting from your pointed Elven ears to your travel-stained Wood-elf boots with a look of pinched skepticism. He leaned toward Ori, the youngest, who was frantically scribbling in a leather-bound journal.

"An Elf, Gandalf?" Dori’s voice was a low, disgruntled rumble. "In the Shire? It’s unnatural. They usually stay tucked away in their gilded halls, singing to the stars and eating nothing but lembas and moonlight."

Ori peeked out from behind his brother’s shoulder, his wide eyes full of an innocent, scholarly curiosity. "She doesn't look like the ones in the history books, Dori. Her clothes... they look like they’ve seen a bit of a scuffle. Did you fight a spider, Miss?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but a heavy hand landed on your shoulder. It was Bofur, identifiable by his floppy-eared hat and a grin that seemed permanently etched into his face. Unlike the others, his gaze was warm, though no less intense.

"Leave the lass be, Dori! She looks like she fell out of a tree and landed right in the middle of a wizard’s mischief," Bofur joked, though he leaned in a bit closer, sniffing the air near your sleeve. "Say, you don’t happen to have any Elven wine tucked away in those pockets, do you? It’s a long walk from the Blue Mountains, and my throat’s as dry as a dragon’s sneeze."

Behind him, the massive frame of Bombur shifted, causing the wooden porch to groan under his weight. He wasn't staring at your ears; he was staring at your hands, as if checking to see if you were carrying a tray of appetizers. Beside him, Bifur grunted something in Khuzdul, gesturing wildly with his hands toward his own forehead, his eyes wild and fixed on the way your new, long hair caught the dying light.

"He wants to know if you're a scout," Nori translated, his hair braided into three distinct points that defied gravity. He was leaning against the stone wall, his arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning you for any hidden daggers or valuables. "He says you’re too quiet. Dwarves like a bit of noise. Keeps the cave-ins away."

Óin and Glóin, the older duo, were huddled together a few feet away. Óin held a large, brass ear trumpet toward you, squinting through heavy brows.

"What’s that? A Wood-elf?" Óin shouted, though you were standing right there. "I heard they’re flighty! Give 'em a bow and they’ll vanish into the leaves before you can say 'good morning'!"

Glóin nodded fervently, stroking his fiery red beard. "And they're expensive to keep! Do we have to share the treasure with her? That wasn't in the contract, Gandalf! One fourteenth for the burglar, and now an Elf? We’ll be walking home with nothing but our socks at this rate!"

The weight of their collective stares was heavy. It wasn't just curiosity; it was centuries of cultural friction, a deep-seated Dwarven suspicion of anything that came from the forests. You felt like a specimen under a microscope, your heart fluttering against your ribs. You didn't know the songs of the Woodland Realm or the politics of Mirkwood. You just knew that five minutes ago, you were eating popcorn, and now you were being debated by a group of legendary warriors who smelled vaguely of goats.

Gandalf let out a sharp, authoritative huff, the sound echoing off the round door.

"Enough! All of you!" the wizard commanded, his voice vibrating in the small space. He looked down at you, his expression softening for a fraction of a second before he turned a stern eye back to the company. "This lady is a traveler of... unique circumstances. She has come a very long way, farther than any of you can imagine, and she shall be treated with the hospitality of the Road."

He leaned down, whispering just loudly enough for you to hear over the grumbling of Glóin.

"Don't mind them, my dear. Dwarves have a habit of measuring everything by its weight in gold or its sturdiness in a fight. Just stand tall. You have the grace of the Firstborn now—try not to let them see you fidget."

You took a deep breath, smoothing the suede of your tunic. You looked at the gathered dwarves—the braided beards, the notched axes, the skeptical glints in their eyes—and felt a strange, terrifying spark of excitement.

Before you could say a word in your own defense, the door behind you swung open with a violent jerk. A very flustered, very small man with a checkered waistcoat stood there, looking absolutely horrified at the crowd on his doorstep.

"Yes? What? Who? No!" Bilbo Baggins stammered, his eyes landing first on the dwarves, then on the tall, grey wizard, and finally, with a look of pure bewilderment, on you.

The adventure hadn't even reached the dining room table yet, and you were already the most interesting thing in the Shire.