a little snippet of a dunkbaelor ella enchanted au i'm trying to very hard write
The stranger cocked his head: a slight forward and sideways tilt of his head, eyebrows lifting to create folds on his forehead. That look was telling Dunk that he was expecting something from him and again that feeling of being perceived as stupid resurfaced. “Take a guess.”
That makes one, Dunk started his count, as he did with every new person he met. It was a horrible habit he’d developed before he met Ser Arlan, when Rafe had figured out he was cursed by mere happenstance. “You poor fool,” she’d said with rarely shown sincerity. “Ain’t none of us that care to mind our words, ‘specially not here. Should be payin’ more attention to how much people tell you what to do. You can’t be lettin’ people take advantage of you more’n you already fucking do.”
I can’t help it, he wanted to say but couldn’t because the damned curse never let him open his mouth about it. He said nothing instead, letting it do its work on him at Rafe’s words. He was of a mind to call her out on her own slip, but he didn’t much feel like upsetting her anymore than he already did. But he held her words close to his heart, and his grip on them turned viselike when she was gone.
The curse steered him into looking at the stranger again: he saw the same person as before. He looked and looked, and things started to connect. The regal air, the dark skin and hair. That violet eye, the one that had tickled something at the back of his mind earlier. He remembered then the stories he’d heard, about the colour of Targaryen eyes, dragon eyes, and their hair like gold-spun silver. But this man had no such hair nor was he of their pale complexion, which damned him in the eyes of the noble houses. They spoke of the Prince of Dragonstone with barely contained disdain, claiming that his Dornish blood would one day be the ruin of the realm.
“Baelor Breakspear,” the name came to him. But he couldn’t possibly be. Could he? Seven above, whatever he was doing with his face kicked the doubt straight of Dunk. Fuck, it is him, the fucking heir to the throne, the Hand of the King and surely he has a whole other list of godsdamned titles, Dunk thought in a panic. “Fuck,” he said before he could catch himself, then he felt his whole face go red. He fell into a kneel and cursed himself again. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace! Ser Arlan, the knight I squired for, he always said I was thick as a castle wall and slow as an aurochs.”