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We all know Baelor has a pretty voice that makes Dunk melt. But Dunk also has such a pretty voice, I would like to read a fic where it makes Baelor melt and giggle and feel really silly and young again about it.
I have no idea how tf this would work, timeline- and age-wise. However.
AU where Baelor didn't actually die at Ashford but everyone still BELIEVES he died. In reality, he just fell unconscious with a bad case of brain damage before a spy (for who you? No idea either. But there are enough people who have a bone to pick with the Targs at this point) disguised at as a maester whisked him away from Dunk's arms and quickly came up with a lie to tell everyone else. Stealing and swapping out the body to make it look like they'd really burned him at his funeral pyre.
The rest of the story then proceeds to go relativley normally, same way it did in canon, until shortly after Egg's ascension to the throne. Dunk's out on his last travel tour through Westeros before settling down and becomming a Kingsguard on the request of Egg, trying to savour his freedom a little bit longer before being stuck in Kingslanding or whatever, just wanting to have a good time. When suddenly, out of nowhere, he stumbles upon an abnormally familiar looking slave while out in the less savoury parts of the land.
here, have a little pre-dunk/baelor, getting ready to ride into battle.
(sorry to say it's not part of any larger fic)
“Are you afraid, Ser Duncan?” Baelor asked. It was without judgement.
“No, Your Grace.” Dunk said, though he had thrown up thrice that morning while Egg was helping him get his armor on, and still felt vaguely shaky.
“I'll have the truth, if it pleases you.”
Baelor would have the truth whether it pleased him or not, Dunk knew, so he did not bother to lie a second time. “I've not fought in a proper battle before, not like this, the closest thing was Ashford Meadow but that was just against seven. Thousands is madness.”
“You do not have to fight them all yourself Ser. Our forces are evenly matched. Can you fight one man and win?”
It was not near as simple as that, Dunk knew, he answered regardless, “Yes, Your Grace.”
“A sorry knight you'd be if you'd said no,” Baelor said lightly, “Do you trust that the men on either side of you can fight one man and win?” Dunk looked left, and then right. Ser Donnel, Ser Roland.
“I’m not so sure about Ser Donnel, I've seen him in the training yard,” Dunk said, which earned a loud protest from Ser Donnel, and a bark of laughter from Ser Roland. The corners of Baelor's lips quirked up in the barest hint of a smile, but Dunk knew he was waiting for a proper answer. “I reckon they'd both manage one man though Your Grace.”
“And you must trust that I can best one man,” Baelor said, and there was no question this time. Dunk thought he could best ten men. A hundred. He did not say so, he only nodded. Baelor continued, “Excellent. The same is true for each man among us. That is all that must be done, and the battle will be won.”
Baelor was oversimplifying it terribly. There were archers and some men might be trampled by horses or desert before the battle or be killed in the first charge and once the battle started it was never really just one man fighting another, you had to be ready for another attacker and Dunk had to watch Baelor too, and the kingsguard, and
Baelor seemed to be able to read Dunk's thoughts, he put his hand on Dunk's shoulder and gave him a gentle shake, “Ser Duncan. One man, that is all. And once you have done that, one more man, and one more after that. You will serve me admirably, I have no doubt.”
It was all very easy for Baelor to say, who had been putting down rebellions in his father's name since the Blackfyres had staked their first claim at the iron throne. Had he ever been sick from nerves while getting his armor on? Dunk doubted it. The thought made Dunk smile despite himself, he could hear Ser Arlan’s voice in his head. As brave as Baelor Breakspear. He did not think the old man had ever said that thinking one day Dunk would ride into battle alongside the man himself. To imagine trying to explain everything that had happened since Ser Arlan's death to lead to this moment was so absurd that it startled a small, perhaps mildly hysterical, laugh out of Dunk.
Baelor raised an eyebrow in question. Dunk flushed, it probably sounded like he had been laughing at Baelor. Embarrassing though it was, he hurried to explain himself.
“It's just that when I was a boy the old man used to tell me I had to be as brave as Baelor Breakspear. It seems I've not yet managed it.”
Dunk had some idea that if he looked at the kingsguard now they would be making exaggerated faces of disgust, as they often did whenever Dunk recalled some exaggerated tale of Baelor's gallantry, or bravery, or chivalry. They had served the prince for many years now, and the shine of legend had long since worn off, replaced by easy familiarity, a closeness with Baelor that Dunk was not sure he would ever be able to manage without embarrassing himself.
It was worth it though, for all the tales and songs and stories about him, the man was apparently not immune to flattery; his face broke into a proper smile, and while his eyes were alight with amusement, it did not feel to Dunk like it was at his expense. Baelor seemed to sit a little straighter in the saddle, looking as proud as a dragon ought to.
“Is that so? Well, I best set a good example then.” Baelor said, and to Dunk's immense surprise, winked at him. Dunk sat there rather stupidly for a moment, trying to come up with an appropriate response, but before he could manage Baelor said, “I must go have a word with Ser Leo, I'll be back,” and put his spurs to his mare and cantered away.
The moment he was gone, Dunk turned to Ser Roland and Ser Donnel, looking for some confirmation that he had not imagined the entire interaction. The two had clearly been suppressing their laughter, but once Baelor was out of earshot they erupted in mirth.
“Oh do be brave Ser Duncan,” Ser Donnel cooed at him, which sent Ser Roland into another fit of laughter that rendered him beyond words. Dunk bore their mockery silently, as he rather thought the whole thing was so absurd he ought to be laughing himself.
Once they had both calmed down, some time later, Ser Roland said “Honestly Dunk, you can't keep telling him that shit, it goes straight to his head, I mean did you see how he rode off,” he thrust his shoulders back and puffed out his chest, and spurred his horse to canter in a tight circle around Dunk, and at that, Dunk did laugh.
bc i stay loving epistolaries but also i imagine Dunk can’t write super well for the first few years of their relationship. Instead, he does send Baelor beautiful sketches of where he’s been (flowers and trees and cute animals and sketches of people who have been kind to him, market scenes, etc.) and little cartoons making fun of people—Maekar with steam coming out of his ears at the sight of Aegon’s bald head, Maester the donkey lecturing Daeron on his drinking habits, tiny Eggs with egg themed captions (he’s sprawled in the dust post training and the caption is ‘scrambled egg’; he’s sweating under the dornish, ‘boiled egg’).
baelor does keep them all. He ends up pulling some of them out so often, he needs to get them framed in glass so the oil of his hands don’t degrade more of the paper.
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shoutout to everyone in small fandoms who takes a character with one minute of screentime and decides to build an entire universe around them. to the oc creators, the rarepair shippers, the canon-divergence enthusiasts and the people who can’t stop asking “but what if?” and then proceed to spend 50k words answering their own question.
i genuinely think your joy is contagious. fandoms grow because people see someone having fun and think, “wait, i want to play too.” <3
On a serious note, Maekar would defend Baelor's right to marry Dunk so hard in public despite being against their relationship in private
That's his brother his best friend his family, if he wants to marry a man he can bloody well do so! And being petty and stubborn, Maekar would take it so far
He'd fistfight the high septon! And marry some guy himself just to make a point! The peasants are rioting cause they want to be openly gay too? LET THEM! Maekar officiates lesbian weddings now, everybody gets a cake and a "Congratulations on your fucking marriage!" He doesn't remember his new husband's name and the guy is some random knight who thought they were only joking, now he has to look after 5 kids and fluff Maekar's pillows or whatever
I had to redraw this as Maekar for obvious reasons. I'll let you decide why he's using a hello kitty phone case but I think we can all agree either Rhae or Daella had something to do with it
An AU I rotated in my head in the traffic on the way home from grocery shopping. Feat the gods, hedge magic, and DunkBaelor
Dunk doesn’t argue about the Trial of Seven. He accepts it with more grace than Baelor would have, if he had been in the knight’s place. And what’s more, if Baelor’s not mistaken, the hedge knights seems… amused. But that can’t be right, surely?
“You will find six men?” Baelor asks, just to be certain. Ser Duncan hums, his eyes glittering.
“I already have my six, your grace. I shall be ready come the morn,” the hedge knight assures him. Baelor feels discomforted. He’s missed something, he just doesn’t know what.
“Will you stay with me a while, Ser Duncan?” he asks, hoping to have the opportunity to try and weasel out whatever it is that he’s failed to pick up on. And, if he can convince the tall knight into his bed, well, that’s neither here nor there. Ser Duncan smiles, a soft, beautiful, terrible thing.
“Ask me again after the Trial, your grace,” Ser Duncan says, dipping his head before he turns and leaves without being dismissed. The sheer gal of this man is… well, it’s certainly intriguing. Ser Duncan has his attention.
--
Baelor watches with a furrowed brow as Ser Duncan rides forward on his horse, alone. His helm tucked under his arm.
“Could you not find six men to stand for you, ser?” Aerion calls, mocking. Ser Duncan merely smiles.
“Nay, my prince. You asked for a Trial of Seven, I have Seven,” Ser Duncan says, his voice starting to take on an odd, almost other-worldly quality. “The Seven Who Are One,” he states and there is a flash of light and six ghostly figures form from out of the mist, atop ghostly horses of their own.
“In the name of the Warrior,” a dead man calls, as Baelor stares at the ghostly figure of his once knight master, his great uncle Aemon, the Dragonknight. “I charge you to be brave.”
“In the name of the Father,” his own father says, the smile on his face the one he wears when he’s about to absolutely shred someone in council. “I charge you to be just.”
“In the name of the Mother,” his mother says, and gods, but Baelor had almost forgotten the sound of her voice in the years she’s been dead. “I charge you to defend the young and innocent.”
“In the name of the Maid,” Ser Duncan says, a vicious smile on his face. “I charge you to defend all women,” the knight says, his eyes blazing fire as they stare Aerion down.
“In the name of the Smith.” Baelor is relatively certain that one is his own namesake, Baelor I. “I charge you to mend what has been broken, put to rights what has been torn asunder.”
“In the name of the Crone,” his grandmother says, eyes dark as they look upon Aerion, flickering to Maekar, and Daeron, then back to Aerion. “I charge you to light the way forward, a shining beacon for all to follow after.”
“In the name of the Stranger,” a hooded, figure states, head bowed. Their voice is ambiguous, neither male nor female, neither young nor old. “I charge you to uphold these vows until your last breath leaves your body, and you come into my halls.”
“This is ridiculous!” Aerion exclaims, but when Baelor looks at him, he can see the terror in his nephew’s face, in his eyes. Baelor cannot blame him. He would not want to be facing the might of the Seven, either.
“You asked for a Trial of Seven, little one,” Baelor’s mother says, the smile on her face is all teeth. It’s the smile she used to wear when she has planted traps and just seen someone willingly stick their foot in one. “Is it not all that you hoped it would be?”
“No, if he knew the truth of his favoured ancestor, he would have been smart enough to recant,” Baelor’s father says, cocking his head to the side.
“You see, little fool,” grandmother says, a dark smile on her face that Baelor doesn’t think he ever saw in life. “Maegor died on the field that day, but he was not one of ours.”
“No,” Baelor I says, inclining his head. “Maegor followed the Fourteen, and they were still so strong then. Alive, not quite thriving, no, but certainly still a force to be reckoned with.”
“And, let us not forget, there was the Great Balerion, too” the Stranger says, annoyed. “The Great Dread funneling his life into Maegor's, even as I tried to snuff it out in my hand.”
“Do you have a dragon, little Maegor?” Mother asks, laughing at her own question. The sound one Baelor doesn’t think he’s ever heard. “No. You have no dragon and you do not follow the Fourteen, you do not even follow the Old Gods, little monster. You’re ours and ours you will remain, even if we choose to let you crawl from this field like the wretched creature you are.”
“I have not decided yet,” the Stranger says, cocking their hooded head to the side. Baelor can just make out a pair of glowing embers hidden in the hood. “Let us dance, little Maegor, and I shall see the true worth of your heart and decide whether I allow you to see another dawn.”
“Wait, wait-!” Aerion exclaims, but Aemon snarls.
“If you retract your accusation now, without even a token effort to fight, I will brand you a coward and personally deliver your heart to the Stranger myself. Stand and fight or die in the mud as you deserve, little Maegor,” Aemon states. Aerion shivers then bows his head.
The Trial commences. Ser Duncan handedly beats Aerion to a pulp, before turning to the Stranger to wait quietly for his judgement as Aerion yields.
“The Mother wanted him to craw off the field, our Maiden,” the Stranger points out. Ser Duncan hesitates for a second then drops Aerion to the floor. “Crawl, little dragon. Crawl away like the cowardly, wretched, little thing that you are. I will weigh your life in my hands every morning for as long as you live. If you are found wanting… well, I’m sure you can figure that out. Afterall, I caught up with Maegor, too, eventually,” the Stranger declares, then turns and steps into the mist.
“Aerion of the House Targaryen, you are forsworn. You are not now, and never shall you be, again, a Knight of the Seven. Never call upon me ever again,” Aemon says, before he, too, turns and steps into the mist. One by one, the other Seven turn and step into the mist, until there is only Ser Duncan and Aerion’s seven in the mud of the tourney field.
--
“How did you do that?” Baelor asks, as he pushes a goblet of wine into Ser Duncan’s hands sometime after the end of the Trial.
“Hedge knight magic,” Ser Duncan says, with a little hum. “So long as the knight under Trial can represent an aspect of the Seven, they can beseech the others to make their will known.”
“You could have failed?” Baelor asks, Dunk inclines his head.
“Yes, but if I didn’t have the favour of the Seven anyway, then what would be the point?” Dunk asks. Baelor sighs, then he furrows a brow.
“You represented the Maiden?” Baelor asks, Dunk laughs, his cheeks flushing.
“Well, it was fitting, given the whole reason for this stupid trial in the first place, but… only those who are still ‘pure’ can represent the Maiden,” he says, smiling. Baelor blinks.
“Is that… why you told me to wait until after the Trial?” he asks, flushing even against his best attempts not to.
“Maybe?” Dunk says, putting the wine goblet down, and leaning forward towards Baelor, his eyes glittering. “If you’re still interested?”
“Oh, Ser Duncan,” Baelor says, setting his own goblet down with a thunk. “The gods themselves could not douse the flames of my interest,” he says, crossing the room to press his lips to Dunk’s own.
“Well,” Dunk says, as he tugs and Baelor suddenly finds himself in Dunk’s lap. “I figure, next time, I’ll be the Warrior,” Dunk says, before his lips are back on Baelor’s and Baelor doesn’t have thought for anything else.
Prev tags love it!#do the seven appear the way they look to Baelor because that's how he perseves those aspects?#or did they just pick forms that would resonate with the most people on the opposite side?#essential what I'm asking is: is the image of Dyanna dayne telling Aerion to go fuck himself?#little maegor holy shit
Yes, the image of Dyanna is currently telling Aerion he ain't shit XD He's taking epic emotional damage rn. He will never emotionally or financially recover from this.
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Walk with me people- The Mummy 1999 film/AKOTSK mashup AU.
Prince Baelor is Evelyn- Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne, and history nerd extraordinaire. The man can read and translate ANY dialect of Valyrian, no matter how obscure. He also cannot believe no one wants to listen to his explanations of the engineering principles behind ancient Valyrian masonry.
Dunk as Rick O'Connell, a humble Hedge Knight who stumbles upon an ancient Valyrian artifact while working as a sellsword in Essos after the death of his master Ser Arlan of Pennytree. Dunk ends up in a prison cell in Kings Landing after a Tanselle type situation. He cannot believe this is now his problem.
Bloodraven as Jonathan Carnahan, who goes to question Dunk personally. There are whispers the Blackfyres are searching for this Hedge Knight and he needs to know why yesterday. Bloodraven realizes Dunk is carrying the relic which contains a map to an ancient tomb located in Old Valyria- a tomb that promises immense, consuming power to those who open it. The power of Fire and Blood. The power of Dragons.
There is also a warning- "Let none seek what was buried beneath the Fourteen Fires."
Bittersteel acting as Beni Gabor, desperate to find and harness this power no matter what it takes. No matter how many people need to die to obtain it. Bittersteel thinks he can harness this power for himself, for his own purposes. Bittersteel is very wrong.
Remnants of the Rhoynar acting as the Medjai, sworn to guard the tomb from outsiders. Their swords and their magic are part of the reason no one ever returns from Old Valyria. They will make sure no one awakens what has been buried beneath the ash and bone of thousands fed to the Fourteen Flames.
Which of course is Imhotep- this character was Chief Bloodmage of the Freehold. His name? Unimportant. A former slave, he rose to power by turning on his fellow captives. Extraordinarily gifted, he becomes worst than any master that came before him. He's the one that ultimately made Old Valyria work. He kept the volcanos restrained. He crafted the spells. He held immense power but it wasn't enough. He wanted more. He wanted immortality.
The price of that, the horror that would inflict on the world was too much for even the ancient Valyrians and that says something. He was contained to this tomb. But something went very wrong in the process and that is the ultimate thing that lead to The Doom.
He's been patient. He's been waiting. And he's ready to take what is his by rights, with Fire and Blood- The World.
@sevenums I love your tags so much 😭 everytime you show up in my notifs, I hunker down for some enjoyable reading. I prepare my neck muscles so I can nod aggressively. I soften my beard so I can stroke it meaningfully, etc etc
@hardsaltdilf, @bleakflamingos that stupidly pretty prince and his himbo knight... they haunt me so much rambling in the tags has become some kind of necessary exorcism... thank you, though, for sharing in (and enabling!) these heathen rituals *hands off beard oil*
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