TELL ME WHERE THE GOOD MEN GO

They'd traveled four days north from Moat Cailin before bandits overtook them. There was no time to know if the attack had been sudden or if any of their own men had been silently slaughtered in the dark beforehand. Sansa only knew there was shouting, bolting upright as the wall of their tent came crashing down and Lord Baelish hurried her out and into the bitter cold. In the dark of the evening she saw figures struggling, far more than the half dozen that had accompanied them from the Vale. She shrieked as someone ripped her from her custodian and flung her across a saddle, taking off into the blackness. It felt like both forever and mere moments before she hit the hard ground, dazed and unable to adjust her vision. She heard a horse cry out, heard stomping, grunts and more thrashing, then a large, looming silhouette had approached her, sword in tow....

That had been hours ago, though the grey, stormy sky makes exact time of day impossible to tell. If any path lay nearby it was masked in white, wind whistling and shrieking through the gaps in the wood around them. Sansa sits with her back to the corner, for what protection it's worth, and clutches her cloak around her, thankful as she shivers to have had it close enough at hand in the night to grab upon retreat. Her eyes fall to the man tending his horse at the other end of the barn, watching his movements, gauging for signs of aggression. He hasn't harmed her yet, hasn't even said a cross word in her direction, but brutal experience has taught her harsh lessons, made her wary of any and everyone.

"Ser! Ser Duncan! You have to come! Aerion's hurting her!"' "Hurting who?"

    do   you   want   a   certain   kind   of   ship   with   my   muse  ?   check   out   the   key   below   &   send   me   a   symbol   to   tell   me   what   kind   of   ship   you   want   !     note  :    my   muse   =   blog   owner’s   muse     /     your   muse   =   sender’s   muses

romantic relationships !

💘  friends to lovers ❣️  enemies to lovers 💜  love at first sight 💙  slow burn 💚  skinny love 💔  exes to lovers again 🖤  on again , off again

familial relationships !

🌼  older sibling 🌺  younger sibling 👭  twins 🌻  friends like siblings 🍃  cousins 🌵  parental

friend relationships !

☀️   best friends 🌦   enemies to friends 🌈   friends since childhood  ⛅️  friends of circumstance  ☁️  school friends  🌩  friends from traumatic experiences

enemy relationships !

[ invite ]  dunk inviting baelor to sit on their lap . [ phm!au w/ baelor getting used to his wacko human limbs / fingies / etc ]

This body was new. Awkward, gangly, and lacking the grace of his other forms. Baelor grumbled at its limited sight ( how did anyone work with such restricted vision ? ), which only added to the feeling of being caged in his mind. He would grow accustomed to it, he supposed — it wasn't unlike when he was young and disliked changing his size. The alien lifted his fingers as he moved toward Dunk, clad in thin clothing the engineer scrounged up from the belongings of his dead crewmates, and wiggled them. This distraction caused him to lose awareness of his feet, however, and he stubbed his toe on the edge of the ball that he often rolled around Dunk's ship in.

Baelor growled at the pain, spreading like a sting from a hostile plant on Valyria his creator used to warn him to avoid as a newly - hatched thing. He fumbled away from the ball, wincing at his sore foot and the scratching in his throat. All of his vocalizations were too harsh on it.

Dunk's laughter was kind and perhaps the first soothing noise to reach Baelor's human ears. His head turned to look at the engineer, eyes glowing. The gestures from Dunk's hands indicated a sort of come here, if Baelor's knowledge from the human films Dunk had shown him was correct. Baelor trilled softly and stumbled his way closer. He lowered himself to sit on Dunk's lap, facing toward him. Dunk was warm, but Baelor was warmer still.

With heavy breathing that resembled his true self's huffing, Baelor pressed a palm to Dunk's chest. It was light at first — and then the alien smacked it, and smacked harder, like a baby learning how to move its joints. That, too, produced a gradual sting that Baelor seemed to dislike. His tongue swiped over his lips, and he croaked out something behind those ( terrible, terrible ) flat teeth.

❝Itchy,❞ Baelor complained, pulling his fingers back to tug at the shirt draped over him. The alien's inflection mimicked the translator Dunk had built, as though Baelor were trying to make himself sound like the synthetic voice programmed to it. Over time, maybe, he would become more natural sounding.

He'd had Baelor's little ball on his lap before, and so it stood to reason that he could have him sat there without the ball, too. Questions about Baelor's change in make-up and density rose in Dunk's mind, but as the Valyrian's weight pressed itself onto Dunk's thighs, what measure of control he might have had faded away. He had imagined Baelor would be cool, considering his propensity for warmer conditions, but the creature that pressed into him felt like a star condensed in human form.

Dunk's face warmed, even as found himself laughing around a "what are you doing". But between Baelor's easy slaps and all the fidgeting he made in discomfort, he couldn't not laugh, not when he was so happy.

"I know you always have a lot to say," he started, setting his hands on Baelor's waist, "but it's bloody unreal hearing you keep goin' like this, you know that?"

The touch on his middle felt too intimate, so Dunk moved up to Baelor's arms, then shoulders, then gave up entirely to cup either side of his neck and rub at his jawline with his thumbs. Gods, his skin was soft.

"You're wearing clothes 'cause it's inappropriate for humans to go around without." Dunk's thumbs pressed gently into Baelor's cheeks, watching the flesh dip under the pressure. "Do you see me take my clothes off around you? No, 'cause I'd look a right fool if I did.

A   STUDY   IN   ──────   THE   YOUNGEST   DAUGHTER,   RUNT   OF   THE   LITTER,   FINDING   OF   SELF   AND   AUTONOMY,   LITTLE   REBELLIONS,   PREY   FERAL   ANTICS,   VANITY,   TEMPESTOUSNESS,   HOPELESS   ROMANTICISM,   NEVERENDING   WHIMSY,    AND   YEARNING. 

Still, he kept that bit of information under wraps for the moment and simply appreciated the good intentions of the larger man.

"I suppose laying beneath the stars is a pleasure I've not taken in some time," Fiyero began, settling into the grass further as he shifted his arms behind his head to serve as a makeshift pillow. "And perhaps we both could use some company."

Truthfully, the young lord had been so wrapped up in his duties as of late, he hadn't really had any moment to simply exist.

"Is this why you'd prefer to stay out here? The stars? I've heard of others saying that they'd grown so accustomed to the firmness of earth that they are incapable of enjoying the softness of a bed. I couldn't quite figure out if that were true for you as well."

There was no accusation or malice in his tone, simply a curiosity at the other's habits. Still, no matter how accustomed the hedge knight was to the bare minimum, Fiyero wanted to do right by the man.

Dunk lifted the blanket from where it was draped over one shoulder, offering some space for Fiyero to squeeze into if needed. Having been a furnace to many people in his life, the offer came as easily as breathing.

"Spoiling's not so bad, eh? When I'm aching, a featherbed comes so easy to melt into it might as well be butter."

Dunk almost asked if Fiyero understood what he meant, but supposed a pretty lord like him wouldn't have to. Not to discount the man's experiences in battle (of which Dunk knew little, naturally), but there was something about nearly dying in the mud that made his pain go deeper than bone. Dunk didn't recall the events of the Trial of Seven itself nearly as much as he did its aftermath, but he did remember never feeling more close to death in his life.

So he continued, "The best sleep I had in one was when Egg insisted we stay at an inn after Lady Ashford's name day tourney..."

Dunk paused, turning to raise a brow in Fiyero's direction.

"Suppose the boy's told you about it, aye?"

Egg did, after all, take every opportunity he could to declare the great Ser Duncan the Tall so formidable a warrior he destroyed Prince Aerion Brightflame, son of Prince Maekar Targaryen, with his bare hands. The tale grew exaggerated quite quickly and Dunk didn't care for Egg's bragging on his behalf, but he did like seeing the boy so happy whenever he spoke of it.

"Anyway" -- he shook his head then -- "the next time I woke was because the innkeeper'd started slamming her fists into the door." Dunk chuckled. "I'd been in so much pain I slept two days away... and my squire didn't know to give coin for every night we were there.