Tell me about All Gods are Born in Blood
For the WIP Yap game here.
A short fic tangentially inspired by Fire in my Heart, a lovely fic about Lyonel (and others) being actual gods. I had an idea about Dunk becoming a god himself as a result of the incident at Ashford, which may or may not be where that fic is headed.
Snippet (because why not):
The Storm isn't laughing, but neither does he seem distressed at the loss of his lover-champion.
"He's dead!" screams Aerion, muddy and undignified, "It's over!"
Longthorn's jaw tightens, eyes darting to his fellow god even as he starts to raise his rosewood horn.
"Waaaaaaaiiitttt!" screams a little voice, painfully familiar. Baelor's dread grows as he sees the Storm King's smile grow, as a great, tall shadow rises behind his nephew's body.
Ser Duncan's strike hits Aerion before the boy has time to prepare, ringing out strangely like a bell. Baelor is reminded of the way the bells of King's Landing rung a death knell on the day his father, with the aid of Lady Rhoynar by double marriage alliance, finally struck down his father, the lustful and slovenly creature called the Unworthy Dragon.
Aerion tries to fight back, but Ser Duncan comes at him with all the drive of an inevitability, until his nephew lays prone in the mud, being beaten to death with his own shield, red sigil gleaming with his own holy blood.
"He yields!" Maekar snaps, turning to the Longthorn, fear thick in his voice, "Call it."
"He must die or call his own retreat," the Reach King says, "Even gods cannot bend the sacred trials."
Maekar grits his teeth. Baelor grips his brother's shoulder. To beg his nephew, if the lad can even hear them, to surrender will make them look cowardly, but watching this happen makes his heart ache.
The worst thing is, he cannot even call it an injustice, for Baelor has spend years hiding his nephew's callous behavior from the eyes of gods and men alike.
Aerion goes limp, finally, and holy power explodes outward.
It doesn't taste like fire and blood, as the holy blood of the Dragons does. Neither does it taste like the green bounty of the earth, as Longthorn's power does, or the electric tang of lightning and rain and thunder.
Baelor blinks.
When he opens his eyes again, he stands under the great boughs of an elm tree, wide as the sky. Between the branches, the sky itself is orange and red and purple, like a sunset. The leaves block most of the light, which should make the space feel cold and dark and foreboding.
But it doesn't.
For there are stars glowing in the tree, hanging down like lush, juicy fruit. Baelor reaches up to touch one and sees other hands do the same. However, before he makes contact, he hears the wind whisper,
This is not for you.
He snatches his hand back, and looks around instead. He doesn't see Longthorn or the Laughing Storm, but Maekar is standing next to him, clutching his hand close to his chest just like Baelor, eyes round and astonished.
The other people around them are peasants, vaguely familiar from the crowd across the arena. Some reach and pull back but others dare to grip the shining star-fruit and tug them free with apparent ease.
A woman with two older children, all of them with fading bruises on their flesh, touch fruit that fade into stardust that flows across their skin, leaving unmarred flash behind. The father reaches for a fruit as well, grip too tight on his wife's arm and face alight with greed. It burns when he touches it, and the man scarcely has time to scream before his body burns to ash.
A mother in patched clothes, holding a babe close in a thin blanket that doesn't hide the child's shivering. Her fruit turns into a blanket, soft and thick and warm, which she swaddles her child in with grateful tears.
An old man, hands shaking around the skin of wine in his arms hesitates at first, clearly fearing the weight of his own vice, but a soft breeze ruffles his thinning hair until he takes a fruit as well. The old man sighs as his reddened, sallow face glows with new health and throws the wineskin to the floor himself.
Baelor's eyes close again, almost against his will.
He opens them again to cheers and booming, thunderous laughter. The peasants are going wild, crying praise and worship to a tall figure in the middle of the field. Ser Duncan stands, looking alarmed and confused, and clearly mortal no more. His plain steel armor is gone, transformed into copper-plate the color of his now gleaming hair, grown long and tied back with a crown of stars and elm branches. Etched upon his breastplate is the tree from Baelor's vision, a single shooting star above. His sword is copper too, and his broken shield is remade, sigil glowing with godly light on a sunset field.
A shriek breaks through the noise as a single child runs across the battlefield. Ser Duncan drops his arms like they mean nothing to catch Aegon as he throws himself forward, picking him up as the crowd's cheering grows. Even from here, Baelor can see the line of scales on the boy's face that mark him as dragon-kin. Once black and red like his siblings and cousins and uncles, the scales now gleam in copper and green and Baelor knows his nephew has made his choice.
