#kingsguard

A princess confined to her chambers decides the Kingsguard outside her door should come in and keep her company. Ser Donnel knows this is a terrible idea. Ser Roland Crakehall is about to agree.

pairings: Ser Donnel of Duskendale x Targaryen Princess!Reader

warnings: Kingsguard vows vs. temptation; age gap; my first fic in a while; not beta-read

words:2k

Part 2

Author’s note: It’s been a while since I last wrote fanfiction, but I couldn’t resist, this man lives rent-free in my head. I’m thinking of writing a second part with smut, though I’m a little afraid of what I might become after I do. I also realized I enjoy writing more than I expected, so I might start writing for others as well. Feedback is very welcome, I want to get better at this.

But another thing I haven’t seen discussed much that I think really contributed to the disillusionment that we see in the final episode is how it must have felt for Dunk to see the Kingsguard be ordered to fight for Aerion. He’s terrified to fight against them, of course, but he also canonically really idolizes the Kingsguard, in both the show and the book, and considers them the greatest and noblest knights in the land. He's dreamed of being one of them- every boy has, he says- and that dream gains a little fuel in the show when Donnel of Duskendale (dishonestly) claims to have risen from a similar class position to Dunk's.

Aerion is wrong, unequivocally- even if Baelor won't outright say that, which says something  about his own precarious position as part of that family, but Dunk knows it in his bones- but it doesn’t matter. They are sworn to the royal family and at their command. For Dunk, it's one level of having his naivete shattered to realize that a knight, even a prince, can be dishonorable and cruel. But it's another level to see the Kingsguard knights, who may themselves be much better men than Aerion, have no choice but to fight, and potentially kill or give their own lives in defense of that cruelty. 

There's only so much honor one can have- even those held to be the most honorable- when someone owns you.

And swearing yourself to a household is not just one person- lords die and are replaced by sons or cousins or brothers or nephews, and each may be a totally different kind of man. You could swear yourself to a great man like Baelor, and still find yourself laying down your life for a prick like Aerion. And once the shock passes and that has really had time to sink in, I can see why that would make him suddenly skittish of something he had previously wanted and sought out.

Dunk is still a loyal person, that’s a core trait. He's still naive and at times oblivious and a little too trusting, though I would imagine that fades at least a little over the years. But he needs the choice to give or withhold that loyalty based on a person’s actions. The life of a hedge knight gives him a freedom that household knights- even the greatest of them- do not have. Even if he swears his sword to someone, it's temporary, and it can be revoked, as we see him do with Ser Eustace when it's revealed how much he had lied to them. 

There are other factors too- he clearly considers the hardships of being a hedge knight to be character-building, which they definitely are for Egg. He seems to feel out of place in spaces too high for his station, maybe finds too much comfort to be uncomfortable. And the guilt is of course still there, the need to do something worthwhile with the life he’s been given. But I think the need for that freedom is still a major factor, and said hardships are the price he has to pay for that. Ultimately, I think Egg is the only one he would have ever sworn himself to after Ashford, because Egg is his family- he knows him as well as he knows himself (he thinks), and he basically raised him and imparted a lot of his own values onto him. He loves Egg, and he finally feels like he can give that loyalty to someone permanently.

Game of thrones masterlist

Before vows and blood and crowns stood between you, there had only been a boy and a girl beneath the trees.

He had been Roland Crakehall then, not Ser Roland of the Kingsguard, not a knight in white, only a young sword in your father’s service with calloused hands and a smile that softened whenever it found you. You had been the youngest daughter of the king, trailing after Baelor’s certainty, Aerys’s quiet scholarship, Rhaegal’s strange gentleness, and Maekar’s fierce pride. No one had thought your heart worth guarding.

You met in the godswood and along the sea walls. He would take your hands as though they were precious things and whisper that one day he would earn enough honor to stand beside you without shame. You believed him because you wanted to. You spoke of a small house by the water, of children who would not belong to treaties or thrones. Rhaegal sometimes watched you both with knowing eyes, but he never spoke of it.

When your father betrothed you to a wealthy lord of Tyrosh, Roland did not protest. He went very still, as if a blade had been slid between his ribs. The night before you sailed, he held you in the darkness and pressed his forehead to yours. No promises were made. There was no future to promise.

Within a year, he had sworn himself to the Kingsguard. If he could not have you, he would have nothing.

When you returned to King’s Landing, it was not as the bright princess who had once run laughing through its halls.

Your husband dragged you before the Iron Throne and flung you to the ground.

The impact stole your breath. Stone scraped your cheek. Blood welled at once from a split lip and ran warm down your chin. The court gasped.

Your mother was the first to reach you. She descended the steps without thought for dignity, gathering you into her arms. Jena and Dyanna rushed after her, skirts whispering across the floor. They knelt, hands trembling as they lifted your face. Your blood soaked into your mother’s gown, staining silk the color of pale lavender.

“Mama,” you sobbed, clutching at her as the room spun. “Mama, please.”

“She is false,” your husband declared. “She lies with other men and denies me heirs. I will not keep a whore in my bed.”

Baelor’s roar shook the hall. “You dare speak so of my sister.”

Maekar’s hand went to his sword. Steel hissed as he drew it, eyes blazing murder. He took a step forward, intent on cutting your husband down where he stood, but white cloaks moved as one. Other members of the Kingsguard seized him, restraining him before blood could spill unlawfully in the throne room.

“Unhand me,” Maekar snarled. “He has beaten her.”

You clung to your mother, weeping openly now. “I have not been unfaithful,” you cried. “I swear it. I swear it on my name, on my blood.”

Your mother’s hands framed your face. Her voice was very soft. “The children,” she asked, so only you could hear. “Did you have any children?” It had been many years since your marriage, many years since you had seen your family. They scarcely heard from you. If they did, the letters came in your husbands hand. If you do have children, your father would order a fleet to retrieve them.

You shook your head violently. “No. Never. He beats me whenever I swell. He says the child cannot be his. He says I look at other men too long. He strikes me until…” Your voice broke. “Until it is gone. But it was his. Every time, it was his.”

“Mama,” you whispered again, small as a child.

Your mother bowed over you, grief etched into every line of her face.

Baelor looked as if he might tear the hall apart with his bare hands. Aerys stood rigid and pale, fury trembling beneath his composure. Rhaegal knelt at your other side, wrapping his arms around you carefully, as if you might shatter. “Hush,” he murmured, rocking you slightly. “We know you. We know.”

Your father rose from the throne at last. “I believe my daughter,” he said, voice thick with restrained wrath. “But these accusations must be answered.”

“Trial by combat,” your husband spat. “I will not withdraw my claims.”

“And I will not cease proclaiming my innocence,” you cried, lifting your head though tears blurred your vision.

“Then it will be done,” your father said.

Baelor stepped forward at once. “I will fight.”

“No,” your father replied sharply. “You are my heir.”

Maekar tried again to lunge forward, only to be held fast. “Then let me.”

“You are too enraged,” your father said. “I need a steady blade.”

Throughout it all, Roland had not moved.

He stood in white, silent, fists clenched so tightly that the leather of his gloves creaked. He had watched your body strike the stone. He had seen your blood soak into your mother’s gown. He had heard you cry for her. He had listened to another man accuse you of faithlessness and felt something inside him fracture.

You should have been given to him. You would have been cherished. No hand would ever have risen against you.

He stepped forward and knelt.

“I will defend the princess’s honor.”

His voice was calm. Only those who knew him well might have seen the storm in his eyes.

Your gaze found his. For a heartbeat the hall vanished and you were young again, beneath the trees, laughing at nothing.

That night you went to him.

He stood alone in the yard, staring at the stars as if searching for answers. When he heard you, he turned at once.

“You should not be walking,” he said softly, seeing the way you favored one side.

“I had to see you, Roland.”

You held out a narrow ribbon, torn from your sleeve. He bowed his head so you could tie it around his arm. His hands hovered near your waist but did not touch.

“You loved me once,” you whispered.

“I love you still,” he replied without hesitation. “I have loved you every day since you sailed.”

“I should have asked my father to grant me a life with you. I could have at least asked, I don’t know why I didn’t,” you frown apologetically.

“You are a Princess of the realm, and I am too lowborn. I waited too long to seek my glory and rise, it is my fault as well.”

Tears stung your eyes. “In our next life,” you said shakily, “there is no throne. No narrow sea. No vows.”

“In our next life,” he said, voice rough, “you are not traded for ships and coin. I am not bound in white. We owe nothing to anyone. Not blood. Not oaths. Not crowns.”

“We will be free,” you breathed. Your hand raises to touch his face. He had grown a beard, he had wrinkles you didn’t remember, and his hair was beginning to grow little whites. Your finger tips barely skim his cheeks, his eyes close as he takes a shaky breath. Your hand retreats, though you long for him to hold you like he once did.

“We will be free,” he echoed. His gaze traced the bruises on your face with quiet anguish. “You are still beautiful,” he said, as if it were a truth that must be spoken. “No matter what he did. No matter what he said.”

You almost broke then. Instead you lifted your hand again and he took it, pressing it briefly to his chest where his heart beat hard beneath steel.

“I will fight brave and true, Princess, have no fear.”

The next day, before the court and gods, he fought for you. As your champion.

Your husband fought with desperation and spite. Roland fought with devotion. Every strike was measured. Every movement precise. He did not look at the crowd. He did not look at the throne. He looked only at the man who had hurt you.

When it ended, it ended cleanly. Your husband fell into the dust, and your name was cleared with his blood.

Later, when the yard had emptied and silence fell heavy as grief, you approached him.

“You have saved me,” you said.

He removed his gauntlet and took your hand as though it were sacred. Slowly, reverently, he bowed. He pressed a kiss to your knuckle, lingering for a breath, then rested his forehead against the back of your hand as he had done when you were young and hopeful.

So much trembled in that touch. Apologies. Longing. A lifetime that would never be lived.

“In another life,” you whispered.

“In another life,” he agreed, though his voice broke.

He released you then and stepped back into his vows, into white, into duty.

Your brothers closed around you as you left, fierce and protective, your mother’s arm firm about your shoulders. You were safe now.

I bring you the eldest daughter of Maekar, maybe like a year or two younger than Aerion. Now, we all know she’s probably going to be Maekar’s favourite because she 1) isn’t a drunkard and 2) isn’t a Valyrian supremacist who thinks she’s a dragon but alas she also comes with her own set of challenges.

She’s in love with her sworn protector. That’s it. That’s where she fucks up. I have Ser Roland Crakehall in my mind because he’s so underrated XD. But yeah i feel like that would definitely give Maekar a headache because he thought she was the sensible normal one. (She’s not)

Maekar probably: Why can’t any of my kids be fucking NORMAL?