So for a short time before anyone else walks in, thereâs a mostly dead (big difference between all dead and mostly dead, that's important) prince in Dunk's arms that heâs bleeding all over. Holding a crushed skull in his own potentially ruined hand and praying and praying and praying and ope! Someone answers.
Course healing the mostly dead is tough when you're the gods of old Valyria and all your worshipers are gone so no one has made a real offering in a long time. But here's a man offering blood and a man of the blood... if it sounds like vows and feels like vows, then congrats lads, you're married. Or, well, half married. But! They can get started fixing that with a judicious application of fire. and wouldn't you know, there's a lovely pyre scheduled in a few days.
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Blood of the lip to the brow for counsel and care, as Dunkâs split lip drips onto Prince Baelorâs face as he sinks to curl over his fallen body. Blood of the hands for protection and promise, as Dunk grasps those bloodied fingertips in his own ruined palm, drunk together to make two into one, before raising it to his princeâs half open mouth in search of breath. For they shall be twin flames, a great sob as he finds nothing, leaning in to whisper against that ashen face. âGet up Serâ
We ask a blessing for this union from the Fourteen Flames. Heard and granted, though a slow blessing it would be as faded as They were.
Time greys and passes in patchy moments, but the next clear moment is viewing Baelorâs bier. Limping up to take one last look at his face, gray and mostly hidden by a golden helmet as it is. The silent sisters have done their work well. While the body may be clean and clothed their shared blood remains within.
---
Maekar, touching the torch down, stumbles back when the pyre wood catches vigorously, blooming high in tongues of red and yellow, green and gold. His first thought is that someone has snuck wildfire into the pyre preparation, as all eyes follow the leaping embers and miss that something is moving within. Maekar doesnât know what sound he makes when his brotherâs body rolls off the pyre. Or when said body lands on hands and knees, funeral clothes alight, golden helmet melting across its head and down its neck. Only that he is leaping forward, swinging his cloak off to smother the flames as the body shook and vomited.
When the roaring in his ears finally subsides he can hear himself, cursing and pleading in equal measure, as others shout for a maester. The body- Baelor- continues to expel steaming bile, but is at least no longer actively burning. Maekar canât do anything but frantically run his hands over itâs- his- shoulders. When the heaving subsides to shivers he guides Baelorâs head up to meet his eyes and nearly flinches back again. Wide mismatched eyes find his own, but their motherâs dark brown has changed looking more like sunlit amber. The nearly soundless ââŠvalonquarâ that slips from Baelor undoes Maekar completely. What can he do but clutch his elder brother close? He feels Valarr thump gracelessly down into the dirt beside them and place his own hands on his fathers back.
The maester is nearly upon them with men and a litter, when the shivers work back up into shakes, into odd motions under the cloak. Pained noises spill from Baelorâs mouth. He nearly slips from Maekarâs grasp as muscles forcefully contract him into a miserable hunch. The curled shoulders and ducked head reveal what remains of the helm. Its molten gold has flowed to fill the crater of his skull until it spilled over, running in rivulets that leeched color from his hair and stained the exposed skin of his neck and shoulders with gleaming trails like wine spilt on linen.
There was blood, there was fire. And now thereâs a dragon the size of a man just beyond the arms of his brother and son. Red with a golden blaze that extends over the skull and down the neck between curling horns of onyx. Its eyes are Baelorâs own - purple and gold. And it croons at them.
----
Theyâll say the cradle egg Baelor carried with him in a sentimental gesture had been placed upon the pyre and hatched. That the prince was not dead, only in a sleep so deep he barely breathed. That the pyre had similarly stirred Baelorâs mind and blood back to waking.
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Aegon IV's voracious appetites are well known, but beyond lust & gluttony, he craves magic. First of the first generation of the blood with no dragons worth speaking of. So along with all the mistresses and courtesans, over the years he welcomes wizards, alchemists, sorcerers, and mages to the Red Keep. Most are frauds, some are mad, but a few have a touch of real power.
By this point his son Daeron has married Myriah and they've had Baelor. Aegon IV hates all three of them. Thereâs a sorta bloodmage in Court these days whose powers are real tempting, even if their deaths would look suspicious as fuck now that he's also got favored bastard son Daemon.
Second best thing to do? Put a curse on his grandson.
Something about blood against blood. perhaps justified as prevention of another Dance, for that had impacted his beloved father and uncle so! The liar. Only Aegon IV and the, certainly now dead, mage know the intended rules and consequences of the curse. But magic is a wiggly thing.
Like Chekov's gun, whatâs the point of a trap if you never see it go off? So Aegon IV keeps trying to trigger it and the grisly fate he believes it entails. Pitting Baelor against Daemon or Aegor again and again and again. But thereâs never quite enough of the correct type of intent on either side. Not yet anyway.
It would have, should have, happened at Redgrass. Could be why Brynden had Daemon and his boys killed the way he did. Cut down from a distance before Baelor could reach them and do something silly and noble. Shiera had prodded out the rough shape of the curse wound through their nephew.
It's triggered at Ashford. Maekar's fucking full of intent, even if the fear and rage would never have been consciously directed at Baelor. Their clash on the field roils the curse but itâs still only one sided.
That one sidedness is the twist, it makes him falter as the mace comes down. It hits, it cracks bone but does not smash it. What would, at full strength, have burnt Baelor up from the inside only sends him into a sleep of the living dead.
To fit the trigger, Aegon IV perhaps said that it should âburn the heart out of the himâ. A literal burning that could be read by a bribed Maester as the sudden violent death from any number of causes. No autopsies here after all.
His wounds heal but he still sleeps and sleeps, tucked away in the Holdfast of the Red Keep. Shiera and Brynden turn half his sickroom into a sorcerer's lab. They manage to map the original borders of the curse and find how itâs curled into this new shape. And, ah ha, there it is. To awaken their sleeping prince and return what was burned in his heart - a True Love's Kiss.
If it doesnât work, perhaps Baelorâs lost to a forever sleep. Maybe heâs destined to wake in seven months unable to feel love at all
All his family attempt the kiss. Parents, aunts, uncles, sons, nieces, nephews, cousins near & far, Aemon called back from the Citadel. Even knights who'd been squires for Baelor years ago. Everyone except Egg, still off in the hedges. Nothing, no noticeable changes at all.
Itâs definitely not openly discussed in Court, but word slips out and many Ladies (& Lords) present themselves with barely any shame as candidates for True Love. One's actually caught red handed lipped, having bribed their way into his chamber.
Things filter out into the world, maybe gossip overheard while passing through Stormâs End. Dunk and Egg catch wind, both now compelled to Kingâs Landing in haste. To avoid having to deal with guards, Egg sneaks his Ser straight to the family quarters. In vain it seems as there's no reaction to Eggâs kiss.
If Baelorâs color picks up and his breathing eases while Ser Duncan is in the room, thatâs just a coincidence isnât it. And if while on guard one night a certain Ser, full of love and admiration and gratitude and with no expectations at all, lays a gentle kiss on that beloved face?
Well, morning's not too far off. They can share the good news then
Extending this (initially by @iwashbrocciliinthedishwasher) where old man Lord Commander Dunk is shunted through time after Summerhall to 'revive the [house of the] dragons' through a nine-lives, time-traveler's-wife esque misadventure.
There were seven dragon eggs in the pyre, so he's got to seven moments to keep Baelor alive with Ashford being the last.
In This Wreckage Tonight
Ser Duncan does not actually remember much of his own Trial of Seven. Between his focus in the moment on Aerion, several blows to the head (and the almost certain concussion they caused), capped off by the traumatizing death of a prince in his arms.
He hears tales of it afterward, from strangers, lords, and other knights. From Egg on bad nights when theyâre both sleepless on the road. Itâs something that Lady Gwin (no longer little and no longer Ashford) had told him when theyâd encountered each other years later.
âYour speech shamed them, and they were glad to laugh when the Brute of Bracken attempted to shame you in return. Prince Baelor put an end to that.â
So, when the doorway releases him to the far end of the tilt lanes, opposite the lord's stand, he waits. He closes his eyes, takes a moment to breathe the ash free air and listens.Â
He was a good man. And he taught me how to be a knight. Not just sword and lance, but honor. A knight defends the innocent. That's all I did. I was not Ser Arlan's blood, but I have followed his example. As your sons will follow yours.
Who will stand and fight with me?
âI will take Ser Duncanâs side!â
The deep call comes across the field almost from every direction at once. Out from the mists, a man in full plate striding toward Dunk. As he closes the distance, it becomes clear that this knight was tall, taller than Dunk himself. There was no hunch to those shoulders, no urge to take as little space as possible. Back straight, shoulders proud, and helmed head high.
ButâŠThereâs something wrong with his armor, thinks Dunk. What had gleamed at a distance in the dawn half-light was duller up close, splattered gray and speckled black. Ornamented cuirass and pauldron dented at the back. Metal oddly rippled across both greaves.
âYour name Ser?â calls Lord Ashford.
âThe gods know me and keep me, my lord. For a Trial of Seven that seems enough.â
The Lord Commander had stepped onto the field moments before Prince Baelor could ride out himself. He is without a horse and thereâs a moment of deliberation about whether the mystery knight would be allowed at all, when a mount is is brought out .
Everyone is surprised when it comes out already barded; gleaming in Targaryen black plate and draped with matching caparison.
âPrince Baelor requests you take his steed, Ser.â
Duncan felt his eyebrows tick upward, staring at the lad holding the reins. Unseen by others, his gaze flicks up to the gate across the field and catches on what could have been a shadow, but he knew was a prince in full armor. The man did not move from his spot, content to go unattended, so Duncan lets his gaze move on. It lands on Prince Maekar.
Two decades of being in the manâs orbit had never made them close but it certainly gave plenty of context to understand his expression. He was disquieted by the horse, by the fact it was prepared. This was no princely impulse. A decision had been made well before dawn that would have seen Baelor upon that horse in a muddy field if not for a mystery knight's intervention.
âAnd I would be honored to accept. Please convey that to his Grace.â
The squire nodded but only moved off to stand by Egg at the lance rack. Smart, kept from drawing attention to the still shadowed movement by the gate. Focus Ser, came Aegonâs voice, as a child, a man, a knight, a king. Right. Check the horse over, take a moment to breathe, and up. The feeling of it came back easy as anything despite his last tourney being six years prior. One bright moment before the start of the madness. Another lad trying for glory, though young Barristan had succeeded wildly beyond young Dunkâs own efforts. Youâre ruminating Old Man, came Bethaâs gentle prodding.
Thereâs time before the Trial begins. Baelor would have spoken. "Be vigilant, donât die." Ser Lyonel takes that role this time. The sentiments are similar, if thoroughly punctuated with swears. Duncan allows himself to be directed into the lane he knows holds Prince Maekar at the other end. Tries to let the weight of lance and shield ground him here and now.
His last memory of Summerhall itself was running back though the door of the main hall. Each new awakening feels like that, passing through some great open doorway from choking smoke to clear air before plunging back in again once his task was completed. Each time harder as the wounds and damages of the great pyre were laid back upon him. Armor dented and began to melt. Enamel crazed, gilding tarnished, and ash clung to him, layer upon layer, until what had been Kingsguard white appeared nearly dull as plain steel.
Baelor doesnât rightly know what is tugging him toward the mystery knight. He heard the call, was equally relieved and disappointed to be kept off the field in defense of Ser Duncan against his own family. Sending out his horse for the mystery knight was an easy choice in comparison. He stays at the gate and allows his helm to be taken away. There again, that knight. Tall on the ground, giant a-horse, larger than even the hedge knight. But more than that it was his presence that drew Baelor. The familiarity of it. It made no damn sense. Compelled him though.
He doesn't connect the mystery to the wraith of a Kingsguard heâs met six times in 30 odd years, but when he does!
Whatever magic is moving him along wears off at the end of the trial. They get this mystery knight into the underpass where he collapses into Dunk's arms. His helmet comes off... and it's Dunk. White haired, bearded, fucking covered in soot but somehow absolutely Dunk. And now Baelor is here too, still in most of Valarr's armor. Kneeling and wild-eyed at this dying ghost of his.
More of this - dragon!Baelor mostly married to rider!Dunk
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In the nights between his uncleâs death and funeral pyre, Daeronâs dreams change.
The shades of Ser Duncan and the dead dragon have dissolved into a thick mist that clings to the churned earth of Ashfordâs tiltyard. Thereâs the shadow of a man standing in the middle of the lanes, and though he squinted Daeron had no chance of making out their identity. Without warning the shade began to smear upwards as a great wind came roaring past him. Strong enough that he instinctively crouched and covered his face with one sleeve. It lasted a moment and an age and left only an odd warmth behind it. Turning back he beheld a great tree, taller than Ashford Keep, had burst from the mud surrounded by scattered fences.
Though weathered and gnarled in spot, it stood blooming proudly, wreathed in warm red flames that licked through its canopy. Daeron knows without knowing that itâd burn forever without cracking or yielding. Thereâs a new kind of respite to be found under its bright canopy, for there was no shade for dark things to take advantage of.
----
Word of a dragon reborn was always going to spread. It galloped across the kingdoms like a mad horse, kicking and frothing.
Word that the dragon was in fact Hand of the King, the Crown Prince himself (a man all proclamations claimed to be convalescing deep in the Holdfast) slipped from Kings Landing like a slit throat. Quiet but bloody. It stayed close to the ground until it leapt across the Stepstones to Tyrosh and into the ear of Bittersteel.
Breakspear, Hammer of the Redgrass, Baelor Targaryen. The very name made his mouth curl with disgust. Son of a bastard king and a Dornish whore. Hypocritical, Aegor Rivers knows full well, bastard son of an Andal as he is himself. But at least he has never pretended to be anything else.Â
What he needs is more information.
What magic pulls a dragon out of tainted blood?
Had he done it on purpose? Was this the work of the cursed Bloodraven and coveted Shiera, done for their own amusement. Or done to spite Daemonâs sons and himself? Perhaps it was something out of Queen Visenyaâs long rumored hidden library of dark Valyrian tomes. Perhaps if it had been done once, it could be done again.
----
There are so many sorcerers and warlocks and blood priests in Essos. One of them must be mad or powerful or learned enough to figure out how this happened. But solving a problem is easier when you have something (or someone) to reverse engineer. Sounds like the Golden Company is going dragon trapping.
How kind of his nephew to give himself a big 7ft tall weak spot for leverage.
Because his little aunt Shiera could see the way Aegon IV was definitely trying to get Baelor killed and trying to protect him was one of her very first forays into magic.
It's something from one of the increasingly rare Valyrian books she's managed to turn up - which means it should have been 14 lives but again, early days, so it gets a little fumbled down to nine.
Nine sounds like plenty of lives but in this setting? With this family?
Death by "accident" (Aegon IV, the last straw that drives Daeron and Myriah to Dragonstone
Death by illness (the same pox that scarred Maekar spikes a fatal fever one night when no one was watching)
Death by joust (against Daemon at Daenerysâ wedding, a hit to the helm that should have broken his neck only leaves him with a broken nose)
Death during the First Rebellion (assassination that he didn't actually avoid)
Death at Redgrass (bleeds out, easy to disregard in the aftermath when everything is covered in blood)
Death at Redgrass (thrown from a horse, or leapt off one badly unlike his future Trial self)
Baelor's not aware of this at all. Chalks survival of the big things down to sheer bloody luck. Def some panic on Shiera's side after the Rebellion because holy fuck he's down to three. Back up plan make a little cradle egg-house for your soul; and in case of emergency, break.
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Time to to yell into the void about my idea for a self indulgent fix-it Temeraire/The Terror crossover
What if instead of joining the Navy, Francis (perhaps following in the path of one/some of his older siblings, particularly the 6 older sisters) decided to join the Aerial Corps? a military branch known to recruit from outside the gentry, particularly the genteel and merchant class, where being irish would not be a hindrance.
rough plot below the cut
As part of the initial overland searches for the lost Franklin Expedition, the Navy Admiralty (v grudgingly) decides to request additional assistance in the form of dragons. Â The Corps deploys a Crozierâs formation to serve as advance scouting and supply transport and for the Rae-Richardson Expedition. Dragon formation was either already located at the Halifax Covert (for reasons) or sailed from england with the rest of the advance party.
the formation had previously joined JCR in searching for a dozen British whaling ships lost in the Arctic in 1835
They winter on Hudson Bay (1847-48) with the men and supplies before R-R arrival in spring of 1848. Â then while the R-R overland the western portions of the north coast (the Mackenzie River to Coppermine River) with supplemental courier dragons, the Formation is charged with scouting the coast to the east.
Maybe the plan is to search from late spring to early autumn of 1848, winter on Hudson Bay again (1848-49) and meet up with Ross at the entry of Lancaster Sound in summer 1849.
and while flying the perimeter of king william island they spot the walking Expedition survivors. definitely before any scurvy get too bad but after hickeyâs mutiny. Maybe Fitzjames is fully in charge at this point if his non-francis First was killed by Tuunbaq or the mutiny itself.Â
and given the size and number of dragons in the formation (2-3 middle weights and a few light/couriers), they canât just up and transport everyone to the nearest outpost. so thereâs a camped period where a courier is sent to get additional dragons and the formation is helping with the supplies they have. Francis and James get close while coordinating as party leaders. does he share the fact of tuunbaq stalking them?
Hickeyâs mutineers were definitely following the expedition remains, so maybe he decides to try a similar lure out to nab a captain in order to âconvinceâ a dragon to fly him out.
Part of the Sith plan to weaken the Jedi and their position in the Galaxy during the Clone Wars is likely the destruction of the Corps Outposts, research stations and other facilities. Â Maybe itâs covert attacks which are then staged to look like the Corps has abandoned their post, but more likely itâs total annihilation.
By eliminating the Corps Outposts, the Sith aim to prevent their help from reaching many war torn planets (Aleen, Ryloth, etc), putting tension between these planets and the Republic, giving rise to Senator complaints of Jedi inability to win the war, stretching the GAR thinner to sidetrack for aid missions. Â A feedback loop to further and further diminish the public view of the Jedi.
If the Corps are always being dismissed by the Jedi, the Sith probably think them to be absolutely worthless (maybe Palps thinks there are a few force strong enough to be pushed to the dark side but these are few and far between). This underestimating actually makes the Corps a valuable assets during the War.
They turn out to be effective in holding planets being sieged by the CIS, with their numbers and highly diverse skills. The fact that their Outposts are basically permanent means that local populations know and trust them, which is very different from having two unknown armies fighting over the planet's head.
Outpost planets become hubs for moving refugees away from the front lines, sending aid into contested sectors and supplying GAR ships with supplies and information.
Bahamutâs the holy symbol of (http://criticalrole.wikia.com/wiki/Bahamut)
Blazon: Azure, a dragonâs head couped Argent
As speculation, in a world with a diverse number of deities, races and cultures, there are probably a good number of special charges with standard blazons. For instance, the sun used by the De Rolo may specifically be Pelorâs Sun (eight rays, alternating straight and curved), which is distinct from Sarenraeâs Sun (sixteen rays, all straight, with a double outlined center).
The Royal Family of TalâDorei and the larger towns/cities likely have their own arms. Syngorn and Krghammer may also, depending on the traditions of their respective races.
Whitestone definitely has arms, likely sharing some colors with the De Rolo arms (lilac, blue, silver, gold). Â It stands to reason that all the the titled/noble houses of Whitestone would have arms, if not a full heraldic achievement. So part of Percyâs elevation of Vex to Baroness of the Third House is the granting of arms (confirmed in ep 90).
I could actually see Percy granting arms to all of Vox Machina. Perhaps to remind them that if nothing else they will always have a place in Whitestone.
But it would also be for himself, this symbolic tying of his motley found family to a lineage he is so very aware of (âMy ancestry dates back thousands of years and will continue for thousands more, unless Whitestone falls. I live as long as Whitestone lives. This place is the human soul. This is what we have built with our tiny moments.â ep 56).
[some takes at arms for VM below the cut]
Grog Strongjaw:Â Per chevron inverted abased Argent and Sable, a pale endorsed retrait in base Gules
Pike Trickfoot:Â Bleu Celeste, between two flaunches plumetty Or, a sun Or surmounted by a mace Sable
Keyleth:Â Per pall inverted Vert, Gules and Azure within an orle Argent a pair of antlers with a roundel in chief between of the same
