The Notes

Require it to be labeled. that's it. require every instance of AI output to be clearly and obviously labeled that it is AI. Every decision made with AI has to be disclosed in plain phrasing, every email, every paper, every image and video must be clearly and obviously watermarked. Make removing the label/identifier a procecutable offence.

Yeah you're cute when you sleep but you didn't let me sleep either so I'm going to annoy you now because I'm bored. Hahah get poked, sleepy idiot.

How do you not comprehend this when I am literally staring at you. Like I understand that your brain can't understand things this nuanced but come on, how do you not get this.

I don't know if you know that what I am currently doing is an expression of affection, but that won't stop me. Knowing that I showed you that I love you is enough.

I heard a crinkly material and the sound of you chewing so I have to know what's in your mouth RIGHT FUCKING NOW.

I can't communicate with you and you can't communicate with me, so I'm just copying the tone of the sound you're making in hopes that you understand that I try.

You are doing activities beyond my comprehension, and I find this fascinating. I will never understand what the fuck you are trying to achieve here, but I am intrigued nonetheless.

The new magic stops working after three days and every spell uses proprietary runes.

I just imagine looking at some huge-ass room of server racks and thinking about how many hours of my life are contained there (both reading fic and writing it), how many people I've met and known and loved because of the stories stored there

The above images show the OTW's "three server racks, numerous servers, and networking equipment." These pictures were shared in this October 2025 news post about the OTW's fall fundraising drive.

So. The Targaryen/Valyrian dragons are dead, that much is true, but I like to imagine there being a different kind of dragons too.

Born of old and ancient magic of the land and breath, rather than fire and blood. Something to guard, rather than conquer.

These dragons are a whispered tale amongst the westerosi. They are viewed as protectors and guiding spirits, rather than actual beings who breathe fire and take up riders. In the northern folklore, its is even said that those dragons, are known to shed their scales and wings, in exchange for skin and a pair of hands. That they would visit leaders in a time of need to offer guidance and wisdom.

Dunk is such a dragon.

His mother was one as well, she fell in love with Dunk’s father and shed her scales to live as a human with him amongst others. But one day something happened and she either died or disappeared, leaving little Dunk with his human father and before long, he too left the boy to fend for himself.

Dunk doesn’t know much about what it means to be what he is. A dragon. He only knows that there’s a fire burning deep within his chest, he has thick bones that do not bend nor break, he heals faster than he should and from wounds that should end him, has a heart that feels far too big for his chest and a deep need to protect people.

And he is as thick as a castle wall, but that’s beside the point.

He simply knows more about being human, so with no one left to teach him about scales and flame, he keeps to that side. Not to mention he never really shifted, like he remembers his mother doing.

Her dragon wasn’t too large, but it was long and sleek like a true lizard with two pairs of wings. She was as green and brown as the forest surrounding them. Her eyes burned like molten amber… that’s most of what he remembers of her. Dunk has his father’s clear blue eyes instead, so he is left forever seeking the colour in the world, hoping to catch a glimpse of his mother.

He sometimes wonders what his other form would look like. He never turned, well… maybe as a babe, there’s a faint memory of soaring above some field as his parents shout from behind.

One evening he tells Ser Arlan about his mother, his heritage. But only gets a clout in the ear for speaking nonsense. So he keeps it to himself, deciding to just, abandon it and focus on becoming a true knight rather than a dragon.

Dragons are all gone after all, why bring them back? Even in such a form.

Then Arlan dies, Dunk is left without a purpose and heads to Ashford. Hoping to make a name for himself, to become a knight.

But at the inn, something shifts deep in his chest, the moment the bald boy steps into his path.

It’s a need. A need to guard and protect. His blood feels like it’s boiling, his hands twitch and there’s a burn in the back of his throat.

He leaves his horses with the boy and steps away, before he could cough up smoke, like he sometimes does.

Inside the inn, the feeling only grows stronger as the drunken Lord threatens him. He stumbles as he leaves, and Dunk has to resist the urge to steady him on his feet.

It’s all too strange for him. There’s a pull towards the two, that he cannot explain. It makes him want to grip his sword tight and stand guard until his feet become one with the earth beneath him.

And that is when he first sees it.

A single scale appearing on his hand, settled between his thumb and index finger. It’s white with a golden edge.

His heart drops at the sight and he instantly rips a part of his ratty cloak to cover it up.

The boy wishes to go with him. Dunk denies him instantly, hoping to rid himself of the feeling. And the scale. Should he turn, he could hurt the boy, and he does not want that in the slightest.

Then at Ashford, the boy stubbornly follows after him. And Dunk’s heart drops at the mere thought of a young boy travelling on his own just to find him again.

It’s not safe, his mind whispers and the smoke fills his throat.

And so he allows it, he keeps the boy close and safe, like Arlan did for him. He’s a good lad, does honest work and Dunk would be lying if he said that he was not glad for his presence.

In the morning, two new scales join the first one. Dunk just tightens the cloth around his hand and thinks nothing of it.

“Are you hurt, Ser?” the boy, Egg asks.

“No,” he responds, with a tone that makes the boy frown but not ask again.

Luck would have it. The Targaryens arrive and when Dunk’s eyes lay on the silver haired Prince, his hand itches and something in his chest expands. It’s suffocating.

He has to turn his head away and cough out smoke and soot into his hand as the Prince addresses him and jumps off his horse.

“Are you deaf or simply not cleaver enough to follow a simple command?”

Dunk clenches his hand into a fist and looks back at the Prince. But his eyes land on nothing at first, which confuses him for a second, before he looks down and the short Prince in front of him. His purple eyes burn into him with frustration and Dunk feels like coughing again.

“Answer me, boy.”

The need is back. But if it was bothersome with Egg and that drunken Lord, then with the Prince it is overwhelming. His thoughts go flying, the world barely seems to exist around him and Dunk feels like he should just grab the Prince, hoist him over his broad shoulder and steal him away.

Where? He doesn’t know. But somewhere safe and warm would do. Where no one else would be near him, where Dunk would shield him until the end of time—

He needs to stop this. Such thoughts would only lead to one thing. And it’s hanging.

“I- I’m not a stable boy, m’Lord.” he finally stutters out, his mind trying to find purpose outside of the need and greed that grip at him.

The Prince frowns at him, “Too high of a station even for you to reach?”

Dunk blinks, frowning back at the Prince, the urges briefly forgotten as he shakes his head, “No, m’Lord. I have the honour of being a knight, I am Ser Duncan the Tall.”

“Ser Duncan the Tall.” the Prince repeats, in a mocking tone. “Well, knighthood has fallen on sad days it would seem—“

The Prince is cut off, as his own horse seems to startle and jump, kicking one of the men with his front hooves and then preparing to do the same with his back ones.

Dunk doesn’t hesitate as he grips the Prince firmly and pushes him behind him. Before reaching the horse and calming it down gently. But soon enough his hand is ripped away from the horse and brought down, the scarp of fabric being tossed into the mud bellow.

His heart drops, as he sees his hand in the Prince’s tight grip. Where scales of white and gold shimmer, rising above the human flesh, almost completely covering his hand and forearm.

“What… What is the meaning of this?!” the Prince demands, his thin fingers dancing across the hard scales, checking if they’re real.

They are.

Dunk tries tugging his hand back, and the Prince’s eyes jump up to meet his. He seems both angry and shocked, as his eyes flicker between Dunk’s.

“You’re a Scale Shedder.” the Prince announces and sinks his nails into Dunk’s forearm, just where the skin is tender between scales and flesh, “You’re a dragon.”

Dunk opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Aside from a little puff of smoke, that the Prince’s eyes greedily follow.

With panic and smoke, he rips his arm away from the Prince and runs off, clutching the arm to his chest.

His instincts scream at him to go back, to grab the Prince and take him with him. To protect and guard, to keep him close.