#arielfic

[arielseaworth]

For your Dunk & Egg prompts -- Daeron the Drunken, interacting with Daemon II Blackfyre when the latter is a hostage in the Red Keep (subject: dreams, naturally; Dunk can be mentioned too if it feels right to you). And thanks so much!

FIC: Dreamers

For the prompt: Daeron the Drunken interacting with Daemon II Blackfyre when the latter is a hostage in the Red Keep, on the subject of dreams (and Dunk).

Daeron began, “My father … well, my father wishes me to –”

“To interrogate the hostage on his behalf? Or does he wish you to ascertain that this Blackfyre pretender is being guarded adequately? Perhaps Prince Maekar should have condescended to come himself,” the Hand of the King said, his lips curled into an amused smile, “instead of sending his son as his spy.”

Daeron flushed. His father had not sent him, not exactly. Prince Maekar already had his coterie of spies in court, just like Lord Bloodraven had his own spies at Summerhall, no doubt. His father had scoffed, in fact, when Daeron told him that he would go to court on his behalf.

“I will find out more about this second Daemon for you, Father.” The Daemon he had already dubbed Daemon the Doomed, for the ones who dreamed, Daeron sometimes thought, were doomed to a hell on earth worse than anything that the cruelest of gods could have conjured up in the afterlife.

Read @ AO3

#nobodysuspectsthebutterfly #thank you for your prompt ❤️ #Daeron Targaryen #Daeron the Drunken #Daemon II Blackfyre #valyrianscrolls #asoiaf fic #arielfic #dunk and egg #dunk and egg prompts

[crisp-sweet-pink-lady]

The Best Parts of The Elf Situation

I made an unofficial vow to not do this episode until the Sofia the First finale was announced, and since it’s coming up this weekend, I can finally get to it.

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*after Baileywick sneezes* Amber: Do you have a cold? Roland: Yes, he does, and he’s going to bed right now.

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Amber’s excitement over getting to be in charge of the castle

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Roland doing finger quotes

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James’ face here

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Baileywick altering his sentences to accommodate his sneezing

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I like the designs of Arielf and Elfabelle

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Two elf queens, both alike in dignity, In fair Enchancia, where we lay our scene

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Sofia: So, ladies, uh, your majesties, nice weather we’re having, don’t you think? Elfabelle: We river elves prefer it rainy. *conjures a rain cloud* Arielf: We tree elves prefer it leafy. *conjures wind* Elfabelle: Leafy?  Is that even a thing?

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Callback to Sofia in Elvenmoor

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Roland’s illegible hand-writing

James: You can read that? Amber: Just barely

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Amber’s desire to run the peace summit exactly to the letter clouding her ability to see that she’s actually obstructing the two parties coming to peace

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James: How about some more dish wishing? Arielf: I have no wish to wish any dishes with the likes of you, Elfabelle. Elfabelle: Well, I have no wish to dish a wish- I mean to dish a wish- oh, just forget it!

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Amber: Did I just ruin the peace summit? James: Yup, sure looks like it.

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Amber: It’s time to have some serious fun!

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The elf queens bonding over games

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Roland: Well done, children!  But I’m not sure I can call you children any more.  You’ve really grown up!

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And so ends the last regular episode of Sofia the First.  Onwards to the series finale, Forever Royal!

#sofia the first #episode thoughts #the elf situation #best parts post

[dogsarawesome]

Photo by arielfs

#dog #dogs #puppy #puppies #cute-dog

[redshift-13]

#anti-aging #airel va feinerman #aubrey de grey #life extension #voluntary mortality #health #longevity #science #biology of aging

[carlosmirandalevy]

Today he woke up to the surprise of gifts from SPEEDS, the Special Priority Elf Extended Delivery Squad that delivers gifts to kids who don't get to spend Christmas with both parents. For it's not about getting gifts, but about sharing them with others. Complete with a signed explanatory letter from the squad's elves: Arielf, Danielf, Elizabelf, Gabrielf, Joelf, Manuelf, Nawelf and Noelf!!! (à Paris, France) https://www.instagram.com/p/BrkMxI7hVsS/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=du25ohmshdo8

[arielseaworth]

“Rhaelle, Egg’s little girl, she was how they came by it... their father’s mother... she used to call me Uncle Maester when she was a little girl.” (A Feast for Crows)

“How far is the Wall, Uncle Maester?”

“Very far, child.”

“As far as Dragonstone?”

“More.”

“Is it … is it as far away as Summerhall?”

“Farther than that.”

Rhaelle furrowed her brow, trying to imagine a place farther than Summerhall. She had never travelled farther than the distance between the Red Keep and Summerhall, up to now.

“You should have gone to see the Wall when you were a boy, like Father did,” she said, arms crossed over her chest. “Then you won’t have to go now. You’re too old to be going so far away,” she scolded. “People should go and have adventures when they’re young, like Father and Ser Dunk did.”

Maester Aemon smiled. “I was at Oldtown then, learning to be a maester. And besides, Ser Duncan might not have wished to take two stone-cold stubborn boys with him to the Wall. One was more than enough, I’m sure.”

Rhaelle giggled. “Father told Ser Dunk I am as stubborn as he was. Ser Dunk said no one else could be as stubborn as that, not even your own daughter.” She tried her best to make her face look stern again. “Father came back, after he went to see the Wall,” she said, pointedly. “Ser Dunk came back too.”

“I am not going to the Wall for a visit, child.”

“You’re going there to stay, Father said. Does that mean stay for always? Or just for a little while? How long is your little while, Uncle Maester? Shaera always says I only have to wait a little while, but Shaera’s little while is a loooooong while.”

“For always,” Maester Aemon replied, softly. He feared his niece’s next question. Will I ever see you again? she might ask, and the truthful answer would be too bleak for a child this young.

Or perhaps she would ask, Why do you have to go, Uncle Maester?, and he could not say to her, not yet, Because unscrupulous men will see fit to use me against your father, Rhaelle, even without my consent. Because I love your father, dear child, and I do not wish to be a constant thorn by his side.

Rhaelle did not ask either of those questions, to Maester Aemon’s relief. “I’ll come and visit you at the Wall, when I’m old enough,” she told him. “It will be a grand adventure, my grand adventure.”

His eyes twinkling, Maester Aemon teased, “Old enough? I thought only the young should go and have adventures.”

Rhaelle rolled her eyes, looking very much like her mother. “Not old old. Just old enough.”

#Maester Aemon #Aemon Targaryen #Rhaelle Targaryen #valyrianscrolls #gotfic #asoiaf fic #arielfic

[arielseaworth]

No, don’t, don’t cut my hair, Ned loves my hair. (A Storm of Swords)

"I often sent away [Sansa’s] maid so I could brush her hair myself." (A Clash of Kings)

She did not know how long her husband had been standing by the door. Ned had not made any sound to indicate his presence. He was watching Catelyn, or rather, watching her maid brushing her hair. His grey eyes did not have that faraway look they too often did, as if he was seeing events that took place years and years in the past and could not find his way back to the present.

Their eyes met. Ned was the first to look away. He glanced at the maid, pointedly. He wanted her to send the maid away, Catelyn surmised. She grew alarmed. Had a raven arrived from Riverrun, carrying words of some calamity that had befallen the Tullys? Had Ned been silently watching her because he was preparing himself to break the news to her?

Catelyn sent her maid away. “Tell me, Ned. Tell me now, whatever it is,” she urged him. “Is it my father, or Edmure?” Or perhaps the raven was from King’s Landing. Lysa. Her poor sister. Had something happened to Lysa?

Her apprehension surprised him. “Everything is well, my lady. Forgive me if I have alarmed you unduly, Catelyn.”

“Then why did you want me to send my maid away, Ned?”

He could not quite meet her gaze. He took a deep breath, as if preparing himself for some great ordeal. To her surprise, his next move was picking up the hair brush that her maid had set down.

His voice sounded formal and somewhat distant, though his words were anything but. “I saw you brushing Sansa’s hair last night,” he said, “and I have been wondering what it would be like, to brush your hair.”

Catelyn could not believe her ears, or her eyes for that matter. Ned would often stroke her hair in bed after their lovemaking, true enough, but she could not remember any previous occasion when he had touched her hair outside of bed.

His strokes with the hair brush were awkward and uneven, though he tried to be as gentle as he could. “I remember the first time I set eyes on you. You had your hair done in a thick braid. I could not stop thinking about how it would look without the braid. The red in your hair would shine more brightly, I imagined.”

She had no clue he had been thinking that. She had no clue he had been thinking of her at all. Jon Arryn had done most of the talking, while Ned remained quite silent. For all she knew, he had been as disappointed of his first sight of her as she was of her first sight of him. He had looked too solemn to her, too quiet, too reserved and too uninviting. He did not seem like a man who would be willing to open his heart – and perhaps more importantly, his mind – to the woman who would be sharing his life. He would keep her at a distance always, she had feared.

“Shall I count to a hundred?” Ned asked, shyly, as he continued brushing her hair.

Catelyn smiled. “A hundred it is.”

#Catelyn Tully #Ned Stark #Ned x Catelyn #valyrianscrolls #gotfic #asoiaf fic #arielfic

[arielseaworth]

“Storms were sacred on the Sisters before the Andals came. Our gods of old were the Lady of the Waves and the Lord of the Skies. They made storms every time they mated.” (A Dance with Dragons)

“The gods remember,” Orys muttered darkly, as he stared at the darkening sky and the gathering clouds, portents of yet another storm coming to batter Storm’s End endlessly.

Argella threw a questioning glance at her husband. “What do the gods remember?”

“They remember Durran Godsgrief’s transgression against them, and still seek to punish his descendants for it. But they seem to have conveniently forgotten that Durran’s descendants are also the descendants of their daughter Elenei, and thus, their descendants as well.”

“Oh, you mean the sea god and the goddess of the wind?”

Orys nodded.

“Then you have no reason to worry in that regard, surely? You are not a descendant of Durran Godsgrief after all. The gods are discerning enough to know that. They would not mistake you for a Durrandon, despite the position you currently occupy.”

“You are a descendant of Durran Godsgrief, my lady.”

“So your concern is for me, then? Oh, how very touching, my lord. But are you certain that your real concern is not about any children we may have together? They, after all, would also be the descendants of Durran Godsgrief, despite bearing your Baratheon name.”

Orys flushed and said, angrily, “You are determined to doubt my intention at every turn, it seems.”

“What of it? I believe I have earned the right to do so, after everything you have stolen from me.”

“And will you hold that against me for the rest of our married life?”

“There is another legend about how storms are supposedly created,” said Argella, pointedly ignoring Orys’ question. “A happier and less grim tale that would appeal more to your delicate sensibilities than the tale of everlasting retribution, I expect. A tale from the islands of the Three Sisters. Do you know it?”

“I have heard of it, yes. Before the Andals came and brought the Faith of the Seven to Westeros, the old gods worshipped by the people in the islands of the Three Sisters were the Lady of the Waves and the Lord of the Skies. Storms were supposedly the children conceived every time the Lady and the Lord mated.”

Argella scoffed. “Not their children, surely. No couple could conceive a child on every occasion they mated. The seed is never that strong, not even the seed of a god.”

“Then what were the storms, if not their children?” questioned Orys.

“The cries and sighs of pleasure at the height of ecstasy from a couple who truly loved one another, I expect.”

It was Orys’ turn to scoff. “No couple could … on every occasion … surely not.”

“They were gods, my lord, not mere mortals. And they loved one another.”

#I posted this on AO3 when I wasn't on Tumblr #Argella Durrandon #Orys Baratheon #valyrianscrolls #asoiaf fic #gotfic #arielfic

[arielseaworth]

Prompt - Egg mourns his grandfather and Set Duncan tries to comfort him.

For the prompt: Egg mourns his grandfather and Ser Duncan tries to comfort him.

“When Ser Arlan died, did you … did you cry for him, ser?”

Dunk had cried in the rain while digging the old man’s grave, and then pretended to himself that his tears were not tears at all, merely raindrops falling down his cheeks. I never wept. I might have wanted to, but I never did, he kept telling himself afterwards. Most of the time, he was half-way into believing it.

He didn’t pretend this time, though. He knew why Egg was asking. “I cried for him, aye,” Dunk replied, truthfully. You can cry too, Egg, for your grandfather, he thought, but had he said those words out loud, he suspected the boy would force himself not to cry, would try his very best to stifle his tears.

Sometimes telling people to do something was the same as telling them not to do it, the old man used to say. Sometimes the best thing you could do was wait people out, wait for them to reach a conclusion in their own time.

“I cried for Ser Arlan when he died, but I was crying for myself too,” Dunk added, watching Egg’s face.

Egg looked thoughtful. “For yourself, ser? Was that because you were afraid you wouldn’t have anywhere to go, with Ser Arlan gone?”

Dunk shook his head. “No, I knew I’d find my way somehow. The old man taught me well enough for that. He didn’t leave me to starve.”

“Then were you crying because … because you missed him, ser?” Egg asked, turning his head away so Dunk could no longer see the expression on his face.

Dunk nodded. “I already missed him, and he’d only been gone for a short time. And I knew I would miss him even more later. I would miss him when bad things happen to me, and I’m in need of his counsel and his comfort. But I would miss him even more when good things happen to me, and I wish I could share them with him.”

Egg’s breath hitched. The boy was very close to sobbing. He turned his head to look at Dunk again, his eyes shiny with pooling tears. “What do you do, ser, when you miss him?” he asked.

“I think of him, lad. I think of all the things he loved best. That way, I can keep him alive, here,” Dunk replied, pointing at his heart, or where he thought his heart would be.

“Wouldn’t that make you miss him more?”

“It would be worse, if I start to forget. Then he would really be gone.”

Egg buried his face in Dunk’s arm. They boy was sobbing, really sobbing now. “I don’t … don’t want … to forget … my grandfather,” he managed, between gasps.

“And you won’t, I’m sure.” Dunk patted Egg’s back, awkwardly. “There, there. Now, now. It will be better on the morrow.”

Later, Egg said, “I wish I had known you, ser, when Ser Arlan died.”

“Why? So you could see me cry, lad?”

“So I could be with you when you cried, ser. No one should have to cry alone, without anyone to comfort them.”

#thank you for your prompt ❤️ #Duncan the Tall #Aegon V Targaryen #valyrianscrolls #asoiaf fic #arielfic #dunk and egg #dunk and egg prompts #asoiaf

[arielseaworth]

FIC: Honor

The first act of Aegon’s reign was the arrest of Brynden Rivers, the King’s Hand, for the murder  of Aenys Blackfyre. Bloodraven did not deny that he had lured the pretender into his power by the offer of a safe conduct, but contended that he had sacrificed his own personal honor for the good of the realm. (The World of Ice and Fire)

When Ser Duncan the Tall came to arrest Lord Bloodraven for the murder of Aenys Blackfyre, Bloodraven reminded Dunk of a question posed to him by Maynard Plumm at Whitewalls: if the life at stake is not your own, what then?

Read @ AO3

#Duncan the Tall #Brynden Rivers #Bloodraven #dunk and egg #valyrianscrolls #asoiaf fic #arielfic #asoiaf

[arielseaworth]

D&E prompt -- Egg's sisters wonder what kind of man Ser Duncan the Tall is.

FIC: A True Knight Among Us

For the prompt: Egg’s sisters wonder what kind of man Ser Duncan the Tall is.

"Perhaps he was fond of her, this Ser Duncan,” Rhae speculated.

“Her?”

“The puppet girl he saved from Aerion.”

“She’s not really a girl, Rhae, not like us,” Daella said. “She’s older. It’s rude of us to call her a girl.”

“The puppet woman, then.”

“Puppeteer. And her name is Tanselle, Daeron said.”

“How would he know? Daeron wasn’t even there when Aerion hurt her. He was hiding at an inn.” Rhae sighed. “Our brothers –”

“Are a grave disappointment to Father?”

Rhae pursed her lips. “I don’t care about that. But Daeron and Aerion are knights too, like Ser Duncan. Yet they behaved very differently from Ser Duncan.”

Read @ AO3

#thank you for your prompt ❤️ #Daella Targaryen #Rhae Targaryen #Maekar Targaryen #Duncan the Tall #valyrianscrolls #asoiaf fic #arielfic #asoiaf #dunk and egg #dunk and egg prompts

[arielseaworth]

When they came ashore at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush to begin their conquest of the Seven Kingdoms, with them came a black-eyed, black-haired bastard named Orys Baratheon. (The World of Ice and Fire)

But what is a memorial, when you come right down to it, but a commemoration of wounds endured? Endured, and resented. (The Blind Assassin, Margaret Atwood)

The man – no, the king – depicted in the tapestry had long, streaming black hair and a full black beard. If not for his eyes, which were deep pools of blue instead of black, he could have passed for an ancestor of Orys Baratheon. A great-grandfather, perhaps, staring out proudly at his descendants from the wall covered with faded and not-quite-faded tapestries depicting illustrious Durrandons throughout the ages, beginning with Durran Godsgrief and his beloved Elenei, who were pictured locked in an embrace as a vicious storm was assaulting the ill-fated predecessor to Storm’s End.

Argella’s voice cut through Orys’ reverie like a hot knife slicing through butter. “My father, in his glory and his youth, or his glorious youth, some would say,” she said, her gaze lingering on the signet ring on her father’s finger in the tapestry, the signet ring bearing the seal of House Durrandon. The last Storm King had not been wearing this ring when he was slain.

The ring had been passed to his daughter before King Argilac departed Storm’s End for the last time, according to Rhaenys’ spies inside Storm’s End.

The ring was lost when the traitors and the betrayers who would deliver her to Orys’ camp had stripped her naked and put her in chains, claimed Argella. “One of them might have stolen it, and is currently hiding it, my lord. Should you not try to find it? Who knows what mischief they could achieve with such a ring?”

Argella remembered. Remembered the name of every man who had laid hands on her, who had dared to lay hands on the royal person of the Storm Queen. The list was long, but she recited the names as if each and every one had been carved with a knife on her bloodied flesh.

Might it not be you yourself, my lady, who is hiding this ring? wondered Orys from the start. He investigated the men on her list nonetheless, before trying to search through every nook and cranny of Storm’s End.

He searched, but never found it. It being the ring, it being the truth, it being any semblance of reconciliation.

“I said it is a portrait of my father. Did you hear me?”

Orys nodded. “I know. His eyes …”

His eyes I see in my dreams still. His eyes follow me every step of the way in Storm’s End still. His eyes judge and scorn, though not as severely as another pair of eyes, ones not depicted in any tapestry I see on this wall.

It was absurd, beyond absurd. Orys had slain many men in battles both before and after he slew the last Storm King, but none of the others had ever haunted his dreams. Why should Argilac Durrandon be any different?

But of course, he had not married the daughters of the other men he had slain. He had not moved into the castles of the other men he had slain. He had not –

Usurped the position of the heirs of the other men you had slain? demanded Argella, with her gaze.

“Would you like a woven portrait of yourself to be hanged in Storm’s End, next to the tapestry depicting my father?” asked Argella, with her courteous-sounding words that often felt sharper than any sword to Orys, even a Valyrian one.

“Hanged?”

“Forgive me. I misspoke. To be hung, I mean.”

Did you? Did you truly misspeak?

He doubted it. Doubted it very much indeed. His lifeless body hanging on that wall beside her father’s woven portrait would not displease Argella overmuch, he’d wager.

“I would like,” said Orys, “to commission a tapestry depicting the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End.”

They would not be portrayed locked in an embrace like Durran Godgrief and Elenei, certainly, but perhaps it could be the first step towards some kind of reconciliation, thought Orys. Reconciliation between the last Durrandon queen and the first Baratheon lord, between husband and wife.

Argella saw it very differently. “You would like to commission a tapestry depicting the ruling Lord of Storm’s End and his consort, you mean. I am more than aware of my current position, my lord. You need not remind me of it with a permanent memorial on this wall.”

#Orys Baratheon #Argella Durrandon #valyrianscrolls #asoiaf fic #gotfic #arielfic #I posted this on AO3 when I wasn't on Tumblr

[arielseaworth]

11 for loras and renly

For the prompt: Loras/Renly, a secret.

"I buried him with mine own hands, in a place he showed me once when I was a squire at Storm’s End. No one shall ever find him there to disturb his rest." (A Storm of Swords)

“This is where I was born, where I took my first breath.”

Here, in this mound not high enough to be called a hill? Here, half a day ride away from Storm’s End? Surely not, thought Loras. The Lady of Storm’s End would not have given birth in such a place.

“They were returning home from a lord’s progress across the stormlands, my father and mother. They went as far south as Nightsong. I came earlier than expected,” Renly said.       

“But who could have told you such a story?” Loras asked, not quite managing to hide his incredulity. Surely the Lord of Storm’s End would not have taken his lady wife on a lord’s progress, if she was close to giving birth.       

“No one told me,” replied Renly. “I told it to myself.”  

“Oh. It is not real, then.”

“It is as real to me as my father and mother are.”

Loras’ heart break for him. How real could his parents be to Lord Renly, dead and gone as they were when he was scarcely a toddler? And with one brother too busy mourning a dead northern girl, and another brother permanently aggrieved about one thing or another, he had no one to tell him much about his father and mother.

Loras thought of his own brothers, of Willas drawing him stars and telling him all about the different constellations, of Garlan patiently training him in arms and never showing any sign of envy or hostility when Loras turned out to be better. He thought of his own father and mother, and said, shyly, “My father and mother could be your father and mother too.”

“Must I wed your sister for that?”

Yes! We will be good-brothers. The best of them. We will be inseparable. Always and forever.   

No! I do not wish to be your good-brother, not truly. I wish … I wish –

He had no words to describe what it was that he wished for, so Loras stayed silent, keeping his secret to himself. For now. 

“This place is a secret,” Renly said. “You must never tell the story to anyone. They will laugh behind my back, if they know. Oh, there he goes again, the fanciful little lord with his tales and his stories. Sometimes I think I will forever be a little boy in their eyes, the little boy I had been when Robert made me the Lord of Storm’s End.”  

#Loras Tyrell #Renly Baratheon #Renly x Loras #valyrianscrolls #asoiaf fic #gotfic #arielfic #Anonymous #thank you for your prompt <3 #I'm sorry this is so late!

[arielseaworth]

Aemon’s blind white eyes came open. “Egg?” he said, as the rain streamed down his cheeks. “Egg, I dreamed that I was old.” (A Feast for Crows)

"[Aerion] threw my cat in the well too. He says he didn’t, but he always lies.” (The Hedge Knight)

When the scream woke him, Aemon thought it was Egg again, waking up from another bad dream about his cat Lady Growly, the one Aerion had thrown down the well because she scratched his arm that one time. He prepared himself to comfort Egg, to assure his brother that Aerion could not hurt Lady Growly even worse than he already did. But when Aemon glanced across their shared bedchamber, he saw that Egg was still asleep, tangled up with his bedsheet and blanket. Their lady mother used to say that Egg looked like he had been at war with his bedding during the night.

It was only then that Aemon recalled the dream, hazily to begin with. He was the one who had been dreaming. Who had been screaming, though only in the dream, it must be, for surely his scream would have awakened Egg otherwise?

What was it about the dream that had scared him so badly? He was old in the dream, Aemon remembered, but being old was not such a horrible thing. Grandfather was old. Old and venerable, with a kindly but slightly mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Aemon sometimes wondered how his father would look, as an old man. Prince Maekar did not seem likely to develop that kindly but slightly mischievous twinkle in his eyes any time soon. His father would be himself, only more so, Aemon expected.

What had scared Aemon in the dream was not being old. It was being alone, completely alone, the last, the one and only. But how could that be? He was not the youngest of his siblings. He –

Aemon sighed. He wished Egg would wake up soon, so he could tell him about the dream. He made his way to Egg’s bed and sat down on the edge of mattress, waiting. He tried whispering softly, “Egg?” His brother’s eyes remained firmly and resolutely closed. He waited for what felt like an eternity. As soon as Egg opened his eyes, Aemon exclaimed, “Egg, I dreamed I was old!”

Egg blinked a few times, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands. “Old? Is that a bad thing? Don’t you want to live to be an old man? I hope you live a really, really long time. As old as Grandfather. Older, even.”

“I was old … and you weren’t there. You weren’t there, Egg! I didn’t see you. I couldn’t see you!”

Egg sat up in a hurry, hearing the distress in Aemon’s voice. “That doesn’t mean I wasn’t there, silly! Maybe I was still asleep in my bed.”

“But I was not in our bedchamber, in the dream. I was standing on … on … I think it was a ship.”

“Well, maybe you were sailing to meet me, in the dream. I was waiting for you at the next harbor.”

“And we will be reunited?” Aemon asked, hopeful.

Egg leaned forward, so he could link his hands with Aemon’s own. “Yes! Just like the third King Aegon was reunited with his brother Prince Viserys. We will be ever so happy. We’ll talk and talk about the old days, when we were boys and we shared a bedchamber, just like Aegon and Viserys shared a bedchamber when they were little princes together.”

Aemon laughed. “The old days? We’re still sharing a bedchamber now.”

Egg’s face clouded over. He snatched his hands away, crossing his arms over his chest. Sitting cross-legged on his bed, he said, sulkily, “Not for long, though.” Then he added, teary-eyed, “Not after you leave for the Citadel.”

Aemon felt like crying too. He tried to distract his brother – and himself – by asking, “Do you suppose Prince Viserys ever called his brother Egg?"

#Aemon Targaryen #Maester Aemon #Aegon V Targaryen #valyrianscrolls #gotfic #asoiaf fic #arielfic #Dunk and Egg

[arielseaworth]

For dunk and egg prompt, dunk confessed to egg where the name duncan came from.

For the prompt: Dunk confessed to Egg where the name Duncan came from.

Egg said, earnestly, “If I’m ever a father, ser, I will name my son Duncan, in your honor.”

Dunk raised his eyebrows. “A son? You said you want to be a knight of the Kingsguard and live only to serve and defend the king. The knights of the Kingsguard are sworn not to wed. Have you changed your mind about joining their ranks, after meeting a certain lady at Raventree Hall?”

Egg blushed. He stared at his boots and mumbled, “I said if, ser, not when. I will not have a son, most like, but if I do … well, if I do …”

“Prince Duncan? Whoever heard of a Prince Duncan? That’s a mighty strange name for a prince.”

Egg raised his head. “It’s not strange at all, ser. He will be proud of the name, for it is the name of a most puissant knight who always remembers his vows to protect the weak and innocent. It is the name of the man who never tires of trying to teach his squire how to be a true knight and a decent man.”

Now it was Dunk’s turn to stare at his boots. He cleared his throat a few times. “Ermm … seeing as you were the one who gave me the name Duncan in the first place, lad, I suppose you have a right to it.”

Egg stared at him uncomprehendingly. “I gave you the name, ser? But … but that was your name already, wasn't it?”

Dunk shook his head. “The first time we met, you asked me my name and I said Dunk. Dunk was the only name I had ever known back then. You laughed and said Ser Dunk is no name for a knight. Don’t you remember?”

“I laughed, ser? That was very insolent of me. I wonder you did not give me a clout in the ear for it.”

“Oh, I wanted to, but you looked so pitiful with your shaven head. Then you asked me if Dunk is short for Duncan and I … well, I thought it could have been. Ser Arlan only ever called me Dunk, but it could have been short for something else. Duncan made more sense than most others. And Ser Duncan the Tall sounded puissant to my ear, so I took it as my own.”

“Are you glad you did, ser?”

“The name has served me well since then. And it will always remind me of the bald boy who gave it to me.”

“I didn’t really give you the name, ser. I suggested it, more like.”

Dunk grinned. “You suggested it, aye. Suggested it most politely. Is that the story we’re going to tell the lady at Raventree Hall? She might have something to say about naming your son Duncan.”

#thank you for your prompt ❤️ #Duncan the Tall #Aegon V Targaryen #valyrianscrolls #asoiaf fic #arielfic #dunk and egg #dunk and egg prompts #asoiaf

[arielseaworth]

Egg and his family sitting for a potrait for prompts❤️

FIC: Family Portrait

For the prompt: Egg and his family sitting for a portrait.

Mother says they should have the portrait painted before Aemon leaves for the Citadel. Father grumbles that Aemon need not leave at all, if he had his way. “Your father has commanded it,” Mother says, and Father repeats, “My father has commanded it,” though his tone of voice is very different from Mother’s.

Read @ AO3

#thank you for your prompt ❤️ #Aegon V Targaryen #and his parents and siblings #valyrianscrolls #asoiaf fic #dunk and egg #dunk and egg prompts #asoiaf #arielfic