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#does lark even know why he hates his father so much?

greiiliss · 2 years

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After this episode I have so many thoughts and feelings about the Oak-(Swallows)-Garcia men/boys that I absolutely need to write down:

Henry saw his father's example of how to treat people, and decided he wanted to be nothing like it, so he became kind and compassionate and deeply, deeply caring. And he tried to pass this onto his sons because he wanted the hurt that he went through as a child to end with him.

But Henry didn't have any good examples of how to be a parent. His father was dismissive and cruel, and his mother apathetic and afraid. He had no one to show him how to teach and guide his sons, and he was afraid of over-managing their lives the way his father had, so he erred on the side of giving them ample space to figure things out on their own and supporting them as best he can.

So the twins are told from birth that they are loved unconditionally, that no matter what they will be forgiven. They are told this so much it practically becomes white noise to them. Even if they burn down their classroom, or destroy the tree in the front yard, or start a cult in a city in another realm, their dad might get mad for a bit, but he won't really do anything about it, and it'll all be okay, he'll laugh it off and tell them how much he loves them. They're having fun, it's not like they've done anything that serious!

Until suddenly, they have done something very serious. They have done something so horrible that it very nearly ended the world entirely. What did they expect would happen afterward, do you think? I imagine that they thought -that Lark at the very least thought- that Henry would be furious with them. If there was anything for Henry to be really mad at them about, to never forgive them for, it has to be this, right?

But... he's not. Henry doesn't blame them, and when they blame themselves he says that he forgives them? This doesn't make sense to them, and we can know that this doesn't make sense to them, because Lark's spent the past few weeks hating Henry because of Walter's injury, something Henry was only indirectly involved in. We don't even know if Lark ever forgave Henry, so what reason would he have to assume his father would ever forgive him for doing something infinitely worse?

The twins are scared, because they think they should be hated, and they don't understand the unconditional love and forgiveness that their father is offering them. So Lark does what many scared and confused people do: he lashes out at what he doesn't understand. Every time Henry tells him he's not to blame for what happened, or that he loves him, or that he forgives him, Lark rejects it.

Sparrow takes a different approach. He's already been told that he needs to be a "love wolf", but he's only really taken in that lesson in a "letter of the law" kind of way. So he tries to be nice. He says the nice things, marries the nice woman, and he says the "right" things when he gets angry to try and absolve himself of all blame. He's trying to emulate his father's approach to life, but he doesn't actually understand it, so his actions are hollow, and quite often ingenuine. And he blames himself for the Doodler's release just as much as Lark does, so he also feels that he's fundamentally unlovable. He marries a woman who cheats on him because why should it matter that she maybe doesn't love him when no one ever will?

If you believe yourself to be unlovable because of something you've done, you don't believe in unconditional love, so it is impossible for you to give unconditional love.

This is the environment Normal is raised in, with a mother incapable of sharing her own opinions out of a dedication to centrism, and two father figures who believe themselves to be fundamentally unlovable and are therefore incapable of extending unconditional love to anyone else. There are conditions that he needs to meet in order to be loved by his dad, and he doesn't meet them. He probably hasn't for awhile, but he only really realized it recently when Sparrow just told him outright.

And the incredible thing about Normal? This doesn't break him. He holds onto his identity even though he's hurt and upset that his father isn't proud of him. Normal saw his father's example of how to treat people and decided he wanted to be nothing like it, so he apologizes for yelling at Taylor, and he stands up for himself, and he still loves his family even though they've hurt him. Just like his grandfather did, Normal was raised in an environment that tried to stifle him and separate him from other people, and instead chose to love himself and others as much as he possibly can.

And this difference between the generations is illustrated so well through Lark/Normal looking into the Doodler's mind:

Lark sees inside the Doodler's mind, sees that it wants to be loved, sees that it's hurt people without meaning to, fucking sees himself in it, and decides that it deserves to die.

Normal sees inside the Doodler's mind, sees that it wants to be loved, sees how things always go wrong when it tries to reach out for that love, sees himself in the Doodler, and he decides that the Doodler needs help.

(And you just know that if Henry had been the one to see inside its head instead of Lark, he would've done the exact same thing. Normal is such a good character to carry on Henry's legacy, it makes me want to fucking cry.)

#dndads #dndaddies #dungeons and daddies #dndads spoilers #normal oak #henry oak #lark oak garcia #sparrow oak garcia #i did not intend for this to be this long but once I started typing i physically could not stop lol #i just love characters who are fundamentally about love #greii talks

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greylight32 · 8 months

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I just realized that I have yet to tell my theories about Henry, so today I will be doing that.

Now while I really like the the Doodlerized theory, where he has plants growing out out him and shit, I also like mine which is "Split in two"

The two would be the split of Henry and, much to the twins displeasure, mimic Lark and Sparrow alot. One being the more optimistic bubbly and loving side, aka the more "positive emotions" or the "good" Henry. And the other being the more pessimistic angry and depressed side, aka the "bad emotions" or the "bad" Henry. The "Bad" Henry also is is a werewolf like state, refusing to fully change. The "good" one going by Hen (since he's the closest to what his father could have gotten to "perfection"), and the other going be Ry (Since "bad emotions' is something that makes us human, and Henry chose to be the why that he is and he chose to add Ry to his first name)

The two of them seem to mimic Lark and Sparrow's co-dependent behavior, including some of their mannerisms. They also contain memories, Hen contains the good memories, Ry contains the bad ones. But both are aware of the other memories. Hen dresses more like how Henry dressed before the forgotten realms, more soft feeling he feels safe (though as they learn more about the situation he starts to give a strong feeling of uncanny valley, or the feeling that it is not human but looks like it)

While Ry dresses more like how Henry dressed afterwards, he feels constantly on guard and untrustworthy of everyone, even his other half. He also gives a monster vibe (due to the half wolf state) showing how we monsterize what we think of as bad emotions. This would make the party not trust him for many reasons. 1 of which Lark and Sparrow probably think Henry hates them therefore making Ry more likely to attack them, this of course is not the case.

As they find out more such that Hen wants to keep them trapped there, and if they wish, to separate their "bad and good" emotions like with him and Ry, without his other half to give him the other part of his moral compass Hen thinks what he's trying to do is the right thing. To keep everyone trapped here would mean that no one gets hurt and if he did this right, they could all be one big happy family.

Because Henry never stopped wanting to have his old family back, and Hen with all of his positivity doesn't truly understand why they couldn't be. Ry does though he knows why they can't be and he understands how Normal is feeling right now.

I don't know if I explained it quite right but I'll do more later since I really like the idea!

#dndads #dungeons and daddies #dndads season 2 #dndads s2 #dndaddies #normal oak #lark oak #sparrow oak #henry oak dndads #henry oak #henry oak garcia #I can not wait to be emotionally wrecked #my therapist will be hearing about it #and will be so concerned #but I live to make their life harder

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babacontainsmultitudes · 1 year

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Now for a long, disorganized ramble about Scary and Lark, feat. Sparrow and Normal

I really wanted to talk about this in way that was more logically organized, but after today’s episode (25) I *need* to talk about Scary and Lark. I’m certainly not breaking new ground in stating that there are parallels between the two of them, but still it’s just-

It’s just- they’re so similar. It’s the way Scary is so unnecessarily cruel in a way that feels so reminiscent of how Lark was with Henry post-rogue in season 1. Scary doesn’t know why she feels how she feels, so she tries to justify it, tries to find explanations for her feelings at every chance she can get. Surely Lark would have had things to work out with Henry either way but, the rogue card no doubt worsened and solidified things on that front and, at the risk of straying a bit farther into speculation, I have to imagine he was very confused by these feelings. He suddenly hates his father so much, and knows nothing of the rogue card’s effect on him, so it’s only natural that he’d try to make sense of these feelings. Then Walter gets seriously injured, and Lark can mostly tie his anger to that for a while (I do think Lark was genuinely very upset by what happened to Walter, but the degree to which he blames Henry for it is irrational, and deep down I think Lark understands this too, but I digress). Walter didn’t have to get hurt for Lark to become so deeply resentful of Henry, that just gave Lark a false pretense for where those feelings came from (as for the reasons I think Lark actually resents Henry- that’ll be for another post another time).

So Scary and Lark are both confused by their own feelings and internally try to justify them. They lash out, they lie, they’re cruel, and they push everyone away. They confuse their coldness with strength, or “doing what has to be done” (a bit more on this later). Their behavior distances them from the rest of the group, either of their own volition, or as punishment (like in the end of today’s ep.).

Enter Willy, who correctly identifies the weakest link twice in a row. Willy, who knows he can use Lark and Scary’s isolation and resentment to his advantage, and does so without them realizing they’re being manipulated. Lark stabs Henry. Scary doesn’t stab Tony, but she might as well have. Willy has successfully led them to the tipping point, people get hurt, and everything is worse now.

Enter Sparrow and Normal. I see the world through Oak-tinted glasses, so yes we have to talk about them. I really wanted to talk about this after episode 24, so I’m scolding myself for only getting to it now, but I’ve become increasingly convinced that Scary and Normal’s relationship parallels Lark and Sparrow’s. Honestly, I think the whole exploration of that is still gonna have to be a separate post, but let’s talk about Sparrow for a bit, shall we?

For starters, I think it’s fairly easy to understand even without specific examples on hand that Sparrow tries desperately to stay by Lark’s side, largely at his own expense. Lark literally slept with his wife and that wasn’t enough for Sparrow to cut him out (or at least distance himself). In ep. 24 Lark is particularly abrasive with his brother, who seems to be so used to putting up with it at this point that he’s completely unfazed by it. I think Sparrow is no doubt angry with Lark, his performance in ep. 23 makes this pretty clear (even if there’s still so much left up to speculation from that scene). But I also think Sparrow still cares deeply for his brother, feels responsible for Lark to some degree, and will enable him so long as it means being able to keep Lark in his life and not let his brother slip any further into isolation than he already has.

And I think Sparrow deeply understands how big of a hand Willy had in his brother’s undoing. I dare say Sparrow blames Willy for Lark’s actions more than Lark blames Willy for them. So when he sees history repeating itself with Scary, he loses it. This is the most direct attempt anyone makes to stop Scary from being manipulated by Willy, and unfortunately, it is largely in vain.

Normal, on his end, bends over backwards to be empathetic with Scary, even when she really doesn’t deserve it. Normal has so much on his plate, so much to be upset about, but repeatedly ignores or understates his own feelings to validate Scary’s. Even when her cruelty is directed at him, he tries so hard to be receptive of her emotions. I’ll try to collect some concrete examples of this in a follow-up post, I think, because they really are plentiful. And like his dad with Lark, even though he means well, Normal unintentionally enables Scary every time that he does this.

So, admittedly without a very smooth segway, when Normal says they’re not going to kill the Doodler, and Lark reprimands Sparrow for being too soft with Norm, and just a bit later this exchange happens:

Lark: Yes, not trusting us. That's a very smart move. Scary, you're learning. Good job, Scary.

Scary: Heh-heh-heh!

Lark: You can learn something from Scary, Normal.

Scary: Yeah, you could, Normal!

It says so much, but it also just kind of makes sense. Lark and Scary both progressively learn to keep those around them at arm’s length. What’s more, they are both convinced that sometimes you really do just need to be cruel to get things done, as evidenced in Scary’s case by her decision at the end of today’s episode.

So let’s talk about that ending. As much as things went from 0 to 100 quick, I think what we got was in actuality a long time coming. Apart from Sparrow’s aforementioned outburst, any attempts to lead Scary away from Willy have been passive at best, and more akin to “do what you want but we don’t want him anywhere near us” at worst. Otherwise, there’s been a lot of tension building up between Norm and Scary, so I think that actually makes it so much more intense and perhaps even shocking when it’s Link who finally puts his foot down and kicks Scary out of the group. But with everything discussed up until now, I would say that this actually makes a lot of sense! Link is much more capable than Norm of setting boundaries (see his interactions with Grant), and even with what happened today I just don’t know if Norm would have had it in him to do that to Scary.

So where do we go from here? Hell if I know! I for one have not given up on Scary (or Lark for that matter), and I feel in my heart that Normal won’t either, but that remains to be seen. I’m so curious about how all the teens are gonna be in the next episode, and what will become of the dynamic from here on out. Who will blame Scary, who will blame Willy, and who will blame them both? How is Scary going to come back from this? Who is going to be the one to help her?*cough* Norm, I’m saying it’ll be Norm There’s just so much to think about.

Gosh I spent way too long on this- and it’s kind of a mess, but hopefully it makes at least a bit of sense!

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purplebass · 7 months

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This might be unpopular but I do hope that Holland is actually Holland, like idk I feel like if it turns out to be just some other evil thing impersonating Holland that it would be such a cop out but also such an obvious thing. And I found myself liking the messed up dynamic between Kosika and Holland. There is something really fascinating in it where if this is Holland like what are his thoughts about Kosika. And Kosika seeking out Holland is also interesting + her feelings towards her two friends. I don’t remember if it was Rhy or Kell but I had a feeling it was Rhy who had the passage about asking what happens in death… which might end up coming back to explain Holland.

Okay but the baby thing really got my attention because idk if Schwab thought it was something we really wanted to know or if it is something that will play a part later because it doesn’t feel like her style to make Lila change her mind but also everything Lila has said previously also has been pushed so idk… and that fact that we get a scene where she watched Kell interact with his niece and getting told what kind of father Kell would be. Like she says she doesn’t but I felt like other paragraphs kind of let it linger…

And all of this is part of book 1 so there could be little teases of what’s to come. Like all this is to get people set up for the future books. Idk I’m just thinking…

I don't think it's unpopular to want it to be the real Holland :) I am a fan of the "dead character isn't truly dead" trope and after all, we still don't know what happens when an Antari dies or is dying. Kosika saw Holland die, but perhaps death for antari is just passing somewhere else but still existing as lingering magic ✨ 🤔 or Holland is indeed a special case Holland might've been human when he died, but there may still be remnants of magic in him and those may have made it possible for his spirit to survive.

I also like their dynamic, because even if Kosika has Nasi and Lark, Holland is like a mentor older brother and he is the only one who knows how to use her magic. The triangle with Lark and Nasi is interesting because I think it also reflects the situation in Red London with Alucard/Rhy/Nadiya, but in this case it is almost clear that Kosika likes them both so it might turn out into a proper poly relationship 👀 but I think if it does, it may happen later.

As for the baby thing, years ago I joked about Kellila babies lmao because I wasn't sure we would get Threads and because I like to imagine as a shipper. Then Threads gave us this mention, and I don't think it was put there just because. Well aside from pushing Lila to donate her blood to Nadiya and for Nadiya to push her Antari baby agenda, I do think it's a topic that Lila thought about. Her answer seemed final and like you said, if V says that the character thinks she hates this, she doesn't change her mind. However... In Threads we see how much Lila keeps a lot of things to herself and lies by omission. She lied about throwing away the ring, she didn't tell Kell about Kosika, nor her investigation about the Hand, nor how it hurt her to see him like this. She never openly told him her feelings to his face... When Kell and Alucard go to save Lila, Kell is surprised that she had the ring and Alucard tells him: "good thing she lies, then!" So my point is: telling Nadiya that she doesn't like children might be an outright lie she told because one of the things Lila hates is when others try to pry into her life when she isn't willing to share.it might still be the truth, of course. She may also be lying to herself in her pov, because we see how Lila's pov is cryptic. There is a lot of unsaid. That's why I find Lila interesting. 🤔 Also, V throwing married couples around Kellila and doing the ring thing? We have Rhylucard but also the Vasry/Raya on the ship.

Sorry I get carried away as usual 😂

I can't wait to see how everything evolves in the future! And I hope we'll know when Threads #2 will be supposedly released 👀

#adsom #tftop #tftop spoilers #kell maresh #holland vosijk #lila bard #kosika #the fragile threads of power #shades of magic #posta #kellila #kell x lila

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bafflement · 11 months

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Deaged Oz AU - After The Meeting

Tip looked up as a knock sounded at the door to the set of rooms they all shared in Atlas. He wasn't expecting anyone, but everybody else was away at the moment. He shrugged, putting his book down and getting to his feet, maybe they were after Qrow?

Moving over to the door, though, it revealed a boy not much older than Tip was, who blinked down at him in surprise.

"Uh... Wintertip Pine?" The boy enquired, sounding rather doubtful.

Tip nodded. "Yes, that would be me. Why?" His hand crept towards the hilt of his rapier as he spoke, though, eyes busily scanning for anyone else that might have come with the boy. To catch him alone was rare enough that this just seemed to scream 'trap' to him.

"I have something I need to deliver to you. Your eyes only, though... I was expecting you to be rather older?" The boy shrugged and held out a bound scroll. Tip took it, one eyebrow raised in curiosity.

"Any idea what this is about?" He asked, hoping to at least get some context clues from the strange event. Though he doubted Salem would have provided any written evidence of her plans if it was actually her, that would be so far out of character that... well, never mind.

He slit the seal open and scanned the contents, stopping halfway through to adjust his glasses slightly. The paper was a strange shade of almost purple, though the ink seemed normal enough. Was it... scented? His eyebrow rose further upon the discovery that yes, yes it was... this was not exactly normal correspondance to send to an eleven year old.

He noted the name and almost smiled. Lady Greenbriar had been the older woman on Atlas Council, the one that had taken none of James' attitude and had seemed to recognise him. He had no real memory of her, but maybe this meeting could change that?

She wanted him to come alone, which was slightly problematic, but she had specified a time about an hour from now, the others wouldn't be back yet. If he was quick enough, maybe they'd never need to know? He was pretty sure she wouldn't harm him, at least.

He smiled at the boy who'd delivered it and nodded to him. "Please inform her that I'll be there and thank you." The boy looked weirdly more intimidated by Tip's calm acknowledgement of what was really a summons than he had to delivering the letter. Ah well, maybe this wasn't the normal reaction, but Tip was highly curious now...

Picking out clothing took less time than it might have, had the lady in question not probably once been a friend of his father's. Ah well, at least Winter might be happy that he'd chosen Schnee colors for this? It felt slightly manipulative, but it could give him an advantage if the talk went south... and if Winter found out where he was, he knew she tended to be more gentle when reminded forcefully that they were related.

Brothers, but he hated doing that... he wasn't a child, he wasn't helpless... he wasn't even really that sickly anymore with the help of his aura. They needed to stop treating him as though he would break, he was an accomplished Huntsman, after all...

He froze in the doorway to the room where he had been told to meet her. She wasn't alone, a man sat with her who was familiar. Why was Lark Winchester of all people here, though? He was aware that like the Ironwoods... and the Schnee's, the Winchesters had lost a child to that same kidnapping circle, but why would he be interested in Tip, of all people? He wasn't Wren Winchester, after all... he couldn't bring her back.

A flash, then, briefest memory hitting. Wren, her blonde hair and her... oh no... her bright green eyes. He shook himself out of it, though. He had to be imagining things.

"So, this is the child you wanted me to meet, my lady?" Lark's voice was light, but his eyes were hard as he stared at the tousle haired little boy.

"Does he really look that unfamiliar to you, Lark?" Lady Greenbriar's tone held laughter, her eyes soft as she, too, looked at Tip.

"I..." Lark broke off, sweeping a second, more assessing look over Tip. He shook his head slightly, looked again. Tip felt rather like an insect under the microscope at that point, but suppressed the feeling. His shoulders straightened as he met Lark's eyes.

Lark Winchester, pillar of the community in Atlas that he was, proud chairman of the Winchester Military Equipment Company, started to swear. Lady Greenbriar looked impressed. Tip just grinned at him, which seemed to set off a fresh round of profanity, slowly getting more impressive before Lark regained control of himself.

"... Winter?" It wasn't really a question, though. Tip nodded, grin more rueful now and Lark just closed his eyes briefly.

"What happened to you? How are you... why are you...? You know what? Never mind, that can wait. I'm just so damn glad you're alive!"

Tip blushed, even as Lady Greenbriar sighed. "Unfortunately there's more to it than that, Lark. It turns out that little Winter Schnee here is the wizard."

"Excuse me?" Lark stated it flatly, disbelief in every iota of his body language.

"Unfortunately, yes." Tip agreed, calmly. He adjusted his hold on The Long Memory pointedly and Lark's eyes flew to the cane.

He promply started swearing again.

#deaged oz au #professor ozpin #lark winchester #lady greenbriar #atlas oc's #atlas council #summons #found family #rediscover #who you are

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lincolnmkicks · 2 years

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you know what i’m back on tumblr gonna copy paste some oak-garcia twins analysis from discord here for posterity. spoilers under the cut for season 1 of dndads also don’t tell me if you’ve heard all this before i don’t wanna know i’m just spitballing bc i feel such a deep relatability to the oak family uuuuu

also this mentions stuff in anthony's dm notes that isn't Canon but could have happened if things went differently so. yuh. okay.

i think lark is so much further gone than sparrow in terms of processing summoning the doodler that he feels everything is completely fucked hence his survivalist nature and his rough exterior. and i think the reason he doesn’t have kids is he feels undeserving of a fulfilling happy family life or the lvoe that comes from being a husband and/or father. but i also think lark, both because he no longer holds that love for henry because of the rogue card AND because he feels the brunt of guilt over losing his innocence at such an early age after summoning the doodler, treats norm how he’d have wanted to be treated as a child. not poked and prodded and watched and questioned for hours on end after—and granted this is speculative because we don’t know whether lark summoned the doodler by choice or not—dooming the world of potentially his own volition because he hated his father so much he let willy’s words get to him.

the scene where he pretends to be sparrow to apologize to norm seems to imply not only a lack of faith in sparrow actually apologizing/feeling Sorry for what he said, but also a desire to see norm happy and whether that’s his love for his family, his soft spot for norm, being norms bio dad and wanting that moment of pretending norm was calling him dad and not sparrow, we don’t know. but it implies in lark a care that carries through even when he’s almost lost in the sauce. and i think him exploding at the end from anthony’s dm notes wouldn’t necessarily be a desire to be harsh and cruel to norm because the world is harsh and cruel but rather a simultaneous desire to push away so he can’t be vulnerable and be loved and all the scary shit that comes with it. while also being the very words lark internalized towards himself, and being doodlerized makes him more. internal? like he no longer tries to be kinder to normal because he cares and loves him but he instead is seeing norm as himself and is speaking as if he were looking in a mirror.

SPARROW meanwhile is interesting in his own way. did he know lark was going to summon the doodler? did lark Tell him? we know he partially blames himself, but whether that’s because he knew and decided to help in the plan, knew nothing but feels guilt by association, or initially felt no guilt until because he was larks twin he was by association just immediately judged as being complicit and so it was outside federal influence that made him feel guilt is unsure.

we know he wanted normalcy and a better life for both norm and assumedly hero so much so to the point he. named his son norm. (hero is. an interesting case but i’ll get to her later). he wanted that normalcy so bad because sure for like 12-13 years the twins had a nice normal albeit weird life but only so weird as henry oak is weird. but formative years are everything and i think. i dont want to believe there is shame from sparrow over normal.

i wonder again internalizing again. if that desire for normalcy is in fact a projection of how sparrow feels about lark. which begs the question: does sparrow think lark summoned the doodler of his own volition. sure we can be pretty sure they both felt bad After the fact but wondering how and why lark did it is important too. idk if any of this makes sense it could all be word salad but lark and sparrow were both unconventional kids especially compared to the others kids like grant and terry. does sparrow think their personalities, their constant thirst and desire for power as children, made them more predisposed to doing what they/he did? did sparrow always feel this shame for his son despite how open henry was about the boys being their true selves to a debilitating degree? is all of this because sparrow remembers being tailed by federal agents constantly and i’m looking way too deep into it? idk

ITS OBVIOUS EVEN WITH BEING EMBARRASSED OVER NORM AND NOT WANTING TO DRAW ATTENTION TO HIM HE LOVES HIM. but does he love him because of his quirks or despite them.

so a very speculative theory i have is. hero is larks kid because she’s older and was conceived before sparrow married rebecca. but because of the shame of the infidelity and wanting to be Normal sparrow named her hero to be a consistent reminder to lark in the most petty fucking way ever of the unsung hero and of not fucking up sparrows family more than sleeping with his spouse already did

#dndads #lark oak #lark oak garcia #sparrow oak #sparrow oak garcia #dndads spoilers #normal oak #normal oak garcia #idk how to tag i havent been on tumblr in years at this point #this is all very speculative and very much word vomit from a few months ago but i wanted to put it out here bc its easier for others to see #anyways. yuh #dungeons and daddies

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unknownjpegs · 13 days

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in the closet

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t out to your dad?”

“I tried!”

The floorboards in the middle of Xavier’s room creak when Adam paces them. He remembers dancing around them to sneak out as a teenager. They’re well worn in the areas where his feet would land, jumping in from his window.

Xavier’s childhood bedroom becomes absolutely suffocating with every single squeak as Adam walks back and forth from dresser to bed, dresser to bed. There’s still posters of his favorite athletes on the walls—very apt, considering the type of guy he’s ended up with. Adam looks handsome in the outfit he’d picked for Christmas dinner. Nice cashmere sweater, fitted chinos, loafers. Xavier was in a old crew neck sweater that had a hole in the back from where he’d snapped the tag out with his teeth.

Adam doesn’t just look handsome. He looks furious. His pale cheeks are tinted maroon, sharp brows yanked in tight as he fumes. He always kept his hair swept back from his forehead in a very careful way, but strands keep falling forward. It would be cute, if the situation weren’t so awkward.

“Bullshit,” he snips, finally pausing to stand in front of Xavier, who sits on his bed. Adam’s willowy with his height, only an inch shorter than Xavier, but much leaner. He’s got a classic rowers build, as Lark had put it when he’d introduced them. It was been, simply put, absolute lust at first sight and then a relationship sort of stumbling along after.

Telling Adam anything about his family after only dating him for a few months felt…wrong. Like he was divulging their secrets to a stranger; we grew up poor, my mothers a nurse, my little sister is autistic so she’s going to ask you weird questions, but she’s very sweet, by the way my dad has no idea that I date men. Adam didn’t need to know these things, only now he did. Because he’s here, in Boston, on Christmas, with Xavier’s family just downstairs.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Xavier says lamely, putting his hands to his hair and then behind his neck. He groans out, stares at the ceiling where a poster of Alice Deejay keeps almost falling. “I didn’t know how to tell him! He’s—I mean, he’s—my dad is a good guy, Adam. He’s just—”

“Republican?” Adam snorts, crossing arms over his chest.

“Fuck no,” Xavier replies hotly. “He’s a union worker—he hates republicans—stop it!” Xavier stands quickly, presses himself forward. Adam doesn’t give inches, stares up with narrowed, venomous eyes. Xavier likes that about him, usually. Most of the time, arguments can quickly dissolve into irritated, frantic sex that resolves everything. Not happening in his shitty twin bed, one floor above his family. His father.

“Let’s just—let’s have dinner.” He reaches for Adam��s hand. It doesn’t move for a long moment, until he finally sighs and takes it. Xavier laces their fingers. Adam has thick calluses from rowing. They feel fantastic down his sides, over his spine, usually. He squeezes their palms together, brows upturned apologetically. Adam leans in then, gives Xavier a kiss that lingers for a long moment. Arms entwine around each others necks, kiss deepening.

Xavier day dreams about his mothers sweet potato casserole while they kiss.

—

Naturally, the fight happens directly in the middle of dinner.

“You’re being rude,” Xavier seethes, leaning across the end of the table. His father sits directly across, on the other side. Men at the head, sort of thing. Which placed Adam very awkwardly beside him, tucked close to Emily, who was squeezed in next to Jesse who was staring at their father with her giant, disapproving eyes. She’d recently gone vegetarian, so she was also at odds with the senior Wolffe.

“Does anyone want another drink?” Xavier’s mother stands from the table quickly. She gives Adam a charming, Massachusetts mother’s PTA smile, all teeth. Hospitable even after a double shift at the hospital. “Maybe more wine?”

“Please,” Adam says, returning the expression, only his is pinched and his voice is desperate.

“How am I being rude?”

“Say boyfriend,” Xavier hisses. He hasn’t put his knife down, so it sticks up in his fist like a weapon, holiday ham still clinging to it. His father continues cutting through his own food, without looking up. He’s not made eye contact with Xavier much in the last few hours, since he’d walked in with Adam and introduced him as boyfriend. “Not friend. He’s not my fucking room mate.”

“Language.” His father raises his fork slightly at that, but otherwise continues his meal.

“I like your sweater,” Emily says softly. She’s the only Wolffe at the dinner table with black hair, which she’d been dying for years now.

“Thank you,” Adam replies, smiling kindly at her.

“He is,” James Wolffe starts, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Your boyfriend.” It seems a difficult sentence to get out and he still doesn’t make eye contact, chewing his food thoroughly before swallowing. “So, he is a boy, that is your friend—”

Xavier tosses the knife down on the table, laughing in a way that is ice cold and devoid of humor.

“Well, we do a lot more than friends, Dad.”

“Xavier James Wolffe,” his mother snaps, overfilling Adam’s glass of wine. Red splashes over the good tablecloth, the one that gets used every year. His grandparents had sat down at this table, with this tablecloth.

“Do you need a cigarette?” Tess asks desperately, tugging at Xavier’s sleeve. She’s leaned in close, trying to communicate with her eyes alone, but it isn’t working. Because Xavier is staring directly at his father, who is staring directly at his son. Both of them have the same ruddy color to their cheeks, a vein throbbing in their temple. Xavier kicks back from his chair at the same time James Wolffe does.

“You are an asshole!” Xavier starts, walking around the table.

“Do not talk to me like that, in my house!”

Adam sips at the overfilled glass of wine.

—

One month later, they break up.

Xavier is panting when he pulls away, his face cradled in warm, callused hands. Adam groans, looking down at him. Those strong, athletes palms brush Xavier’s hair back from his forehead, away from his temples. They massage softly, sweetly and Xavier closes his eyes to the sensation—to the attention. His mouth is sore, but in that way he sort of likes. Enjoys the affection more, but he’ll take both. He kisses wetly from Adam’s hip up to his rib, lathes his tongue over his sternum and higher.

“You’re ridiculously good at that,” his boyfriend comments, breathing still irregular. His lays the back of a hand over his face and sighs out contently.

“Aw shucks, thanks,” Xavier coos as he leans in to try and get a kiss. Adam laughs and puts his hand to Xavier’s cheek, pushing him away.

“Gross, not directly after,” he says. Xavier dives in again, playfully but Adam dodges it, rolling onto his side and then away, off the bed. He lays there still, soaking in the warmth that he’d left on the mattress, the smell of him—lake and nature—on his pillow. Xavier tucks it up under his chest and watches Adam begin to dress.

“Oh.” Xavier frowns and then tries to smile, but his brows pinch upward. “I thought you were spending the night.”

“I have early practice. You know I have to be up at like four in the morning.” Adam leans over and presses a quick, chaste kiss to Xavier’s temple. “But after, we uh,” he pauses as he unfolds to stand straight. He fidgets with the strings on his sweatpants, glancing around Xavier’s room. “I’ll come over after practice, okay?”

“Sure.” Xavier turns onto his back, hands on his stomach. For some reason, he waves, because he actually isn’t sure…what else to do. The awkwardness lingers in his stomach like a fat, heavy stone as Adam leaves his room. The feeling lasts through out the night, when he doesn’t get any text messages. He feels an itch forming between his shoulder blades, an ice cube between his ribs the size of a fist starting to melt.

Adam tells him over breakfast that they should see other people.

“What the fuck?” Xavier throws his hands into the air. The bagel and cream cheese have one giant bite from him out of it, still half wrapped in tinfoil. It almost hurt that Adam had remembered his favorite flavor, onion. Even got it extra toasted.

“I don’t want to be back in the closet, Xavier,” Adam explains. He sits across from him at the absolute poor excuse for a table. It’s a round, pub style one that he was pretty sure Benny had simply found one day and brought up himself. As is most of the furniture in the apartment. Xavier tucks his arms around his waist. That ice feeling is back, only now it’s simply a cool puddle that makes his appetite disappear.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on.” Adam flips a hand in the air, looking away, uncomfortable. “I know you’re bisexual, Xavier, but—”

“But what? I’m not bisexual enough? I mean, I gave you fucking head this morning,” Xavier laughs—and then the laugh cuts off and he swallows a hard lump that suddenly wedges itself behind his trachea, because he had given Adam head that morning. And Adam hadn’t said no. Hadn’t stopped him, but, the way he talks, makes it so clear that he’s been thinking about this seeing other people break up for longer than a morning.

Xavier feels like chewed up, discarded gum suddenly. Like his insides are dirty from it. His throat burns, the urge to wipe at his mouth strong. He’s used. Easy. His face goes blisteringly hot. He doesn’t find the courage to say that at all.

“I’m worried about you,” Adam says, but the concern feels as fake as their entire relationship suddenly feels. He stands from the table, but Xavier stays sitting. His arms tuck further around himself, cupping his ribs protectively. Xavier doesn’t watch Adam start to leave. “I just feel like you’re going to do what your dad wants. And—he’s going to want you to end up with a girl, Xavier.”

“Fuck off, Adam,” he snaps finally. His teeth clip together with it, nearly bite the tip of his tongue. He almost wishes he had—almost wishes something physical actually hurt, to explain the way his chest is twisting about. To help with how badly his stomach suddenly burns. He swallows to stop himself from saying anything else and listens to the sound of Adam’s annoying, squeaky sneakers as he leaves.

—

Xavier is rolling the joint as his sister flicks through his phone to find the appropriate playlist. It bluetooth connects to a speaker and she makes sure to turn it up just loud enough to probably annoy their downstairs neighbor.

Tess tosses him a lighter and leans back on the couch, sighing dramatically. She’s shaved her head down again, leaving wisps at her ears, microbangs that look fluffy. She’d been with him when he got his bridge pierced, so she has a matching one—and more. Tess looks authentic. She looks like herself. Like, someone utterly at ease with shaving her head one day and wearing a mens button up and leather shorts. She kicks one of her booted feet up onto the coffee table and holds out her hand.

Xavier passes the joint.

“I don’t know how to look more gay,” Xavier explains tiredly.

“You wear flannel like every day and you have your tongue pierced. Xavier. You’re fucking gay,” Tess replies puffing on the joint. She looks at it with an arched brow. “You’ve gotten way better at this.” He holds out his hand and she tucks the joint between his fingers, grinning wickedly. He can’t help but smile back at her.

“But people look at me and think I’m straight, still.”

“You listen to techno music.”

“And I like hockey.”

“You have a mullet,” Tess leans over quickly to ruffle his hair. He swats at her hand, the joint nearly falling from his lips. She takes it from him and leans back on the couch again, glaring. “Adam was an asshole, but—” she cringes, takes a drag from the joint, waves off the smoke in the air. “Dad freaked him out. I can’t blame him for that. Like, fuck him? You know? Fuck that guy. If I see him, I’ll kick his fucking knee out—but, Dad’s a lot. That was a lot for someone you were only dating for a few months.”

Xavier sinks into the couch, blinking up at the beige ceiling. The weed makes him suddenly feel warm and cold at the same time, dead in his limbs and exhausted. He rubs a hand over his face.

“What if he’s right?”

“About?”

“Ending up with a girl because Dad wants me to.”

Tess is quiet for a moment, her thumb nail in her mouth, joint burning away between her fingers. She’s always been bad about passing back, but he doesn’t hassle her for it. She’d traveled all the way from LA to come see him, drop of the hat type of shit. Tess does that for him; always had. Always will. People used to confuse them for twins when they were younger, had always asked her where’s your twin, Theresa? And she’d have to correct them.

“Xavier,” she starts, leaning toward him.

“Well, well, well,” Benny’s sleazy drawl makes either of them look up. He stands there, in a loose fitting tank top that has the American flag on it and a giant X spray painted over it—custom work of his, since Ben never missed an opportunity to both thrift clothes, and alter them to look worse. Or better, in his opinion. Tess lights up at the sight of him, launching herself from the couch to throw arms around his neck. He picks her up in the hug, swinging her around as they both dissolve into high pitched, loud laughter.

“Wh-when did you get in town?” he asks, still holding her around the waist. They’re the same height, especially since they’re both in combat boots. She slaps her hands to his cheeks, shaking his head.

“Baby brother emergency, I flew in.”

“Big spender.”

“You know it.”

They squawk at each other, a back and forth conversation that Xavier tunes out, but listens to none the less. Watches Benny’s open, happy expression and Tess gesturing with her story. He sinks further into the couch, into himself. He blinks lazily, trying hard to be content. To be warm and happy. To feel something, other than dread.

What if he’s right?

“So you w-wanna come?”

“What?” Xavier blinks and sits up, glancing between Benny and his sister.

“Party.” Benny claps his hands together in front of Xavier’s face, making him recoil and cover his ears. “Tee says you ne-need to get out the apartment. Have fun.” He contemplates saying no. He could say no. Benny is the kind of guy that takes no for an answer, lets it be a complete sentence with no explanation. His sister is the same, but they’re both looking at him, and making him anxious. Making the pit in his stomach feel bigger. So he smiles, in a way he hopes is convincing and stands.

“Okay. Party.”

—

Xavier closes himself into the bathroom with giant, gasping breathes for air. He folds his hands over his mouth, eyes squeezed shut. His heart beats out of rhythm, out of sync. For a brief moment, he wonders if it’s even pumping blood correctly. If his limbs are going to decay and fall off because it’s not working right. He’s not working right. He lets his hands fall, pulls in big desperate breathes of air.

“You’re okay,” he whispers to himself. “You’re okay, you’re okay.” The party thumps loudly at the bathroom door. It begs for his attention, screams at him to come back. Continue, drink more, smoke more. He’d lost track of Ben by accident, and his sister hadn’t tagged along. “You’re okay” he repeats again, folding hands behind his neck.

Xavier feels briefly pathetic, thinking he needs either of them. Like he isn’t a grown adult. Like he isn’t a man. His father’s face flashes across his mind, this horrible painful strike of a memory, of being at Sunday mass, at his father smiling down at him, proudly. He slaps his hand on the door, the other to his forehead.

It takes what feels like, a very long time, for the panic attack to go away. Xavier trembles with it, fixes the collar of his shirt. He tugs at the crucifix necklace until its out so he can hold onto it. Then he feels silly, childish, and stuffs it back in. Xavier spares himself a glance in the mirror to poke his hair back into place.

When he shoves the door open, someone shrieks.

“Oh fuck,” Xavier dances around the door, quickly grabbing onto the person he’d slapped it into. The girl stumbles as his hand clasps around her bicep. She stares up at him with giant, pretty brown eyes that blink furiously. “Oh fuck, I am so sorry.” He lets go quickly, taking a step back, jumping when he runs into someone else. It propels him forward and closer to her—and he’s shocked to hear a giggle.

It’s a nice sound. Something dainty and soft.

“Wow,” she says, tucking strands of hair behind her ears and smiling up at him. “You have huge hands.” He looks down at them, palms up and then back up at her. She’s blushing furiously, curved into herself slightly. “Uh, I didn’t mean to say that.” Xavier feels his smile return a little bit, the back of his neck still clammy and cold. He slowly extends a hand, wraps it around her shoulder and laughs.

“Sorry about that.” She bites her lip and shakes her head.

“That’s okay.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence, that is filled by the pounding music. He tucks closer to her.

“I’m Xavier,” he says, his hand sliding from her shoulder to her bicep, to her petite forearm. She looks absolutely mesmerized by the trail. It makes him feel good, to see her look at him like that—like he’s something to be in awe of.

“Daisy,” she replies, her smile demure. Daisy, he thinks. My dad would like that name.

—

More than half a year later, Xavier is falling onto the couch.

“Tell me if this is offensive.”

“Yeah?”

“No, like, please, tell me if this is offensive, I won’t be mad, I swear.”

“Why d’you think it’s offensive, Xavier?”

Benji leans at the other end of the couch, arms folded over his chest. He’s trying to hold in a smile, but it’s fighting it’s way onto his face, just the way Xavier likes it. He wants to coax at that grin, tell a shitty joke that’ll have Benji bursting with a real laugh. Instead he pulls the blanket from the back of the couch and starts tucking it around them.

“You don’t celebrate Christmas.”

“I don’t,” Benji replies with a charming nod. He starts to wiggle, get himself comfortable. Benji has to pat at the pillows around him, arrange them just so. Xavier thinks of it like a cat that’s clawing things up to get them perfect. He watches, mutely enjoying the show as his hand curves around Benji’s ankle. His own long legs are tossed up onto the coffee table, green and red striped socks on.

The apartment is horribly decorated, and all of it is Xavier’s doing. Ben hates the holidays and Lark has been dragged away to meet Matilda’s parents for the first time. They’d all wished him luck at the airport while Matilda rolled her eyes, their tones grave, their hands patting his shoulders like it was the last time they’d ever see him again.

Still, snowflakes hang from the ceilings and lights are strewn up around the edges of the walls. A terrible little fake tree stands in the corner, where underneath presents are wrapped and tossed. There’s one that has “DO NOT OPEN, CONTAINS BOMB” that Xavier is fairly certain is for Benji, from Benny, even though he won’t be around when the clock strikes midnight to watch Benji open it up and find shiny maroon Doc Martens.

Doctor who? Xavier asked playfully, watching Benny tape the box shut haphazardly. Fuck off, Xavier.

“I just like the movies, okay?” he whines pathetically, patting at Benji’s thighs to get the blanket tight around him, the way he knows he likes.

“Colonizer,” Benji sighs, tucking hands behind his head and scooting down further, so his legs can fully drape over Xavier’s lap.

“No one can resist A Charlie Brown Christmas,” he replies sagely as he turns the TV on.

He isn’t home for the holidays, because, truthfully, he hasn’t talked much with his father since the Adam Incident, which is how Jessie refers to it. She’d called him earlier that day, with Emily and their mother, to wish him a Merry Christmas Eve. Asked, even then, if he was going to find a Greyhound bus to take him home.

Xavier feels a little lost without the traditions of his good ol’ Irish Catholic family. Without them; without his sisters bothering him, or his mother making him extra food because his stomach never gets full. Xavier hates admitting that he feels lost without his father too, but he can’t approach that. Doesn’t know when he will—if he will. His hand squeezes around Benji’s ankle, looking at him out his periphery.

“Maran says hi,” Benji comments and Xavier fully turns then. He crawls over his boyfriend, Charlie Brown forgotten.

“What? Tell him hi—tell him to call—facetime us. It’s already Christmas over there!”

“Maran is Jewish.”

“Oh my fucking God, I am offensive, aren’t I?” Xavier blurts, his eyes widened in horrified surprise. It makes Benji burst into that laugh he’d wanted so bad, this loud thing that causes his head to toss back. His legs drum a bit, jostling Xavier, who starts to settle over his lap. He leans down, grinning ear to ear, cheeks painful with that stretched smile.

Instead of calling Maran, Benji sets his phone to the side. He puts his hands to Xavier’s cheeks, brushing thumbs over his skin, his head tilted slightly as his laugh peters out to just a smile. Looking down at him, hands braced on the couch and on Benji’s shoulder, he feels adrift—in the best sort of way. Not lost at sea without a life jacket, but calmly drifting, the beach still in sight.

“M’not saying Merry Christmas.”

“Happy Holidays?”

“That’s fuckin’ cornier, Xavier—”

He gets cut off by the press of a kiss. Just one that turns to two, that turns to many, until Xavier is fully laid on him. Their arms wrap up around each other, the kissing turning deeper, but not yet intimate. Just—kissing. For the sake of kissing, for the sake of being close in a way that can convey differently than words. Benji kisses him so thoroughly, Xavier feels dizzy when he pulls away. Their warm breaths fan each others faces, Xavier’s cheeks pink and Benji’s that warm dark color that lives pretty underneath his brown skin.

“Nice,” Xavier says, slightly ruining it just to make Benji laugh again.

#writing #hj #college au #xw #bp #bp x xw

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sunmoonandeddie · 3 years

Text

edge of the devil’s backbone

pairing: knight!bucky barnes x princess!reader

word count: 4,918

summary: Your knight has sworn to protect you always, even if that means committing a grave sin.

warnings: Smut, cussing, violence, murder, angst with a happy ending.

a/n: Lol I really hope you enjoy this. Bucky is kinda dark but?? Not really??? Also, I suggest listening to Devil’s Backbone by The Civil Wars while you read this.

It’s midnight when he slips into my room, Selene’s soft light guiding him to the bed where I lay, dozing peacefully amongst my mountain of pillows.

A slumber he hates to disrupt, but knows that he must.

To leave me without a word, without a goodbye and a promise to return one day when he can, would be the utmost betrayal to the delicate heart he holds in his hands.

“Princess,” he whispers. Slinking through the room like a cat, he manages to not make a single noise loud enough to wake me. It is not until his fingers gently brush against my cheek that my eyes flutter open.

“James? What’s going on?” I ask, brows furrowing as I slowly push myself up on my elbows. One hand holds the blanket to my chest, as though it’s anything he hasn’t seen before.

James is… familiar with my nightgowns, to say the least.

“I have to go,” he whispers, his hand shaking as he cups my cheek. “I have to go before they catch me.”

“What?” I lean into his touch instinctively, not even thinking about the strange wetness on his fingers that I feel. “What do you mean? What did you do?” When my eyes adjust to the light, I realize what he means.

James’s white undershirt is stained with blood, the hot liquid smeared across his cheek like it is on mine now.

Letting out a squeak of alarm, I rush to look him over, trying to find any injuries to speak of. “What happened?! Are you okay?!”

“I killed him.”

I freeze, my hands pressing against his body through the thin fabric of his shirt. Despite the chill of the oncoming winter, he is so, so warm. Even with the knowledge he has given me, there is nothing I want to do more than drag him closer and make him cocoon himself around me to keep the cold away. There is nothing that could ever make me not love him anymore. Even murder. I would still run to his embrace and spend the rest of eternity in his arms.

A foolish dream, considering our stations.

Even though James does love me the way I love him, my father would never allow a union between the two of us. James has been my personal guard since I was young, barely five years old. A peasant boy granted the honor of training to be a knight because he had found me after I had been kidnapped by bandits and kept for a ransom. He’d just been fourteen at the time, and braver and smarter than my father’s entire army.

But no, none of that matters. According to father, princesses must marry princes, who will make good kings.

Anyone with any sense could see that James was worth more than every prince and king put together.

“You killed him? What him?” I ask, rushing to get out of bed to grab a rag. I wet it carefully before moving to his side to gently clean off his face. Even though I want answers, that doesn’t matter as much as getting him presentable again.

But he pushes my hand away, his sea blue eyes glimmering with something that causes a pit to form in my stomach. “My princess… My love… I have to go,” he says, taking my hands in his and squeezing. “I killed Prince Brock, and they will know it was me come morning. I have to go…”

“James, don’t be ridiculous,” I scold as I try to start cleaning him off again, tugging to get his ruined shirt off. “You need to change. We’ll make it so they’ll have no idea it was you.”

James whispers my name, his bloody hand coming up to cup my cheek as though I am made of glass. “They will know it was me, and regardless if they didn’t, the king would still pin it on me… My affection for you is not exactly the world’s best kept secret… And we both know how the maids like to gossip…”

Tears prick my eyes, and I shake my head desperately. “No. No. You cannot leave, I forbid it!” I say, clutching onto him desperately. “James, you cannot leave me. Please, don’t leave me.” My throat is suddenly dry and tight, my heart pounding within my chest so hard that I am sure I will not make it out without a few broken ribs.

A small price to pay if only my knight will stay by my side.

“You have stayed by my side for sixteen years, do not leave me now,” I order, trying to put on my most commanding voice. I have been practicing for when I eventually become queen, but it has never ever worked on my most precious knight.

A choked laugh tears from James’s throat. It’s harsh and broken, a far cry from the usual melody that I chase after. “My love… If I do not leave now, they will have me in the gallows by noon,” he says quietly, his forehead pressing against mine. “Or worse, on the chopping block like a hen ready for the feast.”

I try to push the images from my mind, tears freely flowing down my cheeks. “No. No, they won’t know it was you. Please, don’t leave me… Or at least take me with you… Please…”

“I need you to promise me something, princess,” he says as both his hands hold my face, his calloused thumbs rubbing against the tender skin under my eyes to get rid of wayward tears. “If they catch me… If I am sentenced to death… Do not watch. Do not watch them hang me or draw and quarter me or behead me, whatever it is, I forbid you. Do you hear me? I said, do you hear me?!”

“They can’t kill you, I won’t let them,” I sob, still somehow trying to get him to stay. “I’m the princess, they have to listen to me.”

I have not gone a single day without seeing him in over sixteen years, and I do not plan to now.

But it seems as though there is nothing I can do to stop him.

The silk of my nightgown slides against my skin as I trace his features with my fingers. “Will you come back to me?” I ask desperately after he denies my request another time. “Once it is safe, will you please come back to me? Come home? I cannot live without you, without knowing you will come back to me one day…”

“I will,” he says reassuringly as he takes one of my hands and presses kisses over each fingertip, each neatly trimmed nail, each line in my palm. “I will… I swear to you… But I could not let him live after today in the garden…”

“I am not angry with you,” I whisper reassuringly as I watch him, trying my best to memorize even the smallest of details. “You swore to protect me… from anyone and everyone…”

“And I shall always keep my promise.” He says it with such conviction, with such a fire in his eyes. He always had, which is partially why I am not surprised that he punished the prince for his crimes against me.

When it comes to my safety, my happiness, James is the judge, jury, and executioner.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

A growl rumbles in his throat as he pulls me closer, letting his eyes shut as he allows himself the comfort of knowing that Prince Brock had not gotten far enough to truly hurt me, to permanently mark me. “I told him that nobody who touches you without your permission gets to keep their hands. He didn’t believe me until about an hour or so ago,” he grumbles.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, I can’t fight the giggle that erupts from my lips. “My hero…,” I murmur as I look up at him. As my eyes meet his, I am reminded that he needs to leave. “I will miss you… Please… Try to find some way to write to me…”

“I will,” James says, his nose nudging against mine. His blue eyes sparkle with tears as he swallows around the lump in his throat. “Steven knows I am leaving… He knows what I have done. He is the one you can trust with your safety now, the only man I trust with your life, and he is outside your door now.” Chapped lips press against my forehead for a lingering moment. “I will write to him, and he will get the letters to you. I swear on my life, princess.”

“Before you go…” I take a deep breath. “Before you go, will you grant me a kiss? Just one…”

It is a request he does not think hard about, grabbing my face and kissing me so gently I think I may wither away from the sheer tenderness. “I love you,” he says, stealing another kiss from my lips, over and over again.

It seems that now that he has started, he cannot stop.

Or will not.

I will not argue either away.

“I love you… I love you more than words can say, James,” I say, fingers tangling in his long hair.

“I must take my leave, my darling… my dearest,” he breathes out. “Before dawn comes and the lark sings…” He stands, his weight disappearing from the bed, and a pang hits my heart. “You must get sleep, my sweet nightingale. Once they realize what has happened and that I have disappeared, they will question you for hours, I am sure, if not all day. But rest well knowing that when you wake, I will be safe and waiting until I may come back for you.”

Tears roll down my cheeks as I hold onto his hand for as long as possible. “I cannot watch you leave,” I whisper as I squeeze my eyes shut.

“You don’t have to, my love,” he says soothingly, pressing a kiss to my hair. “Rest… I will be home to you before you can even miss me…”

His hand slips from mine, and I do not hear him leave the room. “James, please don’t leave me!” I say as I open my eyes, thinking he was still there.

But he had slipped through the door without a sound and left me alone in my cold bed.

My dearest,

It has been a month since I left you, and it has been the hardest month of my entire life. I did not have the time to write to you until now because I was unable to get my hands on some parchment and a quill, and I had some trouble finding some place where your father and King Alexander could not reach me.

I cannot risk telling you precisely where I have had the luck to find myself, on the off chance that the letter is intercepted. I cannot see why it would be, as it is carefully hidden with a letter written to Steven, but considering the man that I know your father can be…

Well, I am aware that I shall not need to explain more than that.

What I can tell you is that the sea here is beautiful. The journey here was hard, filled with storms and a tumultuous sea, but it was worth it. Though, it would be much better if you were with me to see it, my love, but you already know that. Seeing the sun rise on the blue water—Water clearer than any I have ever seen before!—made me hopeful for the first time since I left your side. In fact, the dress that you wore to your father’s last birthday feast is the exact shade of the sea here. The soft sand reminds me of the gold trim, the white diamonds embedded in the leather…

Do you see what you have done to me, my love? I miss you so, my heart longing to see you again, to hold you, that I have started to wax poetic about your gowns.

I cannot start on the way the flowers here remind me of the scarlet rouge you use to stain your cheeks and your sweet lips or I shall never stop. But, I have dreamed of your lips each night, of the way that my name falls like a prayer, of the way you told me you love me… I dream of kissing you again. More mornings than not, I wake with tears on my cheeks because of the need I feel to have you close again. I had waited for so many years to finally tell you how I feel, despite knowing the way we both felt it, and the night that I did, I had to leave.

It feels like a tragedy from one of those books you like to read so much.

One of the sailors on the ship guessed that I had left a woman behind that had broken my heart, and he told me that time would heal the gaping wound. It was all I could do to explain to him that I had been the one to break both of our hearts, and that time could do nothing because I am counting the days until I may run to you again.

Time may also do nothing because of the depth of my adoration for you.

I wish that I could tell you where I am so that I may receive a letter in return. I hope you do not regret what happened the night I left, the kiss.

I hope you will still want me, still love me, when I return to you.

All of my love,

Your James

My dearest,

It has been a year since I have seen you last, since I left your side, and I fear I am on the verge of dying if I cannot get a glimpse of your sweet face soon.

Despite writing to you every few weeks, I feel as though there is so much more I can say. Every tiny little thing that occurs during my days, I wish to tell you. I wish to tell you so you do not think that I am at the taverns, flirting with every wench that I set my eyes on. Despite the way they bat their eyes, they can do nothing to even catch a glimpse from me because I am always picturing you.

Have you thought of me since that night? I imagine you have had to, since I am writing to you and I am sure that Steven is getting these to you. He may be a dunce in some things, but he is generally a capable man.

When I saw you in your bed that night, slumbering so peacefully, my first thought was that you looked like an angel. I had been worried that I would be scared to touch you, to even set my eyes upon you, after what I had done. But all I felt was reassurance that I had done the right thing.

I still cannot apologize enough for leaving you alone in that garden for so long. Despite knowing that it technically wasn’t my fault, considering that the king had called for me to discuss the journey back home, I am wracked with guilt. I should have had a servant fetch Steven to take my place while I was gone before I left. But, I was naïve enough to assume that the palace guards that were present in the garden would protect a princess, even from their prince.

Coming back and seeing you so upset, panicking as he gripped your soft, sweet body hard enough to bruise… I had realized when I looked at you that you thought I had abandoned you.

I hope you know that no matter where I am, I have not abandoned you. I could never leave you forever, my dearest.

Your handkerchief no longer smells like you. I had swiped it from your room as I left, needing something to comfort me on my journey. I sleep with it pressed to my nose so that I may see you in my dreams. But now it has lost your scent, and I have been on a search to find the perfume that you wear so that I may buy a bottle and need not worry about it losing your scent again, but alas, I have not been able to come across it.

I fear it would not smell exactly like you anyway, my love, and I would simply be disappointed.

I have pressed a few more flower petals to send to you, but I may not be able to send them again for a while, as winter will be here soon. Even in this warm kingdom, it brings a chill that withers the flowers and crops. Until then, I shall send you as many as possible.

All of my love,

Your James

My dearest,

It has been two years to the day, and I can only pray to whatever gods that I will be able to be with you forever soon.

Did you get my present? I snuck into the palace after deciding that I couldn’t wait much longer to see you. Even if I was not able to speak to you, just seeing your angelic face as you slept gave me a moment of peace. My heavy heart was lightened.

You may need to hide the letters I write you better, it only took me seconds to find your hiding spot. Of course, your father doesn’t know you as well as I do, so he most likely won’t think to check behind your mirror.

The necklace I left on your pillow is inlaid with pure opals and diamonds. I had never heard of opal, I must admit, until I found my way here. It is a great source of pride in this kingdom. I knew the second I saw it that you would look absolutely stunning in it.

Perhaps you will wear it on our wedding day.

Every day I grow fearful that your father will find another suitor for you and force you to marry him before I can make it back to you. I know how adept you are at avoiding the princes and lords that he shoves in your direction, but what can I say? To see you with another man, even if you did not truly wish to be with him, would kill me.

I have been on a ship again for the last few weeks, so unfortunately there is not much to write to you about. But please, know that you are in my thoughts every moment of every day.

All of my love,

Your James

My dearest,

I have just gotten the news of your father’s passing.

I am on my way home to you.

All of my love,

Your James

I sigh as I sit on the throne—my throne. Mere hours before, I had been crowned as the new queen of my kingdom.

The scepter is heavy in my hand, the cold metal seeming to burn my skin. How can I do this on my own?

My father raised me to be a queen, a wife, but not to rule. I was raised to be the queen to a king, to support the man I end up marrying as he rules the kingdom.

But the only man I will ever marry is not here.

Steven is standing beside the throne, his hands clasped behind his back. He has been good to me the last few years, as I have waited desperately for the day that my love, my true knight, will come home to me. “You are troubled,” he says quietly as the both of us watch the nobility dance in magical patterns that draw the eye and lift the spirits. “You should be excited, Your Majesty. Today is a day of great celebration.”

“He isn’t here,” I say. It’s all I need to. His last letter is pressed against my breast, hidden inside my gown. The necklace he left for me is heavy around my neck, the precious jewels glinting in the light. “He said he was coming so where is he?”

The prince that had been seeking my hand before my father died is present, his gaze continuously finding me as he slowly works his way closer. Over the past weeks, I’ve been able to avoid his advances with claims of my grief.

As if I could ever truly grieve a man as cruel as my father.

“It is possible his ship may have been caught in a storm,” Steven comments, trying to soothe my anger. He has seen how unstable my emotions can be when James is not close by. “He will be here. You know he will, my queen.”

I am growing more and more annoyed as I realize that I will soon be expected to join the dancing. But dancing is the last thing I want to do without my love there.

Beside me, Steven tenses, and I watch as his blue eyes flit around the room. “Interesting…,” he says under his breath, almost too low for me to hear.

“What is it?” I ask, sitting up a little straighter.

“It appears that your latest suitor has disappeared.”

What? Brows furrowing, I look around the room, pointedly searching for Prince Quentin for once. Sure, he is a handsome man, but his blue eyes are forgettable when I compare them to James’s. “Well, perhaps he found some maid to consort with in the gardens,” I say with an eye roll, quickly giving up on the search. “It is not as though he is getting any sort of connection from me. Let him have his fun.”

Steven snorts, his head dipping for a moment. “I think it is time for you to join the dancing,” he says simply, in a tone that makes me wonder what he has up his sleeve.

He knows something that he is not telling me.

“Fine,” I say with a glare in his direction, getting to my feet. I hand my new scepter off to the servant who has immediately rushed to my side, the song currently floating in the air coming to an end. A new one begins as I step into the fray, easily joining the dance.

I am so swept away in the swirling skirts and joyous laughter of the crowd that I do not notice the man that had joined the dancers on the other side.

Passing from partner to partner, I keep a fake smile plastered on my face and absentmindedly nod with everything that is said to me.

“It has been a long time, my love.”

My eyes snap up to focus on the man whose arms I have just been passed into, and my heart stops inside of my chest. “James?” I breathe out. My eyes well up with tears just at the sight of his loving face, his sea blue eyes sparkling in the bright light of the ballroom. “James, is it really you?”

His smile is almost blinding, and I realize that his own eyes are glassy as well. “It is me, my princess. Or should I say, my queen?” Despite the rest of the people around us switching partners, he refuses to let me go, his hand tight on my hip and the other holding my hand firm. “I saw your coronation this morning. You looked radiant. You still do, my dearest…”

I barely notice the world around me as I watch his tongue flick out between his teeth to wet his chapped lips. “You were there?”

“Of course I was,” he chuckles, his large hand squeezing my hip. “Do you really believe that I could ever even risk missing your coronation, sweetheart?” Feeling the crowd’s stares, he leans in a little. “Meet me in the garden in a few moments. By the gazebo.”

Twirling in time with the music, my heart sinks as I am passed to the next partner and the next. My hands are trembling with the fear that he could disappear again. Logically, I know that he won’t. But after spending so many years away from him…

“Go,” Steven says after I finally break away at the end of the dance. “He is waiting for you.”

I don’t need to be told twice. As I make my way to the corridor to slip out to the gardens, I have to reassure several servants that I am alright, but just escaping for a fresh breath of air.

The gazebo he told me to meet him at is further back in the garden, out of view from any of the palace windows. His dark figure stands at one of the railings, looking out at the ocean. The necklace around my neck burns as I take a moment to look at him, really look at him. His hair is longer than it was when he left, and stubble lines his face.

Did he shave just for me?

I like the thought of him preparing to see me, nervously checking his appearance in the mirror. Perhaps he bought a new jacket and waistcoat in his excitement.

“James?”

He turns to look at me immediately, a smile brightening his face, and I feel as though I am a teenager again, fresh with the feelings of love and adoration. “My dearest…” He does not waste any time as he pulls me close, his lips slotting against mine and his hands roaming over my body. “I have missed you… I have dreamt of you each night.”

And I know that anyone could come out and see us at any moment. And I know that the gossip would run rampant and the possible alliance with Prince Quentin’s kingdom could crumble.

But I do not care.

I have been craving his touch for years, praying to the gods he would come home and hold me just as he is doing now.

“I need you. I need you, James,” I say as my hands tug at his jacket and push it off his shoulders, going for his waistcoat next.

Thankfully, he does not argue. “You’ve dreamt of this as much as me,” he says in relief as he unties my corset enough to tug it down to reveal my chest to him. James chuckles as he catches his letter as it falls. “You kept this so close to your heart, my love.” Seeing the letter only makes him more ravenous, his lips attaching to my neck as he works his breeches down.

Pain runs through me as he sits and pulls me on top of him, finally joining our bodies together, but I don’t take the time to care. The glory of finally being with him is far greater than any pain I could ever feel.

We are so tangled that you cannot tell where one of us ends and the other begins as he moves me, taking his pleasure and granting me my own.

“You’re mine,” he growls, nipping at my neck. “That sorry excuse for a prince thought he could touch you. Thought he would ever be worthy enough for you.”

It suddenly occurs to me that his arrival and Prince Quentin’s disappearance were correlated, and I see a drop of blood on his white undershirt.

It tears a moan from my throat.

The knowledge that a man as powerful, as strong, as my knight would protect me in such a dangerous manner, so desperately, sends a jolt down my spine. The fact that he is willing to go to the ends of the earth, to commit such a sin…

It is delicious.

The dagger he must have used glints in the low light of the moon as it rests on the stone floor, having fallen from his breeches when they’d been torn down. The sharp edge is crusted with a dark red, almost brown substance.

“I am all yours. I have always been yours, my knight,” I say as my fingers tangle in his hair and pull, our lips locking. “I love you. I love you so. I cannot breathe without you.”

“I am never leaving you again. Never.” His teeth grab onto my lower lip as he picks up the pace, grinning as he glances down to watch my body. “Fuck… It’s even better than I dreamed of. I love you so much, my queen.”

My release is fast and hard, knocking the breath out of my lungs as I cling to him, my nails scratching at his back and creating a rip in his shirt. “JAMES!”

James is quick to follow, his hips jerking as he reaches his peak and spills inside of me. “Perhaps you will become heavy with my child,” he whispers as he steals another kiss, tenderly fixing my dress before helping me stand and dressing himself. “Perhaps we will have a little prince or princess on the way.”

“Well…” A smile spreads over my face as I cup his cheeks, running my fingers over the dark stubble. He would look so delectable with a beard. “In case you have not been informed, I have been made queen… And I decree that you are to be my king.”

A laugh bubbles in his chest as he pulls me close once more, dipping me low and kissing me something fierce. “Your wish is my command, my dearest.”

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes royalty au

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cap-winter-barnes · 3 years

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What They Did To You (August Walker x Reader)

Mission Impossible: Fallout spoilers ahead (sort of)!!

A/N: This is an AU in which August comes home. I just had this idea of a really soft, loving, family-oriented August in my head and I absolutely fell in love with it.

Warnings: Like one swear word & mentions of injury

Buy Me a Coffee

During this time of the year, the English countryside becomes increasingly colder, almost seemingly out of nowhere. It’s as though, as the last days of September approach, that the sun decides it no longer wishes to provide the beautiful warmth it had during the summer months.

The sky outside is a darkening grey as you stare absentmindedly out of the window of your bedroom, the view still beautiful looking upon the expanse of greenery to the front of your property.

Moving to England had been the best decision for you, especially under the circumstances. You first occupied your quaint, sheltered home the previous year, in the midst of the Autumn season – the surrounding areas of the cottage you so adore, instantly made you feel at home amongst the beauty of the countryside.

You love the season so much so, that you bestowed its name upon the small bundle nestled safely in your arms, barely a month old.

Your little Autumn.

Such a small, delicate thing, with ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes. As soon as you saw that positive pregnancy test gripped between your shaking fingers, you vowed to protect and love her with your life – nothing could change that. A dusting of dark hair adorns her head and that accompanied by the beautiful ocean blue of her eyes, makes her a spitting image of her father. Your husband.

A husband you wish makes a safe return home, to you. To both of you. Despite his work and his beliefs, you still love the man the world has begun to fear – albeit under the guise of John Lark. The last you saw of him was a week before you gave birth to Autumn – he was flying to Berlin to infiltrate the CIA – that was all the information he had given you. That and the promise to come home safely. Yet weeks later, you fear the worst, spending any chance you can sparing glances out the window, expecting him pull up the driveway at any moment.

Your peace is suddenly interrupted by the incessant ringing of your phone, panic causing your heart to weigh heavily in your chest. There are only two people that have this number – your mother and August. Yet he never calls whilst on work duty, unless in an emergency, which has never occurred previously.

Autumn stirs in your arms, her small fists raising into the air in a stretch, soft gurgles escape her mouth as she begins to wake. Taking her dummy from the coffee table, you gently ease it between her lips, soothing her into silence as you reach for your phone. With unsteady fingers, you answer.

The voice on the other end of the call, you do not recognise, yet you know that he is an ally of August’s, his tone too reassuring to be a threat.

“Mrs Walker, your husband is alive.” You sense there is more that he’s not saying.

“Where is he?” You pull Autumn closer to your chest, a need within you to protect her even more so than before.

“He’s safe and will be on a private jet home within the hour, ma’am.”

“What aren’t-“

The call ends and you feel nauseous. Something is clearly wrong that they do not want you to know. Yet all you can do, is sit and wait for the return of your husband.

At quarter to midnight, nine hours after you received that dreaded call, you hear the sound of tyres on gravel nearing your home. Vacating your bed and ensuring that Autumn is soundly sleeping in her cot, you make your way to the window overlooking your driveway.

You are met with the sight of three Range Rovers, black in colour with tinted windows. As soon as the second car comes to a halt, the rear passenger swings open and, in a rush, out steps your husband. Despite not being able to distinguish his features, you know it is him.

Without further hesitation you remove yourself quickly from the window, uncaring of the fact you wear only a pair of black underwear and one of August’s button-up shirts. You have barely made it halfway down the staircase before the door flies open, revealing the silhouette of the man you love.

There is the briefest of pauses before you both instinctively move towards each other. August envelopes you in his arms, holding you tightly against his body as you grip the back of his shirt in your fists. Heavy sobs escape from your mouth as you revel in the feel of his warmth against your skin, the sensation of his hands on your clothed back. A forceful, yet loving kiss is placed on the crown of your head as August takes in the scent of your hair, missing the smell of your shampoo in the time that he has been gone.

As if only realising, August pulls away, a gasp leaving his lips as his strong hands gently caress your stomach – the last time he saw or felt your body, was with a full-term bump.

“Is-“

You cannot see his face clearly in the darkness of the hallway, but you can just make out that his attention is directed towards the top of the staircase.

“August, come and meet our daughter.”

The intake of breath that you hear from him causes a flutter in your chest. He had confessed to you, the day you revealed your pregnancy to him, that he hoped it would be a girl. A girl for him to cherish and spoil, to protect and love with his entire being.

As you are about to ascend the stairs, you reach for the light-switch, yet August’s hand stops you.

“No lights, please. I don’t want to wake her.”

“August, the light will be-“

“Please.” There is something different in his voice, if you were to guess it would seem like distress. But too caught in the moment of finally introducing August to your daughter has you brushing the thought aside.

“Okay. Take my hand.”

August takes your hand in his, his thumb dancing across your skin. As you reach your bedroom, you ignore turning the light on and continue further into the room. Before your reach her cot, August halts, reluctantly releasing your hand.

“Darling, are you okay?”

Clearing his throat, you can make out a nod of his head.

“Let me just clean myself up first.”

You watch as he retreats to your en-suite, closing the door behind him, save for a fraction that allows you to see the light turn on. But as you catch just a small amount of his reflection in the mirror, you feel sick.

“August?” The raised whisper of his name startles him and as he catches your expression through means of the mirror he curses.

“Shit.”

Moving quickly, you enter the bathroom and turn your husband to face you. Immediately, tears spring to your eyes and flow freely down your cheeks.

“Please don’t cry.”

He can hardly meet your gaze as he speaks, voice rough and broken.

The red, raw skin of the right-side of his face looks painful and you cannot help but think that this is in its healing stages, dreading to picture the sight immediately after the damage was caused.

“This is why you didn’t want the lights on, isn’t it.” A moment passes before he nods his head twice, a sombre expression on his face. Your hand reaches for the unaffected skin on his left side, taking his cheek in his palm, you stroke your thumb over his cheekbone, grazing his eyelashes in the process. August closes his eyes, relishing in the feeling of your gentle touch.

“I’m sorry, I-“

“What happened?” At your interruption he meets your eyes, your gaze unwavering as your heart breaks at seeing him so vulnerable like this.

“Engine fuel.” More tears slip from your eyes as you now close them. With both hands August cups your face in his palms, wiping the tears away as he does so.

“I can’t stand the sight of myself, but just knowing that I have been able to come home to you, has me counting my lucky stars. I am truly sorry that-“

“Stop apologising, August. You’re home now and that’s what matters, I just hate seeing you in pain. This,” you gesture to the damaged skin, will not change how much I love you.”

His response is a soft chuckle before he places a chaste kiss to your lips, lingering briefly.

“If it’s any consolation, I can’t feel a thing – now anyway.” A swift, yet gentle slap is delivered to his bicep as you push yourself away from him playfully. This is the way it has always been between the two of you – the way it is supposed to be. “Now if you don’t mind, dear wife, I would love to meet our daughter.”

You both smile as you kiss him again. Pulling away you lead him across the room to the cot beside the window, turning the lights on as you do so.

Nestled against a soft pink blanket, lies a sleeping Autumn.

Glancing at August you see his tear-filled eyes as he reaches an outstretched finger to her tiny-clenched fist, which at his touch opens and then closes around his fingertip.

“She’s so small.”

“Babies usually are my love.” He meets your eyes with a playful glare before directing his attention back to the small being he helped create.

“She’s beautiful. Just like her mother.”

As if sensing the presence of her father, Autumn stirs and begins to open her crystalline blue eyes.

“Yet looks just like her father.” He smiles in adoration as his little girl stretches. “Why don’t you hold her, you have a lot of Daddy cuddles to catch up on my love.”

There is reluctance before August reaches for her, steadily lifting her from where she lays, until he is cradling her in his arms.

Instantly, Autumn snuggles herself comfortably into his chest, almost as if she has found comfort in his arms. A pleasant ache forms in your chest at the sight of both of them together like this.

“What do I call her?”

You briefly look away to find that August is lovingly directing his gaze towards you.

“Autumn. Autumn June.”

“Like your favourite season. It suits her perfectly.” He moves his attention solely to the small being in his arms. “Well, Autumn June Walker, I think that you are the most perfect thing I have ever laid my eyes upon. Just like your mother. And I promise, I will never let anything happen to you. I swear it.”

#august walker x reader #august walker #august x reader #august walker imagine #henry cavill #henry cavill imagines #henry cavill imagine #henry cavill x reader #requestsareopen

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nat-without-a-g · 4 months

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Hey guys hate to come back so soon to blab about more stuff that probably isn’t canon but it turns out I might have some ideas for who Scary’s dad is/what happened to him (these are two separate theories and one is more plausible than the other)— and this goes into actual spoilers territory for season 2 of DNDads

The throne, right? I know that Scary is probably able to sit on it because her power is Willy’s power and Willy gets his power from channeling it from the Doodler, so she already has that connection to Dood and has been strengthened up to handle it. This is just my theory as to how it works, though, because as far as I remember it’s never explained why the throne works on Scary.

Because it’s never explained, there’s a chance that the aforementioned assumption I had is dead wrong. Now, the number of times that Scary emphasizes talking about her birth dad does make me feel like it might be set-up for a punchline, like her dad is someone we know… and Normal’s family is able to commune with the Doodler on the throne because they have that innate connection to it.

…

So there is a chance, however small, that specifically Lark might be the dad of two different members of the cast.

I don’t have access to the patreon and i just joined the fandom like a week ago today so lmk if I sound batshit insane rn.

As a Lark enjoyer I do think that if this was somehow revealed to be true, it would officially make him the worst father of the cast. Scary did not deserve to feel abandoned by her dad and after all of lark’s talk of ‘preparing’ Normal he really just left her in the dust. Even if it was a situation of her forgetting him bc of code purple or something, it’s still really fucked up. Also Normal and Scary are around the same age, so he would have had to have had a partner around the time he slept with Rebecca which i think makes it so much worse—

Basically: this is an evil bad theory that would really recontextualize lark as a character and isn’t really funny enough for the cast to make canon… and yet it’s still possible as far as I know.

#there are spoilers in the tags too #dndads #dungeons and daddies #dndads season 2 #dungeons and daddies season 2 #scary marlowe #lark oak #lark oak Garcia #the doodler #dndads spoilers #if we do get any reveal about Scary’s dad it probably will have something to do with code purple ngl #bc i remember scary mentioning that she remembered hanging out with the other kids before her mom started dating terry #and that she thought it was weird nd didn’t know why they did that #so there’s a chance her dad was another member of DADDIES who died in the flesh horde attack— oh god that’s also terrible

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jeynearrynofthevale · 3 years

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Cersei and Arya as Mirror Characters

The Lannisters and Starks as Mirrors: Part 1, Cersei and Arya (Spoilers Extended)

Many people have brought this up before but there are a lot of parallels and anti parallels between the Lannisters and the Starks. The tensions and connections between their story arcs only emphasize these. In this post series I’m going to explore some of these parallels and darker mirrors. Specifically between Cersei, Jaime, and Tyrion and Sansa, Arya, and Bran.

So, Cersei’s most explored Stark connection is definitely Sansa. They have a lot of really interesting interactions and their arcs with regards to the disillusionment in love and marriage (as a result of Joffrey and Robert) work together. But in this post, I’m going to look at the similarities between Cersei and Arya.

Now, the first time I really thought that a similarity between the two existed was reading the battle of the Blackwater. Cersei’s words really reminded me of something Arya would’ve said.

"Tears," she said scornfully to Sansa as the woman was led from the hall. "The woman's weapon, my lady mother used to call them. The man's weapon is a sword. And that tells us all you need to know, doesn't it?"

Both Arya and Cersei are very scornful of gender norms. They’re bitter about having the women’s role forced on them. Cersei can be seen as a darker Arya who had the ability to perform femininity despite her dislike for it. The major importance difference between the two is that Cersei’s internalized misogyny is really taken out on other women. She hates them and considers herself better and separate from other women. While Arya is much less hateful and more accepting of other women. Both Arya and Cersei grew up with brothers who got opportunities that they did not. It’s easy to see a young Cersei asking to be a king’s counselor because she doesn’t get why she can’t be.

“I would sooner face any number of swords than sit helpless like this, pretending to enjoy the company of this flock of frightened hens.”

In this passage Cersei expresses her desire to fight. She wants to be active. She’s a character who does things and doesn’t like passivity. This strongly reminds me of Arya. Both of them wish to take up a “man’s role” and fight.

"When we were little, Jaime and I were so much alike that even our lord father could not tell us apart. Sometimes as a lark we would dress in each other's clothes and spend a whole day each as the other. Yet even so, when Jaime was given his first sword, there was none for me. 'What do I get?' I remember asking. We were so much alike, I could never understand why they treated us so differently. Jaime learned to fight with sword and lance and mace, while I was taught to smile and sing and please. He was heir to Casterly Rock, while I was to be sold to some stranger like a horse, to be ridden whenever my new owner liked, beaten whenever he liked, and cast aside in time for a younger filly. Jaime's lot was to be glory and power, while mine was birth and moonblood."

Both Arya and Cersei have experience dressing as the other gender before puberty when they could easily pass. While Arya does this for safety and still very strongly objects that she is a girl at times, Cersei would try to impersonate Jaime to experience his privilege. I would argue that neither Arya nor Cersei actually wish to be men. They both still identify as women but they simply want to have the opportunities and privileges that come with being men. A major difference between how Arya and Cersei came out was the parenting they received. It’s impossible to imagine Tywin placating Cersei with a sword the way Ned does with Needle for Arya. And Arya grew up with mother and while their relationship may have been complex, she was still loved and still had a female role model. Cersei and Arya receive the same educations and both get absolutely no pleasure from most of the activities expected to them. (This is not because of their ability or lack there of to perform them. Sansa and Brienne both like typically feminine pursuits even though Brienne really struggles to perform them.)

I would consider Cersei a dark mirror of what Arya may have become in a different world. I’m imagining an Arya who was sold into marriage as she would no doubt have been if the events of asoiaf had not unfolded. An Arya who has spent a decade in a stifling abusive marriage might be just as bitter and resentful as Cersei. And Cersei shows is how there almost is a silver lining to the complete tragedy of Arya’s story. Without the events, Arya would’ve probably lived a very similar life to Cersei. Eventually put in a miserable marriage in which her regret and hatred fostered for year because of society’s expectations. In the midst of tragedy, Arya has been able to forge her own path, one that doesn’t conform to society.

#asoiaf #arya stark #cersei Lannister #asoiaf meta #my meta #asoiaf parallels

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caramelo7dulce · 3 years

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Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion from The Witcher REC LIST

Rec Masterlist HERE

Petals and Pining by roughentumble - He's failed, as he always does, and now he's riddled with the ridiculous, cloying scent of buttercups. He aches, a little, somewhere deep, thinking of them destroyed. He lifts his foot and the petals are unrecognizable in the dirt. There's a sudden, acute stab of pain in his chest, his heart clenching at the sight. He ignores it, as always.

Howling, Hunting, Harboring by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels - Jaskier is more than happy to help Geralt work through the effects of his potions.

The One My Soul Cries Out For by whisperedstory - Soulbonds aren't supposed to be one-sided, but everyone knows witchers don't have soulbonds and Jaskier has learned to live with it, learned to be satisfied with being just Geralt's friend. But then the dragon hunt happens and they split up and the longer Jaskier is away from Geralt, the worse he starts to feel until it becomes unbearable. He decides to find someone to break the bond...

Rare Bird by spqr - Jaskier understood from a very young age that his life was not destined to be a happy one.

Of Wolves and Buttercups by Kinthinia - Jaskier hadn’t really thought about it like that. It was a fact he had a soul mark, that he had another half out there. And love, in his opinion, was the greatest reason to live. Of course, he would fall in love with his soulmate -it was as natural as breathing. He didn’t need to meet the man (and he was sure it was a man; they didn’t make women witchers, after all) to know he would love him. But would the witcher love him back? For the first time, he wondered if his plan was quite so great after all.

wolfsong, larksong by Iris_Duncan_72 - Soul companions appear in a time of great need.

Always by Breyito - In the aftermath of a hunt; Geralt realises that Jaskier has his Soulmark exposed. Despite their many years travelling together, he has never seen that part of the bard’s hip naked. Seeing the image before Jaskier can cover it, the Witcher understands why.

Dandelions, Buttercups and Anemone by TheTruestMoose - It had been two years. Two years since the dragon hunt. A year since he’s been travelling with the child surprise. Two years since he lost Yennefer. Two years since Jaskier left. And Geralt is two years too late.

Lovely Bitter Water by QueenForADay - “Bard wandered right through the next town over,” a farmer says, scratching a patchy beard. "You know what folk are like over there. They don’t particularly like Witchers. Hate them, in fact.”Geralt turns his head...“They’ve been trying to get their hands on a Witcher for years,” another farmer joins in, picking at some leftover food on his plate.The first man shrugs, lifting his tankard to his mouth. “If you can’t go about killing an actual Witcher, do the next best thing: kill it’s bed-warmer.”

One Blessing by Jana_C - Lambert finds a bard - a dying bard - and brings him to Kaer Morhen. After all, it wouldn't do to leave Geralt's bard to die in a bandit camp. If only they knew what was wrong with him, and how to heal it.

Czuć Do Kogoś Miętę by stratumgermanitivum, whiskeyandspite - Geralt claims that Witchers can't find - or be - bonded mates, that they never present a dynamic, that they're infertile and "not even like betas"....but are they though?

Cat got your knot? by dreamscapefics - So when Geralt, an Alpha wolf, met Jaskier, an Omega cat, in Posada all those years ago, he never expected for the feline bard to stick to him, much else befriended him. Jaskier, with his black kitty ears on top of his tousled chestnut hair, almost always has his black fluffy tail held high, alerting Geralt that the young man enjoys being in the wolf’s presence. And Geralt, internally exasperated at his own biological urges, is unable to stop his own fluffy white tail from wagging back and forth, a clear indication that he’s just as happy to have the bard around.

Grip Me Like an Animal by Caelanmiriel - In which Geralt can't fucking sleep, and he turns to a witch for help, whose solutions aren't exactly conventional.

I'll write a ballad of us yet by bards_witcher - Witchers can't have soulmates, everybody knows that. So what's to happen when a small lark chooses to accompany Geralt of Rivea along the Path.**Soulmate AU where everyone at some point gets a spirit animal that reflects their soulmate

Crown of Flowers by DyslexicSquirrel - The mighty Northern king (did they call them kings here? He honestly wasn’t sure, but should most likely find out), the White Wolf (the meaning for that nickname had been apparent even with what little he could see through his veils), conqueror of the Four Realms, alpha to end all alphas—-with an omega mate who was taller than him.

We’re Simply Meant To Be by BorealLights - Julian is nine when his soul mark appears; the head of a white wolf in front of two crossed swords, on his right shoulder. He still remembers his mother tearfully telling him to hide it, lest his father see it. Geralt is seventy one when he gets his soul mark. A songbird perched on a ring of golden flowers. It’s pretty and delicate- too delicate to belong near him, let alone on his (filthy, monstrous) hands. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last time, he curses destiny.

#fic rec #rec list #rec lists #geralt z rivii #geralt of rivera #geralt #jaskier #jaskier dandelion #geralt/jaskier #geralt x dandelion #geralt x jaskier #geralt x julian

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butterflies-dragons · 4 years

Text

DUNK SNOW

Ser Duncan The Tall and Jon Snow are more similar than we thought...

A Knight of The Seven Kingdoms is a book full of Dunk and Jon parallels and hints of Jon Snow’s true parentage. Here is what I found in my last re-reading.

A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms is a collection containing the first three Dunk and Egg novellas by George R. R. Martin:

The Hedge Knight

The Sworn Sword

The Mystery Knight

It was indirectly confirmed that Brienne of Tarth is a descendant of Ser Duncan The Tall, and they share a lot of parallels. Some readers have also speculated that Ser Duncan The Tall is an ancestor of certain pair of tall brothers, and have also drawn parallels between those characters.

But while I was writing another meta, I was amazed by all the similarities between Ser Duncan The Tall and Jon Snow, and I wondered, why there was not metas about it?

Also, while reading the tales, you can find that Dunk and Egg, at some point, sound very much like all the Stark kids, even Rickon. Dunk and Egg can be romantics like Sansa, but they would also call “stupid” certain “feminine” or “romantic” things like Arya does, but at the same time they both dream of being knights of the Kingsguard like Bran, and always try to be fair and honorable like Jon Snow.

But, in this post I’m going to explore the parallels between Ser Duncan The Tall and Jon Snow.

DUNK AND JON

Thinking fast, we can say that,

Dunk and Jon are both orphans and presumed bastards.

Dunk defending Tanselle resemblances Jon defending Samwell.

Despite not being “proper knights” both are knights that remember their vows.

Their sexual awakening was with a red haired woman.

Both met Maester Aemon.

Despite the prejudice against their low status, both became Lord Commanders of the Kingsguard and Night’s Watch, respectively.

Both have connections with the North, Dunk visited Winterfell and scorted Maester Aemon to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, etc.

But there is much more.

THE HEDGE KNIGHT

This tale is full of Dragonflies and Dragons imagery. GRRM is telling us about dragons that don’t look like dragons, about Targaryens that don’t look like Targaryens, about princes in disguise and secret identities.

Dunk and Jon share the wish to prove the world they are worthy

Yet however fine their pavilions were to look upon, he knew there was no place there for him. A threadbare wool cloak would be all the shelter he had tonight. While the lords and great knights dined on capons and suckling pigs, Dunk's supper would be a hard, stringy piece of salt beef. He knew full well that if he made his camp upon that gaudy field, he would need to suffer both silent scorn and open mockery. A few perhaps would treat him kindly, yet in a way that was almost worse.

A hedge knight must hold tight to his pride. Without it, he was no more than a sellsword. I must earn my place in that company. If I fight well, some lord may take me into his household. I will ride in noble company then, and eat fresh meat every night in a castle hail, and raise my own pavilion at tourneys. But first I must do well. Reluctantly, he turned his back on the tourney grounds and led his horses into the trees.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

"I forget nothing," Jon boasted. The wine was making him bold. He tried to sit very straight, to make himself seem taller. "I want to serve in the Night's Watch, Uncle."

He had thought on it long and hard, lying abed at night while his brothers slept around him. Robb would someday inherit Winterfell, would command great armies as the Warden of the North. Bran and Rickon would be Robb's bannermen and rule holdfasts in his name. His sisters Arya and Sansa would marry the heirs of other great houses and go south as mistress of castles of their own. But what place could a bastard hope to earn?

"You don't know what you're asking, Jon. The Night's Watch is a sworn brotherhood. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor."

"A bastard can have honor too," Jon said. "I am ready to swear your oath."

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

—A Storm of Swords - Jon X

There are a lot of hints of Jon’s true parentage in this tale, not only Egg being a Targaryen prince in disguise, but also a dragon that doesn’t look like a dragon

He sat naked under the elm while he dried, enjoying the warmth of the spring air on his skin as he watched a dragonfly move lazily among the reeds. Why would they name it a dragonfly? he wondered. It looks nothing like a dragon. Not that Dunk had ever seen a dragon.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

The boy absorbed that all in silence. He had the Stark face if not the name: long, solemn, guarded, a face that gave nothing away. Whoever his mother had been, she had left little of herself in her son.

—A Game of Thrones - Tyrion II

She might have overlooked a dozen bastards for Ned’s sake, so long as they were out of sight. Jon was never out of sight, and as he grew, he looked more like Ned than any of the trueborn sons she bore him.

—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn II

“A shade more exhausting than needlework,” Jon observed.

“A shade more fun than needlework,” Arya gave back at him. Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed. They had always been close. Jon had their father’s face, as she did.

—A Game of Thrones - Arya I

Sansa could never understand how two sisters, born only two years apart, could be so different. It would have been easier if Arya had been a bastard, like their half brother Jon. She even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face or her coloring.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

“Who’s this one now?“ Craster said before Jon could go. “He has the look of a Stark.”

“My steward and squire, Jon Snow.”

—A Clash of Kings - Jon III

Don’t call me “My Lord”

Egg smiled.

"Yes, my lord."

"Ser," Dunk corrected. "I am only a hedge knight."

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

“That is a longsword, not an old man’s cane,” Ser Alliser said sharply. “Are your legs hurting, Lord Snow?

"Jon hated that name, a mockery that Ser Alliser had hung on him the first day he came to practice. The boys had picked it up, and now he heard it everywhere. He slid the longsword back into its scabbard. "No,” he replied.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon III

“So how do you like the taste of your victories now, Lord Snow?”

“Don’t call me that!” Jon said sharply, but the force had gone out of his anger. Suddenly he felt ashamed and guilty. “I never … I didn’t think …”

—A Game of Thrones - Jon III

“And the grumkins and the snarks,” Tyrion said. “Let us not forget them, Lord Snow, or else what’s that big thing for?”

“Don’t call me Lord Snow.”

—A Game of Thrones - Jon III

She wiped her hands on her skirt. “M'lord—”

“I’m no lord.”

But others had come crowding round, drawn by the woman’s scream and the crash of the rabbit hutch. “Don’t you believe him, girl,” called out Lark the Sisterman, a ranger mean as a cur. “That’s Lord Snow himself.”

—A Clash of Kings - Jon III

“Rise. I have heard much and more of you, Lord Snow.”

“I am no lord, sire.” Jon rose. “I know what you have heard. That I am a turncloak, and craven. That I slew my brother Qhorin Halfhand so the wildlings would spare my life. That I rode with Mance Rayder, and took a wildling wife.”

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XI

“Words. Words are wind. Why do you think I abandoned Dragonstone and sailed to the Wall, Lord Snow?”

“I am no lord, sire. You came because we sent for you, I hope. Though I could not say why you took so long about it.”

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XI

Dunk thinks that Tanselle is prettier than the blonde Lady Ashford. Jon doesn’t compared the blonde Princess Myrcella with anyone, but there is an interesting contrast between calling Princess Myrcella “stupid” & “insipid” and then calling his half sister Sansa “radiant”

The banner-bearer was a tall knight in white scale armor chased with gold, a pure white cloak streaming from his shoulders. Two of the other riders were armored in white from head to heel as well. Kingsguard knights with the royal banner. Small wonder Lord Ashford and his sons came hurrying out the doors of the keep, and the fair maid too, a short girl with yellow hair and a round pink face. She does not seem so fair to me, Dunk thought. The puppet girl was prettier.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

After them came the children. Little Rickon first, managing the long walk with all the dignity a three-year-old could muster. Jon had to urge him on when he stopped to visit. Close behind came Robb, in grey wool trimmed with white, the Stark colors. He had the Princess Myrcella on his arm. She was a wisp of a girl, not quite eight, her hair a cascade of golden curls under a jeweled net. Jon noticed the shy looks she gave Robb as they passed between the tables and the timid way she smiled at him. He decided she was insipid. Robb didn't even have the sense to realize how stupid she was; he was grinning like a fool.

His half sisters escorted the royal princes. Arya was paired with plump young Tommen, whose white-blond hair was longer than hers. Sansa, two years older, drew the crown prince, Joffrey Baratheon. He was twelve, younger than Jon or Robb, but taller than either, to Jon's vast dismay. Prince Joffrey had his sister's hair and his mother's deep green eyes. A thick tangle of blond curls dripped down past his golden choker and high velvet collar. Sansa looked radiant as she walked beside him, but Jon did not like Joffrey's pouty lips or the bored, disdainful way he looked at Winterfell's Great Hall.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

Talking about Tanselle and Lady Ashford, both girls share parallels with Sansa Stark:

Sansa Stark and Lady Ashford

Sansa and Lady Ashford are noble ladies.

Sansa and Lady Ashford are of the same age.

Sansa and Lady Ashford are associated with tourneys.

Lady Ashford was the reigning Queen of Love and Beauty during the Tourney at Ashford Meadow, while Sansa was unofficially crowned as the Queen of Love and Beauty during the Hand’s Tourney.

Lady Ashford’s original champions were Androw Ashford, Robert Ashford, Lord Leo Tyrell, Ser Humfrey Hardyng and Prince Valarr Targaryen.

Ser Tybolt Lannister defeated Ser Androw Ashford, Ser Lyonel Baratheon defeated Ser Robert Ashford. A Lannister and a Baratheon defeating Lady Ashford’s older brothers remind us of Tywin Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon conspiring to kill Sansa Stark’s father (Ned) and brother (Robb).

The last five champions after the first day of jousting during the Tourney at Ashford Meadow were Ser Tybolt Lannister, Ser Lyonel Baratheon, Lord Leo Tyrell, Ser Humfrey Hardyng and Prince Valarr Targaryen.

Sansa’s suitors surnames match the surnames of the last five champions after the first day of jousting during the Tourney at Ashford Meadow.

Sansa Stark and Tanselle Too-Tall

Sansa and Tanselle are tall girls.

Sansa and Tanselle are familiar with the tales of Florian and Jonquil.

Tanselle plays Jonquil in the puppets play, while a fat woman plays Florian.

Sansa saves Dontos Hollard’s life. Dontos was an old, fat, drunk knight turned fool.

Dontos calls Sansa Jonquil and plays to be Sansa’s Florian, Sansa also called Dontos her Florian, but she would prefer him to be younger, like the real Florian.

Dunk defended Tanselle from Prince Aerion Targaryen, a character with some similarities with Joffrey Baratheon.

Dontos, as a fool, try to distract Joffrey and defend Sansa while she was being beaten and later helped her to scape King’s Landing.

Dunk and Jon know how to treat a girl

(This could be nothing but I know a character that is called “good girl” and “sweet lady” a lot)

Also take note that by selling Sweetfoot, Dunk got his own armor.

It was cool and dim in the stables. An unruly grey stallion snapped at him as he passed, but Sweetfoot only whickered softly and nuzzled his hand when he raised it to her nose. "You're a good girl, aren't you?" he murmured. The old man always said that a knight should never love a horse, since more than a few were like to die under him, but he never heeded his own counsel either. Dunk had often seen him spend his last copper on an apple for old Chestnut or some oats for Sweetfoot and Thunder. The palfrey had been Ser Arlan's riding horse, and she had borne him tirelessly over thousands of miles, all up and down the Seven Kingdoms. Dunk felt as though he were betraying an old friend, but what choice did he have? Chestnut was too old to be worth much of anything, and Thunder must carry him in the lists.

(...)

Dunk stroked Sweetfoot’s mane and told her to be brave. “If I win, I’ll come back and buy you again, I promise.”

(...)

Dunk handed a few of the coppers right back, and nodded at Sweetfoot. “That’s for her,” he said. “See that she has some oats tonight. Aye, and an apple too.”

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

The mare whickered softly as Jon Snow tightened the cinch. “Easy, sweet lady,” he said in a soft voice, quieting her with a touch. Wind whispered through the stable, a cold dead breath on his face, but Jon paid it no mind. He strapped his roll to the saddle, his scarred fingers stiff and clumsy.

“Ghost,” he called softly, “to me.” And the wolf was there, eyes like embers.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon IX

Dreams of a highborn lady

While Dunk wishes to have sex with a highborn lady instead of paying a whore for sex, Jon wishes his mother were a highborn lady and not a whore

Dunk stopped to watch the wooden dragon slain. When the puppet knight cut its head off and the red sawdust spilled out onto the grass, he laughed aloud and threw the girl two coppers. "One for last night," he called. She caught the coins in the air and threw him back a smile as sweet as any he had ever seen.

Is it me she smiles at, or the coins? Dunk had never been with a girl, and they made him nervous. Once, three years past, when the old man's purse was full after half a year in the service of blind Lord Florent, he'd told Dunk the time had come to take him to a brothel and make him a man. He'd been drunk, though, and when he was sober he did not remember. Dunk had been too embarrassed to remind him.

He was not certain he wanted a whore anyway. If he could not have a highborn maiden like a proper knight, he wanted one who at least liked him more than his silver.

(...)

Wet to the knee, he trudged past the empty lists. Most of the pavilions were dark, their owners long asleep, but here and there a few candles still burned. Dunk heard soft moans and cries of pleasure coming from within one tent. It made him wonder whether he would die without ever having known a maid.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

"Words won't make your mother a whore. She was what she was, and nothing Toad says can change that. You know, we have men on the Wall whose mothers were whores."

Not my mother, Jon thought stubbornly. He knew nothing of his mother; Eddard Stark would not talk of her. Yet he dreamed of her at times, so often that he could almost see her face. In his dreams, she was beautiful, and highborn, and her eyes were kind.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon III

A red-haired whore

The same way Dunk almost lost his virginity with a whore, the Jon Snow from the Show almost lost his virginity with a red-haired whore named Ros ¿Maybe the Show took inspiration for that scene from this passage to create Ros?

The winesellers and sausage makers were doing a brisk trade, and whores walked brazenly among the stalls and pavilions. Some were pretty enough, one red-haired girl in particular. He could not help staring at her breasts, the way they moved under her loose shift as she sauntered past. He thought of the silver in his pouch. I could have her, if I liked. She'd like the clink of my coin well enough, I could take her back to my camp and have her, all night if I wanted. He had never lain with a woman, and for all he knew he might die in his first tilt. Tourneys could be dangerous . . . but whores could be dangerous too, the old man had warned him of that. She might rob me while I slept, and what would I do then? When the red-haired girl glanced back over her shoulder at him, Dunk shook his head and walked away.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

Sam: I’ve never… been with one. You’ve probably had hundreds. Jon: No. As a matter of fact, I’m the same as you. Sam: Yeah. Yeah, I… I find that hard to believe. Jon: I came very close once. I was alone in a room with a naked girl, but… Sam: Didn’t know where to put it? Jon: I know where to put it. Sam: Was she… old and ugly? Jon: Young and gorgeous. A whore named Ros. Sam: What colour hair? Jon: Red. Sam: Oh, I like red hair. And her, um… Her… (boobs) Jon: You don’t want to know. Sam: What, that good? Jon: Better. Sam: Oh, no. So why exactly did you not make love to Ros with the perfect? Jon: What’s my name? Sam: Jon Snow. Jon: And why is my surname Snow? Sam: Because… you’re a bastard from the North. Jon: I never met my mother. My father wouldn’t even tell me her name. I don’t know if she’s living or dead. I don’t know if she’s a noblewoman or a fisherman’s wife… or a whore. So I sat there in the brothel as Ros took off her clothes. But I couldn’t do it. Because all I could think was what if I got her pregnant and she had a child, another bastard named Snow? It’s not a good life for a child.

—GOT S01E04 – Cripples Bastards and Broken Things

Complaining about getting bad seats

On the eastern verge of the meadow, a quintain had been set up and a dozen knights were tilting at it, sending the pole arm spinning every time they struck the splintered shield suspended from one end. Dunk watched the Brute of Bracken take his turn, and then Lord Caron of the Marches. I do not have as good a seat as any of them, he thought uneasily.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

There were times—not many, but a few—when Jon Snow was glad he was a bastard. As he filled his wine cup once more from a passing flagon, it struck him that this might be one of them.

He settled back in his place on the bench among the younger squires and drank. The sweet, fruity taste of summerwine filled his mouth and brought a smile to his lips.

The Great Hall of Winterfell was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. Its grey stone walls were draped with banners. White, gold, crimson: the direwolf of Stark, Baratheon's crowned stag, the lion of Lannister. A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but down at this end of the hall his voice could scarcely be heard above the roar of the fire, the clangor of pewter plates and cups, and the low mutter of a hundred drunken conversations.

It was the fourth hour of the welcoming feast laid for the king. Jon's brothers and sisters had been seated with the royal children, beneath the raised platform where Lord and Lady Stark hosted the king and queen. In honor of the occasion, his lord father would doubtless permit each child a glass of wine, but no more than that. Down here on the benches, there was no one to stop Jon drinking as much as he had a thirst for. —A Game of Thrones - Jon I

"Then you saw us all. Prince Joffrey and Prince Tommen, Princess Myrcella, my brothers Robb and Bran and Rickon, my sisters Arya and Sansa. You saw them walk the center aisle with every eye upon them and take their seats at the table just below the dais where the king and queen were seated."

"I remember."

"And did you see where I was seated, Mance?" He leaned forward. "Did you see where they put the bastard?"

Mance Rayder looked at Jon's face for a long moment. "I think we had best find you a new cloak," the king said, holding out his hand.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon I

Dunk and Jon admire the same heroes

Dunk stared at the grassy lists and the empty chairs on the viewing stand and pondered his chances. One victory was all he needed; then he could name himself one of the champions of Ashford Meadow, if only for an hour. The old man had lived nigh on sixty years and had never been a champion. It is not too much to hope for, if the gods are good. He thought back on all the songs he had heard, songs of blind Symeon Star-Eyes and noble Serwyn of the Mirror Shield, of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, Ser Ryam Redywne, and Florian the Fool. They had all won victories against foes far more terrible than any he would face. But they were great heroes, brave men of noble birth, except for Florian. And what am I?

Dunk of Flea Bottom? Or Ser Duncan the Tall?

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

“Daeren Targaryen was only fourteen when he conquered Dorne,” Jon said. The Young Dragon was one of his heroes.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

Yet he saw the castle clear in his mind's eye, as if he had left it only yesterday; the towering granite walls, the Great Hall with its smells of smoke and dog and roasting meat, his father's solar, the turret room where he had slept. Part of him wanted nothing so much as to hear Bran laugh again, to sup on one of Gage's beef-and-bacon pies, to listen to Old Nan tell her tales of the children of the forest and Florian the Fool.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon IX

Every morning they had trained together, since they were big enough to walk; Snow and Stark, spinning and slashing about the wards of Winterfell, shouting and laughing, sometimes crying when there was no one else to see. They were not little boys when they fought, but knights and mighty heroes. "I'm Prince Aemon the Dragonknight," Jon would call out, and Robb would shout back, "Well, I'm Florian the Fool." Or Robb would say, "I'm the Young Dragon," and Jon would reply, "I'm Ser Ryam Redwyne."

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

A dragon that doesn’t look like a dragon

The meadow was a churning mass of people, all trying to elbow their way closer for a better view. Dunk was as good an elbower as any, and bigger than most. He squirmed forward to a rise six yards from the fence. When Egg complained that all he could see were arses, Dunk sat the boy on his shoulders. Across the field, the viewing stand was filling up with highborn lords and ladies, a few rich townfolk, and a score of knights who had decided not to compete today. Of Prince Maekar he saw no sign, but he recognized Prince Baelor at Lord Ashford's side. Sunlight flashed golden off the shoulder clasp that held his cloak and the slim coronet about his temples, but otherwise he dressed far more simply than most of the other lords. He does not look a Targaryen in truth, with that dark hair. Dunk said as much to Egg.

"It's said he favors his mother," the boy reminded him. "She was a Dornish princess."

(...)

A few feet away, the Young Prince [Valarr Targaryen] sat at his ease in a raised camp chair before his great black tent. His helm was off. He had dark hair like his father, but a bright streak ran through it. A servingman brought him a silver goblet and he took a sip. Water, if he is wise, Dunk thought, wine if not. He found himself wondering if Valarr had indeed inherited a measure of his father's prowess, or whether it had only been that he had drawn the weakest opponent.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

—A Game of Thrones - Tyrion II

—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn II

“A shade more exhausting than needlework,” Jon observed.

“A shade more fun than needlework,” Arya gave back at him. Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed. They had always been close. Jon had their father’s face, as she did.

—A Game of Thrones - Arya I

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

“Who’s this one now?“ Craster said before Jon could go. “He has the look of a Stark.”

“My steward and squire, Jon Snow.”

—A Clash of Kings - Jon III

Fascinated by a Knight

Dunk was fascinated by a brown haired Targaryen Prince (Like Jon Snow) while Jon was fascinated by a Kingsguard that later became Lord Commander (Like Dunk)

The three challengers took their places as the three champions mounted up. Men were making wagers all around them and calling out encouragement to their choices, but Dunk had eyes only for the prince [Valarr Targaryen].

(...)

Farther away, Ser Joseth Mallister was being carried off the field unconscious, while the harp lord and the rose lord were going at each other lustily with blunted longaxes, to the delight of the roaring crowd. Dunk was so intent on Valarr Targaryen that he scarcely saw them.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

Ser Jaime Lannister was twin to Queen Cersei; tall and golden, with flashing green eyes and a smile that cut like a knife. He wore crimson silk, high black boots, a black satin cloak. On the breast of his tunic, the lion of his House was embroidered in gold thread, roaring its defiance. They called him the Lion of Lannister to his face and whispered "Kingslayer" behind his back.

Jon found it hard to look away from him. This is what a king should look like, he thought to himself as the man passed.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

Not allowed

A hedge knight cannot challenge a prince. Valarr is second in line to the Iron Throne. He is Baelor Breakspear's son, and his blood is the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and the Young Dragon and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, and I am some boy the old man found behind a pot shop in Flea Bottom.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

"Why aren't you down in the yard?" Arya asked him.

He gave her a half smile. “Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes,” he said. "Any bruises they take in the practice yard must come from trueborn swords."

—A Game of Thrones - Arya I

A Death with Honor

He wondered if they expected him to saddle a horse and flee. He could, if he wished. That would be the end of his knighthood, to be sure; he would be no more than an outlaw henceforth, until the day some lord took him and struck off his head. Better to die a knight than live like that, he told himself stubbornly.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

It did not bear thinking about. Pain throbbed, deep in his fingers, as he clutched the reins. Jon put his heels into his horse and broke into a gallop, racing down the kingsroad, as if to outrun his doubts. Jon was not afraid of death, but he did not want to die like that, trussed and bound and beheaded like a common brigand. If he must perish, let it be with a sword in his hand, fighting his father's killers. He was no true Stark, had never been one … but he could die like one. Let them say that Eddard Stark had fathered four sons, not three.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon IX

Warg imagery

I am Thunder and Thunder is me, we are one beast, we are joined, we are one.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

When he finally put the quill down, the room was dim and chilly, and he could feel its walls closing in. Perched above the window, the Old Bear's raven peered down at him with shrewd black eyes. My last friend, Jon thought ruefully. And I had best outlive you, or you'll eat my face as well. Ghost did not count. Ghost was closer than a friend. Ghost was part of him.

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon III

Ser Alliser Thorne shattered the silence. “The turncloak graces us with his presence at last.”

Lord Janos was red-faced and quivering. “The beast,” he gasped. “Look! The beast that tore the life from Halfhand. A warg walks among us, brothers. A WARG! This … this creature is not fit to lead us! This beastling is not fit to live!”

Ghost bared his teeth, but Jon put a hand on his head. “My lord,” he said, “will you tell me what’s happened here?”

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

“Then you had best be on your way, boy.” Slynt laughed, dribbling porridge down his chest. “Greyguard’s a good place for the likes of you, I’m thinking. Well away from decent godly folk. The mark of the beast is on you, bastard.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon II

Dolorous Edd took hold of Slynt by one arm, Iron Emmett by the other. Together they hauled him from the bench. “No,” Lord Janos protested, flecks of porridge spraying from his lips. “No, unhand me. He’s just a boy, a bastard. His father was a traitor. The mark of the beast is on him, that wolf of his … Let go of me! You will rue the day you laid hands on Janos Slynt. I have friends in King’s Landing. I warn you—” He was still protesting as they half-marched, half-dragged him up the steps.

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon II

Self doubt

When his eyes opened he was on the ground again, sprawled on his back. The mud had all been knocked from his helm, but now one eye was closed by blood. Above was nothing but dark grey sky.

His face throbbed, and he could feel cold wet metal pressing in against cheek and temple. He broke my head, and I'm dying. What was worse was the others who would die with him, Raymun and Prince Baelor and the rest. I've failed them. I am no champion. I'm not even a hedge knight. I am nothing. He remembered Prince Daeron boasting that no one could lie insensible in the mud as well as he did. He never saw Dunk the lunk, though, did he? The shame was worse than the pain.

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

A grim day. Jon Snow wrapped gloved hands around the bars and held tight as the wind hammered at the cage once more. When he looked straight down past his feet, the ground was lost in shadow, as if he were being lowered into some bottomless pit. Well, death is a bottomless pit of sorts, he reflected, and when this day's work is done my name will be shadowed forever.

Bastard children were born from lust and lies, men said; their nature was wanton and treacherous. Once Jon had meant to prove them wrong, to show his lord father that he could be as good and true a son as Robb. I made a botch of that. Robb had become a hero king; if Jon was remembered at all, it would be as a turncloak, an oathbreaker, and a murderer. He was glad that Lord Eddard was not alive to see his shame.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon X

It should have been you

Valarr, the Young Prince, stood vigil at the foot of the bier while his father lay in state. He was a shorter, slimmer, handsomer version of his sire, without the twice-broken nose that had made Baelor seem more human than royal. Valarr's hair was brown, but a bright streak of silver-gold ran through it. The sight of it reminded Dunk of Aerion, but he knew that was not fair. Egg's hair was growing back as bright as his brother's, and Egg was a decent enough lad, for a prince.

When he stopped to offer awkward sympathies, well larded with thanks, Prince Valarr blinked cool blue eyes at him and said, "My father was only nine-and-thirty. He had it in him to be a great king, the greatest since Aegon the Dragon. Why would the gods take him, and leave you?" He shook his head. "Begone with you, Ser Duncan. Begone."

* * *

"I wanted him to stay here with me," Lady Stark said softly.

Jon watched her, wary. She was not even looking at him. She was talking to him, but for a part of her, it was as though he were not even in the room.

"I prayed for it," she said dully. "He was my special boy. I went to the sept and prayed seven times to the seven faces of god that Ned would change his mind and leave him here with me. Sometimes prayers are answered."

Jon did not know what to say. "It wasn't your fault," he managed after an awkward silence.

Her eyes found him. They were full of poison. "I need none of your absolution, bastard."

Jon lowered his eyes. She was cradling one of Bran's hands. He took the other, squeezed it. Fingers like the bones of birds. "Good-bye," he said.

He was at the door when she called out to him. "Jon," she said. He should have kept going, but she had never called him by his name before. He turned to find her looking at his face, as if she were seeing it for the first time.

"Yes?" he said.

"It should have been you," she told him. Then she turned back to Bran and began to weep, her whole body shaking with the sobs. Jon had never seen her cry before.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon II

Old Gods

Sometimes I sit under that tree there and look at my feet and ask if I couldn’t have spared one. How could my foot be worth a prince’s life? And the other two as well, the Humfreys, they were good men too.” Ser Humfrey Hardyng had succumbed to his wounds only last night.

“And what answer does your tree give you?”

“None that I can hear.”

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

Even now, he did not know if he was doing the honorable thing. The southron had it easier. They had their septons to talk to, someone to tell them the gods' will and help sort out right from wrong. But the Starks worshiped the old gods, the nameless gods, and if the heart trees heard, they did not speak.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon IX

A Tree on a Shield

Dunk’s sigil was an elm tree with a shooting star above, while the Mystery Knight called The Knight of the Laughing Tree [Jon’s mother Lyanna Stark] was a weirwood tree with a laughing red face

“What color paint do you have?” he asked, hoping that might give him an idea.

“I can mix paints to make any color you want.”

The old man’s brown had always seemed drab to Dunk. “The field should be the color of sunset,” he said suddenly. “The old man liked sunsets. And the device…”

“An elm tree,” said Egg. “A big elm tree, like the one by the pool, with a brown trunk and green branches.”

“Yes,” Dunk said. “That would serve. An elm tree…but with a shooting star above. Could you do that?”

The girl nodded. “Give me the shield. I’ll paint it this very night and have it back to you on the morrow.”

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

But late on the afternoon of that second day, as the shadows grew long, a mystery knight appeared in the lists.

Bran nodded sagely. [...] “It was the little crannogman, I bet.”

“No one knew,” said Meera, “but the mystery knight was short of stature, and clad in ill-fitting armor made up of bits and pieces. The device upon his shield was a heart tree of the old gods, a white weirwood with a laughing red face.”

[...]

“Whoever he was, the old gods gave strength to his arm. The porcupine knight fell first, then the pitchfork knight, and lastly the knight of the two towers. None were well loved, so the common folk cheered lustily for the Knight of the Laughing Tree, as the new champion soon was called.”

—A Storm of Swords - Bran II

Dragonflies or Dragons

“That can be changed,” said Maekar. “Aegon is to return to my castle at Summerhall. There is a place there for you, if you wish. A knight of my household. You’ll swear your sword to me, and Aegon can squire for you. While you train him, my master-at-arms will finish your own training.” The prince gave him a shrewd look. “Your Ser Arlan did all he could for you, I have no doubt, but you still have much to learn.”

“I know, m'lord.” Dunk looked about him. At the green grass and the reeds, the tall elm, the ripples dancing across the surface of the sunlit pool. Another dragonfly was moving across the water, or perhaps it was the same one. What shall it be, Dunk? he asked himself. Dragonflies or dragons? A few days ago he would have answered at once. It was all he had ever dreamed, but now that the prospect was at hand it frightened him. “ Just before Prince Baelor died, I swore to be his man.”

"Presumptuous of you," said Maekar. "What did he say?"

"That the realm needed good men."

"That's true enough. What of it?"

"I will take your son as squire, Your Grace, but not at Summerhall. Not for a year or two. He's seen sufficient of castles, I would judge. I'll have him only if I can take him on the road with me." He pointed to old Chestnut. "He'll ride my steed, wear my old cloak, and he'll keep my sword sharp and my mail scoured. We'll sleep in inns and stables, and now and again in the halls of some landed knight or lesser lordling, and maybe under trees when we must."

—The Hedge Knight

* * *

He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

Jon said, “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.”

“I have heard all I need to hear of Lady Lannister and her claim." The king set the cup aside. "You could bring the north to me. Your father's bannermen would rally to the son of Eddard Stark. Even Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse. White Harbor would give me a ready source of supply and a secure base to which I could retreat at need. It is not too late to amend your folly, Snow. Take a knee and swear that bastard sword to me, and rise as Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

How many times will he make me say it? "My sword is sworn to the Night's Watch.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon IV

The Prince of Dragonflies

As you can see, The Hedge Knight is a tale full of Dragonflies and Dragons imagery around Ser Duncan the Tall. And this dichotomy repeated with Prince Duncan the Small.

Years later of his adventures as the Squire of Ser Duncan the Tall, Egg became Aegon V Targaryen, and named his first born Duncan Targaryen, probably in honor of Ser Duncan the Tall.

Prince Duncan Targaryen was the heir to the Iron Throne, the Prince of Dragonstone, also known as Prince Duncan the Small. But since he gave up the throne for love in order to marry Jenny of Oldstones, he began to be known as the Prince of Dragonflies.

Prince Duncan Targaryen favored her mother’s Betha Blackwood features and had dark hair, like Jon Snow.

The Black Prince and the White Guardian

In my unfinished meta about the Tourney at Ashford Meadow, I argue that the two facets of Jon Snow: bastard and hidden prince, are represented in this tale by Dunk and Valarr.

This is one of my favorite findings since I started writing ASOIAF metas. I shared this one with some of you, the seven gods know this unfinished work has more than 3 years in the making... So here you go.

Valarr is called The Black Prince and the White Guardian:

Ser Joseth thumped on Ser Humfrey Hardyng's diamonds. And the black-and-white knight, Lord Gawen Swann, challenged the black prince with the white guardian.

—The Hedge Knight

And this is a clear reference to Jon Snow, the black prince, and Ghost, his white guardian:

Robb looked relieved. "Good." He smiled. "The next time I see you, you'll be all in black."

Jon forced himself to smile back. "It was always my color. How long do you think it will be?"

—A Game of Thrones - Jon II

He was clad in black from head to heel; high leather riding boots, roughspun breeches and tunic, sleeveless leather jerkin, and heavy wool cloak. His longsword and dagger were sheathed in black moleskin, and the hauberk and coif in his saddlebag were black ringmail.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon IX

Jon was armored in black ice, but his blade burned red in his fist. As the dead men reached the top of the Wall he sent them down to die again.

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon XII

"He must have crawled away from the others," Jon said.

"Or been driven away," their father said, looking at the sixth pup. His fur was white, where the rest of the litter was grey.

—A Game of Thrones - Bran I

And suddenly Ghost was back, stalking softly between two weirwoods. White fur and red eyes, Jon realized, disquieted. Like the trees …

—A Game of Thrones - Jon VI

Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII

I have more reasons to believe that GRRM wrote Valarr as a representation of Jon Snow. George purposely created Valarr with certain features to make us think about Jon Snow. These reasons find solid ground in a particular work of literature that George has declared it served him as inspiration to write ASOIAF. Maybe One day I will finish this meta and I will show you all.

For now, lets go to the second tale...

* * *

THE SWORN SWORD

This tale is full of love, romance and marriage imagery, doomed romances, forbidden romances, unrequited loves, lost loves, platonic loves, sexual loves, marriages alliances, loveless marriages, unfruitful marriages and lovers farewells.

A Mysterious Red Lady

Rohanne Webber, Lady of Codlmoat, also known as the Red Widow, is a character that reminds us several women that crossed paths with Jon Snow

Dunk wanted no trouble with the Lady of the Coldmoat. At Standfast you heard ill things of her. The Red Widow, she was called, for the husbands she had put into the ground. Old Sam Stoops said she was a witch, a poisoner, and worse.

Two years ago she had sent her knights across the stream to seize an Osgrey man for stealing sheep. “When m’lord rode to Coldmoat to demand him back, he was told to look for him at the bottom of the moat,” Sam had said. “She’d sewn poor Dake in a bag o’ rocks and sunk him. ’Twas after that Ser Eustace took Ser Bennis into service, to keep them spiders off his lands.”

(...)

Egg drew water to fill it for the third time, then clambered back onto the well. "You'd best not take any food or drink at Coldmoat, ser. The Red Widow poisoned all her husbands."

(...)

“Whenever she gives birth, a demon comes by night to carry off the issue. Sam Stoops’s wife says she sold her babes unborn to the Lord of the Seven Hells, so he’d teach her his black arts.”

“Highborn ladies don’t meddle with the black arts. They dance and sing and do embroidery.”

“Maybe she dances with demons and embroiders evil spells,” Egg said with relish. “And how would you know what highborn ladies do, ser? Lady Vaith is the only one you ever knew.”

(...)

“You’ve known queens and princesses. Did they dance with demons and practice the black arts?”

“Lady Shiera does. Lord Bloodraven’s paramour. She bathes in blood to keep her beauty. And once my sister Rhae put a love potion in my drink, so I’d marry her instead of my sister Daella.”

—The Sworn Sword

The wicked reputation of the Red Widow, makes me think about another red haired woman with a wicked reputation, Danelle Lothston, Lady of Harrenhal, also known as Mad Danelle.

And talking about Harrenhal, Mad Danelle is probably an ancestor of Lady Minisa Whent, that later became Lady Minsa Tully, the mother of Lady Catelyn Tully, that later became Lady Catelyn Stark, the mother of Lady Sansa Stark, Jon Snow’s radiant and red haired half sister, another redhead with certain reputation:

He smiled at her. “Now, wolf girl, if you can put a name to me as well, then I must concede that you are truly our Hand’s daughter.”

—AGOT - Sansa I

“I forgot, you’ve been hiding under a rock. The northern girl. Winterfell’s daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window. But she left the dwarf behind and Cersei means to have his head.”

—ASOS - Arya XIII

“May the Father judge him justly,” murmured a septon.

“The dwarf’s wife did the murder with him,” swore an archer in Lord Rowan’s livery. “Afterward, she vanished from the hall in a puff of brimstone, and a ghostly direwolf was seen prowling the Red Keep, blood dripping from his jaws.”

—ASOS - Jaime VII

“Your Grace has forgotten the Lady Sansa,” said Pycelle.

The queen bristled. “I most certainly have not forgotten that little she-wolf.” She refused to say the girl’s name. “I ought to have shown her to the black cells as the daughter of a traitor, but instead I made her part of mine own household. She shared my hearth and hall, played with my own children. I fed her, dressed her, tried to make her a little less ignorant about the world, and how did she repay me for my kindness? She helped murder my son.

—AFFC - Cersei IV

A man’s pride

“Common boys fight with wooden swords too, only theirs are sticks and broken branches. Egg, these men may seem fools to you. They won’t know the proper names for bits of armor, or the arms of the great houses, or which king it was who abolished the lord’s right to the first night…but treat them with respect all the same. You are a squire born of noble blood, but you are still a boy. Most of them will be men grown. A man has his pride, no matter how lowborn he may be. You would seem just as lost and stupid in their villages. And if you doubt that, go hoe a row and shear a sheep, and tell me the names of all the weeds and wildflowers in Wat’s Wood.”

The boy considered for a moment. “I could teach them the arms of the great houses, and how Queen Alysanne convinced King Jaehaerys to abolish the first night. And they could teach me which weeds are best for making poisons, and whether those green berries are safe to eat.”

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

It is too cold for this mummer's show, thought Jon. “The free folk despise kneelers,” he had warned Stannis. "Let them keep their pride, and they will love you better." His Grace would not listen. He said, "It is swords I need from them, not kisses."

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon III

Dunk has dreams with dead Targaryen Princes while Jon has dreams with dead Stark Kings

You are dead, Dunk wanted to scream, you are all three dead, why won’t you leave me be? Ser Arlan had died of a chill, Prince Baelor of the blow his brother dealt him during Dunk’s trial of seven, his son Valarr during the Great Spring Sickness. I am not to blame for that. We were in Dorne, we never even knew.

(...)

“Begone with you, Ser Duncan,” Valarr said. “Begone.”

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

He dreamt he was back in Winterfell, limping past the stone kings on their thrones. Their grey granite eyes turned to follow him as he passed, and their grey granite fingers tightened on the hilts of the rusted swords upon their laps. You are no Stark, he could hear them mutter, in heavy granite voices. There is no place for you here. Go away. He walked deeper into the darkness.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VIII

Egg taught Dunk how to talk to a lady the same way Sansa taught Jon how to talk to a lady

“I don’t know how to talk with highborn ladies,” he confessed as they were pouring. “We both might have been killed in Dorne, on account of what I said to Lady Vaith.”

“Lady Vaith was mad,” Egg reminded him, “but you could have been more gallant. Ladies like it when you’re gallant. If you were to rescue the Red Widow the way you rescued that puppet girl from Aerion…”

“Aerion’s in Lys, and the widow’s not in want of rescuing.” He did not want to talk of Tanselle. Tanselle Too-Tall was her name, but she was not too tall for me.

“Well,” the boy said, “some knights sing gallant songs to their ladies, or play them tunes upon a lute.”

“I have no lute.” Dunk looked morose. “And that night I drank too much in the Planky Town, you told me I sang like an ox in a mud wallow.”

“I had forgotten, ser.”

“How could you forget?”

“You told me to forget, ser,” said Egg, all innocence. “You told me I’d get a clout in the ear the next time I mentioned it.”

“There will be no singing.” Even if he had the voice for it, the only song Dunk knew all the way through was “The Bear, the Bear, and the Maiden Fair.” He doubted that would do much to win over Lady Webber.

(...)

“I thought how you should speak to Lady Webber, ser. You should win her to your side with gallant compliments.” The boy looked as cool and crisp in his chequy tunic as Ser Eustace had in his cloak.

Am I the only one who sweats? “Gallant compliments,” Dunk echoed. “What sort of gallant compliments?”

“You know, ser. Tell her how fair and beautiful she is.”

Dunk had doubts. “She’s outlived four husbands, she must be as old as Lady Vaith. If I say she’s fair and beautiful when she’s old and warty, she will take me for a liar.”

“You just need to find something true to say about her. That’s what my brother Daeron does. Even ugly old whores can have nice hair or well-shaped ears, he says.”

“Well-shaped ears?” Dunk’s doubts were growing.

“Or pretty eyes. Tell her that her gown brings out the color of her eyes.” The lad reflected for a moment. “Unless she only has the one eye, like Lord Bloodraven.”

“My lady, that gown brings out the color of your eye. Dunk had heard knights and lordlings mouth such gallantries at other ladies. They never put it quite so baldly, though. Good lady, that gown is beautiful. It brings out the color of both your lovely eyes. Some of the ladies had been old and scrawny, or fat and florid, or pox-scarred and homely, but all wore gowns and had two eyes, and as Dunk recalled, they’d been well pleased by the flowery words. What a lovely gown, my lady. It brings out the lovely beauty of your beautiful-colored eyes. “A hedge knight’s life is simpler,” Dunk said glumly. “If I say the wrong thing, she’s like to sew me in a sack of rocks and throw me in her moat.”

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

"Black brothers are sworn never to take wives, don't you know that? And we're guests in your father's hall besides."

"Not you," she said. "I watched. You never ate at his board, nor slept by his fire. He never gave you guest-right, so you're not bound to him. It's for the baby I have to go."

"I don't even know your name."

"Gilly, he called me. For the gillyflower."

"That's pretty." He remembered Sansa telling him once that he should say that whenever a lady told him her name. He could not help the girl, but perhaps the courtesy would please her. "Is it Craster who frightens you, Gilly?"

—A Clash of Kings - Jon III

Marrying a Lady

In another world, Dunk could get married with a lady, like Alysanne Osgrey or Rohanne Webber

“You are a good man, Ser Duncan. A brave knight, and true.” Ser Eustace gave Dunk’s arm a squeeze. “Would that the gods had spared my Alysanne. You are the sort of man I had always hoped that she might marry. A true knight, Ser Duncan. A true knight.”

(...)

“Ser Eustace said I was the sort of man he’d hoped to have his daughter wed. Her name was Alysanne.”

“She’s dead, ser.”

“I know she’s dead,” said Dunk, annoyed. “If she was alive, he said. If she was, he’d like her to marry me. Or someone like me. I never had a lord offer me his daughter before.”

“His dead daughter. And the Osgreys might have been lords in the old days, but Ser Eustace is only a landed knight.”

“I know what he is. Do you want a clout in the ear?”

“Well,” said Egg, “I’d sooner have a clout than a wife. Especially a dead wife, ser. The kettle’s steaming.”

(...)

Egg drew water to fill it for the third time, then clambered back onto the well. "You'd best not take any food or drink at Coldmoat, ser. The Red Widow poisoned all her husbands."

"I'm not like to marry her. She's a highborn lady, and I'm Dunk of Flea Bottom, remember?" He frowned. "Just how many husbands has she had, do you know?"

“Four,” said Egg, “but no children.

(...)

“You wanted blood for blood.” He laid the dagger against his cheek. “They told you wrong. It wasn’t Bennis cut that digger, it was me.” He pressed the edge of the steel into his face, slashed downward. When he shook the blood off the blade some spattered on her face. More freckles, he thought. “There, the Red Widow has her due. A cheek for a cheek.”

“You are quite mad.” The smoke had filled her eyes with tears. “If you were better born, I’d marry you.”

“Aye, m’lady. And if pigs had wings and scales and breathed flame, they’d be as good as dragons.”

—The Sworn Sword

Maybe I’m seeing too much here, but the reference to Alysanne Osgrey [Os-Grey] makes me think of Sansa Stark, because:

Sansa shared a lot of parallels with Good Queen Alysanne.

The surname Osgrey has the word grey in it.

Alysanne Osgrey became a Silent Sister.

Silent Sisters wear always grey.

Silent Sisters are known as the Stranger's wives.

According to Melissandre, the Grey Girl of her visions is Jon Snow’s Sister.

The Grey Girl will probably be Sansa Stark.

Grey is also the color of House Stark, so Sansa is, in a way, a Grey Girl.

Jon is a man that will defeat death and come back to life, like the Stranger that walks between the two worlds.

The Stranger’s face is half animal, like Jon who is a warg, half man and half beast.

In another world, Jon also could get married Ygritte, without the cultural and social barriers that separate them.

A Lady Mother

In another world, Rohanne could be... Dunk’s mother?

“If his daughter wasn’t dead, he’d want me to marry her. Then you could be my lady mother. I never had a mother, much less a lady mother.”

—The Sworn Sword

The parallel with Jon wishing his mother were a highborn lady is plain, but it’s funny how Dunk was resented with Rohanne for marrying Ser Eustace Osgrey, which reminds me of Jon being resented with “his father’s redhead wife”, Catelyn Stark.

Marrying a Sister / Bedding a Sister

“You’ve known queens and princesses. Did they dance with demons and practice the black arts?”

“Lady Shiera does. Lord Bloodraven’s paramour. She bathes in blood to keep her beauty. And once my sister Rhae put a love potion in my drink, so I’d marry her instead of my sister Daella.”

Egg spoke as if such incest was the most natural thing in the world. For him it is. The Targaryens had been marrying brother to sister for hundreds of years, to keep the blood of the dragon pure. Though the last actual dragon had died before Dunk was born, the dragonkings went on. Maybe the gods don’t mind them marrying their sisters. “Did the potion work?” Dunk asked.

“It would have,” said Egg, “but I spit it out.

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

Ygritte pushed herself onto an elbow. “I am nineteen, and a spearwife, and kissed by fire. How could I be maiden?”

“Who was he?”

“A boy at a feast, five years past. He’d come trading with his brothers, and he had hair like mine, kissed by fire, so I thought he would be lucky. But he was weak. When he came back t’ try and steal me, Longspear broke his arm and ran him off, and he never tried again, not once.”

“It wasn’t Longspear, then?” Jon was relieved. He liked Longspear, with his homely face and friendly ways.

She punched him. “That’s vile. Would you bed your sister?”

“Longspear’s not your brother.”

“He’s of my village. You know nothing, Jon Snow. A true man steals a woman from afar, t’ strengthen the clan. Women who bed brothers or fathers or clan kin offend the gods, and are cursed with weak and sickly children. Even monsters.”

—A Storm of Swords - Jon III

Joining a celibate brotherhood

This conversation between Dunk and Egg resemblances a conversation between Benjen and Jon

I don’t want a wife, I want to be a knight of the Kingsguard and live only to serve and defend the king. The Kingsguard are sworn not to wed.”

“That’s a noble thing, but when you’re older you may find you’d sooner have a girl than a white cloak.” Dunk was thinking of Tanselle Too-Tall, and the way she’d smiled at him at Ashford.

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

"I want to serve in the Night's Watch, Uncle."

"You don't know what you're asking, Jon. The Night's Watch is a sworn brotherhood. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons. Our wife is duty. Our mistress is honor."

"A bastard can have honor too," Jon said. "I am ready to swear your oath."

"You are a boy of fourteen," Benjen said. "Not a man, not yet. Until you have known a woman, you cannot understand what you would be giving up."

"I don't care about that!" Jon said hotly.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

You’re not going...

Another conversation between Dunk and Egg that resemblances a conversation between Benjen and Jon

You will stay and help Bennis with the smallfolk, he told Egg. And don’t give me that sullen look. He kicked his breeches off and climbed into the tub of steaming water. Go on and get to sleep now, and let me have my bath. You’re not going, and that’s the end of it

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

Three days after their arrival, Jon had heard that Benjen Stark was to lead a half-dozen men on a ranging into the haunted forest. That night he sought out his uncle in the great timbered common hall and pleaded to go with him. Benjen refused him curtly. "This is not Winterfell," he told him as he cut his meat with fork and dagger. "On the Wall, a man gets only what he earns. You're no ranger, Jon, only a green boy with the smell of summer still on you."

—A Game of Thrones - Jon III

Warg imagery again...

This old master of yours, the knight of Pennytree…did he fight in the Blackfyre Rebellion? He did, m’lord. Before he took me on. Dunk had been no more than 3 or 4 at the time, running half-naked through the alleys of Flea Bottom, more animal than boy.

—The Sworn Sword

Dunk’s age and the line “more animal than a boy” reminds me of Rickon Stark, but it’s also another warg reference. And after coming back to life, Jon Snow will probably be more animal than man.

Usurping another’s place

Roger of Pennytree is to Dunk, what Robb is to Jon

“Ser Arlan never liked to speak about the battle. His squire died there too. Roger of Pennytree was his name, Ser Arlan’s sister’s son.” Even saying the name made Dunk feel vaguely guilty. I stole his place. Only princes and great lords had the means to keep two squires. If Aegon the Unworthy had given his sword to his heir Daeron instead of his bastard Daemon, there might never have been a Blackfyre Rebellion, and Roger of Pennytree might be alive today. He would be a knight someplace, a truer knight than me. I would have ended on the gallows, or been sent off to the Night’s Watch to walk the Wall until I died.

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

Robb had become a hero king; if Jon was remembered at all, it would be as a turncloak, an oathbreaker, and a murderer. He was glad that Lord Eddard was not alive to see his shame.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon X

When Jon had been very young, too young to understand what it meant to be a bastard, he used to dream that one day Winterfell might be his. Later, when he was older, he had been ashamed of those dreams. Winterfell would go to Robb and then his sons, or to Bran or Rickon should Robb die childless. And after them came Sansa and Arya. Even to dream otherwise seemed disloyal, as if he were betraying them in his heart, wishing for their deaths. I never wanted this, he thought as he stood before the blue-eyed king and the red woman. I loved Robb, loved all of them . . . I never wanted any harm to come to any of them, but it did. And now there's only me. All he had to do was say the word, and he would be Jon Stark, and nevermore a Snow. All he had to do was pledge this king his fealty, and Winterfell was his. All he had to do . . .

. . . was forswear his vows again.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon XI

Dunk met Rohanne Webber the same way Jon met Ygritte, they confused them with another person. And Lucas Inchfield is the Orell of this tale

Nearby a squire was loosing shafts at the archery butts, while a freckled girl with a long braid matched him shot for shot.

(...)

…and one soft, fleshy lady of high birth, garbed in a gown of dark blue damask trimmed with Myrish lace, so long its hems were trailing in the dirt. Dunk judged her to be forty. Beneath a spun-silver net her auburn hair was piled high, but the reddest thing about her was her face.

“My lady,” Ser Lucas said, when they stood before her and her septas, “this hedge knight claims to bring a message from Ser Eustace Osgrey. Will you hear it?”

“If you wish it, Ser Lucas.” She peered at Dunk so hard that he could not help but recall Egg’s talk of sorcery. I don’t think this one bathes in blood to keep her beauty. The widow was stout and square, with an oddly pointed head that her hair could not quite conceal. Her nose was too big, and her mouth too small. She did have two eyes, he was relieved to see, but all thought of gallantry had abandoned Dunk by then. “Ser Eustace bid me talk with you concerning the recent trouble at your dam.”

(...)

“M’lady, could we continue our discussion in some…more private place?”

“A silver says the great oaf means to bed her!” someone japed, and a roar of laughter went up all around him. The lady cringed away, half in terror, and raised both hands to shield her face. One of the septas moved quickly to her side and put a protective arm around her shoulders.

“And what is all this merriment?” The voice cut through the laughter, cool and firm. “Will no one share the jape? Ser knight, why are you troubling my good-sister?”

“It was the girl he had seen earlier at the archery butts. She had a quiver of arrows on one hip and held a longbow that was just as tall as she was, which wasn’t very tall. If Dunk was shy an inch of seven feet, the archer was shy an inch of five. He could have spanned her waist with his two hands. Her red hair was bound up in a braid so long it brushed past her thighs, and she had a dimpled chin, a snub nose, and a light spray of freckles across her cheeks.

“Forgive us, Lady Rohanne.” The speaker was a pretty young lord with the Caswell centaur embroidered on his doublet. “This great oaf took the Lady Helicent for you.”

Dunk looked from one lady to the other. “You are the Red Widow?” he heard himself blurt out. “But you’re too—”

“Young?” The girl tossed her longbow to the lanky lad he’d seen her shooting with. “I am five-and-twenty, as it happens. Or was it small you meant to say?”

“—pretty. It was pretty.” Dunk did not know where that came from, but he was glad it came. He liked her nose, and the strawberry-blond color of her hair, and the small but well-shaped breasts beneath her leather jerkin. “I thought that you’d be…I mean…they said you were four times a widow, so…”

(...)

“I…I am sorry for all your losses, m’lady.” A gallantry, you lunk, give her a gallantry. “I want to say…your gown…”

“Gown?” She glanced down at her boots and breeches, loose linen tunic and leather jerkin. “I wear no gown.”

“Your hair, I meant…it’s soft and…”

“And how would you know that, ser? If you had ever touched my hair, I should think that I might remember.”

“Not soft,” Dunk said miserably. “Red, I meant to say. Your hair is very red.”

“Very red, ser? Oh, not as red as your face, I hope.” She laughed, and the onlookers laughed with her.

All but Ser Lucas Longinch. “My lady,” he broke in, “this man is one of Standfast’s sellswords. He was with Bennis of the Brown Shield when he attacked your diggers at the dam and carved up Wolmer’s face. Old Osgrey sent him to treat with you.”

“He did, m’lady. I am called Ser Duncan the Tall.”

(...)

“Ser Duncan, I should not have teased you in the yard, when you were trying so hard to be gracious. It was only that you blushed so red…was there no girl to tease you, in the village where you grew so tall?”

—The Sworn Sword

As you can see, Rohanne and Ygritte share a lot of similarities:

Rohanne was red haired, like Ygritte. Dunk and Jon liked their red hair.

Rohanne was small, like Ygritte.

Dunk confused Rohanne with her auburn haired good sister lady Helicent Uffering, like Jon confused Ygritte with a man. Point aside, Lady Helicent having auburn hair and wearing a silver hairnet makes me think of Sansa Stark. Also I have to laugh at the comment about Dunk wanting to bed Lady Helicent... This is too much George.

It seems that Rohanne was good with bow and arrow, like Ygritte.

Rohanne wasn’t wearing a gown but breeches, like Ygritte.

Rohanne was older, bolder and teased Dunk a lot, like Ygritte was to Jon.

Rohanne openly flirted with Dunk, like Ygritte did with Jon.

Dunk was sexually attracted to Rohanne, the same way Jon was sexually attracted to Ygritte.

Rohanne and Ygritte weren’t maids, while Dunk and Jon were virgins when they met both women.

Later Dunk will have sex dreams with Rohanne, like Jon’s dreams with Ygritte.

In his dreams, Rohanne shoots arrows at Dunk, like Ygritte did to Jon.

Lucas Inchfield, almost as tall as Dunk, was jealous of him regarding Rohanne’s attentions. The same way, Orell, a warg like Jon, was jealous of him because he fancied Ygritte.

Later, a mentor figure will suggest Dunk to kill Rohanne, in a similar way that Qhorin Halfhand suggested Jon to kill Ygritte. Dunk and Jon have the same doubts about killing a woman.

Rohanne share some of the violence impulses and inclinations that Ygritte had. These details also links Rohanne with another women in Jon’s arc like Val, and eventually Daenerys. More about this later.

Dunk killed Lucas Inchfield, the same way Jon killed Orell.

The sexual tension between Dunk and Rohanne was instantly, both find each other attractive; in contrast, Jon finds Ygritte unattractive, but only at first...

The Red Widow looked Dunk over from his heels up to his head though her gaze lingered longest on his chest. “A tree and shooting star. I have never seen those arms before.” She touched his tunic, tracing a limb of his elm tree with two fingers. “And painted, not sewn. The Dornish paint their silks, I’ve heard, but you look too big to be a Dornishman.”

“Not all Dornishmen are small, m’lady.” Dunk could feel her fingers through the silk. Her hand was freckled too. I’ll bet she’s freckled all over. His mouth was oddly dry. “I spent a year in Dorne.”

“Do all the oaks grow so tall there?” she said, as her fingers traced a tree limb round his heart.

“It’s meant to be an elm, m’lady.”

“I shall remember.” She drew her hand back, solemn. “The ward is too hot and dusty for a conversation. Septon, show Ser Duncan to my audience chamber.”

“It would be my great pleasure, good-sister.”

“Our guest will have a thirst. You may send for a flagon of wine as well.”

(...)

“M’lady,” Dunk called after her. “My squire was made to wait by the gates. Might he join us as well?”

“Your squire?” When she smiled, she looked a girl of five-and-ten, not a woman five-and-twenty. A pretty girl full of mischief and laughter. “If it please you, certainly.”

(...)

She smiled a smile that made him wish that she was plainer.

(...)

She was distracting him, with her snub nose and her freckles.

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

Ygritte watched and said nothing. She was older than he'd thought at first, Jon realized; maybe as old as twenty, but short for her age, bandy-legged, with a round face, small hands, and a pug nose. Her shaggy mop of red hair stuck out in all directions.

—A Clash of Kings - Jon VI

The wildlings seemed to think Ygritte a great beauty because of her hair; red hair was rare among the free folk, and those who had it were said to be kissed by fire, which was supposed to be lucky. Lucky it might be, and red it certainly was, but Ygritte's hair was such a tangle that Jon was tempted to ask her if she only brushed it at the changing of the seasons.

At a lord's court the girl would never have been considered anything but common, he knew. She had a round peasant face, a pug nose, and slightly crooked teeth, and her eyes were too far apart. Jon had noticed all that the first time he'd seen her, when his dirk had been at her throat. Lately, though, he was noticing some other things. When she grinned, the crooked teeth didn't seem to matter. And maybe her eyes were too far apart, but they were a pretty blue-grey color, and lively as any eyes he knew. Sometimes she sang in a low husky voice that stirred him. And sometimes by the cookfire when she sat hugging her knees with the flames waking echoes in her red hair, and looked at him, just smiling . . . well, that stirred some things as well.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon II

A Suitor / A Husband

Despite Dunk being no Lord, there is a lot of talking about him being a suitor of Lady Rohanne. The same way the freefolk just assumed that Jon stole [married] Ygritte

Dunk snorted. “She has no need to poison me,” he whispered back. “She thinks I’m some great lout with pease porridge between his ears.”

“As it happens, my good-sister likes pease porridge,” said Septon Sefton, as he reappeared with a flagon of wine, a flagon of water, and three cups. “Yes, yes, I heard. I’m fat, not deaf.”

(...)

“She does like pease porridge,” the septon said, “and you as well, ser. I know my own good-sister. When I first saw you in the yard, I half hoped you were some suitor, come from King’s Landing to seek my lady’s hand.”

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

And when the Thief was in the Moonmaid, that was a propitious time for a man to steal a woman, Ygritte insisted. "Like the night you stole me. The Thief was bright that night."

"I never meant to steal you," he said. "I never knew you were a girl until my knife was at your throat."

"If you kill a man, and never mean t', he's just as dead," Ygritte said stubbornly.

(...)

"Craster's more your kind than ours. His father was a crow who stole a woman out of Whitetree village, but after he had her he flew back t' his Wall. She went t' Castle Black once t' show the crow his son, but the brothers blew their horns and run her off. Craster's blood is black, and he bears a heavy curse." She ran her fingers lightly across his stomach. "I feared you'd do the same once. Fly back to the Wall. You never knew what t' do after you stole me."

Jon sat up. "Ygritte, I never stole you."

"Aye, you did. You jumped down the mountain and killed Orell, and afore I could get my axe you had a knife at my throat. I thought you'd have me then, or kill me, or maybe both, but you never did. And when I told you the tale o' Bael the Bard and how he plucked the rose o' Winterfell, I thought you'd know to pluck me then for certain, but you didn't. You know nothing, Jon Snow." She gave him a shy smile. "You might be learning some, though."

—A Storm of Swords - Jon III

A Lady’s claim

Rohanne’s claim is coveted by many suitors

“And yet she must wed again, and soon.”

“Must?” said Dunk.

“Her lord father’s will demands it. Lord Wyman wanted grandsons to carry on his line. When he sickened he tried to wed her to the Longinch, so he might die knowing that she had a strong man to protect her, but Rohanne refused to have him. His lordship took his vengeance in his will. If she remains unwed on the second anniversary of her father’s passing, Coldmoat and its lands pass to his cousin Wendell.

(...)

Lord Rowan has upheld the will, so her ladyship has only till the next new moon.”

“Why has she waited so long?” Dunk wondered aloud.

The septon shrugged. “If truth be told, there has been a dearth of suitors. My good-sister is not hard to look upon, you will have noticed, and a stout castle and broad lands add to her charms. You would think that younger sons and landless knights would swarm about her ladyship like flies. You would be wrong. The four dead husbands make them wary, and there are those who will say that she is barren too… though never in her hearing unless they yearn to see the inside of a crow cage. She has carried two children to term, a boy and a girl, but neither lived to see a name day. Those few who are not put off by talk of poisonings and sorcery want no part of the Longinch. Lord Wyman charged him on his deathbed to protect his daughter from unworthy suitors, which he has taken to mean all suitors. Any man who means to have her hand would need to face his sword first.” He finished his wine and set the cup aside. “That is not to say there has been no one. Cleyton Caswell and Simon Leygood have been the most persistent, though they seem more interested in her lands than in her person. Were I given to wagering, I should place my gold on Gerold Lannister. He has yet to put in an appearance, but they say he is golden-haired and quick of wit, and more than six feet tall…”

“…and Lady Webber is much taken with his letters.”

(...)

“My first husband perished on the Redgrass Field. My father found me others, but the Stranger took them too. I no longer trust in men, no matter how ample they may seem. I trust in stone and steel and water. I trust in moats, ser, and mine will not go dry.”

(...)

She gave him back the ring. “I cannot return to Coldmoat empty-handed. They will say the Red Widow has lost her bite, that she was too weak to do justice, that she could not protect her smallfolk. You do not understand, ser.”

“I might.” Better than you know. “I remember once some little lord in the stormlands took Ser Arlan into service, to help him fight some other little lord. When I asked the old man what they were fighting over, he said, ‘Nothing, lad. It’s just some pissing contest.’ ”

Lady Rohanne gave him a shocked look but could sustain it no more than half a heartbeat before it turned into a grin. “I have heard a thousand empty courtesies in my time, but you are the first knight who ever said pissing in my presence.” Her freckled face went somber. “Those pissing contests are how lords judge one another’s strength, and woe to any man who shows his weakness. A woman must needs piss twice as hard, if she hopes to rule. And if that woman should happen to be small… Lord Stackhouse covets my Horseshoe Hills, Ser Clifford Conklyn has an old claim to Leafy Lake, those dismal Durwells live by stealing cattle… and beneath mine own roof I have the Longinch. Every day I wake wondering if this might be the day he marries me by force.” Her hand curled tight around her braid, as hard as if it were a rope, and she was dangling over a precipice. “He wants to, I know. He holds back for fear of my wroth, just as Conklyn and Stackhouse and the Durwells tread carefully where the Red Widow is concerned. If any of them thought for a moment that I had turned weak and soft…”

(...)

Ser Lucas Inchfield looked at Lady Rohanne, his face dark with fury. “You will marry me when this mummer’s farce is done. As your lord father wished.”

“My lord father never knew you as I do,” she gave back.”

—The Sworn Sword

And as you can see, Rohanne Webber and Sansa Stark also share a lot of similarities:

Rohanne and Sansa are red haired.

Rohanne and Sansa have a “wicked” reputation.

Rohanne and Sansa are ladies with a claim to their paternal lands and rights.

Rohanne’s and Sansa’s succession rights has been put in a difficult position in their father’s and older brother’s will, respectively.

Rohanne and Sansa have a long list of suitors that covet their claims.

Rohanne and Sansa have suffered forced marriages.

Rohanne and Sansa have become disillusioned with men.

Rohanne asked Dunk to swear his sword to her, but he rejected the offer. Brienne, Dunk’s descendant, has already sworn her sword (made of Ice) to Sansa Stark.

Jaime Lannister, Rohanne’s descendant has also sworn a vow for Sansa Stark: “Sansa Stark is my last chance for honor.” [A Storm of Swords - Jaime IX]

Later, Rohanne married Gerold Lannister and became Lady Lannister of Casterly Rock, she was the mother of Tytos Lannister and grandmother of Tywin Lannister. Sansa was betrothed with Tywin Lannister’s grandson Joffrey, and later married Tywin Lannister’s son, Tyrion Lannister. Point aside, Stannis Baratheon tried to convince Jon to accept his Winterfell offer, calling Sansa, Lady Lannister.

Rohanne physically hurt Dunk / Ygritte physically hurt Jon

Lady Rohanne’s face was stone. “Come closer.”

He did not know what else to do, but to obey. The dais added a good foot to her height, yet even so Dunk towered over her. “Kneel,” she said. He did.

The slap she gave him had all her strength behind it, and she was stronger than she looked. His cheek burned, and he could taste blood in his mouth from a broken lip, but she hadn’t truly hurt him. For a moment all Dunk could think of was grabbing her by that long red braid and pulling her across his lap to slap her arse, as you would a spoiled child. If I do, she’ll scream, though, and twenty knights will come bursting in to kill me.

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

He lay on the ground afterward, clutching his prize and bleeding quietly, too weak to move. After a while, he realized that if he did not make himself move he was like to bleed to death. Jon crawled to the shallow stream where the mare was drinking, washed his thigh in the cold water, and bound it tight with a strip of cloth torn from his cloak. He washed the arrow too, turning it in his hands. Was the fletching grey, or white? Ygritte fletched her arrows with pale grey goose feathers. Did she loose a shaft at me as I fled? Jon could not blame her for that. He wondered if she'd been aiming for him or the horse. If the mare had gone down, he would have been doomed. "A lucky thing my leg got in the way," he muttered.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon V

Bastards

"The old High Septon told my father that king's laws are one thing, and the laws of the gods another," the boy said stubbornly. "Trueborn children are made in a marriage bed and blessed by the Father and the Mother, but bastards are born of lust and weakness, he said. King Aegon decreed that his bastards were not bastards, but he could not change their nature. The High Septon said all bastards are born to betrayal . . . Daemon Blackfyre, Bittersteel, even Bloodraven. Lord Rivers was more cunning than the other two, he said, but in the end he would prove himself a traitor, too. The High Septon counseled my father never to put any trust in him, nor in any other bastards, great or small."

Born to betrayal, Dunk thought. Born of lust and weakness. Never to be trusted, great or small. "Egg," he said, "didn't you ever think that I might be a bastard?"

"You, ser?" That took the boy aback. "You are not."

"I might be. I never knew my mother, or what became of her. Maybe I was born too big and killed her. Most like she was some whore or tavern girl. You don't find highborn ladies down in Flea Bottom. And if she ever wed my father . . . well, what became of him, then?" Dunk did not like to be reminded of his life before Ser Arlan found him. "There was a pot shop in King's Landing where I used to sell them rats and cats and pigeons for the brown. The cook always claimed my father was some thief or cutpurse. 'Most like I saw him hanged,' he used to tell me, 'but maybe they just sent him to the Wall.' When I was squiring for Ser Arlan, I would ask him if we couldn't go up that way someday, to take service at Winterfell or some other northern castle. I had this notion that if I could only reach the Wall, might be I'd come on some old man, a real tall man who looked like me. We never went, though. Ser Arlan said there were no hedges in the north, and all the woods were full of wolves." He shook his head. "The long and short of it is, most like you're squiring for a bastard."

For once Egg had nothing to say.

—The Sworn Sword

I’ve never knew my mother?

Maybe I killed my mother at birth?

After reading this passage it’s impossible not to think about Jon Snow. The parallels here don’t need major explanation...

The Ice Dragon

There were stars in the sky as well, more stars than any man could ever hope to count, even if he lived to be as old as King Jaehaerys. Dunk need only lift his eyes to find familiar friends: the Stallion and the Sow, the King’s Crown and the Crone’s Lantern, the Galley, Ghost, and Moonmaid. But there were clouds to the north, and the blue eye of the Ice Dragon was lost to him, the blue eye that pointed north.

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

So many stars, he thought as he trudged up the slope through pines and firs and ash. Maester Luwin had taught him his stars as a boy in Winterfell; he had learned the names of the twelve houses of heaven and the rulers of each; he could find the seven wanderers sacred to the Faith; he was old friends with the Ice Dragon, the Shadowcat, the Moonmaid, and the Sword of the Morning. All those he shared with Ygritte, but not some of the others. We look up at the same stars, and see such different things. The King's Crown was the Cradle, to hear her tell it; the Stallion was the Horned Lord; the red wanderer that septons preached was sacred to their Smith up here was called the Thief.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon III

Thunder rumbled softly in the distance, but above him the clouds were breaking up. Jon searched the sky until he found the Ice Dragon, then turned the mare north for the Wall and Castle Black.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon V

Rohanne was called a whore / Ygritte was called a whore

Osgrey’s eyes grew narrow. “Did that woman offer to take you into service? Are you leaving me for that whore’s bed?”

“I don’t know that she is a whore,” Dunk said, “or a witch or a poisoner or none of that. But whatever she may be makes no matter. We’re leaving for the hedges, not for Coldmoat.”

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

"I suppose it was also the Halfhand who commanded you to fuck this unwashed whore?" Ser Alliser asked with a smirk.

"Ser. She was no whore, ser. The Halfhand told me not to balk, whatever the wildlings asked of me, but . . . I will not deny that I went beyond what I had to do, that I . . . cared for her."

"You admit to being an oathbreaker, then," said Janos Slynt.

Half the men at Castle Black visited Mole's Town from time to time to dig for buried treasures in the brothel, Jon knew, but he would not dishonor Ygritte by equating her with the Mole's Town whores. "I broke my vows with a woman. I admit that. Yes."

—A Storm of Swords - Jon IX

Rohanne Vs Tanselle

Dunk has an internal debate between his platonic and romantic feelings for Tanselle and his sexual desires for Rohanne

And she was there as well, the Red Widow, Rohanne of the Coldmoat. He could see her freckled face, her slender arms, her long red braid. It made him feel guilty. I should be dreaming of Tanselle. Tanselle Too-Tall, they called her, but she was not too tall for me. She had painted arms upon his shield and he had saved her from the Bright Prince, but she vanished even before the trial of seven. She could not bear to see me die, Dunk often told himself, but what did he know? He was as thick as a castle wall. Just thinking of the Red Widow was proof enough of that. Tanselle smiled at me, but we never held each other, never kissed, not even lips to cheek. Rohanne at least had touched him; he had the swollen lip to prove it. Don’t be daft. She’s not for the likes of you. She is too small, too clever, and much too dangerous.”

—The Sworn Sword

This internal debate is somehow similar to Jon Snow, due his bastard status, repressing his deep and true wishes to love and be loved by a highborn lady, and settle himself with his own notion of a warrior woman, or to be more precisely, a woman from a warrior culture, or simply, not a lady.

Sex Dreams

Drowsing at long last, Dunk dreamed. He was running through a glade in the heart of Wat’s Wood, running toward Rohanne, and she was shooting arrows at him. Each shaft she loosed flew true, and pierced him through the chest, yet the pain was strangely sweet. He should have turned and fled, but he ran toward her instead, running slowly as you always did in dreams, as if the very air had turned to honey. Another arrow came, and yet another. Her quiver seemed to have no end of shafts. Her eyes were grey and green and full of mischief. Your gown brings out the color of your eyes, he meant to say to her, but she was not wearing any gown, or any clothes at all. Across her small breasts was a faint spray of freckles, and her nipples were red and hard as little berries. The arrows made him look like some great porcupine as he went stumbling to her feet, but somehow he still found the strength to grab her braid. With one hard yank he pulled her down on top of him and kissed her.

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

If I could show her Winterfell . . . give her a flower from the glass gardens, feast her in the Great Hall, and show her the stone kings on their thrones. We could bathe in the hot pools, and love beneath the heart tree while the old gods watched over us.

The dream was sweet . . . but Winterfell would never be his to show. It belonged to his brother, the King in the North. He was a Snow, not a Stark. Bastard, oathbreaker, and turncloak . . .

—A Storm of Swords - Jon V

When the dreams took him, he found himself back home once more, splashing in the hot pools beneath a huge white weirwood that had his father's face. Ygritte was with him, laughing at him, shedding her skins till she was naked as her name day, trying to kiss him, but he couldn't, not with his father watching.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI

Killing a woman

Dunk faced the possibility to kill Rohanne / Jon faced the possibility to kill Ygritte

“Ser Duncan, do you remember the story that I told you?”

“I might, ser,” said Dunk. “Which one?”

“The Little Lion.

“I remember. He was the youngest of five sons.”

“Good.” He coughed again. “When he slew Lancel Lannister, the westermen turned back. Without the king there was no war. Do you understand what I am saying?”

“Aye,” Dunk said reluctantly. Could I kill a woman? For once Dunk wished he were as thick as that castle wall. It must not come to that. I must not let it come to that.

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sleeper stirring, and knew he must finish his man quick. When the brand swung again, he bulled into it, swinging the bastard sword with both hands. The Valyrian steel sheared through leather, fur, wool, and flesh, but when the wildling fell he twisted, ripping the sword from Jon's grasp. On the ground the sleeper sat up beneath his furs. Jon slid his dirk free, grabbing the man by the hair and jamming the point of the knife up under his chin as he reached for his—no, her—

His hand froze. "A girl."

"A watcher," said Stonesnake. "A wildling. Finish her."

Jon could see fear and fire in her eyes. Blood ran down her white throat from where the point of his dirk had pricked her. One thrust and it's done, he told himself. He was so close he could smell onion on her breath. She is no older than I am. Something about her made him think of Arya, though they looked nothing at all alike. "Will you yield?" he asked, giving the dirk a half turn. And if she doesn't?

"I yield." Her words steamed in the cold air.

"You're our captive, then." He pulled the dirk away from the soft skin of her throat.

—A Clash of Kings - Jon VI

Killing a Royal Child

Rohanne told Dunk about the possibility to kill Egg, despite knowing he was a Targaryen Prince / Val told Jon about the possibility of killing Princess Shireen

“Lady Rohanne’s fingers closed around it. She glanced at Egg and old Ser Eustace. “You took a great risk in showing me this ring, ser. But how does it avail us? If I should command my men to cross…” “Well,” said Dunk, “that would mean I’d have to fight.” “And die.” “Most like,” he said, “and Egg would go back where he comes from, and tell what happened here.” “Not if he died as well.” “I don’t think you’d kill a boy of ten,” he said, hoping he was right. “Not this boy of ten, you wouldn’t.”

—The Sworn Sword

* * *

Once outside and well away from the queen’s men, Val gave vent to her wroth. “You lied about her beard. That one has more hair on her chin than I have between my legs. And the daughter … her face …”

“Greyscale.”

“The grey death is what we call it.”

“It is not always mortal in children.”

“North of the Wall it is. Hemlock is a sure cure, but a pillow or a blade will work as well. If I had given birth to that poor child, I would have given her the gift of mercy long ago.”

This was a Val that Jon had never seen before. “Princess Shireen is the queen’s only child.”

“I pity both of them. The child is not clean.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon XI

Another similarity between Rohanne and Val is their braided hair. Like Rohanne, Val sometimes is described to have “reddish” hair and she also wears it in a long braid.

The Wall

“Where will you go?” The septon was panting heavily. Even with Dunk on a crutch, he was too fat to match his pace.

“Fair Isle. Harrenhal. The Trident. There are hedges everywhere.” He shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to see the Wall.”

(...)

“Which way is south?” he asked Egg. It was hard to know, when the world was all rain and mud and the sky was grey as a granite wall.

“That’s south, ser.” Egg pointed. “That’s north.”

“Summerhall is south. Your father.”

“The Wall is north.”

Dunk looked at him. “That’s a long way to ride.”

“I have a new horse, ser.”

“So you do.” Dunk had to smile. “And why would you want to see the Wall?”

“Well,” said Egg, “I hear it’s tall.”

—The Sworn Sword

Once again the Wall is mentioned as a place Dunk always wanted to see. Maybe in hope to find his long lost unknown very tall father there, or maybe because he wants his adventure to never ends...

Fire and Blood

Curiously enough, we can find similarities between Rohanne and certain mother of dragons...

“Osgrey can keep his silver. Only blood can pay for blood.”

(...)

“It is Bennis I want, and Bennis I shall have.”

(...)

“...and she breeds the finest horses in the Reach. We have a dozen mares about to foal.”

(...)

Go, or I will find a sack large enough for you if I have to sew one up myself. Tell Ser Eustace to bring me Bennis of the Brown Shield by the morrow, else I will come for him myself with fire and sword. Do you understand me? Fire and sword!

(...)

She was a blood bay with a bright eye and a long, fiery mane. Lady Rohanne took a carrot from her sleeve and stroked her head as she took it. “The carrot, not the fingers,” she told the horse, before she turned again to Dunk. “I call her Flame, but you may name her as you please. Call her Amends, if you like.”

For a moment he was speechless. He leaned on the crutch and looked at the blood bay with new eyes. She was magnificent. A better mount than any the old man had ever owned. You had only to look at those long, clean limbs to see how swift she’d be.

“I bred her for beauty and for speed.”

—The Sworn Sword

As you can see we can find Targaryen and Dothraki references in Rohanne Webber. Who woulda thought?

Like a certain Mother of Dragons, Rohanne is determined to get what she wants, even if it has to be under threat of “Fire and Sword”.

Like a certain Khaleesi with a horse called “Silver” for the resemblance of her own hair, Rohanne had a horse called “Flame” for the resemblance of her own fiery hair. There is also the issue with Rohanne’s long braid, like the Khal’s braids that remain untouched until they are defeated.

Dunk cut Rohanne’s long braid with his dagger tho...

Something To Remember Me By

Rohanne presented Dunk a fine horse as a farewell gift, but Dunk rejected the horse and TOOK something else that wasn’t offered...

He did not see her till the day they took their leave.

(...)

“She was waiting for him inside the stables, standing by the yellow bales of hay in a gown as green as summer. “Ser Duncan,” she said when he came pushing through the door. Her red braid hung down in front, the end of it brushing against her thighs. “It is good to see you on your feet.”

You never saw me on my back, he thought. “M’lady. What brings you to the stables? It’s a wet day for a ride.”

“I might say the same to you.”

“Egg told you?” I owe him another clout in the ear.

“Be glad he did, or I would have sent men after you to drag you back. It was cruel of you to try to steal away without so much as a farewell.”

She had never come to see him while he was in Maester Cerrick’s care, not once. “That green becomes you well, m’lady,” he said. “It brings out the color of your eyes.” He shifted his weight awkwardly on the crutch. “I’m here for my horse.”

“You do not need to go. There is a place for you here, when you’re recovered. Captain of my guards. And Egg can join “my other squires. No one need ever know who he is.”

“Thank you, m’lady, but no.” Thunder was in a stall a dozen places down. Dunk hobbled toward him.

“Please reconsider, ser. These are perilous times, even for dragons and their friends. Stay until you’ve healed.” She walked along beside him. “It would please Lord Eustace too. He is very fond of you.”

“Very fond,” Dunk agreed. “If his daughter wasn’t dead, he’d want me to marry her. Then you could be my lady mother. I never had a mother, much less a lady mother.”

For half a heartbeat Lady Rohanne looked as though she was going to slap him again. Maybe she’ll just kick my crutch away.

“You are angry with me, ser,” she said instead. “You must let me make amends.”

“Well,” he said, “you could help me saddle Thunder.”

“I had something else in mind.” She reached out her hand for his, a freckled hand, her fingers strong and slender. I’ll bet she’s freckled all over. “How well do you know horses?”

“I ride one.”

“An old destrier bred for battle, slow-footed and ill-tempered. Not a horse to ride from place to place.”

“If I need to get from place to place, it’s him or these.” Dunk pointed at his feet.

“You have large feet,” she observed. “Large hands as well. I think you must be large all over. Too large for most palfreys. They’d look like ponies with you perched upon their backs. Still, a swifter mount would serve you well. A big courser, with some Dornish sand steed for endurance.” She pointed to the stall across from Thunder’s. “A horse like her.”

“I bred her for beauty and for speed.”

He turned back to Thunder. “I cannot take her.”

“Why not?”

“She is too good a horse for me. Just look at her.”

A flush crept up Rohanne’s face. She clutched her braid, twisting it between her fingers. “I had to marry, you know that. My father’s will…oh, don’t be such a fool.”

“What else should I be? I’m thick as a castle wall and bastard-born as well.”

“Take the horse. I refuse to let you go without something to remember me by.”

“I will remember you, m’lady. Have no fear of that.”

“Take her!”

Dunk grabbed her braid and pulled her face to his. It was awkward with the crutch and the difference in their heights. He almost fell before he got his lips on hers. He kissed her hard. One of her hands went round his neck, and one around his chest. He learned more about kissing in a moment than he had ever known from watching. But when they finally broke apart, he drew his dagger. “I know what I want to remember you by, m’lady.”

Egg was waiting for him at the gatehouse, mounted on a handsome new sorrel palfrey and holding Maester’s lead. When Dunk trotted up to them on Thunder, the boy looked surprised. “She said she wanted to give you a new horse, ser.”

“Even highborn ladies don’t get all they want,” Dunk said, as they rode out across the drawbridge. “It wasn’t a horse I wanted.” The moat was so high it was threatening to overflow its banks. “I took something else to remember her by instead. A lock of that red hair.” He reached under his cloak, brought out the braid, and smiled.

—The Sworn Sword

OMG I have so many things to say about Dunk and Rohanne Farewell... I will make a summary, if not, this would be too long, and this post is already too long...

This passage is full of innuendos:

She reached out her hand for his, a freckled hand, her fingers strong and slender. I’ll bet she’s freckled all over.

“You have large feet,” she observed. “Large hands as well. I think you must be large all over.

¡¡¡SEVEN GODS!!!

Dunk resented Rohanne for marrying Ser Eustace Osgrey, despite knowing she did it to keep her claim. Despite knowing a marriage between them was impossible.

Dunk called himself a bastard and a fool. Florian the Fool you say?

Rohanne offered Dunk a Dornish sand steed, telling him it would be a better mount for him. Tanselle was also Dornish. But Dunk rejected the horse anyway.

Dunk kissing Rohanne and then cutting her long braid with his dagger is giving me a lot of Jon killing his aunt vibes...

But the fact that Dunk rejected Rohanne’s original gift and took what he wanted instead, also gives me heavy non con vibes and I hate it, I really hate it. Cutting a woman’s hair without her consent, is not romantic, less if said braid was something Rohanne was clearly proud of and was always touching it as a way of reassurance. I really don’t get George’s morbid fascination with non con undertones all over his ASOIAF works...

* * *

THE MYSTERY KNIGHT

This tale is full of dragons, red dragons, black dragons, albino dragons, disguised dragons, hidden dragons, dragon eggs and hatching dragons.

A New Tree on a Shield

I think this little detail foreshadows Jon’s death...

Dunk had beggar’s blood himself…or so they used to tell him back in Flea Bottom, when they weren’t telling him that he was sure to hang.

(...)

Dunk unslung his shield and slipped it onto his arm. It was an old thing, tall and heavy, kite-shaped, made of pine and rimmed with iron.

He had bought it in Stoney Sept to replace the one the Longinch had hacked to splinters when they fought. Dunk had not had time to have it painted with his elm and shooting star, so it still bore the arms of its last owner: a hanged man swinging grim and grey beneath a gallows tree. It was not a sigil that he would have chosen for himself, but the shield had come cheap.

(...)

“I am a hedge knight, seeking service.”

“Every robber knight I’ve ever hanged has said the same. Your device may be prophetic, ser…if ser you are. A gallows and a hanged man. These are your arms?”

“No, m’lord. I need to have the shield repainted.”

“Why? Did you rob it off a corpse?”

“I bought it, for good coin.” Three castles, black on orange…where have I seen those before? “I am no robber.”

(...)

“Enter me as the Gallows Knight.” The smallfolk loved it when a mystery knight appeared at a tourney.

Egg fingered his fat lip. “The Gallows Knight, ser?”

“For the shield.”

“Yes, but…

“Go do as I said. You have read enough for one night.” Dunk pinched the candle out between his thumb and forefinger.”

(...)

“My shield,” Dunk said to Egg. The boy handed it up. He slipped his left arm through the strap and closed his hand around the grip. The weight of the kite shield was reassuring though its length made it awkward to handle, and seeing the hanged man once again gave him an uneasy feeling. Those are ill-omened arms. He resolved to get the shield repainted as soon as he could. May the Warrior grant me a smooth course and a quick victory, he prayed, as Butterwell’s herald was clambering up the steps once more. “Ser Uthor Underleaf,” his voice rang out. “The Gallows Knight. Come forth and prove your valor.”

(...)

“Would you rather die with honor intact or live with it besmirched? No, spare me, I know what you will say. Take your boy and flee, gallows knight. Before your arms become your destiny.”

—The Mystery Knight

Dunk’s Elm and Shooting Stark Shield was destroyed so he buys a new one with a hanged man swinging grim and grey beneath a gallows tree.

Hanging is the stablished punishment in the Night’s Watch, that’s why in the first draft of Jon’s Chapter in ADWD, GRRM wrote Jon commanding his men to hang Janos Slynt as punishment for disobedience.

And in certain way, Dunk will be dead in this tale, but just for a little while. In fact, Dunk is about to die three times during this tale.

Jon’s death by the hidden daggers is also foreshadowed in the books by Melisandre’s visions and one of Littlefinger’s lessons to Sansa. But there are also prophecies about him coming back to life, and in this tale a dragon’s birth is prophesied.

Egg revealing his Targaryen identity could also foreshadows Jon knowing the truth about his origins and Targaryen lineage after coming back to life.

A Bastard Prince in Disguise

Dunk and Egg meet Daemon II Blackfyre in disguise as Ser John the Fiddler

...a young man lean and lithe, with a comely clean-shaven face and fine features. Black hair fell shining to his collar. His doublet was made of dark blue silk edged in gold satin. Across his chest an engrailed cross had been embroidered in gold thread, with a golden fiddle in the first and third quarters, a golden sword in the second and the fourth. His eyes caught the deep blue of his doublet and sparkled with amusement.

(...)

“I am a vagabond hedge knight like yourself. Ser John the Fiddler, I am called.”

That was the sort of name a hedge knight might choose, but Dunk had never seen any hedge knight garbed or armed or mounted in such splendor. The knight of the golden hedge, he thought. “You know my name. My squire is called Egg.”

—The Mystery Knight

Wait!

A bastard dragon in disguise?

With dark hair?

Called John?

Also the Fiddler?

Fiddles and Swords as his sigil?

Like a musician and a warrior? Somet like Florian the Fool? Someone like Rhaegar?

Ser John the Fiddler could also work as foreshadowing for Young Griff, the alleged Aegon VI Targaryen, Jon’s half-brother.

Like Young Griff dying his silver/golden hair blue, Daemon Blackfyre has silver/golden hair dyed black.

Like Young Griff having Jon Connington, a man in love with Rhaeger, by his side, Daemon Blackfyre has Alyn Cockshaw, a man in love with him, by his side.

Gormon Pyke

Dunk meets the man that killed Roger of Pennytree

Three castles, black on orange. “I remember now. Ser Arlan never liked to talk about the Redgrass Field, but once in his cups he told me how his sister’s son had died.” He could almost hear the old man’s voice again, smell the wine upon his breath. “Roger of Pennytree, that was his name. His head was smashed in by a mace wielded by a lord with three castles on his shield.” Lord Gormon Peake. The old man never knew his name. Or never wanted to.

—The Mystery Knight

Roger of Pennytree was Ser Arlan’s squire, he died at the Redgrass Field, that’s why Ser Arlan needed a new squire and took Dunk under his tutelage.

This encounter somehow reminds me of Jon meeting Donald Noye, the man that forged Robert Baratheon’s warhammer, the weapon that killed Rhaegar, Jon’s biological father.

Dunk and Egg meet three very interesting hedge knights... in a weirwood grove

Before long the trees opened up, and they found themselves in what must once have been a weirwood grove. Only a ring of white stumps and a tangle of bone-pale roots remained to show where the trees had stood, when the children of the forest ruled in Westeros.

(...)

“I am Ser Kyle, the Cat of Misty Moor. Under yonder chestnut sits Ser Glendon, ah, Ball. And here you have the good Ser Maynard Plumm.”

Egg’s ears pricked up at that name. “Plumm…are you kin to Lord Viserys Plumm, ser?”

“Distantly,” confessed Ser Maynard, a tall, thin, stoop-shouldered man with long, straight, flaxen hair, “though I doubt that his lordship would admit to it. One might say that he is of the sweet Plumms, whilst I am of the sour.” Plumm’s cloak was as purple as his name, though frayed about the edges and badly dyed. A moonstone brooch big as a hen’s egg fastened it at the shoulder. Elsewise he wore dun-colored roughspun and stained brown leather.

—The Mystery Knight

So many things to say about these three hedge knights.

First, Egg mentioned Lord Viserys Plumm because he was a Targaryen, son of Princess Elaena Targaryen.

Second, these three knights reminds me a lot of another trio of interesting hedge knights that we met in one of Alayne Stone’s chapters in AFFC:

Alayne laughed. "Are you louts?" she said, teasing. "Why, I took the three of you for gallant knights."

"Knights they are," said Petyr. "Their gallantry has yet to be demonstrated, but we may hope. Allow me to present Ser Byron, Ser Morgarth, and Ser Shadrich. Sers, the Lady Alayne, my natural and very clever daughter . . . with whom I must needs confer, if you will be so good as to excuse us."

The three knights bowed and withdrew, though the tall one with the blond hair kissed her hand before taking his leave.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

So we have these hedge knights in Dunk and Egg tales:

Ser Kyle, the Cat of Misty Moor, ginger whiskers.

Ser Glendon Ball (Glendon Flowers/the Knight of the Pussywillows), dark brown hair, bulbous nose.

Ser Maynard Plumm, flaxen hair.

And we have these hedge knights in ASOIAF:

Ser Byron the Beautiful, blonde hair.

Ser Morgarth the Merry, salt-and-pepper beard, a red, bulbous nose.

Shadrich of the Shady Glen also known as the Mad Mouse, orange hair.

Then we can associate them this way:

Ser Kyle, the Cat of Misty Moor / Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse of Shady Glen, both with similar names and red hair.

Ser Glendon Ball / Ser Morgarth the Merry, both with bulbous noses.

Ser Maynard Plumm / Ser Byron the Beautiful, both blondes and... under disguise?

Third, and this is a widely known theory, I’m convinced that Ser Maynard Plumm is Brynden Rivers aka Bloodraven in disguise, thanks to a glamor with the moonstone brooch big as a hen’s egg. That moonstone is working like Melissadre’s ruby at the wrist of Mance Ryder disguised as Rattleshirt (*).

(*) Here I have to mention the existence of two theories about Ser Byron the Beautiful. The first one says that Ser Byron the Beautiful is the Hound in disguise under glamor thanks to Rhaegar rubies. Yes this is an actual theory. The second theory is an addition to the first one, it says that Ser Byron the Beautiful is the Hound in disguise, using the face of Tyrek Lannister, under glamor thanks to Rhaegar rubies. Yes this is an actual theory as well.

Is Ser Byron someone else in disguise? I have no idea if the parallels will be 100% accurate and we will only know when the Winds of Winter come.

Dragon Eggs

The protagonists of this tale are eggs, a dragon egg and a dragon called Egg

“The dragon’s egg? Is that the champion’s prize? Truly?” The last dragon had perished half a century ago. Ser Arlan had once seen a clutch of her eggs, though. They were hard as stone, but beautiful to look upon, the old man had told Dunk. “How could Lord Butterwell come by a dragon’s egg?”

“King Aegon presented the egg to his father’s father after guesting for a night at his old castle,” said Ser Maynard Plumm.

“Was it a reward for some act of valor?” asked Dunk.

Ser Kyle chuckled. “Some might call it that. Supposedly old Lord Butterwell had three young maiden daughters when His Grace came calling. By morning, all three had royal bastards in their little bellies. A hot night’s work, that was.”

(...)

“Lord Butterwell will have the egg well guarded, I’m sure.” Dunk scratched the midge bites on his neck. “Do you think he might display it at the feast? I’d like to get a look at one.”

“I’d show you mine, ser, but it’s at Summerhall.”

“Yours? Your dragon’s egg?” Dunk frowned down at the boy, wondering if this was some jape. “Where did it come from?”

“From a dragon, ser. They put it in my cradle.”

“Do you want a clout in the ear? There are no dragons.”

“No, but there are eggs. The last dragon left a clutch of five, and they have more on Dragonstone, old ones from before the Dance. My brothers all have them too. Aerion’s looks as though it’s made of gold and silver, with veins of fire running through it. Mine is white and green, all swirly.”

“Your dragon’s egg.” They put it in his cradle. Dunk was so used to Egg that sometimes he forgot Aegon was a prince. Of course they’d put a dragon egg inside his cradle. “Well, see that you don’t go mentioning this egg where anyone is like to hear.”

“I’m not stupid, ser.” Egg lowered his voice. “Someday the dragons will return. My brother Daeron’s dreamed of it, and King Aerys read it in a prophecy. Maybe it will be my egg that hatches. That would be splendid.”

“Would it?” Dunk had his doubts.”

Not Egg. “Aemon and I used to pretend that our eggs would be the ones to hatch. If they did, we could fly through the sky on dragonback, like the first Aegon and his sisters.”

“Aye, and if all the other knights in the realm should die, I’d be the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. If these eggs are so bloody precious, why is Lord Butterwell giving his away?”

(...)

“Are we going to go to Whitewalls, ser?”

“Why not? I want to see this dragon’s egg.” Dunk smiled. “If I win the tourney, we’d both have dragon’s eggs.”

Egg gave him a doubtful look.

“What? Why are you looking at me that way?”

“I could tell you, ser,” the boy said solemnly, “but I need to learn to hold my tongue.”

—The Mystery Knight

If Dunk and Valarr represented Jon in the first tale, in this one, Jon is represented by Dunk and Glendon as bastards, Daemon as bastard/prince in disguise and our little Egg as a dragon coming to life / revealing his Targaryen identity.

Indeed, Egg will be the dragon egg that hatches in this tale, and later he will be King and Dunk will be his Kingsguard’s Lord Commander one day.

And the sad note is that both, Dunk and Egg, will died years later while trying to hatch dragon eggs. Be careful what you wish for...

Winterfell

Dunk frowned. “Egg and I have a long journey before us. We’re headed north to Winterfell. Lord Beron Stark is gathering swords to drive the krakens from his shores for good.”

—The Mystery Knight

Dun and Egg will be at Winterfell during the fourth tale, The She-Wolves of Winterfell, a tale that is supposed to explore House Stark Succession issues...

At some point, Dunk asked Ser Glendon Ball, another bastard, that joined them in their journey to Winterfell, an offer to start a new life in a land when they will be judge by their own worth and not by their social status and low origins.

Florian the Fool imagery

“The wine had colored Ser Glendon’s cheeks and inflamed his pimples. “Who are you, to make such boasts?”

“They call me John the Fiddler.”

“Are you a musician or a warrior?”

“I can make sweet song with either lance or resined bow, as it happens. Every wedding needs a singer, and every tourney needs a mystery knight.”

—The Mystery Knight

As I mentioned before, John the Fiddler sounds like some version of Florian the Fool, a musician and a knight/warrior. Ser Glendon Ball pointed out this detail.

Jon is surrounded by Florian the Fool imagery. From “You know nothing, Jon Snow” to all the singers linked with him like his biological father Rhaegar Targaryen, Mance Ryder and Bael the Bard.

Having a Thirst during a Feast

Both Dunk and Jon get hammered and think about girls...

Dunk remembers Tanselle and Rohanne and Jon thinks about insipid and stupid and blonde Princess Myrcella and his radiant half-sister Sansa...

Dunk had not intended to drink so much, with the jousting on the morrow, but the cups were filled anew after every toast, and he found he had a thirst. “Never refuse a cup of wine or a horn of ale,” Ser Arlan had once told him, “it may be a year before you see another.” It would have been discourteous not to toast the bride and groom, he told himself, and dangerous not to drink to the king and his Hand, with strangers all about.

(...)

The other hedge knights, fine fellows all, had begun to talk of women they had known. Dunk found himself wondering where Tanselle was tonight. He knew where Lady Rohanne was—abed at Coldmoat Castle, with old Ser Eustace beside her, snoring through his mustache—so he tried not to think of her. Do they ever think of me? he wondered.

(...)

He had another cup of hippocras, since the first had tasted good. Then he lay his head down atop his folded arms and closed his eyes just for a moment, to rest them from the smoke.When he opened them again, half the wedding guests were on their feet and shouting, “Bed them! Bed them!” They were making such an uproar that they woke Dunk from a pleasant dream involving Tanselle Too-Tall and the Red Widow. “Bed them! Bed them!” the calls rang out. Dunk sat up and rubbed his eyes.

—The Mystery Knight

* * *

And he was finding that he had a man's thirst, to the raucous delight of the youths around him, who urged him on every time he drained a glass. They were fine company, and Jon relished the stories they were telling, tales of battle and bedding and the hunt. He was certain that his companions were more entertaining than the king’s offspring.

(...)

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

A Bedding

Before Dunk quite realized what was happening, John the Fiddler had dragged him to his feet. “Here!” he cried out. “Let the giant carry her!”

The next thing he knew he was climbing a tower stair with the bride squirming in his arms.

(...)

Dunk had no notion where Lord Butterwell’s bedchamber was to be found, but the other men pushed and prodded him until he got there, by which time the bride was red-faced, giggling, and nearly naked, save for the stocking on her left leg, which had somehow survived the climb. Dunk was crimson too, and not from exertion.

His arousal would have been obvious if anyone had been looking, but fortunately all eyes were on the bride. Lady Butterwell looked nothing like Tanselle, but having the one squirming half-naked in his arms had started Dunk thinking about the other. Tanselle Too-Tall, that was her name, but she was not too tall for me. He wondered if he would ever find her again. There had been some nights when he thought he must have dreamed her. No, lunk, you only dreamed she liked you.

(...)

When Dunk finally plopped the bride onto her marriage bed, a dwarf leapt in beside her and seized one of her breasts for a bit of a fondle. The girl let out a squeal, the men roared with laughter, and Dunk seized the dwarf by his collar and hauled him kicking off m’lady. He was carrying the little man across the room to chuck him out the door when he saw the dragon’s egg.

(...)

Dunk dropped the dwarf and picked up the egg, just to feel it for a moment. It was heavier than he’d expected. You could smash a man’s head with this, and never crack the shell. The scales were smooth beneath his fingers, and the deep, rich red seemed to shimmer as he turned the egg in his hands. Blood and flame, he thought, but there were gold flecks in it as well, and whorls of midnight black.

—The Mystery Knight

A dwarf fondling the breast of a lady during her wedding night reminds me of Tyrion groping his child bride Sansa during their wedding night. So I would really like that one day someone seized Tyrion by his collar and hauled him liked Dunk did with that dwarf as punishment for his unwanted advances with Sansa.

Another Prophetic Dream

In Ashford, Dunk was involved in a prophetic dream with a dead dragon. In Whitewalls, Dunk was involved in a prophetic dream with a hatching dragon

He was feeling dizzy from the wine, so he leaned against a parapet. Am I going to be sick? Why did he go and touch the dragon’s egg? He remembered Tanselle’s puppet show, and the wooden dragon that had started all the trouble there at Ashford. The memory made Dunk feel guilty, as it always did. Three good men dead, to save a hedge knight’s foot. It made no sense, and never had. Take a lesson from that, lunk. It is not for the likes of you to mess about with dragons or their eggs.

“It almost looks as if it’s made of snow.”

Dunk turned. John the Fiddler stood behind him, smiling in his silk and cloth-of-gold. “What’s made of snow?”

“The castle. All that white stone in the moonlight. Have you ever been north of the Neck, Ser Duncan? I’m told it snows there even in the summer. Have you ever seen the Wall?”

“No, m’lord.” Why he is going on about the Wall? “That’s where we were going, Egg and me. Up north, to Winterfell.”

(...)

He gave Dunk an enigmatic smile. “I dreamed of you, Ser Duncan. Before I even met you. When I saw you on the road, I knew your face at once. It was as if we were old friends.”

Dunk had the strangest feeling then, as if he had lived this all before. I dreamed of you, he said. My dreams are not like yours, Ser Duncan. Mine are true. “You dreamed of me?” he said, in a voice made thick by wine. “What sort of dream?”

“Why,” the Fiddler said, “I dreamed that you were all in white from head to heel, with a long pale cloak flowing from those broad shoulders. You were a White Sword, ser, a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard, the greatest knight in all the Seven Kingdoms, and you lived for no other purpose but to guard and serve and please your king”. He put a hand on Dunk’s shoulder. “You have dreamed the same dream, I know you have.”

He had, it was true. The first time the old man let me hold his sword. “Every boy dreams of serving in the Kingsguard.”

“Only seven boys grow up to wear the white cloak, though. Would it please you to be one of them?”

“Me?” Dunk shrugged away the lordling’s hand, which had begun to knead his shoulder. “It might. Or not.” The knights of the Kingsguard served for life and swore to take no wife and hold no lands. I might find Tanselle again someday. Why shouldn’t I have a wife, and sons? “It makes no matter what I dream. Only a king can make a Kingsguard knight.”

“I suppose that means I’ll have to take the throne, then. I would much rather be teaching you to fiddle.”

(...)

“I hope you will put more faith in what I tell you when you see the dragon hatch.”

“A dragon will hatch? A living dragon? What, here?”

“I dreamed it. This pale white castle, you, a dragon bursting from an egg, I dreamed it all, just as I once dreamed of my brothers lying dead. They were twelve and I was only seven, so they laughed at me, and died. I am two-and-twenty now, and I trust my dreams.”

“Dunk was remembering another tourney, remembering how he had walked through the soft spring rains with another princeling. I dreamed of you and a dead dragon, Egg’s brother Daeron said to him. A great beast, huge, with wings so large they could cover this meadow. It had fallen on top of you, but you were alive and the dragon was dead. And so he was, poor Baelor. Dreams were a treacherous ground on which to build. “As you say, m’lord,” he told the Fiddler. “Pray excuse me.”

“Where are you going, ser?”

“To my bed, to sleep. I’m drunk as a dog.”

“Be my dog, ser. The night’s alive with promise. We can howl together and wake the very gods.”

“What do you want of me?”

“Your sword. I would make you mine own man, and raise you high. My dreams do not lie, Ser Duncan. You shall have that white cloak, and I must have the dragon’s egg. I must, my dreams have made that plain. Perhaps the egg will hatch, or else…”

—The Mystery Knight

Daemon’s dream was proven right since Egg hatched there in Whitewalls and years later Dunk became Lord Commander of Aegon V Targaryen’s Kingsguard.

But what if the dragon hatching in a castle made of snow was a dream for the long future as well as Dunk wearing the white cloak many years later?

That part of the dream could be foreshadowing Jon’ resurrection in a castle made of snow. That castle made of snow could be Winterfell? Maybe, but it also could be the Wall, since Daemon himself mentioned the Wall in this passage, the castle there is called Castle Black but it is certainly covered by snow.

This could also be foreshadowing of Jon’s true parentage revelation, as a Targaryen; and that could happen in Winterfell, that is a grey castle certainly, but also covered by snow.

Also, the white cloaks of the Kingsguards are often compared with snow and called snowy white.

I also read some theories about New Castle in White Harbor as the castle made of snow of Daemon’s dream.

Better with a Sword

Dunk watched a server fill his wine cup. “I am better with a sword than with a lance,” he admitted, “and even better with a battle-axe. Will there be a melee here?”

(...)

“You're better with a sword than with a lance,” Egg said. “With an axe or a mace, there's few to match your strength.”

(...)

“Ser Tommard, this man is the prince’s sworn shield. He’ll kill you!”

“Only if he falls on me.” Black Tom showed his teeth in a hard grin. “I saw him try to joust.”

“I am better with a sword,” Dunk warned him.

(...)

“Black Tom reeled back a step and stared down in horror at his forearm flopping on the floor beneath the Stranger’s altar. “You,” he gasped, “you, you…”

“I told you.” Dunk stabbed him through the throat. “I’m better with a sword.”

—The Mystery Knight

* * *

Jon swelled with pride. “Robb is a stronger lance than I am, but I'm the better sword, and Hullen says I sit a horse as well as anyone in the castle.”

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

Warg imagery once again...

A trumpet sounded.

Thunder started forward at a slow trot. Dunk swung his lance to the left and brought it down, so it angled across the horse's head and the wooden barrier between him and his foe. His shield protected the left side of his body. He crouched forward, legs tightening as Thunder drove down the lists. We are one. Man, horse, lance, we are one beast of blood and wood and iron.

—The Mystery Knight

This is a very interesting passage because Dunk lost that joust and he kind of died for a while (he got unconscious for hours). Dunk fell to the ground after his opponent lance struck him on the head. Later that said opponent, that was drinking with Dunk the night before during the feast, confessed to Dunk that he was paid for killing him.

This is very similar to Jon being killed by his own brothers at the Wall, being alive for a while inside of his direwolf Ghost, and his future resurrection.

Coming back to life

Dunk woke upon his back, staring up at the arches of a barrel-vaulted ceiling. For a moment he did not know where he was, or how he had arrived there. Voices echoed in his head, and faces drifted past him; old Ser Arlan, Tanselle Too-Tall, Bennis of the Brown Shield, the Red Widow, Baelor Breakspear, Aerion the Bright Prince, mad, sad Lady Vaith. Then all at once the joust came back to him: the heat, the snail, the iron fist coming at his face. He groaned, and rolled onto one elbow. The movement set his skull to pounding like some monstrous war drum.

(...)

“Tell me. What’s happened?”

“The same foolishness that always happens in these affrays. Men have been knocking each other off horses with sticks. Lord Smallwood’s nephew broke his wrist and Ser Eden Risley’s leg was crushed beneath his horse, but no one has been killed thus far. Though I had my fears for you, ser.”

(...)

“How long have you been tending me?” Dunk flexed the fingers of his sword hand. All of them still seemed to work. Only my head’s hurt, and Ser Arlan used to say I never used that anyway.

“Four hours, by the sundial.”

Four hours was not so bad. He had once heard tell of a knight struck so hard that he slept for forty years and woke to find himself old and withered. ”

(...)

“A passing groom told him where to find the nearest well. It was there that he discovered Kyle the Cat, talking quietly with Maynard Plumm. Ser Kyle’s shoulders were slumped in dejection, but he looked up at Dunk’s approach. “Ser Duncan? We had heard that you were dead, or dying.”

Dunk rubbed his temples. “I only wish I were.”

—The Mystery Knight

"Four hours was not so bad.” Dunk was four hours unconscious after his murder attempt. Maybe Jon will be dead for four days and it won’t be “so bad”, he won’t lost much of his memories.

Honor

Better a beggar than a thief. He had been both in Flea Bottom, when he ran with Ferret, Rafe, and Pudding, but the old man had saved him from that life. He knew what Ser Arlan of Pennytree would have said to Plumm’s suggestions. Ser Arlan being dead, Dunk said it for him. “Even a hedge knight has his honor.”

“Would you rather die with honor intact or live with it besmirched? No, spare me, I know what you will say. Take your boy and flee, gallows knight. Before your arms become your destiny.”

—The Mystery Knight

* * *

"A bastard can have honor too," Jon said. "I am ready to swear your oath."

—A Game of Thrones - Jon I

I will kill him if I must. The prospect gave Jon no joy; there would be no honor in such a killing, and it would mean his own death as well. Yet he could not let the wildlings breach the Wall, to threaten Winterfell and the north, the barrowlands and the Rills, White Harbor and the Stony Shore, even the Neck. For eight thousand years the men of House Stark had lived and died to protect their people against such ravagers and reavers . . . and bastard-born or no, the same blood ran in his veins. Bran and Rickon are still at Winterfell besides. Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik, Old Nan, Farlen the kennelmaster, Mikken at his forge and Gage by his ovens . . . everyone I ever knew, everyone I ever loved. If Jon must slay a man he half admired and almost liked to save them from the mercies of Rattleshirt and Harma Dogshead and the earless Magnar of Thenn, that was what he meant to do.

—A Storm of Swords - Jon II

Even if she was a whore... I want to know

"His Lordship said that I had no right to put a fireball upon my shield. He told me my device should be a clump of pussywillows. His Lordship can go bugger himself." Dunk could not help but smile. He had supped at that same table himself, choking down the same bitter dishes as served up by the likes of the Bright Prince and Ser Steffon Fossoway. He felt a certain kinship with the prickly young knight. For all I know, my mother was a whore as well. "How many horses have you won?"

—The Mystery Knight

* * *

"One of the guards overheard Clydas reading the letter to Maester Aemon." Pyp leaned close. "Jon, I'm sorry. He was your father's friend, wasn't he?"

"They were as close as brothers, once." Jon wondered if Joffrey would keep his father as the King's Hand. It did not seem likely. That might mean Lord Eddard would return to Winterfell, and his sisters as well. He might even be allowed to visit them, with Lord Mormont's permission. It would be good to see Arya's grin again and to talk with his father. I will ask him about my mother, he resolved. I am a man now, it is past time he told me. Even if she was a whore, I don't care, I want to know.

—A Game of Thrones - Jon VII

True Identities and Targaryen Names

Inside, the Fiddler turned back to Dunk. “I knew Ser Uthor had not killed you. My dreams are never wrong. And the Snail must face me soon enough. Once I’ve unhorsed him, I shall demand your arms and armor back. Your destrier as well, though you deserve a better mount. Will you take one as my gift?”

“I…no…I couldn’t do that.” The thought made Dunk uncomfortable. “I do not mean to be ungrateful, but…”

“If it is the debt that troubles you, put the thought from your mind. I do not need your silver, ser. Only your friendship. ”

(...)

“You are no hedge knight.”

“No.” The Fiddler’s smile was full of boyish charm. “But you knew that from the start. You have been calling me m’lord since we met upon the road, why is that?”

“The way you talk. The way you look. The way you act.” Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall. “Up on the roof last night, you said some things…”

“Wine makes me talk too much, but I meant every word. We belong together, you and I. My dreams do not lie.”

“Your dreams don’t lie,” said Dunk, “but you do. John is not your true name, is it?”

“No.” The Fiddler’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

He has Egg’s eyes.

“His true name will be revealed soon enough, to those who need to know.” Lord Gormon Peake had slipped into the pavilion, scowling. “Hedge knight, I warn you—”

“Oh, stop it, Gormy,” said the Fiddler. “Ser Duncan is with us, or will be soon. I told you, I dreamed of him.”

(...)

“I never did you any harm.”

“And never will. Daemon’s mine. I will command his Kingsguard. You are not worthy of a white cloak.”

“I never claimed I was.” Daemon. The name rang in Dunk’s head. Not John. Daemon, after his father.

—The Mystery Knight

These passages give me hope about Aemon being Jon’s Targaryen name:

Daemon. The name rang in Dunk’s head. Not John. Daemon, after his father.

Aemon. The name rang in Dunk’s (?) head. Not Jon. Aemon, after his father uncle.

Who will discover Jon’s true parentage and Jon’s Targaryen name? My bet is on Sansa since she unbeknownst helped Ned to discover that “Prince” Joffrey were a bastard. So it would be a full circle if she discovers by herself that the bastard Jon Snow is a true prince.

The Redhead Lady of the Tale

Mad Danelle Lothston herself rode forth in strength from her haunted towers at Harrenhal, clad in black armor that fit her like an iron glove, her long red hair streaming.

—The Mystery Knight

There is always a redhead woman with a wicked reputation. In the first tale a red haired whore is mentioned; in the second tale Rohanne Webber is a protagonist; and in this third tale Mad Danelle Lothston makes a triumphant entrance riding all armored next to Bloodraven to put an end to the Second Blackfyre Rebellion. Such a powerful image...

An Elm Tree again!

The Hand’s pavilion was half a mile from the castle, in the shade of a spreading elm tree. A dozen cows were cropping at the grass nearby. Kings rise and fall, Dunk thought, and cows and smallfolk go about their business. It was something the old man used to say.”

—The Mystery Knight

Bloodraven put his pavilion in the shade of a spreading elm tree. This is a reminiscence of the first tale:

On the outskirts of the great meadow, a good half mile from town and castle, he found a place where a bend in a brook had formed a deep pool. Reeds grew thick along its edge, and a tall, leafy elm presided over all. The spring grass there was as green as any knight’s banner and soft to the touch. It was a pretty spot, and no one had yet laid claim to it. This will be my pavilion, Dunk told himself, a pavilion roofed with leaves, greener even than the banners of the Tyrells and the Estermonts.

(...)

“There’s my pavilion.” Dunk swept a hand above his head, at the branches of the tall elm that loomed above them.

“That’s a tree,” the boy said, unimpressed.

“It’s all the pavilion a true knight needs. I would sooner sleep under the stars than in some smoky tent.”

—The Hedge Knight

Dunk took that elm tree as his sigil the same way Lyanna took a weirwood as his sigil as a Mystery Knight.

Dunk also took a shooting star as part of his sigil and when Jon’s was born, there was a shooting star symbol around him, Ser Arthur Dayne’s sword, Dawn, made of a falling star, and House Dayne’s sigil is also “a white sword and falling star crossed on lilac”.

So Dunks sigil is really telling us about Jon Snow’s birth story, about the identity of his mother and the place when he was born, that was named by his biological father and was guarded by a knight with a sword made of a falling star.

Roger of Pennytree

Flanking the entrance, the severed heads of Gormon Peake and Black Tom Heddle had been impaled on spears, with their shields displayed beneath them. Three castles, black on orange. The man who slew Roger of Pennytree.

Even in death, Lord Gormon’s eyes were hard and flinty. Dunk closed them with his fingers. “What did you do that for?” asked one of the guardsmen. “The crows’ll have them soon enough.”

“I owed him that much.” If Roger had not died that day, the old man would never have looked twice at Dunk when he saw him chasing that pig through the alleys of King’s Landing. Some old dead king gave a sword to one son instead of another, that was the start of it. And now I’m standing here, and poor Roger’s in his grave.”

—The Mystery Knight

This is a very sad scene where we can see how Dunk still feels guilty for all the men that had to die for him to live the life he is living. Jon shares the same guilt along his arc and is heartbreaking.

Tower of Joy imagery

Bloodraven ordered Whitewalls to be pulled down stone by stone, the same way Ned Stark pulled down the Tower of Joy

“And Whitewalls?” asked Butterwell, with quavering voice.

“Forfeit to the Iron Throne. I mean to pull it down stone by stone and sow the ground that it stands upon with salt. In twenty years, no one will remember it existed. Old fools and young malcontents still make pilgrimages to the Redgrass Field to plant flowers on the spot where Daemon Blackfyre fell. I will not suffer Whitewalls to become another monument to the Black Dragon."

—The Mystery Knight

* * *

“It would have to be his grandfather, for Jory’s father was buried far to the south. Martyn Cassel had perished with the rest. Ned had pulled the tower down afterward, and used its bloody stones to build eight cairns upon the ridge. It was said that Rhaegar had named that place the tower of joy, but for Ned it was a bitter memory. They had been seven against three, yet only two had lived to ride away; Eddard Stark himself and the little crannogman, Howland Reed. He did not think it omened well that he should dream that dream again after so many years.”

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard X

As you can see, Whitewalls, the castle where Egg “hatched” and revealed his true identity as Aegon Targaryen, is ordered by Bloodraven to be pulled down stone by stone. And after reading this it’s impossible not to think about the Tower of Joy, the place where Jon was born, being pulled down by Ned Stark.

A Dragon Rises

“We had some help, m’lord,” Dunk added.

“Hedge knights.”

“Aye, m’lord. Ser Kyle the Cat, and Maynard Plumm. And Ser Glendon Ball. It was him unhorsed the Fidd…the pretender.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that tale from half a hundred lips already. The Bastard of the Pussywillows. Born of a whore and a traitor.”

“Born of heroes,” Egg insisted. “If he’s amongst the captives, I want him found and released. And rewarded.”

“And who are you to tell the King’s Hand what to do?”

Egg did not flinch. “You know who I am, cousin.”

“Your squire is insolent, ser,” Lord Rivers said to Dunk. “You ought to beat that out of him.”

“I’ve tried, m’lord. He’s a prince, though.”

“What he is,” said Bloodraven, “is a dragon. Rise, ser.”

Dunk rose.

“There have always been Targaryens who dreamed of things to come, since long before the Conquest,” Bloodraven said, “so we should not be surprised if from time to time a Blackfyre displays the gift as well. Daemon dreamed that a dragon would be born at Whitewalls, and it was. The fool just got the color wrong.”

Dunk looked at Egg. The ring, he saw. His father’s ring. It’s on his finger, not stuffed up inside his boot.

(...)

“My place is with Ser Duncan. I’m his squire.”

“Seven save you both. As you wish. You’re free to go.”

“We will,” said Egg, “but first we need some gold. Ser Duncan needs to pay the Snail his ransom.”

Bloodraven laughed. “What happened to the modest boy I once met at King’s Landing? As you say, my prince. I will instruct my paymaster to give you as much gold as you wish. Within reason.”

—The Mystery Knight

And finally, the dragon egg that actually hatched in Whitewalls was Egg, a Targaryen Prince in disguise that revealed his true identity as Aegon Targaryen, a future king, that will also died while trying to hatch dragon eggs, next to Dunk at Summerhall, the place when another human dragon hatched, Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon’s biological father.

GRRM really likes his full circles...

This has been a long ride. I hope you enjoy it.

THE END.

#Dunk #Ser Duncall The Tall #Jon Snow #is this jonsa?#jonsa #a knight of the seven kingdoms #the hedge knight #the sworn sword #the mystery knight #egg #aegon v targaryen #prince duncan targaryen #valarr targaryen #brynden rivers #bloodraven #tanselle too-tall #rohanne webber #mad danelle #danelle lothston

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dukethomas · 4 years

Text

Summary: Duke and Damian, over the years.

Written for @duketectivecomics’ Duke Week! Day Four is Reverse Robin, though I modified it so it could be Reverse Batfam. Reverse Batkid? Still works.

Duke is nine. He’s Batman’s partner, Lark, and helping Batman punch the living daylights out of criminals helps him forget his parents’ grins and their laughter, and his laughter. (Bruce benches him whenever he’s working on a Joker case. Duke doesn’t complain.) It’s fun, and he’s good at it.

However, he’s heard enough about the League of Assassins, and he’s watched footage in training of Bruce fighting off a whole horde of Assassins (with a capital A) to know that these guys aren’t to be trifled with. And while Duke has spirit and guts and instinct and smarts, what he doesn’t have is the grace anyone in that footage has. He’s still training. He has a long way to go.

And he definitely can’t fight off an Assassin on his own. He’ll try, sure, but he has his limits.

So when he runs to open the door—he and Alfred have made a game out of it, because they kept running into each other whenever the doorbell rung. Whoever gets there first gets a fresh batch of cookies or tea made just for them by the loser—his eyes widen and his jaws drop when he sees Talia al Ghul.

And a boy, who’s taller than him, so Duke assumes he’s older. The boy sniffs and turns his nose up at Duke.

A few seconds too late, Duke settles into his fighting stance. His fists are up and he stares down Talia al Ghul and the boy, hoping something in his eyes would tell them to back down, something steely and indomitable, like all the books say.

Talia al Ghul chuckles. “Down, boy,” she says, her eyes glittering with mirth. “Neither of us intend to cause harm.”

“Speak for yourself,” the boy mutters, glancing at Duke, but Talia al Ghul doesn’t seem to hear it. The boy is unsettlingly quiet and still for someone who doesn’t even look that much older than Duke. He holds himself weirdly. It’s not unlike the entitled rich kid pose, but it’s also tense and lax at the same time.

Like how Bruce fights, Duke realizes. His mind is tense but his body is calm.

“Uh,” he says ever so eloquently. “Bruce! Alfred!”

Bruce shows up three minutes later, and the boy inhales sharply, but softly. Duke is already getting tired of the oxymorons.

“This,” Talia al Ghul says with a light flourish, “is your son. Damian al Ghul Wayne.”

I’m sorry, what?

Duke glances back at Bruce to see what he thinks, and Bruce’s eyebrows are tightly knit together. “You told me you lost the child,” he murmurs.

“I lied,” responds Talia al Ghul, a line of regret tracing her nonchalant tone. “My father’s wishes.”

And what happens after devolves into boring grown-up talk, so Duke stops paying attention. He keeps an eye on their respective body languages, in case this turns into a fight.

But he hates being by adults who are talking without him with nothing else to do, so he turns to the boy—Damian.

“Our names both start with a D,” he offers, smiling at Damian.

Damian doesn’t smile back. Instead, he scoffs, and says nothing else. What Duke has gathered is that Damian was raised with the League of Assassins, which means chances of him being an Assassin too are nearly one-hundred percent. But Talia al Ghul has years, decades, maybe centuries of training on Damian, and Damian can’t hide the worry in his eyes nearly as well. Plus, Duke’s good at reading people, Bruce says it’s a talent.

So he tries again to talk to Damian. “You’re coming to stay with us, right?” A small nod. Success! “I gotta show you all the good places to hide. It won’t hide us from Alfred, because Alfred knows all, but if you don’t want to listen to Bruce, well.” He gestures at Bruce and Talia al Ghul jabbering on about something adult-y.

“Tt,” is the only sound that comes from Damian, and it’s the third oxymoron so far. It’s simultaneously amused and disapproving, and that’s when Duke thinks he knows the problem.

Damian has a shadow cast over him, a long and dark one he can’t seem to shake.

Well, that’s fine. Duke has always clung to the light better than the shadows, he’ll just be Damian’s light as well as Batman’s.

Damian doesn’t warm up to Duke quickly, though not for lack of trying on Duke’s part. The older boy keeps brushing him away and getting all huffy, and downright rude. Once Duke sneaks up on Damian and he whips around with a blade pointed towards Duke’s head. Yeesh.

Duke eventually decides it’s easier to stay away. Do his Lark business, go to school, let Bruce deal with Damian.

And he thinks Damian resents him for that. Duke can see why—Bruce gets all stiff and cold with Damian, like he was in the first month of Duke living there, but he’s caught Damian lingering in the doorway of Duke’s bedroom watching Bruce hover around Duke more than once—but honestly? He’s just tired of it. And he wishes he could help, but clearly there’s something deeper there.

Still. Duke doesn’t dislike Damian. Damian’s just… rough around the edges. And sometimes those rough edges are deadly and sharp and Alfred tells him to stay away from knives in the kitchen (even though Duke’s fought off goons with knives before).

(And Duke’s used to rough edges, he thinks, shuddering as a boisterous laugh comes from the TV when he does his homework.)

“Hey, Batman?” he asks one night during a stakeout.

Bruce looks over to him, eyebrow clearly raised even if Duke can’t see it through the cowl.

Duke shines his flashlight into Bruce’s eyes, earning him a curse and a scowl. “When are you going to talk to Dami—um, D?”

“Put that down,” Bruce commands gently, pulling the flashlight away, but Duke just redirects it. “I’ve been talking to him.”

“Yeah, to tell him off! When are you going to treat him like your son, B? You treat me more like a son than him, and I’m not even—” He cuts himself off. “I’m not even your son.” Which shouldn’t feel like it’s gnawing at him inside to say, because it’s true. Doug Thomas is his dad and will always be, but…

He shakes his head. The focus is on Damian right now.

“Are you ever going to let him… y’know?” he blurts. He’s always finding Damian in the Cave (Batcave, Duke insists, but Bruce just ruffles his hair) wielding his sword. He has half a mind to ask Damian to train with him, because Duke knows if he wants to be better, he has to learn from the best. And Damian looks incredible when he practices. All fluid and graceful, like he learned how to fight before he could walk.

Bruce’s hand reaches towards Duke, then draws back. “We don’t use lethal methods, Lark.”

“Then teach him non-lethal methods.”

The answer seems clear as daylight to Duke, though evidently, not so much to Bruce. He hopes it helps anyways.

And then the thugs they’re on the lookout for walk into the warehouse with a confident swagger, and it’s showtime. By the time they’re done, Duke is grinning and bouncing, saying, “I just knocked that guy out, did you see that? That was so cool!”

Batman never loses his stony demeanor while in costume, but if the edges of Bruce’s mouth curve upwards on the Batmobile ride home, Duke knows to not tell anyone.

Unfortunately, his dreams are less than pleasant.

It’s his parents again. When is it not? They’re pressed up against the glass, his mom has this crooked smirk, and she snarls at him. She bangs her fist on the glass and yells, “I’m going to kill you!”

Duke backs up, finding only a foot of space between the glass and the wall behind him. “Mom,” he croaks out, but she doesn’t hear. She never does. “Mom, it’s me, it’s Duke, your son.” His eyes burn and tears come spilling out.

The lights flicker once, twice, before zapping out completely, leaving him and his parents in darkness.

His mom cackles, and tells him, “I know. I know!” and she’s more aware than she’s been in months, and she barrels her head into the glass. It cracks, shards of glass flying around Duke.

A plea is on his lips as she lunges at him, and he jolts up, his shirt damp with sweat.

He’s in his bedroom at Wayne Manor, he dully realizes. He’s still shrouded with darkness, but his parents aren’t here. They had considered moving his parents on the grounds, but ultimately decided against it.

He lets himself pant, gripping his bedsheets. Would he be a bad son if he thinks that was a good decision?

Duke hears footsteps outside his door and freezes, his heart pounding in his ears. He squeezes his eyes shut.

Someone opens the door, and there’s a click—a familiar one, from the light switch. Duke cranes his neck to see Damian entering, the older boy awkward and groggy in his movements, but there.

Damian is still in the doorframe, his eyes roaming the room and looking anywhere but at Duke. Something gleams in his left pocket. “I heard… there were screams. Did you need something, Thomas?”

“Please,” Duke whispers, eyes wide and staring at the shadow behind Damian. “Can I have a hug?”

Damian pauses, steps back, then moves forward, making a beeline towards Duke. He envelops Duke into a hug, oddly detached and patting Duke on the back, but a hug nonetheless. Duke leans into the touch, feeling a tear roll down his face and onto Damian’s shirt. “Sorry,” he mumbles, his throat tight.

“It’s… alright,” Damian replies. “I was already awake. And I have other items of clothing.”

For some reason, that brings on the sobs into full-force, with Duke gasping for breath as he lets it all out. Damian is there, still patting Duke on the back until it becomes a rhythmic comfort.

Duke doesn’t know when he drifts off to sleep, but he wakes up with Damian’s shirt draped over him with his green blanket.

Sunshine slips in through the curtains, hastily pulled open, as sunshine blooms in Duke’s chest. He sprints downstairs, jumping and skipping stairs like he’s walking on air.

“Slow down, Master Duke!” Alfred reprimands, and Duke shrugs and does as Alfred says, but only a little bit.

He almost runs straight into Damian, but he stops himself just in time. He opens his mouth to thank Damian, but Damian furrows his eyebrows at Duke and says, “Did you talk to Father? He spoke to me about training,” and a tension has been lifted from Damian’s shoulders. He’s springier.

“I think?” Duke says, knocking his knuckles on his head trying to recall what else happened last night. “Yeah?”

Damian stares at him, his brown eyes meeting Duke’s own with a hint of something gleaming in the light. “Thank you,” he tells Duke honestly.

“No problem!” Duke chirps. And before he can take it back, he says, “That’s what brothers are for.”

(He doesn’t take it back when asked about it later. The term “brothers” feels right, even if they only started having amiable conversations last night. He doesn’t think about the implications.)

It’s six months of non-lethal training until Damian is deemed fit to go out into the field. Duke leans on Damian’s shoulder as the older boy sketches out a mannequin with armor. It’s when “Shadow” is written in neat cursive that Duke realizes it’s meant to be Damian’s suit.

He blinks, his eyes drooping.

He doesn’t have patrol tonight, or tomorrow for that matter, but he really needs to lay off the late-night patrols. And the late-night training. He doesn’t want to fall asleep in the middle of class.

“That looks cool,” he comments, taking in the design. It’s gray and black, a bat in the chest. Damian fills in the outline of a cowl, and—

“Hey, wait, is this just a mini Batman costume?”

Damian stiffens. Almost imperceptibly, but Duke is busy soaking up Damian’s warmth right now, so he notices.

Duke moves the desk lamp so he can see the drawing more clearly. “C’mon, Damian,” he says, “I know you can be more original than this.”

“Tt,” Damian responds, still tracing over the lines he’s already drawn. “It has already proven itself to be a suitable design; why bother?”

A curl falls in front of Duke’s eyes, and he blows it away. Huffs, puffs, and the whole shebang. “Because you’re not Bruce? I have my own suit. I chose the colors!” Yellow with black accents, because it’s always been a hopeful color for Duke, and that’s what he wants to inspire—hope. Also, it’s a lark color scheme, minus brown, because wearing brown? Yuck.

Yeah, sure, Lark has been described as a child flashlight several times, but Duke stands by his decision. Even now, thinking about his suit makes him smile.

Damian pauses for a while after that. His hand stills. “Are you suggesting Father isn’t someone I should aspire to be like?”

“Be like,” Duke points out. “Not be. Seriously. I think you would look really cool in green!”

A scoff comes from Damian at that. “I chose the name Shadow for a reason, I will not go out in bright colors and compromise stealth.”

Duke yawns and snuggles closer into Damian’s shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, Dami. I’m just saying, you don’t have to be Batman.” His eyes close, and it’s a sweet relief. Damian doesn’t respond for a while, so Duke adds, voice soft, “I think Lark looks cooler than Batman, anyhow.”

He wakes up on Damian’s bed, the older boy and his sketch conspicuously missing. When Duke heads down to the Batcave for training, he sees a new paper pinned. He recognizes the swoopy thin lines of Damian’s art, but the design is totally new.

The suit is wicked cool, dark gray and all jagged edges where the Batman suit has smooth lines, and a little circle to the side of the chest with a Bat rather than one spread across the chest. It’s cloaked rather than caped, the hood concealing hair instead of a cowl. A black domino mask with white lenses covers the eyes. Golden accent lines run throughout the suit, and Duke wonders if people affiliated with the Bat can only really have one color scheme: black, gray, and yellow or gold.

He grins, looking at it, but turns at the quiet footfalls he’s been learning to recognize.

“Good morning!” he chirps at Damian, who’s rubbing the grogginess out of his eyes. Despite that, he’s already dressed, wearing a forest green sweater and black jeans.

Damian half-smiles and arches an eyebrow. “Do you still believe that Lark’s suit is the coolest?”

And c’mon, Duke has to defend his honor. He sticks his tongue out and blows a raspberry. “Always and forever.”

“Well then, it appears you have been misinformed,” Damian hums.

Damian’s suit is completed within the week, and Duke has to admit—it looks even cooler when it’s real. Lark’s is still the best, though.

Duke would be lying if he says he isn’t dumbfounded every time he gets to visit the Watchtower. It’s in outer freakin’ space, of course he’s impressed. His headquarters is a literal cave. Even with four years as Lark under his belt, his jaw still drops.

Batman’s here for a routine League meeting. Normally, he and Damian don’t come with, but another sidekick—Duke makes a face at the word, he prefers the term partners, but the media sticks with that—debuted the other day. He goes by Kid Flash, and he seems pretty cool. Duke’s looking forward to meeting him… if the Flashes ever showed up on time.

Which they do not. So Duke and Damian wait, along with some others—Aqualad, Teen Lantern, Red Arrow, and Crush this time around—with Hawkwoman as their babysitter of sorts. She’s not the most thrilled with this assignment, but Duke can’t blame her, it’s pretty boring.

Duke and Damian sit with each other by the wall. Superboy should have been here but he and Superman had civilian duties to take care of, so they sit in comfortable silence.

He gives up within two minutes. It’s just too long to wait while doing nothing. He stands up to have a look around the Watchtower, maybe he can even find that huge window that shows off the expanse of space. His English teacher will love the words he writes about it.

Something catches his eye, a dull silver in the edges of his vision. Duke heads towards it, and to his delight, Hawkwoman left her mace on a table. A grin splits his face and he reaches out to hold it.

“What are you doing?” Damian hisses from behind him, pulling his hands away from the mace. “Don’t touch that!”

“But Shadow!” Duke argues. “It’s right there! It’s not even harmful, I think! It’s made out of alien metal, right? That’s so baller, I have to feel it for myself.”

Damian sighs and puts his head in his gauntlet-covered hands. “Nth metal, Lark. It’s made of Nth metal, and is potentially very dangerous.”

Duke takes the spare moment of distraction to hold the Nth metal, and he grins up into the ceiling. A mistake, he realizes as industrial lights beam down at him, causing him to squint and glance down.

Damian moves forward to pull the mace out of his hands, except there’s a quality to him, a certain golden sheen, and Duke backs up. He blinks, and Damian hasn’t even moved, but then he does, again, in the exact same way as before.

Damian’s lenses widen. “Lark, let that go. Now!” he commands. “It has an effect on you. Your eyes are—”

Duke blinks a few more times, not hearing the rest of that. His vision is so much sharper now. It’s making him a little dizzy, but he doesn’t say that.

Instead, he does let go of the mace, and it clatters to the floor noisily.

“Shadow,” he blurts, lurching forward.

Damian catches him and pulls him up into an embrace. Duke may be twelve now, but he’s reminded of his dad’s hugs. Firm and protective. He leans into it. “Are you alright?” Damian whispers into Duke’s ear.

Duke’s vision swims with lights and colors and brightness. He buries his face into Damian’s chest, relishing the darkness. He nods.

Damian’s hand rests on Duke’s back. “We’ll… we’ll figure this out,” he promises.

Duke swallows down a glass of punch at the side of the room in the middle of a gala. It slides down his throat and sloshes around in his stomach uneasily.

He stares at Cass, quiet for a ten-year-old but the brightest person in the room. Everywhere she goes, by Bruce’s side or not, people flock to her and their gazes are drawn in her direction. She glides through the gala graceful as the moon, but with the attention she’s getting, you’d think she’s the sun.

The gala is being held in celebration of Bruce’s adoption of Cass. A darling princess for the Wayne lineage, says one newspaper. Bruce Wayne’s pity adoptee, sneers another.

And Duke can relate. Bruce and Alfred tried to hide it from him, but the tabloids didn’t have anything good to say about him either. But Duke’s mind lingers on the difference.

He shakes his head, staring at his deep brown eyes through the cerise lense of the punch. It’s silly. Of course Bruce wouldn’t adopt him; Duke has perfectly good parents already. It would make the paperwork easier should—when his parents get cured.

“Something’s wrong,” Damian observes, walking up behind Duke.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Duke replies, ignoring the way his chest twists at the words.

He can practically feel Damian raise his eyebrows. “You’re lying, and we both know it. Come with me, Duke.”

Duke follows without a retort, and Damian leads him to the balcony. The gentle moonlight and starlight welcomes him more than the harsher lights of the chandeliers inside ever have.

“Since when did you become the emotionally intuitive one?” Duke asks, crossing his arms over the railing.

Damian huffs. “I am still not aware of what’s going on with you. But I am… I’m your older brother. It’s my duty.”

Duke hums at that. The description resonates deep in his bones, a familiar comfort, and it had never felt wrong. More like puzzle pieces snapping together.

Brother often means they share a father. It just as often can mean they do not. And Duke didn’t think they did—did they?

“It’s not Cass’ fault,” he says, playing a mental game with the Gotham skyline. He always tries to find his old neighborhood, before he got taken in by Bruce. It helps him remember, so one day, he might come home and he wouldn’t have forgotten. “It’s my brain that’s being fucky.”

“Language,” Damian reprimands under his breath. He then speaks in a louder tone, now meant for Duke’s ears. “I didn’t think so. You were never the resentful type. I’m grateful for that.”

Duke throws his head back to laugh. Five years ago, Damian would rather stab him than talk about feelings like this. Duke wanted to train with Damian. Funny how things change. “No, it’s—it’s something else. Bruce adopted Cass. That’s what’s bothering me, I think.”

Damian tilts his head at Duke. “Would you prefer for Father,”—Baba, now, behind closed doors, but Duke wouldn’t pry—“to adopt you?”

“No. I don’t think so. Would I? I already have a dad.” Duke sucks in a breath. He’d gone to visit them last weekend. No improvements, as per usual. Not even lucid enough to give Duke death threats.

“Family isn’t bound by blood,” Damian reminds him softly. “I have a brother now, and a sister. Who’s to say you can’t have two fathers?”

Duke blinks rapidly. His finger brushes the corner of his eye and comes away wet. “And I’m not a bad son? I’m not abandoning my dad for Bruce?”

“Absolutely not.”

And just like that, a dam bursts. One tear rolls down Duke’s cheeks, then another, then several more. Despite this, hope settles into his chest with the cool touch of the moon and stars.

“Thank you, Dami,” Duke says, jumping into a hug with the taller boy (though Damian won’t remain that for long—Duke shot up rapidly in the last year or so, and he’s quickly approaching Damian’s height).

Damian returns the hug, his chin warm against Duke’s shoulder when he tells Duke, “Anytime.”

Damian is dead.

Duke’s breath hitches, with quiet little Cass by his side and Steph and Harper there for moral support. The funeral is closed casket—the cover story had been kidnappers and an explosion, and thus, no body to bury.

Duke had seen Damian’s body. He and Bruce were a moment too late. Duke is fast, faster than Bruce when desperate, but he had glimpsed a moment into the future and fell back, momentarily blinded by the explosion that hadn’t even happened yet.

Maybe if he hadn’t relied on his powers, maybe if he’d pushed past that to run, maybe if he arrived a minute or two earlier, Damian wouldn’t have—

Cass squeezes his hand. Duke squeezes back, numb to the core. He lets go and steps back, into the shade of a tree.

Damian’s funeral is held on a day where the sun glares, its heat searing into their skin. It’s not right. Nothing about this is right. Damian is—was—seventeen.

After the funeral, Duke writes a note to Bruce. He writes that he’s resigning as Lark. He can’t do this anymore, not when Lark’s partner is Shadow as well as Batman. His words tumble out without eloquence, and his tears smear the ink.

He flees.

And maybe he’s a coward. He can live with that. But Gotham—the city of rebirth, he liked to call it. The city of new beginnings. The city that had always seemed like stubbornness and perseverance and hope. It was Damian’s beginning, but it was also his end.

And Duke remembers why another name was given to Gotham.

(City of death. Death and rebirth is the whole phrase. He can’t ever forget that.)

It’s marred with the memory of them, of Damian, of his parents, of the kid that hoped and told himself if no one else would help, he would. Duke can’t stay here. No matter how much this feels like a betrayal to his family, to his father that believed Gotham would shine true, to his mother who came here to start a new life, to Damian whose smile was like Gotham’s sun, he can’t stay. He can’t. He can’t.

So what if Duke is a traitor? He doesn’t have many left to betray.

Instead, he seeks refuge in Blüdhaven, notorious for being the only city worse than Gotham. A simple city, one that held no pretenses of goodness, one that wouldn’t betray Duke.

Duke thought he was Damian’s light, but now that Damian’s gone, he knows better.

Damian was a light all on his own, and without him, Duke’s light shatters into tiny shards.

One morning not long after the funeral, Duke wakes up to find the sun assaulting his eyes, which is a rarer occurrence in Blüdhaven than in Gotham.

He shuts the blinds and cries in the quiet, shadowed room, his chest heaving with every sob, painfully aware that every gasped breath is a breath Damian will never get to take.

(The next two years seem to fly by. Duke becomes Blüdhaven’s Signal, and begins to take on the local gangs. He dismantles them from the inside out, with a focus he didn’t often have before.

He becomes an emancipated minor at barely fifteen, and he enrolls himself into a public high school. He used to have a 4.0 GPA. Now, with late nights spent fighting, and early mornings spent applying makeup over the bruises, his school performance dips.

A boy, small and skinny, appears on his doorstep. Duke recognizes him—it’s Timothy Drake, the next door neighbor who Duke would visit every once in a while, the boy with the emptiest house Duke has ever seen. “I know you used to be Lark,” Tim Drake tells him, “that Bruce Wayne is Batman, and that Damian used to be Shadow.”

Duke flinches and nearly slams the door in tiny Tim’s face right there and then. (Duke is only two years older, but sometimes it feels like it could be centuries in between them.)

“I need you to be Lark again. Batman has been uncontrolled, lately. Violent.”

“No,” Duke says firmly, crossing his arms. “I’m not—I won’t go back.” Which is a lie. He briefly went back to finalize the emancipation. He avoided Bruce’s eyes, then.

“He needs you!”

“He needs his son!” Duke retorts. “And he has—he has Batgirl and Black Bat and Bluebird. He doesn’t need me.”

Tim only looks at him with steely blue eyes, and something in them causes a pit to drop in Duke’s stomach. Oh god, why didn’t he keep up with Gotham news, did someone else…?

Duke holds onto the memory of texting Cass yesterday. She said she was staying at Steph’s and Harper’s place, which meant all three are safe. (Right? Right.)

“I’m sorry,” he tells Tim earnestly, “but I can’t do it. I’m not that guy anymore.” And then the door shuts, with a soft click. Duke waits by the door until he hears Tim’s footsteps fade.

Jon Kent visits. Duke lets him in, and soon enough, teen heroes stop by Duke’s apartment in droves. Duke was only ever a reserves Teen Titan, to be called upon if there was an emergency; Damian was the one who made friends within the Titans, while Duke’s friends remained squarely in Gotham. Still, Titans stop by to say their condolences or just laugh over the counter with cups of instant hot cocoa.

It helps relieve the ache of loneliness. Duke doesn’t realize how much he needs other people to thrive until he calls for a Teen Titans study session and notices with glowing warm pride that his grades are straight A’s once again.

And… Duke travels back to Gotham. Not to stay, the wounds are still too fresh, but he has a conversation with Bruce, the man that has almost been a father to him for years now, and he thinks it might not be so bad.

Tim is Shadow now. Tim had a choice between Lark and Shadow, and he chose what he knows best. Instead, Steph becomes Lark while Cass fills in Steph’s shoes as Batgirl.

It’s almost a heartwarming picture of a not-quite family.

And Duke wonders if, one day, Damian might be a happy memory to look back to.

Of course, that’s when Damian returns.)

“You let him replace me,” Damian snarls, his hands balled into fists.

Duke freezes in place, staring at the man under the red helmet. Damian’s eyes glint with green, a sharp green that terrifies where the brown used to comfort. A shadow covers nearly three quarters of Damian’s face, but the green still pierces.

“Dami,” he says, his voice cracking. “You—you’re—”

Alive, Duke doesn’t get to say before Damian lunges at him with a knife, his eyes gleaming with madness.