Namariae



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    "The crown suits you, you know," said Ser Duncan over the cacophony, bringing Baelor back to himself. "Makes you look... you know. Kingly. Which I suppose makes sense, seeing as how you're the king now." A look of anguish crossed his face. "Oh, hells, I shouldn't be calling you 'you,' should I? It's 'Your Grace.' Please don't take—"

    Baelor resisted the urge to rest his hand against the lad's back, as one might soothe a skittish horse. "No offense was taken, ser."

    "Thank you," Ser Duncan said, then immediately amended, "thank Your Grace...ness. Seven fucks, I'm getting another drink." And he whirled away into the throng before Baelor could say a word.


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    05 Jul 2026

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    “Fuck me. You really don’t know.” Lyonel says. It’s not a question. “The prince is still alive.”
    “Alive? But-” 
    Dunk remembers the horrible feeling of prince Baelor’s crushed skull beneath his fingers, soft and wet with blood. Alive should be an impossibility.
    “All thanks to you,” Lyonel says, wriggling his fingers. “A soulmate's touch will do that.”


    Wherein the touch of a soulmate possesses a healing power.

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    05 Jul 2026

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     'The hedge knight lives, so I hear. Licking his wounds and pacing up and down outside the castle wall all hours. Your latest loyal dog.'

    // Prince Baelor survives the blow at Ashford Meadow, but not without consequences. The seasons begin to turn.

     

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    04 Jul 2026

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    "You fought well," Baelor says, extending his hand, and Dunk takes it gratefully. It feels like an anchor, gives him something to focus on besides all the pain brimming up in his body.

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    29 Jun 2026

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    Two years after the tourney at Ashford, Dunk finds himself in the Stormlands and in need of shelter for the night.

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    19 Jun 2026