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During the rebellion, he saw many knights taking their pleasure from camp followers without bothering to strip out of their armour. Most tried to keep their debauchery far from royal eyes, but Baelor had frequently taken advantage of his own common features to explore some of the more unsavoury elements of his command. Little need for a disguise when most still thought of silver hair and purple eyes when they thought the name Targaryen. Even after all these years as Hand and heir, Baelor still does not flatter himself that much has changed in that regard. Still, it had meant that Baelor was able to shed his finery and go out amongst his men without being recognised. One couple had stuck in his mind, a Dornish girl stripped to her waist, slim and strong and flat as a boy, astride a man all armoured in plain steel. Others, Baelor had seen fucking in the dirt, mounting whores like dogs in the royal kennels, but something about those two had stayed with him. That night he had taken himself in hand and spilled his seed over his belly, thinking of the girl’s strong, dark hand on her knight’s steel-clad thigh, and the look on the knight’s face as she had drawn his manhood out from beneath the steel. He sees the same look on Duncan’s face now when he glances over his shoulder, though Baelor is no lovely girl draped in a whore’s silks. 

Two thick gloved fingers interrupt Baelor’s musings. They slide into him with startling ease, making him gasp at the sudden, unexpected delight of it, of him, this glorious knight willing to indulge Baelor’s desires to such an extent. Then Duncan spreads his fingers and Baelor whines through his teeth, instinctively struggling against the hand pinning him. “Is this it?” Duncan murmurs. “Is this what you need, my prince?” 

Baelor nods, a touch frantically. He’s taken Duncan’s fingers before, more times than he can count, but with his armoured gloves everything feels different. The warm leather is rough enough that it drags against the sensitive skin of his hole with each thrust, and each of the metal knuckle plates rub along his insides. Baelor gasps and squirms, not attempting to escape but to take more, faster. Duncan’s fingers twist and turn inside him, prying him open and finding all the familiar places inside his hole that make him wail. 

“Dunk- Duncan! Oh-” 

Baelor’s voice ended in a breathless moan. Dunk's teeth at the back of his neck made every hair on his body stand on end, and his huge hands rested heavy on his hips. 

He had been in an ugly and jealous mood all evening. Baratheon was actually attending court for once, but mostly to try and woo Ser Duncan into his service. The Laughing Storm had been particularly obnoxious all evening, and everything in Baelor had wanted to drag Dunk away from him and have Lyonel thrown into the dungeons for coveting what was his. 

Lyonel was safe from the dungeons, but Baelor had eventually given in to the impulse to drag Dunk away, though much more discretely than first imagined.