Leon takes special care to turn the keys in the lock as slowly as possible when he comes home past midnight. Once the door is pushed open with a silent creak, he steps inside as quiet as a mouse, removing his shoes and hanging his jacket without a sound. He almost looks like he is sneaking around on some spying mission, but in reality, he is simply doing his very best not to wake the fellow residents of his home. The love of his life, and the two children he cares for more than anything in the world.

With his socks muffling his steps, he walks on his tiptoes, like a cat, in the direction of his bedroom, ready to pass out after a three-day mission in the middle of nowhere. When, his gaze lands on the shape of a sleeping figure on the living room sectional, visible under the moonlight filtering through the blinds. He pauses, suddenly feeling his chest tighten at the sight of her, curled onto her side with a light blanket, snoring softly like a baby.

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and he’s moving closer before he can stop himself, coming to a stop once he looms over her slumbering form. That's when he notices the silk dress adorning her body. He’s not completely certain due to the dim light, but he thinks it's navy blue—his favorite color. Only then does Leon remember the special occasion for which his wife would dress up so nicely, and he feels his heart skip a beat. It seems he has completely forgotten about his own birthday—a repeated offense on his part.

He sits by her side with an exhale, like her thoughtfulness has rendered him breathless, or maybe it's the fact he can never bring himself to keep his distance for too long. Either way, it's only a matter of time before he's softly brushing calloused fingers against her cheek, unable to resist the urge to touch the one person he could give up everything for. Years and years of marriage, two children, countless memories, and she is still his one forever companion. His partner.

“Leon?” she suddenly whispers, her eyes fluttering open to meet his through the streaking moonlight.

“Sorry, didn't mean to wake you…” he murmurs apologetically, cupping her face with reverent tenderness. “I got home too late again, didn't I?”

“No,” she shakes her head immediately, already shifting to sit up. “You said you’d be late, I just got too excited with the kids.”

“The kids?” He arches an eyebrow, his hand dropping to her waist where his thumbs rubs soothing circles. Sometimes he feels a bit embarrassed over the way he’s constantly touching her, but he can’t help it. The feel of her warmth under his palms is grounding.

She smiles sheepishly with a small chuckle, leaning into his touch. “We baked you a cake… Not the nicest looking thing considering toddlers made it, but they put a lot of love into it. They’ll be stoked in the morning when you pretend it's the best thing you've ever tasted.”

An overwhelming warmth blooms in Leon’s chest at the news, prompting him to hold her closer, with both arms around her now. “You made me a cake? And you dressed up, and waited for me? Sweetheart, you really didn't have to... I would have been happy with a card.”

“I know. But you deserve more than a card. It's not every day my handsome husband turns forty-nine, you know.”

Her soft smile makes his heart stutter, and he can't stop himself anymore from pressing his lips to hers in a desperate kiss. Passionate, earnest, and full of love, he doesn't pull away until she gently pushes on his broad shoulders, panting against his mouth.

“Can I give you your gift?”

“There's a gift too? I thought that you in this dress were the gift...”

She chuckles, kissing his cleft chin before shrugging playfully. “What can I say? I’m generous like that.”

“Okay, gorgeous. Show me your gift.”

She stands excitedly, granting him a look at the enticing way the blue fabric clings to her figure once the blanket slips off her. She then eclipses herself into the bedroom, leaving him to sit there alone in the silence of the night. 

Leon takes the moment to close his eyes in grateful thought, his silver streaked hair falling down on his right temple. Twenty-six years ago, when his life changed forever on that one gruesome night, he never thought he would know true happiness ever again. Fight after fight, each one pushing him further than the last, each one eating more at his soul, until he's left as empty as a shell.

But then, there is her. 

When everything is stripped away, when his very sanity is on the brink of collapse, he thinks of her loving voice, her adoring eyes, her reverent touch… And suddenly, everything is alright with the world again. 

As if summoned by his aching heart that has already missed her presence, she returns with a small gift bag held behind her back, and a bouquet of flowers in the other hand. She pauses just to turn on the small lamp on the corner table, illuminating both of their faces in a warm light, before turning to him with a grin.

“These first, my good sir,” she smiles, elated, as she hands him the arrangement of yellow, white, and blue petals.

Leon feels his breath hitch for a moment as he gratefully takes the bouquet, murmuring an emotional ‘thank you, baby’ as if it's the first time she's bought him some. It's not. But it makes his heart pound out of his ribcage every single time.

“Alright, are you ready for the real deal?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be, kiddo.”

She giggles at his response, attempting to keep her voice quiet despite her obvious excitement as she hands him the bag. Leon stares up at her with his ice blues for a moment, just to take in her happy expression. Then, suddenly, he’s pulling her with a strong, flexing arm around her waist, settling her on his lap with ease.

“Wanna open it together,” he mutters with a kiss to her jaw. He doesn’t need an excuse to bring her closer, he just likes to pretend he has one.

With his arms encircling her midsection, he pulls out a square box from the bag with curiosity, shaking it next to his ear with a playful smile in an attempt to guess its contents. She laughs at that, then urges him to open it quickly, which he does with a happy grin.

Finally, the reason for her excitement is revealed when the shiny quadrant of a wristwatch glimmers in the warm light. All black, stainless steel, and with a wing motif engraved on the dial. It's branded—Hamilton—and he can already guess it was quite the pricey purchase.

“Baby, what did I say about buying me expensive things?” he huffs.

“Not this again,” she rolls her eyes at him. “I’ll buy you all the expensive gifts my heart pleases, and there's nothing you can do about it. Will you at least take it out of the box first before complaining?”

“I’m not complaining, I’m just saying you don't have to spend so much on m—”

He’s interrupted by a rough peck to his plump lips, before his attacker chuckles. “Just shut up and take it out.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Once the watch is out of its containment, Leon can admire it more closely, turning it in his hands with focus as he takes in every detail of luxurious craftsmanship. He already knows it will be something he wears again and again, not only because it fits his taste, but also because he can't wait to parade around her gift. Like a branding on his wrist that proves to him that even he gets to be loved and celebrated.

He can feel her eyes on his stubbled face as he observes the present, and he knows there's something more to it that she isn't saying yet. That's when he turns the objects in his hands and finds something on the caseback. Engraved names; his, hers, and the children’s. All encircled in a heart like the cheesiest little display of love one can ever come up with. 

“Happy birthday, honey,” his perfect wife murmurs gently to the detriment of his big, soft heart.

Leon feels like he could cry. And his eyes do in fact water no matter how much he tries to stop them, which urges her to hug him tightly with kisses to his neck.

“I love you so much,” she murmurs, muffled, “I’m so grateful for you.” 

“I know… I love you too, sweetheart. None of this would be worth it without you.” He pulls back, shiny eyes filled with reverence as he cups her face. “Thank you, it's perfect.”

She brings a hand up to wipe at the corners of his wet eyes, blinking her own tears away with a smile. “So it's technically not your birthday anymore, but you still get to make a wish.”

“You’ll allow it?” he chuckles softly, his voice still rough with emotion.

“I told you, I’m very generous.”

Leon looks down at the watch in his grasp, the flowers on his side, and the beautiful woman on his lap, and he feels like there's nothing more in the world he could wish for. It’s a euphoric feeling like no other, knowing that no matter what, he was able to attain what most spend their lives chasing—true contentment. He slips off the watch on his wrist to put on the new one with endearing focus, testing its weight on his skin with a hum. Unsurprisingly, it's a perfect fit. Just like her weight on his lap, and her lips against his.

Finally, he’s ready to give his answer with a heart full and a playful smile on his tired face. “I want forty-nine kisses.”

The laugh that emanates from her has the lines on the corners of his eyes crinkling as he mirrors it. Their soft chuckles mix into what sounds like a perfect harmony to his ears, and he pulls her closer to press her chest to his fully in a tight embrace. He then reaches for a hydrangea amongst the bouquet, a tiny blue flower that he tucks behind her ear with a lovesick smile, knowing fully how mushy he must seem.

“What do you say, beautiful? Will you make my wish come true?”

“Hmm… Yeah. I think I can fit it into my schedule.”

actually fully emo over this imaginary man turning 49 knowing he is soon going to be facing the bs from requiem, ugh my heart! 💙 i love this not so little guy so much, he brings me so much joy everyday and has helped me to meet so many awesome people and make lovely friends

happy leon day everyone!! ✨

That morning, Duncan washes in the cold river near his camp, scrubbing away sweat and dust. He runs his hands through his bronze hair, slicking it back with river water, trying— and failing —to tame it into something resembling a knight fit to stand before a lord’s daughter. Not just some lord’s daughter, you.

Before he goes, he hesitates.

From his pack, he takes out a small stoppered vial, bought cheap from a market peddler, a simple little thing, no bigger than his thumb, filled with pale oil that smells sharply of crushed mint. He dabs a little at his wrists, then, awkwardly, at his neck, hoping the clean, green scent might chase away the river’s chill and the stink of travel.

It feels foolish.

But he does it anyway.

It is Egg who notice the flowers first, of course.

He walks along the edge of the camp where the grass grew tall and wild, dotted with small yellow blossoms that bent in the soft sunrise breeze.

“Those look like her colors,” Egg remarks, plucking one of the little yellow flowers and holding it up between his fingers to show them to Dunk. “Baratheon gold.”

But Duncan frowns. “They’re just weeds.”

“Not to a lady,” Egg reply, with the solemn certainty of a boy who thinks himself far wiser than he is. “You can’t go see her empty-handed.”

Dunk shifts his weight, suddenly awkward, conceding—however reluctantly—that the boy has a point. “I ain’t bringing her weeds.”

Egg snorts, really impressed by the ignorance a man so big can have. “They’re flowers, Ser. That’s different.”

He begins gathering them anyway, quick and efficient, handing them up to Dunk one by one. Before he quite knows how it had happened, he is holding a small, uneven bundle of yellow blooms, their stems damp with sap, their scent sweet.

Dunk stares at them as if they might bite him.

“She’s a highborn lady,” he mutters, genuinely failing to understand the whole concept of romance that Egg perceives. “What’s she want with field flowers?”

Egg just looks up at him, pale head tilted. “Better than nothing. Tell her you picked them yourself. That will count for something.”

Dunk knows better than to argue with Egg when he use that tone.

So he ties the stems together with a strip of twine, clumsy fingers fumbling as he does, and carry them in his hand as carefully as if they are made of glass.

Ser Duncan set out with long, determined strides toward the great yellow tent of House Baratheon.

He has scarcely reach the entrance when a familiar, thunderous voice stops him cold.

“My daughter appears to have lost the silk ties from her cloak.” Lyonel Baratheon greets him unexpectedly at the entrance to his tent, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. “Curiously, they are the same shade of gold that peeks out from the edge of your doublet, Ser Duncan.”

Dunk feels as if the ground has suddenly turned into thin ice. His heart hammers against the very silk that is betraying him.

He stands there, towering over most men but feeling small under Lord Lyonel’s piercing, dark gaze. His gaze lingers on the flowers a heartbeat too long.

The Laughing Storm isn't laughing now. He is sitting on a heavy wooden chair, nursing a cup of thick blackberry wine, his eyes tracking the sliver of gold fabric like a hawk watching a field mouse.

“I… I, uh…” Dunk stammers, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled the Baratheon wine. He instinctively claps a massive hand over his pocket to hide the favor, which only makes him look more guilty. “It’s just a bit of… cloth, my lord. To, uh, mend a tear in my… m–my horse’s blanket?”

“A horse’s blanket?” Lyonel repeats, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low rumble. He stands up, his height no match for Duncan's, but even so, he stands firmly in front of him. “You’re telling me my daughter’s personal silk is being used to patch up some dusty palfrey?”

The tension is thick enough to choke on. Dunk’s mind went completely blank. He is a man of his word, and lying felt like trying to swallow a mouthful of dry wool.

“Father, do not frighten my friend.”

Your voice cuts through the air like a silver bell, and Dunk feels a wave of relief so strong he nearly sags where he stands. You step out from behind the inner curtain of the tent, radiant in a gown of deep charcoal and amber, your presence breaking the storm before it can truly fall.

“I didn't lose it,” you say, walking over to your father and placing a steadying hand on his arm to calm him down. You give the tall man a look that is both sweet and sharp. “I gave it to Ser Duncan. As a reward.”

Lyonel’s eyebrows shots up so high they nearly disappear into his dark hairline. He crane his head, thankfully withdrawing his intent gaze from Duncan and looking at you, unimpressed. “A reward? For what? Did he slay a fucking dragon while I was napping?”

You let out a soft, musical laugh and turn your eyes to Dunk. The look you give him is heavy with that same secret intimacy of always, a look that make his knees feel like water.

“He did something much rarer, Father,” you explain, stepping toward Dunk until you are close enough to smell the sweet river water on his skin. “He offered me his friendship. And since you’re always complaining that I’m too ‘reckless,’ I thought it wise to have a man of his… stature… keeping an eye on things. On me.”

Lord Lyonel lets out a sound that was half-scoff, half-grunt. He looks up at Dunk, then at you, then back at the golden silk peeking out proudly on the hedge knight's pocket.

“Friendship, eh?” Lyonel finally barks, a small, begrudging smirk forming on his lips.

His dark eyes flick between you and Dunk, sharp as ever, missing nothing, the way you stand just a bit too close, the way Dunk looks like a man trying very hard not to breathe too deeply of your perfume.

“Well,” Lyonel goes on, rolling the word around like he’s tasting it, “if my daughter has decided you’re her new companion, I suppose I ought to see what sort of man I’m trusting her to.”

Dunk straightens instinctively, shoulders back, trying to look every inch the honorable knight he wishes he were.

“I’d give my life to protect her, my lord,” he says, earnest and simple, the truth ringing in every word.

That earns him a long, measuring look.

“Hmph!” Lyonel snorts. “Seven save me, you hedge knights and your big fucking words.” Then, to Dunk’s surprise, he steps aside and gestures into his tent. “Come. Have a cup of wine with me.”

Dunk blinks. “My lord?”

“A cup,” Lyonel repeats, smiling way too much. “Unless you’re afraid of Baratheon wine?”

That, at least, draws a crooked grin from Dunk. “No, my lord. Not afraid of wine.”

You hide your smile behind your hand, suppressing a laugh. Dunk shoots you a helpless look, and you answer with a small, apologetic smile that somehow makes his chest ache even more.

Inside the tent, the air is thick with the scent of leather, smoke, and crushed berries. Lyonel pours two cups of the dark, heavy wine and thrusts one into Dunk’s massive hand.

“To knights who know their place,” Lyonel says dryly, lifting his cup.

Dunk raises his own very awkwardly, his mind going too fast with nerves to prevent the very first thoughts forming on his lips. “To… your daughter.”

Dunk freezes the instant the words leave his mouth.

The tent seems to go very, very quiet.

Lyonel Baratheon slowly lowers his cup, dark eyes narrowing just a fraction. For one terrible heartbeat, Dunk is certain he has just signed his own death warrant with a mouth full of blackberry wine.

You, however, tilt your head and study him with something dangerously close to fondness.

“My daughter,” Lyonel repeats after him. “Not knights. Not honor. Not the Seven. My daughter.”

Dunk clears his throat, ears burning. “I meant— I just— she’s important, my lord. To you. And… and to me. And to the... realm.”

It is the simplest truth he knows how to give.

For a long moment, Lyonel only stares at him. Then he lets out a loud bark of laughter, slapping a heavy hand against the table.

“Gods be good,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re either the bravest man in this camp or the stupidest.”

Dunk manages a sheepish half-smile. “Begging your pardon, my lord. Could be both.”

The wine burns its way down Dunk’s throat, bold and strong — much like the man standing before him.

Meanwhile, you hover near the tent’s opening, your fingers worrying at the edge of your cloak. You meet Dunk’s eyes, just for a heartbeat, and in that look is everything unspoken: come find me.

And Lyonel follows his gaze to you.

“Oh no you don’t,” he says, catching on far too quickly. “You think I don’t see what’s going on here?”

Dunk nearly chokes on his second sip.

Lyonel leans back in his chair, studying you both with an expression far too knowing. “My daughter disappearing into spontaneous walks with a young, big knight? With no guard or chaperone?” He clicks his tongue, “I wasn’t born yesterday, boy”

Your cheeks warm. “Father—”

“Relax,” Lyonel cuts in, holding up a hand to silence you. “I’m not saying anything improper is happening.” His eyes flick meaningfully to Dunk, “Yet.”

“Yet...” Lyonel repeats, savoring the word far too much for Dunk’s comfort.

He sets his cup down with a soft thunk and folds his arms over his broad chest, studying Dunk like a commander sizing up a new recruit.

Ser Duncan is desperate to pour himself a little more wine to fill the now empty cups, consciously turning his eyes down to the cup and praying he were able just sink himself into it and be absorbed in the deep red liquid.

“My daughter,” Lyonel starts slowly, thoughtfully, “has always had… excellent taste.”

Dunk stiffens, opening the blue-colored eyes wide.

“In horses,” Lyonel goes on, eyes glinting. “In wine.”

A long pause.

“In men.”

Dunk's face is equally vibrant red as the beverage, close to choking as he drinks yet another big sip of it.

“She doesn’t take just anyone into her confidence,” Lord Lyonel adds casually, far too casually. “Or into her tent, for that matter.”

Dunk nearly drops his cup at that.

You make a small, scandalized sound. “Father!”

The man only smirks. “What? It is true, my love. You’ve never been one for dull company. Just like me.”

He looks back at Dunk, dark eyes sharp and amused.

“My daughter chooses her lovers with care,” Lyonel explains to him, the word heavy with implication. “And she’s never lacked for suitors. Knights, lords’ sons, even a prince or two who thought themselves charming enough.”

Something tight and ugly twists in Dunk’s chest at that.

He hadn’t known that.

He hadn’t wanted to know that.

“I—” He swallows, not knowing really what to say to that exactly. “I’m honored, then, my lord.”

Should he feel honored? Special?

Undoubtedly, Duncan feels anything but those things.

Lyonel studies him for a long beat, noting the obvious way his broad shoulders have sagged, just a little, under the weight of everything he has just said.

Then, unexpectedly, he snorts.

“Hells. You actually care.” A crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “That’s new.”

He gestures vaguely toward the tent opening, deciding the poor knight has been tested enough.

“Go on,” Lyonel urges. “Before I decide your head would look better mounted on one of my bedposts.”

“M’lord”

Dunk does not need to be told twice. He follows you away from the main tent, your personal guard already dismissed, his long strides a little less steady than usual.

“You survived,” you tease softly, glancing back at him with playful eyes.

“Barely,” Dunk admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Your father’s a fearsome man.”

“He likes you,” you say, eyes bright. “That’s worse.”

He laughs, low and nervous. “That so?”

For a heartbeat, he hesitates and then he clears his throat and holds out the small, uneven bundle of yellow flowers, suddenly very interested in the ground at his feet.

“These are for you,” he says, voice rough with sheepishness. “I… I picked ’em myself. They— they reminded me of you.”

Your smile widens at once, warm and teasing.

“How very thoughtful of you, Ser Duncan,” you say lightly, accepting them. “They’re beautiful.”

With your other hand, you reach for his, your fingers slipping easily between his calloused ones, warm and loving.

Dunk swallows, looking down at you in awe.

Pulling his hand, he lets you lead him, because he is not certain his legs would remember how to move on their own.

Dunk stands awkwardly once inside, too big for the space, hands unsure of what to do with themselves.

He doesn’t meet your eyes at first, glancing sideways as you pace around, reaching for a glass of sweet wine from the table, placing down the flowers gently.

“I don’t like thinking of other men looking at you the way I do,” Dunk admits quietly.

Duncan looks like he wants to swallow the words the moment they leave his lips, his large frame tensing as he awaits for your reaction. He feels like a fool—a hedge knight with no lands to his name, begrudging princes and lords their gaze.

You pause, the glass of wine halfway to your lips, and turn to look at him. The golden light filtering through the yellow silk of the tent walls bathes you in a warm, ethereal glow, making you look like the very goddess he sees in his dreams.

“The way you look at me, Ser?” you ask softly, setting the glass down. You take a slow, deliberate step toward him. “Ow, don't tell me you're jealous now”

Dunk’s large hands twitch at his sides, his fingers curling into his palms as if trying to grasp for a composure that has completely abandoned him. He looks down at his boots, then up at the yellow silk ceiling, doing anything to avoid that knowing, astute gaze of yours.

“Your father is right. You have excellent taste, and,” he gulps down nervously when you look up at him like that, as you face him standing right in front of him. “I… I’m just a man who happened to be tall enough for you to notice.”

You reach out, your fingers feather-light as they brush against the back of his hand. Dunk flinches at the contact, but he doesn't pull away; instead, he turns his hand over, his palm catching your delicate fingers.

“Is that what you still think?” you ask, stepping so close that the charcoal silk of your skirts rustles against his legs. “That I only noticed you because you’re tall? There are plenty of tall men in Ashford, Duncan.”

Certainly not as tall or as handsome as him, though.

Dunk’s breath hitches. His hand, so much larger than yours, trembles as he raises it to your face. He hesitates for a second, his thumb hovering just over your cheekbone, before he finally finds the courage to touch you. His skin is warm and calloused, a sharp contrast to the smoothness of yours.

He sighs tremulously, gathering the courage he requires to look you in the eye and utter a reply, it's so hard when you are gazing at him with such longing.

“I know,” he whispers, his voice thick and vibrating with a sudden, raw intensity, his breath catching as you slide your hand up to the nape of his neck, your fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his skull. “I know there are other men—”

You rush to interrupt him, denying with your head, “There are no other men.”

You tug gently, pulling his head down. Dunk obeys instantly, his body acting on instinct, his large hands coming up to hover uncertainly at your waist. He looks at your lips with a hunger that makes your stomach flip, yearning.

And then you lift your other hand, bringing the cup of wine to his mouth so he can take a drink.

Dunk blinks, startled for a second, and then leans down just enough to obey like the good boy he is. The rim of the cup brushes his lips, and he takes a slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours. The wine stains his mouth darker, and you can’t help noticing it, the way his breath comes a little heavier afterward.

After that, you take a small sip yourself, savoring the delightful taste of the wine and also the taste of his lips at the spot where he touched the rim of the glass.

“There,” you murmur, alluringly licking your lips under his attentive gaze. “For courage.”

Dunk’s pupils dilate until his eyes are as dark as the blackberry wine he just tasted. He watches your tongue dart out to catch a stray drop on your lower lip, and the wet sound he makes is half-groan, half-prayer.

“I don’t think I've ever lacked for courage, my lady,” he rasps, his voice trembling as his hands finally find purchase on your waist. His fingers are so long they nearly meet at the small of your back, pulling you flush against the solid, warm wall of his chest. “I’m going to do something very stupid.”

He leans down, his forehead coming to rest against yours and you're truly surprised by his sudden boldness.

“I certainly hope so, Ser Duncan,” you whisper back and then, you reach up, your fingers tangling deeper into the thick, sun-kissed hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him that final agonizing inch down.

Dunk kisses you with a desperate, honest hunger, his large hands sliding up your back to cradle your head, holding you as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

The kiss is heavy, unpracticed, and utterly devastating. Duncan groans into your mouth, a low, animalistic sound that rattles through your chest.

And his strength is staggering. As he pulls you closer, your feet nearly leave the ground and with a boost from all the pent-up desire you've been repressing, you hop onto his body, climbing him like a mountain.

Dunk’s breath hitches in a sharp, jagged gasp as your weight settles against him. His hands, previously hesitant, now slam against your thighs to hold you in place, his fingers digging into fancy silk with a desperate grip, your legs wrapping around his waist with the same desperation his hands reach through your skirts, groping for your skin.

You don't give him a chance to breath as he walks backwards, towards the large, fur-covered bed.

You trail a line of biting kisses along his jaw, moving toward the sensitive skin of his ear, while your hands frantically work at the laces of his doublet.

And you kiss him again. As you deepen the kiss, the distinct, refreshing scent of mint rises from his skin at the base of his neck, driving you even wilder.

Once he is seated on the edge of the bed, with you straddling him, Dunk helps you, his big, calloused hands far less coordinated than yours as he tugs at his own clothes, desperate to shed the layers between you.

And when his upper body is bare for you, you can't help but gaze at him with your breath quickening and your lips slightly parted. You can feel yourself getting so wet as you feast your eyes on his big pecs and those stomach muscles, with hairs curling on his chest. Your eyes drift down, taking in his abs, your mouth watering at the sight of that little happy trail down his belly, leading to his prominent erection hiding under his pants.

There's no reason to waste any more time when you have him right there. You push him down onto his back, arching slightly as you bend down, covering his chest and stomach with hot kisses.

“I–I've dreamt of this,” He pants, his voice cracking into a small mewling sound that crawls up his throat when you press a sweet kiss right over his heart. “Every night since the river, the night at the tent… I thought— I thought I was losing my mind.”

His hands, so big and eager, grasp your backside, pressing you down against him.

“It is not a dream,” you assure him, raising yourself up just enough above him to be able to whisper in his ear. “You have me right here to take, my love.”

He may feel that he could cum just from the way you pronounce the term of endearment, and how your teeth catch his earlobe in a nibble that teases the edge of pain, tugging at it playfully, proving to him that he indeed was not dreaming.

Duncan fumbles with the amber silk ties of your gown, his breathing coming in harsh hitches.

When the fabric finally gives way, revealing your shoulders and the swell of your breasts, Dunk freezes for a heartbeat, his eyes wide with a worship that borders on the sacred.

He seems to have forgotten how to breathe. His hands tremble against your skin as the gown falls, baring your shoulders beneath the golden light of the tent. Taking advantage of his stunned silence, you lean forward, letting your hair brush over his bare chest before drifting up to his neck.

“You smell so fucking good, Dunk…” you whisper against his warm skin, your warm breath sending a shiver like lightning down his spine. “Is it mint?”

He is red-faced and breathless, lifting his chin to grant you full access to his neck, “A–aye, I thought you'd like it”

“I love it,” you recognized, pleased.

You trail your nose to the hollow of his collarbone, where the mingled scent of mint and man is strongest.

It is not enough for you to only breathe him in; you let the tip of your tongue glide slowly, drawing a wet, burning line from the base of his throat up to the shell of his ear. You taste the salt of his skin, the raw trace of desire that seems to rise from every one of his pores.

The man lets out a broken groan, his head falling back against the furs of the bed as his fingers dig hard into your thighs. He feels as though he might come apart only from this alone.

Your tongue keeps exploring, licking with deliberate wetness along the tense muscle of his neck, marking your claim upon that colossal body that now feels entirely yours under you.

“Seven hells…” he pants, his voice fracturing as all semblance of composure deserts him.

Your lips find the frantic thrum of the pulse in his neck, and you suckle softly at the skin before dragging your tongue once more over the mark you are leaving through his skin. He arches beneath you and you can feel him throbbing, pressing up against your inner thigh.

“Do not stop, f–fuck—” he pleads, the words thickening into a low roar as his hands slide up your back to crush you against him. “Please, love… don’t stop.”

A playful, wicked curve touches your lips as you pull back just enough to look him in the eye.

“Love...” you relish the word as if you were relishing him.

Duncan is sprawled across the bed, looking up at you with glassy eyes, “Is it okay? I don't intend to cross...”

“Shhh...”

With a flirtatious smile that promises both heaven and hell, you reach for the loosened laces of your bodice.

You don't take your eyes off him for a second, savoring the way his breath hitches as you shrug the amber silk from your shoulders. The gown slides down your curves in a soft hiss of fabric, passing down around your hips until you sit before him in nothing but the golden glow of the tent.

Dunk’s mouth hangs open, his throat working as he tries to swallow the sudden dryness there, taking in the breathtaking sight of you bare upon him.

Your hands do not hesitate to reach for his breeches, tugging playfully at the waistband. Without breaking eye contact, you pull them down his legs; as you do, his manhood leaps free from its confinement, so big, leaking, and utterly desperate for you.

“What do you do to me those dreams of yours, Duncan?” you ask, your fingers tracing a slow path up his thick thighs, grazing the sensitive skin with the sharp, teasing edge of your nails.

“In my dreams…,” he rasps, his hoarse voice fracturing into a small, broken moan as he feels your fingers drumming against his skin, inching ever closer to his leaking cock. “I–I dream of your heat, and— and of the sounds you might make when I finally find my way inside. And of how I ruin you for everyone else.”

As you look up to him, Dunk’s pupils are blown so wide they swallow the blue of his eyes, leaving only a dark, shimmering hunger.

And then, your fingers finally close around him, firm and knowing, he let out a choked, desperate whimper.

You shift your weight, sliding down his body until you are kneeling between his thighs. The smell of him, raw and masculine, is overwhelming, mixed with the sharp scent of the mint on your own breath.

“Then ruin me, Ser Duncan.”

You don't hesitate; you lean forward, taking him into your mouth with a deliberate, slow suction around the tip that makes his pretty eyes roll back in his head.

“Fuck—” he cries out, his hands slamming down to grip your hair and guide you as your pretty lips attempt to swallow his head.

You take him deeper, your tongue tracing the length of him, savoring his salty taste through his leaking seed.

Dunk’s hips buck off the furs, his breath hitching into a series of broken, jagged sobs as you work him with skilled movements of your tongue and mouth. Your own moans vibrating around him as you take him deep in your throat.

“I cannot…” he groans at that, his fingers tighten in your hair as the world begins to dissolve around him. “I can’t hold, love… p–please…”

He thrusts his hips upward with a sudden, desperate strength, driven by a lifetime of repressed longing. You don’t pull back; instead, you use your hands to steady his thick thighs and take him even deeper, your throat tightening around him in a way that sends him over the precipice.

You feel the hot, heavy pulse of him against your tongue, the salty heat of his release flooding your mouth as he spills himself down your throat. So much that you struggle a little bit to swallow it all.

When you finally pull back, a thin, milky thread of him still connects with your plump lips.

Looking down at you from above, his eyes clouded with pleasure, Dunk feels his cock twitching, hardening once more at the overstimulating, overwhelming sight.

He reaches down with a trembling hand, his thumb catching the stray drop at the corner of your mouth, before slowly tracing his finger in between your lips, refusing to let any of him be lost anywhere but in your throat.

You eagerly suck on his finger, swallowing everything he gives you as if it were the finest wine.

“Come here,” he commands gently, his voice so hoarse, guiding you as you climb over his body so he can draw you closer and claim your mouth in a sloppy kiss, tasting himself on your lips.

You reach up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, still tasting the lingering scent of mint on his skin.

“My father was lying, you know?” you confess, your thumb brushing over his cheekbones, tracing away a few drops of sweat off his flushed skin. Your tone is light, but your eyes are serious. “When he said all that about me having so many lovers.”

Dunk’s hand, which had been idly stroking your back, freezes. His eyes go wide, the blue returning to them as the pupils finally contract. “You mean… there weren't… princes? Lords?”

“Oh, there were suitors,” you laugh softly, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the tip of his nose. “Dull, preening men who bored me to tears. But there were no lovers, Dunk. Not until a certain a big hedge knight sneaked into my tent.”

You watch the realization wash over him, the way his shoulders lose their tension, the way a flush creeps up his neck.

Your mouth find his once again. “I wanted you to know. I didn’t want you carrying that in your silly head.”

Duncan breathes heavily, resentfully patting your ass with his palms. “You Baratheons are wicked.”

Your cheeky laugh warms his bones.

“Needed something to happen so I could finally do this.”

He kisses you, needing nothing more, crushing you against his body in a tight embrace, “You didn't need to do anything. You always had me ”

Whatever catastrophes could arise, he knows that none can be as devastating as this storm. You.

He's tall, the tallest man you've ever seen. You wouldn't be surprised if he could touch the ceiling of the tent if he raised his hand.

Who is he? You ask yourself over and over, wondering if you've ever seen that face and those eyes before.

But you're sure that if you had seen him, you would never forget his name.

It doesn't take long for one of your guards to signal him to come to your table, where you are sitting next to your father, quietly watching the other guests celebrate and toast.

When his eyes, reminiscent of the gentlest sea, lock onto yours, it's as if suddenly everything just makes sense. Something clicks in your mind. The reason you are there and he is there that night, is because of each other.

He approaches with uncoordinated, clumsy steps, flashing you a shy little smile before looking at your father and giving you both an awkward little bow with his head.

He is munching noisily on a piece of pastry he is carrying in his big hand. He smiles at you once more, visibly flustered and visibly quite hungry.

“Have you ever been punched in the face before?” your father asks him for no apparent reason, studying him carefully.

You shoot him a disapproving look, gently shaking your head in embarrassment.

“I beg—” the tall gentleman responds, his voice laced with a noticeable stutter, forcing his eyes to move away from your beautiful face and look at the Lord sitting in front of him, clearly confused, “I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”

He does knows your father. That surprises you, since judging by the worn-out clothes he's dressed in, the messy state of his hair, and the ravenous manner in which he's devouring his slice of cake as if it were the first meal he's had in days, you suspect he's not a man of noble lineage. However, he's not uneducated, at least. So he must know you too.

“Big men get punched more than little men,” Lord Lyonel calmly explains, twirling his treasured dagger on his fingers, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the newly arrived man. “Did you know that?”

“He's just messing with you, Ser,” you join the conversation, looking up at him again, your eyes scanning his face, his strong jawline, his pretty lips, his sharp nose, and his bright blue eyes. You could get lost in them, you fear. “He likes to mess with people.”

“I... I meant no disrespect, Ser, my lady,” the man apologizes anyway, lifting his free hand in a gesture of appeasement, “honest.”

“What have you brought me?” your father still asks back like a spoiled little child, in a dull tone of voice.

“Um... uh, Ser, I...” the big man clears his throat, his face reddening as he catches your gaze fixed on him. “I beg your pardon. I... I didn't realize—”

“You wish to curry my favor some. Yet you come with an empty hand. Lord Cafferen, the smug cunt in red...” You sigh softly as you hear Lord Lyonel start to explain, gesturing toward the drunken man dancing a few steps away from your table, “...he is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinied up this... bauble from his family's cellars, for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head. You've come for my head, then.”

“W–What? No!” the blond man vehemently denies, vigorously shaking his head. “N–no”

“Then, why the fuck are you in my tent?” your father demands to know, his tone thick with impatience as he points at him reproachfully.

That's your call.

“He's my guest, father,” you interject before the unknown man can say a word, smiling innocently at your father, who frowns as he turns to look at you, skeptical. “I told him he did not need to bring you a gift because he is my friend. My special guest.”

Then you turn your head, slowly, intentionally and your eyes find his again, those big, ocean-blue eyes. You lift your chin slightly and give him a complicit, gentle smile.

Your eyes sparkle with complicity and a hint of danger.

And the blond man almost drops the pastry at that. 

His ears burn red instantly, and his mouth opens as if he means to protest—to deny it, to correct you, to say he’s no one special at all really—but no sound comes out. Your smile steals the words right out of his throat.

Your father’s sharp eyes flick from your face to the man's towering form, lingering there longer than comfortable. His dagger stills in his hand.

“Your… friend,” he repeats slowly, tasting the word like it might be poisoned.

“Yes,” you answer easily, still smiling, still holding the giant man's gaze. “My friend.”

“I've never seen him before in my life,” Lord Lyonlel replies in an exasperated tone, not quite believing your words. “How can he be your friend, my dear?”

“I met him today,” you explain, nodding your head, “and I wanted to introduce him to you at tonight's feast.”

Lord Lyonel lets out a thunderous laugh that makes the wine glasses on the table rattle. The sound, rough and unexpected, seems to slightly deflate the tension in the knight's broad shoulders.

“You met him today and he's already a 'special guest'?” Lyonel stops playing with his dagger and points at Dunk with the hilt. “A dangerous position for a man who doesn't know what to do with his hands when a lady is looking at him.”

The young man blushes intensely, putting the piece of cake on the table and wiping his hands on his clothes. That makes you smile. “I am Dunk, my lord. Ser Dunk.”

“That's ridiculous.” Lyonel nods and cracks a small chuckle. “Ser Dunk from where?”

“He's had enough of your questioning for one night, father,” you snap in a determined voice, standing up with an elegance that contrasts with the awkwardness of the giant in front of you.

You take a step toward Dunk and finally, he has the opportunity, the privilege of seeing you completely, in that beautiful golden dress, that you carry with such elegance and grace as you move. The silky golden fabric has brown and dark details around the shoulders and waist, shaped like branches and flowers, wrapping around your body like he'd want to with his hands.

The difference in height is almost comical; you have to tilt your head back to hold his gaze, but you don't hesitate to do so. You are bold, fierce, and dangerously gorgeous, the most gorgeous thing he has ever seen. And that has Dunk gasping for breath.

“Ser Dunk,” you say his name so sweetly that he thanks the Gods for being named that way. You extend your hand toward him. “Do you like dancing?”

Dunk looks down at you, utterly dumbfounded. He can feel your father's gaze on him, and perhaps that of every man in the tent, eyes full of jealousy. 

He holds your gaze as he takes your hand very gently, as if he were handling the most delicate and precious thing in the world. “Doesn't everyone, my lady?”

A small, sly smile appears on your lips at his response. You got what you wanted.

Dunk holds your hand so reverently that it almost seems as if he fears you might faint if he squeezes a little harder as he guides you to the center of the tent.

“That's the right answer, Ser,” you reply with a twinkle in your eye. “Although I fear those lords out here think 'dancing' means stomping on my feet while bragging about their castles. I hope you are... different.”

Dunk swallows loudly, feeling the heat of your skin against his, his fingertips sparking warm sparks across the back of your hand. “I... I'm very big, my lady. My feet are like bloody boulders. I wouldn't want to...”

By the Seven's will, you are praying in your mind that it will be as big as his whole being.

“Oh, do not concern yourself with that,” you interrupt him, giving him a gentle but firm tug to pull him closer to you, giving him more confidence and allowing you to lower your voice to a more confidential tone, “If you step on me, I will have an excellent excuse to force you to carry me around camp until I heal. Does that not seem like a fair deal to you?”

Dunk lets out a kind of gasp, a mixture of nervous laughter and amazement, while his cheeks turn a shade of red that would rival the Lannister banners. The idea of carrying you across the camp seems to leave him speechless for a second, caught between the panic of hurting you and the wonderful mental image of holding you in his arms.

“That would be... scandalous, my lady,” he manages to say, though his eyes sparkle with charming shyness, “And I doubt your father would allow me to make it to the third tent before declaring that my head would look better on a pike.”

“Then I suggest you be careful,” you wink at him, guiding his big hand to your waist.

Despite his evident nervousness, Dunk moves with a surprising lightness for a man of his size. At first, his movements were stiff, as if he were a wooden puppet, but your gentle guidance and the way your fingers caress his shoulder helped him find the rhythm of the lute and drum.

“Actually...” he begins, bending his head so that his voice is drowned out by the clamour of the feast and only audible to you, “my name is Duncan, my lady. Though everyone calls me Dunk.”

“Duncan,” you repeat, savoring the syllables. “Now that's a name fit for a knight.”

“I’m no knight,” he murmurs. “Not really. Not yet.”

He ducks his head slightly, embarrassed, and you notice how long his lashes are when he does.

“I have to thank you,” he whispers just after, guiding you in a slow turn that takes you even further away from the main table. “For what you did just now. With Lord Lyonel. You saved me from... well, I don't know exactly what, but I'm sure it wasn't going to end well for me. Lying to your own father for a stranger... that's a kindness I don't deserve.”

“Lie?” you ask, raising an eyebrow with feigned innocence. “I didn't lie, Ser. I said you were my friend. And friends we are, are we not?”

His thumb brushes, almost unconsciously, against the fabric at your waist—an accidental touch that makes him stiffen, terrified he's overstepped.

“I... I'd like that,” he finally says, softly. “Being your friend, I mean.”

“You dance better than you let on, friend,” you remark lightly, glancing up at him.

He snorts quietly. “I’ve danced with horses more than people, if I’m honest.”

You laugh—a clear, bright sound—and his mouth curves into a grin so wide and unguarded it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. It transforms his whole face, softening the sharp lines, making him look younger somehow, softer.

He guides you through another turn, his grip firmer this time, and when you return to him, you're closer than before. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body through the layers of fabric. And certainly close enough to have you yearning for him. Dunk yearns for you as well.

Step after step, the movements grow easier, more natural. You begin to feel the strength in his frame—not stiff, not clumsy, but controlled, careful. Every time he spins you, it’s with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. Every time you come back to him, he catches you like it’s the most important thing he’ll ever do.

You notice eyes on you then.

Lords watching with narrowed gazes. Ladies whispering behind their cups. Envy, curiosity, scandal simmering quietly at the edges of the feast.

“Everyone is looking at you,” he notices as well, gazing down at you, his fingers lightly squeezing your hand. “And they all want to kill me.”

You slowly shake your head, flashing a playful smile at him. “Everyone is looking at you, Ser Duncan”

He blinks at that, clearly unconvinced, but before he can argue, the music begins to slow. The drums soften, the lute draws out the last lingering notes, and the dancers around you start to drift apart, clapping and laughing as the song comes to its end.

Reluctantly, Dunk lets the final step settle.

His hand lingers at your waist a second longer than necessary—still proper, still careful—before he seems to remember himself and draws it back, clearing his throat.

“That was…” he searches for the word, brows knitting together, “…very nice.”

You smile at him. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”

His lips twitch. “I meant it as the highest praise I know, my lady”

You laugh softly, mercifully sparing him from your teasing for a moment.

“Come,” you say, slipping your hand back into his without ceremony. “You’ve earned a proper meal.”

You have a keen eye for detail, but you don't have to make much of an effort to figure out that he doesn't fit in a place like this. He doesn't exactly come from a wealthy background, and he's probably not used to feasting like this. So, you're delighted to urge him to enjoy the occasion.

You lead him toward one of the tables, weaving easily through the crowd as servants move to refill platters and cups when they see you approaching.

Dunk follows half a step behind you, still holding your hand. He looks so out of place at your side, standing like an looming tower of shadow behind you.

His big body next to yours is definitely arousing you. But you have to be careful. There, under the watchful, treacherous, and envious eyes of others, you can only hold his hand. You'll be able to do more when it's just the two of you. Soon, you hope.

You stop near a table heavy with food and gesture grandly.

“Eat,” you command lightly. “Before you faint and cause a scandal, Ser.”

Ser Duncan hesitates. “Are you sure, my lady? I wouldn’t want to take—”

“Oh hush,” you interrupt him as you have already done several times that evening, already reaching for a piece of bread and pressing it into his hand. “I insist. If you faint in the middle of my father’s feast, it will be terribly embarrassing. For him.”

“Thank you,” his voice drops sheepishly. “Truly.”

He eats then—careful at first, then with more confidence once he realizes no one is about to drag him away or punch him in the face. You watch him with amusement, resting your elbow on the table, chin in your palm.

“So,” you begin casually, “did you truly come here just for the food? Since you don't intend to assassinate my father, I see.”

He swallows, then smiles softly. “At first, yes. I was looking for someone.”

You raise an eyebrow, already anticipating his answer, “and now?”

He meets your gaze, steady despite the nerves. “I found something much better.”

Dunk seems to realize, a second too late, just how boldly that might sound.

“I—” he starts, then stops, color flooding his face again. He hastily wipes his hands on his trousers and straightens, suddenly reduce to nothing but nerves and babbling. “Forgive me, my lady. That was… forward. I didn’t mean to presume. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and I— I shouldn’t speak as if I had any claim to your attention.” He bows his head slightly, earnest to the point of pain. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

He is truly pathetic. And you love it.

You hum softly, amused.

“If you truly overstepped, Dunk,” you reassure him, “I would have told you already. And I would have had you kicked out of here.”

He looks up at you then, searching your face as if afraid he’s misread everything.

“And,” you continue, your thumb brushing against his on the table, tantalizingly, you bite your lower lip, “I don’t think honesty is something that needs apologizing for.”

His breath leaves him in a slow exhale. “You’re very generous.”

“No,” you correct, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “I’m very aware.”

Dunk looks at you as if stars were hanging from your hands, as if your eyes held the light of the sun itself, with every blink of your eyelashes bringing a beat of his heart. He looks at you with the closest semblance of true love you will ever encounter in your life.

It's hard to believe. The way you have bewitched him, body and soul, and he has barely known you since just today.

“I didn’t expect…” He stops, frowns slightly, then tries again. “I didn’t expect to be seen.”

Your expression softens.

“You’re very hard to miss, Ser Duncan,” you confess, very gently.

You don't think twice about reaching out and brushing some of the flour off his knuckle. The contact is brief, polite... and yet he remains perfectly still, not daring to breathe.

“Do you think I have any chance of making it through the tournament?” he blurts out all of a sudden, looking at you like he’s mesmerized.

“Well,” you say, reaching out and tapping his chest with one finger, right over his heart, “that simply won’t do.”

He blinks. “M-my lady?”

“You cannot die,” you inform him matter-of-factly, as if stating an obvious truth. “Not now. You can't hesitate.”

His blond brows knit together. “I— I beg your pardon?”

You lean a little closer, lowering your voice, playful but firm. “I only just met you today, Duncan. It would be terribly rude of you to go and get yourself killed before I’ve properly decided what to do with you.”

His mouth opens. Closes. His ears turn red again. He blushes like a love-struck boy.

“That’s… that’s not how death works,” he breathes out after, weakly.

You smile wider. “You’d be surprised how persuasive I can be.”

He laughs then—really quiet, disbelieving, warm. “I’m not worth bending fate for, my lady.”

That makes you still.

Your teasing fades, just a little.

“Don’t say that,” you murmur. “You’re worth more than you think. And besides—” your eyes sparkle again, mischief returning, “—I would be quite cross if the first man who ever danced properly with me decided to get himself skewered.”

Dunk swallows hard. “I’ll try not to.”

“No,” you correct gently. “You’ll succeed.”

Your father’s voice carries across the big tent, calling for you, and you know you cannot linger much longer with your newest whim. Your new craving.

You straighten, smoothing your dress and Ser Duncan watches you stand, gazing at the way the torchlight catches in your hair, the gold of your dress glowing like something unreal.

“I must go,” you announce softly.

Dunk’s smile falters—not fully, but enough for you to notice. He sets his plate aside, suddenly very sad.

“My lady,” he calls for you, then hesitates, with his hands half-curled at his sides. “Will I… will I see you again?”

There it is. The question he’s been holding back all night. The kind of revelation you've been eager to hear from him since you first saw him.

You tilt your head, pretending to consider it, entertained by the sight of him squirming just a little.

“Well,” you say slowly, eyes dancing between his lips and his eyes, gleaming with shameless desire, “that depends.”

“On what?” Dunk asks, hopeful and terrified.

You lean in closer, just enough that only he can hear.

“You survive the tournament,” you whisper. “And I’ll consider it a personal favor.”

You raise your hand, now bolder, without fear, and brush a lock of his bronze hair off his forehead, a brief touch that makes him flinch like a puppy desperate for affection.

“I don’t make promises to dead men, my sweet knight”

“Then I’ll live,” his breath catches. “I swear it, my lady.”

“I’ll find you, then,” you promise. “Good night, Ser Duncan.”

“Good night, my lady.”

You don’t look back as you return to your father’s side.

Dunk presses a hand to his chest, right where you tapped him earlier, and lets out a shaky breath.

He is no one. He is dirt and brutish. You are silk and grace.

You are golden and he is brown.

And yet you said ‘I’ll find you’.

The thought burns.

The first time he did it, the shock stole the breath from your lungs. Because how could you possibly imagine that your sweet, gentle, and innocent lover would like to spit on you like you were some kind of spit bucket?

He loves to do it, takes a slow, deliberate pleasure in it. He loves to let his spit drip onto your body, loving the sight of it sliding down your skin, covering it like an emblem of his own.

Don't get him wrong, he absolutely loves finishing on you too, but there's just something so hot about seeing the glistening droplets of his saliva on your gorgeous body, gliding in between the folds of your pretty cunt, all wet, making it extra slippery for him.

Because, by the Seven, you have to be really well lubricated to take him all the way in.

That's his usual excuse.

“Ow—love, t–there you go,” he would mumble from behind you, spreading your buttocks open to get a proper angle to spit right on the spot where the bulbous head of his cock presses into the folds of your throbbing opening, desperate to swallow him inside. “I know you can do it, you always can—just need a little more wettin’, hmm?”

The sheer nastiness of it makes your toes curl and he watches with hooded eyes as he spits again, the moisture glistening on the fat, leaking head of his cock before he guides himself inside you, stretching you out so much that it squeezes the air out of your chest, feeling him even in every breath you take.

“S–see?” he coos, one of his big hands palming and kneading the flesh of your arse appreciatively, fucking deeper into you. Your tight heat wrapping around his whole length has him seeing stars everytime he closes his eyes. “You're so brave for me—oh fucking hells...”

Oh, he's so nasty!

His favorite place to fuck you is right there the grass, as you might expect. He has you lie down on his own tunic, still damp with sweat after he's been chopping wood all morning. The sun is only just peeking out in the east when Dunk is already making you finish for the third time.

“Look at me,” Dunk grunts, and how could you possibly disobey his commands when he’s fucking you so good? “Open your mouth for me—mhm, just like that.”

He licks his lips, a twinkle of sly mischief crossing his features as he leans closer to you. You see how moisture builds up in his mouth as you blink your eyes, forcing yourself to concentrate on him and not on the fact that his cock rubs up against your ribs every time he bottoms out.

Then he lets the drool glob fall out of his mouth and into yours, his eyes squinting as he watches in awe how you eagerly roll out your tongue to scoop up his spit, not letting anything go to waste.

“That's it...” he praises you, enjoying the sight of you swallowing it down so eagerly. “That's my good girl, so good to me.”

He slides a finger into your mouth now and you are quick to suck on it.

Emerald foliage hugs the silty banks of a winding stream, twisting through the woodlands of Ashford Meadow. The summery breeze that whispers through carries the scent of dew, petrichor, and smoke.

A balmy heat clings to a midday sun, obscured by the occasional wisp of cloud. It splits through the canopy, bathing leaves in shades of gold.

Fluttering wings of a songbird settle against the elm’s outstretched branches, serenading the man beneath it with its twittering lullaby. Sun spills over him, catching upon his dusky-blonde crown.

At its misshapen base, Dunk sits with a pensive brow and a maelstrom of improper thoughts, ones that, if vocalized, would call for the removal of his head.

Situated beside the remains of a snuffed campfire, is you — a princess of the realm, one who seemed unusually content in his presence.

Blood of the dragon, a Targaryen; scion of Baelor, the Hand of the King, Breakspear. Dunk could still scarcely fathom why a princess of the realm indulged in his company.

Careworn hands sit laced together atop his middle, fingers idly drumming against his tunic. His gaze hasn’t left you for several minutes, sheepishly following the soft contours of your features.

A cloak of velvet swallowed you whole, the hue of spilled crimson, billowing beneath the breeze. Draconic embellishments were woven into your gown, hem steeped with mud from your constant traversing.

“You don’t seem worried about gettin’ into trouble, m’lady,” Dunk remarks, comfortably sprawled beneath the tree. “I’m not exactly splendid company.”

Upon your arrival to Ashford Meadow alongside your kin, you had little desire to witness the carnage wrought by blood and blade.

Whilst Valarr demonstrated prowess upon the tournament grounds in the name of House Targaryen, you sought to assimilate amongst the smallfolk. It was a lively tapestry, one that you longed to weave yourself into.

You indulged in the occasional ale, breathed in the crisp air of the Ashford forests, and nimbly evaded the watchful eye of your Kingsguard. For a moment, you simply were — no title, no nobility, just yourself.

Two nights prior, you encountered Ser Duncan wandering the grounds, horse in-tow, wide-eyed and seeking refreshment. Humility was not lost upon him, nor his immeasurable compassion.

It was then that you engaged in conversation, perplexed and magnetized by this hedge knight. He was good; that piety you witnessed drenched his very being.

Goodness was not a commonality found in the realm — it was a rarity, akin to a gemstone hidden amongst mounds of rubble. Duty kept you bound to a life opposite of his; one of rigidity, not a shred of freedom.

“Do not sell yourself short, Ser,” The softness of your cadence wrapped him in silk, with all the sweetness of honey. “I find you to be riveting.”

“Riveting,” Dunk sputters, features ruddy with heat as he shakes his head. “You might find the horses to be a bit more entertainin’.”

“Perhaps,” You mused, chest expanding as you inhaled a gust of dew-laden air. “They are beautiful creatures, are they not? I quite enjoy a morning ride.”

With a stirring of his throat, he sits a little taller, grunting when rough bark cuts uncomfortably into his spine. “Beautiful, I s’pose — pains in the arse, some of them. Pardon my tongue, princess.”

Jovial laughter resonates throughout the grove, easing his embarrassment to a mere lull. He thinks himself to be little more than a prattling jester in your presence.

“Pardoned, Ser,” A teasing lilt spills from your tongue as you exhale, looking upon him with a peculiar softness. “Do you look forward to fighting in the tournament?”

“Of course,” He peacocks, his own facade of confidence bolstered by the timbre in his voice. “I hope to emerge a champion, once it’s over.”

“I am certain that the Gods will favor you,” There is a sweetness to you that he finds compelling; one worth fighting for. “If your heart is true, you shall find victory.”

“You believe that?” Dunk inquires, sitting up properly, forearms perched against his knees. He’s massive even when prone, all thick muscle and stretched limbs, and yet his eyes are exceedingly gentle.

“I do,” Your answer fills him with some sliver of hope. “The realm lacks knights like yourself — serious about your vows, a defender of the smallfolk, and selfless.”

“I am honored by your praise, m’lady,” He wonders what he did to deserve such accolades, but accepts them nonetheless. “You must not know many knights.”

“Not all of them have your heart, Ser Duncan.” Hands smooth over your skirts, an elegant dress that seems far too gaudy for a romp through the woodlands.

Though, it certainly isn’t lightweight, either. The refuge of the elm’s shade provides a needed respite from the growing heat, suffocating you in a gilded cage of velvet and pretty silks.

Whilst you toil in your gowns, Duncan admires the intricate fabrics, the way they contrast with your features, bringing out details he commits to memory.

A lump forms within his throat, cerulean hues tracing over the gracious curve of your throat. The neckline of your garment is trimmed in rubies and opals, flesh unblemished, a canvas of perfection.

Some wicked part of him considers what beauty rests beneath, features flushing with scarlet when he thinks too hard. It’s improper, crass to think of you in such ways.

It is unavoidable.

“Might I ask a favor of you, Ser Duncan?”

The amiable lull of your voice drags him from the brink of mental debauchery, much to his relief. He nearly coughs, straightening where he sits when you address him properly.

Who was he to refuse a princess of the Realm?

If the circumstances were different, he wouldn’t have a choice but to heed your wishes. Dunk’s scramble to adhere to your request made your nose wrinkle in wry amusement.

“Of course, m’lady.” He stumbles to kneel, movements clumsy and unpracticed. The sound of your laughter makes him bristle with embarrassment.

“You needn’t kneel, Ser,” As you rise from the grass, you gesture to the longsword sitting against the elm’s ancient trunk. “Could you teach me?”

Duncan stands, gaze finding the shoddy scabbard shielding Arlan’s sword from the elements. His incredulity is evident, marked by lofted brows and a tense jaw.

“Teach you to fight? Beggin’ your pardon, m’lady, but don’t you have a flock of Kingsguard for that?” Dunk questions, his tone considerate yet gentle.

“I do not wish to become a master-at-arms overnight, Ser — I only ask to know how to hold a blade, handle it, swing it at that wall if I must.” Gathering your skirts, you step towards the tree.

“A Kingsguard could teach you better than I, m’certain.” Persistent, he edges you toward the logical choice. Dunk already feels immense pressure — you’re a Princess, wasting your time alongside his ilk.

“The Kingsguard are of better use protecting my father and uncle,” Nearing the longsword, your gaze traces the well-worn hilt, across steel and silver. “I want you to show me.”

“Your Lord-Father would have my head if he knew,” His tone is somewhat pained, wrought with a tangle of nerves clotted in his belly. “I shouldn’t …”

“I won’t force your hand, Ser,” The graciousness of your smile is enough to make his knees buckle, not an easy feat for a man of his stature. “It was merely a request, one that you can deny.”

“Denyin’ a princess seems a dangerous gamble,” Flustered, his admission prompts you to laugh, shooting him a look. “My apologies.”

“Do you think me so spoiled, Ser Duncan? I would never make any demands of you,” Soft and marrow-deep, your velvety voice sinks into his bones. “You are a good man.”

“You flatter me, m’lady,” Scarlet clings to his features even still, not to be mistaken by the kiss of sunshine. Calloused hands fold together as he clears his throat. “S’pose I could show you a few techniques.”

This sort of defiance did ignite a fire within you.

Your father was a good man; tempered, just, and compassionate. However, all goodness had its limits, and your recent betrothal to a Lannister turned you sour.

If it were your choice, you would’ve favored someone like Ser Duncan the Tall — someone humble, whose penchant for selflessness outweighed ego. There was no charm equal to tenderness of heart.

Strength rests within his hands, firm and taut with years of earnest work, knuckles scraped, digits calloused. Hands that would handle you gently, you were certain.

A pang of molten heat struck violently at your belly as a slew of unholy fantasies invaded your mind like a festering plague. You thought of Dunk — of his mouth, his hands, how he might feel beneath you.

Quietly, your gaze raked over the muscle of his forearms, each layered in a dusting of dusky-blonde hair, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his tunic.

This flicker of desire would prove difficult to extinguish.

“I do not wish for you to think of me as your superior,” It was insistent, your request; simple, you thought. “I am your equal in all measures, Ser Duncan.”

It was difficult to mask the shock he felt, lips parting in surprise. “Well, not in all measures, Princess,” Duncan protested, quieting when you sighed. “Sorry.”

“You must think me privileged for this, but status is sometimes burdensome,” Forlornly, your eyes drifted elsewhere, toward the sky. “For a woman.”

Dunk had spent much of his youth regaled by Ser Arlan regarding the snobbish, spoiled nature of nobility. Princes, princesses, lords, ladies — all of them too vain.

You didn’t strike Dunk as vain.

The longer he stared at you, the more he attempted to understand your desire for liberation, for wanting to hold a blade, or to sleep beneath the stars.

“It isn’t my place to judge, m’lady,” He consoles, blue hues fluttering about, attempting to maintain an element of propriety. “I thought all Targaryens were …”

“Exhaling fire and scorching with fury?” The mirth within your tone was unmistakable, accompanied by another dazzling smile that sparkled beneath the sunlight.

“Some of them,” Dunk shuddered to think of the serpentine Prince Aerion, with a gaze as sharp as razors. “Some are kinder.” A low rumble spread throughout his chest.

Warmth slithered over the back of your neck, tendrils of fire that clung to your flesh. It was soothed only by another wisp of breeze, easing the flame that danced within you.

Silence simmered, creeping between the both of you like ivy, holding with it a veiled tension. Attraction was to be expected — you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, far too ethereal for the likes of him.

Golden sunlight curled across your crown, drenching you in midday embers. It glittered against your smile, a gentle thing, one that regarded Duncan as someone worthy of attention.

“Perhaps I could return at twilight,” It was a brazen suggestion, one that turned his stomach with nerves. It required sneaking off from your tents — again. “If that suffices.”

“Are you certain? Won’t you have to …” Dunk’s rambling ceases when he notices the look you give him; amused, as if he’s said something humorous.

“I am elusive, and I am certain that I won’t be caught,” Your assurances did little to alleviate his worry, but he conceded to you anyway. “Do not fret, Ser Duncan.”

Despite your reassurance, Dunk contemplates all possibilities; if you’re followed, if you’re caught with him alone, if you are questioned in regards to your whereabouts.

Though, he finds a strange sense of serenity in your heartened smile. It reminds him of sunlight striking water at the first sigh of dawn; glittering, bright, and breathtaking. His heart sings at the sight of you before him.

“If you are caught?” Dunk pipes up as you inch toward the woodland, hem catching upon undergrowth with a sense of carelessness.

“Then I will treasure the time that I had with you, Ser Duncan the Tall.” With that, you turn on your heels, your mirthful grin emblazoned on his mind like a hot brand, certain to never leave his thoughts.

Gods help him.

Twilight chases the day away, veins of violet infusing an orange horizon, bringing with it a cloak of encroaching darkness. Stars twinkle overhead, a thousand kisses of a celestial light.

As sunlight wanes into dying embers, Dunk paces beside a crackling campfire, wisps of fire dancing away into a cooler dusk. Sienna blankets emerald glass, casting shadows over the great elm.

Anxiousness gnaws away at his stomach like a beast clawing at a carcass, eating his marrow, leaving only his nerves in the wreckage.

He assumes the worst — you aren’t coming.

Calloused hands perch themselves against his hips, kneading into rough-hewn fabric for a semblance of relief. Every distant stirring of wildlife sends a jolt of fear through him.

Dunk half-expects Prince Baelor to storm through the trees with his white-cloaks like a reaper come to collect his head, but nothing happens. Instead, he’s met with a stretch of endless silence.

It is only when your silhouette moves gracefully through darkness that he eases his pacing.

Gone are your lavish gowns, exchanged for something pretty yet simplistic, a rich violet swathed in your cloak. Any intricate braids are pinned down, and his breath hitches at the sight of you.

A smaller, bejeweled knapsack hangs loosely from your hand, a token of repayment for your unlikely instructor. As you weave through the grass, a warm smile spreads across your features.

“Good eve, Ser Duncan,” Greeted by a comely hearth and his handsome visage, you unclasp your cloak, placing the garment upon a lower branch. “I’ve brought you something.”

He nearly blossoms when you reveal your gift; foodstuffs, his weakness. It’s a colorful array of baked pastries, fresh fruits, and a hunk of cured ham, wrapped carefully in a scrap of fine cloth.

“You didn’t have to,” Dunk mumbles, stomach lurching violently. He eats for two, a man of his indomitable size; he welcomes the meal. “Thank you, m’lady. This is generous of you.”

“Rumor has it that you’ve a penchant for gooseberry cakes,” The lightness of your teasing causes him to blush, and he knows it originated from Ser Lyonel. “I cannot blame you.”

Dunk’s smile is sheepish, wreathed in a tinge of chagrin as he stifles a cough. “Wondered who spread such a rumor,” He sighs, ogling the small tart. “There’s some truth to it.”

Amusingly, he sheds his flustered expression, greedily digging into the food you brought with you. Homemade stew from Fleabottom was his form of a delicacy, and this far surpassed it.

The thick glaze of gooseberry jam floods his tongue, bittersweet as it twists in-tandem with the spongy cake. He’d eaten four of these in Ser Lyonel’s tent yesterday without an ounce of shame.

Your footsteps are feather-light, carrying you through swaying grass as you approach Thunder, one of Ser Duncan’s horses. Fingertips stroke softly along his neck, drifting across chestnut fur to his withers.

“I used to have a horse much like this one, until my cousin impaled it with a sword out of spite.” Anguish layered itself into your tone, lying beneath the surface.

Prince Aerion, Dunk assumes, mouth curling into a frown of displeasure. The thought of someone willfully inflicting harm to an animal with malicious intent turns his stomach with dread.

“I’ve little tolerance for anyone who maims animals,” Dunk utters, swiping at his lips with the back of his palm. The tarts sit heavy in his belly. “Don’t care if they’re royal blood or not.”

“You’re kind, Ser Duncan,” A low exhale billows through your nose, fingers brushing over the horse’s shoulder in continuous motions. “I should hope that you never lose such a sentiment.”

Sturdy hands close around his sheathed longsword, holding it aloft as he comes to stand beside you. He keeps a comfortable berth, but the newfound proximity nearly turns him into a blushing boy.

This time, you’re keenly aware of his gaze and how it shyly flutters about your countenance. Dunk looks at you fondly and with the warmth of someone who sees you, and not shrouded by lust.

“Still wantin’ to learn a thing or two?” His question is as soft as silk, wrapped within the rougher baritone of his Fleabottom drawl.

“If you’re willing, Ser,” Your reply is noninvasive, making no demands of the hedge knight. There is little honor in using your status to make him do much of anything. “I would be honored.”

Dunk clears his throat, gesturing toward the stretch of grass beside the helm, furthest away from the horses and campfire. “We’ll need a bit of room for this. Don’t want you hittin’ the horses.”

Gathering your skirts, you nimbly dance around the fire, setting in the grass as Dunk removes the longsword from its scabbard. It’s no Valyrian steel; it’s worn with age, clunky, but it’s reliable.

He offers it to you, noticing your arms buckle slightly, unaccustomed to the weight of a blade. “Heavier than I thought it’d be.” You murmur, managing to keep it somewhat steady.

“It’s no feather, princess,” Dunk chuckles, politely stepping beside you. He hovers, bulk of his musculature ghosting over you, a thrilling sensation. “If I may.”

The knight goes crimson again, attempting to ignore the closeness between bodies, but he isn’t impervious to the saccharine scent of your skin.

Dunk reaches to adjust your grip, large hands blanketing yours, calloused skin like rough leather over your own. He shudders; you feel like silk, softer than anything he’s touched before.

As he politely moves your hands about the hilt, he steadies you wordlessly, watching as you fix your stance without being prompted.

“Seems you already know a thing about posture,” He marvels aloud, smiling when you laugh. “Have I said somethin’ funny again?” Dunk assumes his antics often amuse you.

“I’ve grown up watching my brother handle sword and shield, and my father. I observe them when I can,” The radiance of your smile is unlike any other. “Perhaps you’ll make a swordsman of me yet.”

Another rumble of laughter shakes his chest, a sound that you aim to hear often, if you can. Firelight licks across his frame, blanketing his features in a sienna glow, embers against blue.

“You’ll want to know how to parry,” Dunk clears his throat, showing you how with a stick he found lying about. “You can try it with one hand, but you’ll want two on the hilt.”

With a nod, you awkwardly mimic his movements, wondering if all knights feel clumsy when wielding a sword. Despite your unpracticed hand, the sense of power you feel is present.

He shows you how to strike with three maneuvers, each different from the last. Swordplay is a foreign concept, one that requires ample practice and patience.

Regardless, you’re a quick learner, but you handle the longsword as if it’s an anchor. It is heavy, forcing exertion from your arms, delicate and untrained.

“Swing up,” Dunk’s instruction is calm, tempered; he sounds akin to a soothing septa instead of a knight. As you follow through, albeit barely, he smiles. “Good girl.”

Butterflies erupt within your belly like a storm, accompanied by a molten heat that is rather unfamiliar to you. Gods, you burn — his words sink like fire into your flesh.

Good girl, he says — you’d like for him to say it again, only with your mouth on his throat.

In turn, Dunk thoroughly revels in watching you handle his tutelage, even if your movements are bumbling and ungainly. You’re beautiful when focused; furrowed brows, curled lip, locks of hair strewn about.

“I cannot imagine practicing this each day,” You confess, muscles already burning from merely bearing the weight of the blade. “How long have you been a knight, Ser Duncan?”

“A sennight,” The softness of his cadence signals honesty; he’s only just been knighted. “I’m no master-at-arms, princess.” He murmurs, brows furrowing together.

“Not all experience measures a fighter. Some of the Kingsguard are shoddy swordsmen, chosen only by status and bloodline,” Your words bring him some comfort, but it’s threadbare. “I think you’re a fine teacher.”

“You’d have better luck learnin’ from your Kingsguard, m’lady,” Dunk murmurs, unwilling to accept such accolades from you. “I don’t know as much as I’d like to.”

“I would rather learn from someone who is currently practicing than from someone who hasn’t in years.” You shrug, lowering the longsword to alleviate the dull ache in your arms.

There is some measure of truth to your words, infused with a wisdom that Dunk takes to heart. He watches as you brace yourself against the sword, tip of steel dug into the earth beneath you.

“Tired already, princess?” A teasing lilt clings to his voice, innocuously harmless as you give him a pointed glance. “Meanin’ no offense, of course.”

“This is more difficult than I thought it’d be,” Heat blossoms over your features as Dunk steps forward to retrieve his longsword. “You all make it seem so effortless — you, my father, my brother.”

“You’ll have to build a bit of muscle,” Without a second thought, his large hand closes around your bicep. When he realizes his error, he jerks away. “M’sorry, I didn’t mean to …”

“You’ve a tender hand, Ser Duncan,” Your words caress his mind like that of a balmy draft, warm and molten as it wraps around him. “For a man of your stature and strength.”

A hitch forms within his throat, countenance ruddy, burning hotter as he shrinks beneath your stare. It is penetrating yet kind, the sort of gaze that would make a man like him collapse to his knees.

“Ser Arlan used to tell me that I was as thick as a castle wall, and twice as stupid,” Dunk fumbles, placing his sword back into its scabbard. “Nothing’s changed.”

“You aren’t stupid nor a fool, Ser,” Despite your consolation, he withers away, lowering himself onto his bedroll with an unceremonious grunt. “You didn’t mean any harm.”

Unconvinced, he sits with his knees drawn toward his chest, appearing larger than before as you sit beside him. Beneath the elm’s flourishing boughs, neither of you say much of anything.

A tenuous quiet falls like a whispered hush through the grove, the only ambiance that of a lively wilderness and the smoldering of the campfire.

Above, the stars paint the horizon with their pale light, a sky uninhabited by dour clouds. It’s crystalline, accompanied by the kiss of a midsummer’s eve and the scent of new life.

“This place is beautiful,” Your voice floats like a distant dream, severing the silence. “Forests like these aren’t common near Dragonstone; not as green.”

“It is beautiful,” Dunk hums in concurrence, and though your eyes fall to the heavens above, he is too preoccupied with staring at you. “Very nice.”

Cringing at the sound of his own voice, words turn to ash upon his tongue, dying within his throat. He wonders how many lords and handsome princes have asked for your hand, or your favor.

Laughter tumbles from your lips, nose wrinkling in wry amusement as you glance at him. Your eyes follow the strong line of his jaw, over days-old stubble, over the crook of his nose.

Dunk meets your gaze, swallowing the slight lump within his throat, regarding you with a thinly-veiled fondness. He tenses when your palm settles against his forearm.

“Princess, I — You shouldn’t,” Floundering in embarrassment, he looks the part of a blushing maiden more than you, endlessly gallant. “You’re …”

“Virtuous,” Silken fingertips trace the muscle of his arm, gaze eclipsed by a blossoming desire. “If I wanted to be with you, would you spurn my advances, ser?”

A weighted shock slams into his chest, a force so sudden that it rips the air from his lungs. Your honor was to be protected, safeguarded; Dunk worried about yours far more than his own.

Yet, your embrace was akin to cold raindrops against his blazing skin; welcomed, refreshing, and gentle.

Gooseflesh coalesced along his spine, accompanied by a tremor that quaked his stomach. In such close proximity, he caught a whiff of your scent; honeyed, the sweetest thing imaginable.

“Aren’t you worried about your station? Worried about your honor? I’m a mere knight, m’lady, I want to do right by you.” Dunk rambles, feeling your hand grace his own, satin stretched over something rough.

“If my honor falls upon you, then I’ve chosen a soft place to land, I cannot think of another more deserving,” The cadence of your voice brings him some comfort. “Damn my station.”

This was your freedom to choose whomever you wanted — and you wanted Ser Duncan the Tall, hedge knight.

“I don’t want to hurt you, princess,” Something rough and heavy slithers into his voice, letting it drop to a deliciously low octave. “I’m not a very experienced lover.”

“We have that in common,” As his hand slips into yours, you press a kiss against his bruised knuckles, over calloused skin. “We can learn together.”

Dunk knows what catastrophe this could bring upon him; ruin, most likely, or perhaps a severed head. Despite this warning, he bends anyway, abandoning caution.

He understands that you’ve a right to choose, just as he is owed a right to deny you — he doesn’t.

In your youth, you often pranced about Dragonstone, stealing kisses from stable boys and starry-eyed noblemen at feasts. There was a curiosity present, and this was the first time you truly wanted to explore.

As if circling a wild doe, Dunk is deliberate as he leans to kiss you, so painfully sluggish that you nearly bridge the gap yourself. Anticipation stirs within you, a spark soon to fester into fire.

Tenderness blossoms where uncertainty withers, and whatever pang of fear you felt ceases to exist. Lips meld together, honey and smoke.

A steady exhale drags through his chest, one of contentment as he climbs down from his own nervousness. His hand shifts, politely grazing the underside of your jaw, the action brief.

“I won’t shatter, Dunk,” Abandoning the usage of lordly dossiers, his name sits on your tongue, wreathed in something cloying. “I promise.”

Dunk takes your words into consideration, shivering as your breath fans across his mouth, like the sigh of summertime. His head jostles in a brief nod before he kisses you again; passionate this time.

Something heady hazes his mind, something feverish as he tilts forward to kiss you fully, feeling your fingers grasp at his tunic. There is nothing forceful, nor harsh — only ardor.

Blanched light pools through the elm’s verdant canopy, blanketing the both of you in silver. Your mouth is akin to silk, something downy to balance his roughness.

When your hands creep toward his collar, Dunk almost leaps at the contact, palm cupping your jaw. Each kiss bleeds into the last — less restrained, and steadily growing comfortable.

Within his kiss, you find yourself flourishing, shedding the shackles of duty and embracing a newfound calm. His thumb slowly circles your cheek, tender as ever.

The rigidity of his posture begins to unfurl, limbs loosening as he settles against his bedroll, heart beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings.

He inhales when you slink closer, feeling the curve of your breasts press into his chest. It is then that you brazenly surge forth, climbing into his lap without hesitation.

Dunk agonizingly recalled the last time he’d touched a woman; many moons ago, a brothel worker bought by Ser Arlan. It was a sour recollection of events — clumsy hands and a clumsier bedding.

You were no harlot; you were of royal blood, dragon’s blood.

Emboldened and driven by the hum of excitement, you find yourself in the knight’s lap, spread over thick thighs as your kiss crawls to a simmer.

“You are exceptionally handsome,” Your amiable lull is beguiling to him, body pliant and waiting beneath velvet garments. “You’ve the bluest eyes of anyone I’ve seen.”

Heat licks along his spine as he basks in your compliments, feeling a pang of foolishness when he realizes he hasn’t paid you the same favor.

“You’re beautiful,” Dunk gathers his bearings, stifling a throaty groan as your hips adjust against him. Mortification courses through his veins when he realizes he’s already hard. “The sort of beauty one might sing about.”

Smitten, you do little to mask your enamorment, fingertips gathering along the nape of his neck. “Are you going to write a song about me, Ser Duncan?” Your tone is coy, a touch playful.

“I just might, princess.” He rumbles, gazing up at you as if you’re a goddess come to claim him. Dunk’s hands cup your hips with a burst of confidence, stare half-lidded as caresses your curves.

Enraptured, he watches as your hands abandon his throat, reaching down to ruck up your skirts, listening to the hitch in his chest.

Plum-colored velvet pools around the swell of your hips, fabric settled in an unceremonious heap. It is you that kisses Dunk again, infused with a fiery passion that he gladly chases.

A noise stirs within his throat, a deep sound of satisfaction coupled with desperation. Restraint only tempers his hand for so long until it becomes futile.

Between ambrosial kisses, he meets your doe-eyed gaze, teetering upon the knife’s edge of desire. Surrounded by the teeming shroud of wilderness, your heart echoed his name, an amorous lament.

Mouths softly collide, succumbing to a mutual and burning flame, one that takes you both. He feels your hands tug at his tunic, fingertips dancing across bare flesh.

He shivers when you touch him, likely out of startlement and surprise instead of an earthly chill. Dunk revels in the feeling of your satiny palms caressing at the muscles of his abdomen.

“Dunk,” You sigh against his lips, sweet breath pluming over his features, a wash of sweetness. The tent in his trousers strains urgently against your inner thigh. “My sweet Dunk.”

It isn’t a firm claim you utter, but he would’ve been glad if it were, hand lowering to your thigh. Dunk’s calloused digits settle beneath your skirts, daring to glide over satiny flesh, the first to touch.

“Princess,” His gravelly murmur is so warm, warmer than any kiss of sunlight as he plants a kiss to your jaw. You taste like a dream beneath the pillars of his lips. “I’d like to taste you proper.”

Inexperience did not equate to naivety — you knew what he meant, knew of his intentions.

A tremor of anticipation coiled tight within your belly, warped by an insatiable desire. It was unexpected for you, a virtuous woman, but you did not spurn whatever fantasy he longed to share.

“Of course, if it pleases you.” Your agreement was nearly instantaneous, met with yearning blue eyes and a lackadaisical nod. The knight gestured toward his shoddy bedroll.

“I’m aimin’ to please you, m’lady,” Dunk’s earnestness makes you melt as you lay on your back, lashes kissing the freckled skin beneath his eyes. “That’s all I want.”

The earth cradles you, bedroll nestled above a thatch of spongy grass, and you feel little discomfort as the knight shifts between your legs. His frame is statuesque, forcing your legs farther apart.

It allows you to hold steadfastly to his arms, thick and burly beneath your palms, nails digging playfully into his biceps. As he hovers above you, bulky musculature blanketing you with heat, your lips curl into a smile.

“I do not wish for you to feel any sort of obligation,” It is your turn to become flustered, visibly smitten as you trace your hands along his arms. “Royal blood or not.”

“I want to please you,” The insistence in his husky lull makes your stomach erupt with butterflies. “Would you allow me this?” Dunk asks, tone bordering upon desperation.

With a hurried nod, you feel his mouth press sloppily to the juncture between your throat and shoulder. He kisses you wherever he can, nothing short of reverent and tender.

Gold-skinned and eager, your knight shuffles further down, calloused palms cupping your hips, drawing circles there as his mouth descends upon you.

First, you feel his lips sweetly embrace the crook of your knee, skirts hitched up around your waist. It’s sluggish yet exploratory, savoring you, worshiping you; it’s what you deserve.

Dunk’s rust-blonde crown begins to disappear between your thighs, lavishing your inner thighs in kisses until he finds your cunt. You’re slick already, warm and waiting, all for him.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” He pants like a crazed animal, breathing somewhat labored with excitement. Before you can utter another syllable, his lips are on you like a hot brand.

His tongue softly splits you open, dragging over your clit, able to discern just how aroused you are. A noise emanates from the back of his throat, wanton and deliciously needy.

Strong hands idly caress and squeeze at your hips, grounding himself as he savors your cunt. Dunk is enthralled, and yet he moves slowly, longing to savor your taste.

Bliss ripples through your body in balmy waves, a white-hot buzz that clouds your mind. A soft, keening moan splits your diaphragm, one hand fisting at his ruddy tresses.

The knight unabashedly grunts from the taste of you, hands coming to hook beneath your thighs, resting soundly atop your hips. The muscles in his forearms tighten, caging you in against him.

His broad shoulders bully your legs apart, tongue like embers as he slowly traces your cunt, drinking you in. He hears you moan, say his name, and he’s driven to madness.

“Gods above, Dunk.” Your cloying moan carries through the grove, heady and delighted, thighs tensing against his face. Pleasure sinks into you like talons, sharp and urgent.

Even the finest of stouts could not contest your sweetness, arousal thick upon his tongue, like the nectar of an unfurling flower.

Dunk groans, the gravelly noise shaking his chest, mouth sloppily lavishing your cunt in kisses. He lacks grace and tact, but makes up for it with a ceaseless passion.

It’s as if you might melt into the bedroll, shrinking further earthward, back arched with ecstasy. As molten heat pools between your thighs, Dunk laps at your cunt with great enthusiasm.

He could stay like this for an eternity if you asked him to; begged him to, perhaps. Your body responds viscerally to him, fingers knotted into his tresses, tugging whenever he found a spot that made you writhe.

Pleasure jolts through your body in shockwaves, piercing your belly, slicking between your thighs as your hips urge forward. The friction isn’t unwanted with him; he’s starving, ravenous.

Another barrage of his tongue evokes a moan from your mouth, bubbling from your throat, a blissful crescendo. You fear smothering him, but Dunk welcomes it gleefully.

It is then that he finds the pearl of your cunt, breath heavy and hot as his lips kiss at the clutch of nerves. Your knees shake, a gasp ripping through your windpipe with a suddenness.

Your nerves feel ragged, as if they are scorched with wildfire, burning within Dunk’s embrace. Instinctively, your hips lurch forward, haplessly jerking toward his mouth.

“Sweet girl.” His low, affectionate drawl makes the ache between your legs grow, prompting you to give another tug of his hair.

“D—Dunk,” A throaty, tapering moan escapes your mouth, and then another, and another. His tongue laps dutifully across your clit, repetitive yet driving you to the very brink. “There, there!”

Whatever nervousness he once felt toward your coupling is extinguished, leaving only his affection for you in its wake. Strong hands sweetly caress your thighs, circling beside your hips.

The heavens above glimmer down upon you, cool breeze bringing some relief to the heat of your body. Another ripple of ecstasy oozes through your bones, mouth agape, countenance one of bliss.

Your chest heaves with labored sighs of passion, thighs quivering as his tongue sloppily rakes across your cunt. He stops again at your clit, lips kissing and suckling at the small bud.

You feel it, then; white-hot and incendiary, moving like smoke as it slithers across your body. Release slams into you after the slow crawl, and you almost collapse.

Dunk tenderly takes you through it with loving hands and a gentle mouth, still greedily lapping at your slit. Your taste sits heavy on his tongue, bittersweet and his alone.

The height of your pinnacle fills you with ecstasy, loose-limbed and heady as you settle fully into the bedroll. Your knees tremble, grip loosening against his crown.

Scarlet-faced and aching, Dunk presses a string of warm kisses to your thighs, face lifting from between your legs. Beguiled, he offers you a charmed smile, tongue lashing over his bottom lip.

“Was that alright, m’lady?” Dunk rumbles, attempting to ignore the incessant throbbing that strains against his breeches. “Didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, no,” You soothe, catching your breath as you coax him closer, wanting to cradle his face. “That was wonderful, Dunk. I did not think such pleasure was possible.”

At your bewildered confession, the knight chuckles, visage rather sheepish as he sinks into your embrace. Your silken palms come to cup his jaw, thumbs circling across his face as you urge him closer.

“We don’t have to keep goin’, princess,” Dunk offers, delighted to please you without a care for his own release. “M’happy to lay here with you.”

To his shock, you kiss him, loosing a soft moan when you taste yourself on his tongue. It drives him mad with desire, sucking in a sharp inhale as he reciprocates.

As mouths join in a blistering kiss, he feels your hands dip to his broad shoulders, pushing steadily and without any sense of urgency.

Dunk follows obediently, guided by your heavenly hand until he’s on his back and you’re perched in his lap. Clamoring to straddle him, you sit up, noticing the delight etched into his visage.

“I want to continue, Ser,” Fingertips tease the hem of his tunic, beginning to lift the fabric up. Hurriedly, he moves up enough to peel it off, tossing it aside. “As long as you wish the same.”

“Aye, I — Yes,” He fumbles, bristling with excitement as he feels your lips press against his throat. A poignant groan bubbles through his throat, hands settling over your hips. “You’re beautiful.”

Dunk sits contentedly beneath you, shivering as your digits caress across his chest, over a light layer of hair. He’s well-built, broad — but he isn’t some chiseled statue.

Adjusting your weight, you let your hands drop to the front of his trousers, toying with the laces. Lips meet again in another flurry of kisses, fingers tugging until the linen loosens.

Freeing his cock, you nearly gasp at the sheer size of him, stomach pierced by the icy stab of fear. You’ve never seen a man unclad before, and he can hear the audible hitch in your throat.

“I’ll be gentle, promise,” Dunk assures you immediately, hands caressing along your spine. He plants a soft kiss to your jaw, nose nuzzling into your satiny skin. “Wouldn’t dare hurt you, princess.”

“I trust you, Dunk,” Your whisper tapers off into a soft gasp as his cock pulses hotly against your thigh. “You’re so handsome, so perfect.” The sultry lull of your voice makes his cock twitch.

“M’lady …” Flustered, he preens beneath your praise, unaccustomed to hearing such sweetness from one’s tongue. He’s a little tongue-tied, swallowing the growing lump in his throat.

“I want to feel you,” As your plea reaches his ears, he struggles to maintain propriety, resisting the urge to pull you onto his cock. “More than anything.”

“I’m yours,” Dunk does little to mask the desperation, voice frayed and fractured with want. “I’m your man.” His sigh is almost dreamlike, pupils dilated with the shadow of desire.

At that, you lower yourself onto his cock, gasping at the intrusion. He is thick, his girth something to acclimate to. The both of you loose a shared moan, foreheads flush together.

Tight around him, his cockhead splits past your folds, pressing into your cunt. The sensation of him stretching you out makes you moan, hands gripping at his shoulders, nails kissing skin.

“Dunk!” Your moan is piercing, an overwhelming pleasure pierced by the sting of discontent. You dig crescents into the broad, freckled muscles of his shoulders.

He watches as your countenance blossoms into a look of bliss and mingled discomfort, brows furrowing together, lips agape. Dunk bristles, worried that he’s hurting you involuntarily.

“Fuck.” Your hissed expletive is unbecoming of a maiden, and yet you say it anyway. His deliberate entry makes you writhe, soothed by the kisses he presses to your throat.

“Should I stop? Is it — Gods, is it painful, m’lady?” The knight flounders, desire hazing his sensibilities. You feel divine, taking him perfectly, save for the clenched muscles.

“No, do not,” Another sputtered whine slips past your mouth as you remember to breathe, settling further down onto his cock. “Seven Hells, Dunk.”

“Easy now,” Dunk pants, not wanting you to exert yourself so swiftly. It’s the first time you’ve bedded a man — and he isn’t small, by any means. “I’ve got you, sweet girl.”

The use of such an innocuous nickname causes your stomach to pulse with butterflies. You lower yourself further, inch by inch, breath fanning across his face.

Fortunately, the warm slick between your thighs soothes the descent, and you feel him deep; deeper than you expected. A low grunt ripples through him, hands cupping your hips.

It is Dunk’s steadfast hold that guides you, cautiously easing you up upon his cock, and lowering you again. The movement is innately intimate, intended to be pleasurable.

The tranquil hum around you is accompanied by the soft noises of your coupling, with labored breaths and the occasional moan. Your hands reach for his hair, gripping tightly to him.

“Gods, you’re perfect,” Dunk huffs, pressing a warm, sloppy kiss to your mouth. The pace becomes rhythmic, certain; your cunt clenches tight around him. “Slowly, m’lady.”

His warm baritone fills you with comfort, pacifying any worry you might’ve had. Before you can move any faster, you can feel him in your belly, causing you to shiver.

It’s a deep-rooted bliss you feel as you ride his cock, aided by his tender support. He isn’t forceful, never takes more than you want, allowing you to set whatever pace you choose.

Beneath you, Dunk reclines, comfortably sprawled across the tattered bedroll. Cerulean hues gaze at you as if you’ve hung the stars yourself, watching as you take his cock so perfectly.

Something wicked flickered inside of his heart, imagining taking you against the tree, skirts rucked around your hips. When his name slips lasciviously from your mouth, he looses another eager grunt.

He cradles your virtue as if it’s something precious, lips parted, chest expanding with a sharp inhale. Dunk is thoroughly razed, unable to keep from caressing your hips, large hands holding you tightly.

As you sink down onto his cock once more, the pressure becomes less of a sting, it’s natural; you want him again and again.

The lewd, crass union of flesh against flesh joined the ambiance, yet all he could focus on was you — beautiful, radiant you, someone worthy of worship.

You rode Ser Duncan as you would a broken gelding, finding your rhythm, mapping out any awkward motions. It was continuous; up and down, hips rolling forward, hands steady atop his chest.

Unfortunately, Dunk knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

It was as if every nerve was set ablaze, senses drowned by you, submerged within the warmth of your cunt and the mere visage of you. He groaned when your nails dug beside his ribs; a pleasant sting.

“Fuckin’ Hells, don’t stop.” Dunk doesn’t intend to spout expletives in the presence of a lady, but it spills clumsily from his mouth anyway. You seem to like it, mouth twitching into a smile.

“Dunk!” You moan, and the sudden quickening of your pace is dizzying for the both of you. A dull ache radiates throughout your thighs, pulsing within your cunt.

Years without a woman’s embrace made him incredibly sensitive — he’d only ever had it once before. With you, this all felt otherworldly, an ecstasy unlike any other.

When you sink down onto his thick cock once more, his composure is thoroughly destroyed, naught but ash. He says your name; reverent, adoring, and loud.

He spills himself inside of you then, cock throbbing hotly as you rock downward again. Dunk almost guides you off, but the sensation nearly causes collapse as his face screws up with bliss.

It’s a sight that is surely to be emblazoned in his thoughts forever — you atop him, doe-eyed and pliant, your hands stroking his chest.

The peak of ecstasy makes his limbs feel weak, and you begin to still, bouncing another time or two until the both of you cease. It’s hushed; the sort of silence born of a joyous disbelief, reveling in the moment.

As you move off of him, you feel the sting that is sure to be with you for days to come. Yet, you delight in it; your knight did this to you willingly.

“Are you feelin’ well? Nothin’ painful?” Dunk asks immediately, awkwardly attempting to clean himself of the mess he made. Tendrils of his spend are left behind, and he shifts to grab his tunic.

“You are well-endowed,” You muse softly, laying down beneath the stare. “It isn’t what I expected it to be. I’ve been told foul tales of consummation before.”

Flushed, Dunk grabs his flask of water, taking a hearty swig before settling next to you. “I wouldn’t dare harm you,” He murmurs, features ruddy as you curl closer to him. “Couldn’t imagine someone treatin’ you unkind.”

The smile you give him could’ve illuminated a thousand fires, one of sweetness. He is rendered sheepish, reduced to a blushing boy in your presence.

“I wish that I could stay here until the morrow.” There’s a forlorn melancholy in your tone, and as much as Dunk wants you to stay, he knows you’re bound by duty.

“It isn’t morrow yet, m’lady.” Dunk’s low croon causes you to shiver, and you press your body closer, savoring the feeling of being held.

As you lay together beneath the heavens, shrouded by gentle greenery and the arms of your knight, duty suddenly becomes an afterthought.