i was telling @itellyouthisisnottheend yesterday that there's a severe lack of kisses bestowed upon dunk's pretty nose in the spearhedge sphere and she told me i should do something about it. so i've done it.
The warmth of the candlelight reflected off the strong planes of Dunk's face as he knelt there, at his feet, the perfect picture of devotion. He looked almost statuesque, and the image of his knight as one the Seven came unbidden to Baelor's mind. Perhaps The Warrior, showering his blessing upon the strength of his shoulders, the ripple of the muscles in his biceps, his thighs. But then again, he thought, staring at the clear blue sky of his big eyes, that comely face must indeed align with the Maid, the innocence in his regard, the pureness of his intentions. What a brave young man. What a blessing in disguise.
Baelor reached for his face with just his fingertips, reverent as he stroked the youthful skin there. He ought to be the most favoured man in the realm — poised to posses not only all of Westeros, but the most virtuous of its men as well. And what a fine specimen he gazed upon, one who exhaled a trembling breath as his touch wandered, up into the fine strands of hair that fanned across his forehead, revealing a strong brow as Baelor pushed the fair tufts away.
His hand ended up cradling that dear face, rings pushed up against his feverish skin.
"You've made a mess of yourself, ser."
The knight beneath him gulped.
"Took a right tumble around the training grounds, Your Grace."
"I can tell." A smile danced in his voice, whispered at the corners of his mouth.
His free hand reached out to the high table beside his chair, where a cloth rested next to a bowl with fresh water. He dipped the cloth in the bowl, strung out the excess and brought it to Dunk's face.
"Your Grace, there's no need—"
"Hush, now." He huffed and kept working on cleaning his face. Predictable, that Dunk would refuse him, but wasn't it the duty of a liege lord, to look out for his sworn knight, provide him attire and nourishment and weapon, ensure he was cared for?
When he swiped the dirt from Dunk's cheekbone he noticed a blush beneath, and only then realized he'd uttered his last few thoughts aloud. Mirth pushed his lips up once more.
"What say you? Am I not right?"
Dunk looked conflicted, a furrow etching itself between his eyebrows. "You are a most attentive lord, Your Grace. More hands-on than many, I'm sure."
There, finally, a spark of familiarity in the way his eyes softened, the quick quirk of his lips, and heat bloomed beloved in Baelor's chest.
He leaned down, the fingers on Dunk's jaw securing him in place as he brushed a kiss on the bridge of his nose. He heard a surprised noise come out of his knight and assured himself another one as his mouth traveled to the tip of his nose, careful, feather-light.
"I'm pleased this is only something you're sure of and not a fact you are personally privy to."
It was Dunk's turn to snort.
"Please. There's no other lord I'd rather serve, Baelor."
Big, warm hands settled each side of his waist as that fierce blue gaze stared up at him. Devotion, indeed. From this close, Baelor could see the faint freckles that littered his cheeks.
"I'm not sure his grace Aerys would soon free me of the day's dirt by his own hand."
Baelor laughed. The most favoured man, he reminded himself, to be able to laugh freely with his own man, to care for him in the privacy of his own solar, and place a kiss ardently upon his brow, his beautiful eyes, his pillowy lips, and consider himself blessed in the doing.
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