RestInSlices

Dunk didn’t mean to stare. But how could he not?

You were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he watched with rapt attention as you draped yourself—covered only in a thin black nightgown, embellished in gold—across your husband’s lap. Your husband Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm, of all men. Your fingers worked the ties of his trousers, Lyonel’s large hand caressing the back of your neck as you kneel against the pillowed floor seating of the Baratheon tent. Dunk’s mouth has long gone dry, his tongue heavy in his mouth, watching, waiting as your fingers spin the knots free and dip beneath the fabric.

Lyonel groans loudly, head rolling back on his shoulders as you pull his hard cock from his trousers. Dunk watches you bite your lip to hide a smile as you pump him, eyes fixed on the flushed reddy-purple of the head. With a wiggle of your hips, you arch further forward, taking it into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you drop down.

Lyonel groans again, the hand on the back of your neck tightening.

Dunk stands rigid with his back pressed to the closed flap of the tent. He can feel his own cock, heavy and hard, pitching a tent in the front of his coarse cotton trousers. His hands ball into fists at his sides, the muscles in his forearms pulling tight as he listens to the wet sounds of your mouth and the characteristically unabashed moans of the Storm Lord himself.

Lyonel had summoned Dunk to his tent just moments ago. Lord Baratheon requests your presence in his tent, ser, the guard had said with a light nod of his head. And of course Dunk is a man to come when he is called upon.

Lyonel’s head hangs forward now, and he opens his eyes slowly, pupils wide. They lock on Dunk, who stares back with his mouth agape and a lurid flush across his cheeks. Lyonel just smiles, the points of his teeth flashing, before he was using his hold on the back of your neck and shifting your line of sight towards the tent flap, his cock still deep inside your mouth.

“Here’s our knight, little doe,” Lyonel breathes softly, petting the back of your head. You moan around his cock, watery eyes finding Dunk’s with a silent plea that has the giant man’s cock jerking within his breeches. Lyonel hums, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment before they open, and he was looking Dunk up and down. “He’s a big lad, isn’t he?”

You moan your agreement around his cock again, your fist gripping the base in short, jagged strokes. Dunk can’t maintain the heaviness of Lyonel’s eye contact, and his eyes drop to watch the stretch of your mouth and the shine of spittle coating the lord’s cock.

He can’t speak. An invisible hand has seized his throat.

“Must I extend a formal invitation?” Lyonel utters, leaning back against the floor-level chaise with one arm stretched across the back. That arm raises two fingers, crooking them in Dunk’s direction, while his other hand pets the back of your head.

Dunk takes one step forward, almost out of instinct, but then stops. He swallows thickly, eyes darting between your pretty face and Lyonel, who was staring at him with a predatory glint in his eyes. Less the preyed buck, more the hunting wolf.

“M-my lord…” Dunk finally manages to grind out, but it tapers off when you whimper around Lyonel’s cock, the tip nudging towards the back of your throat. Your hand is tugging your husband’s trousers too, fingers and palm shifting to cup his balls, earning a rumbling groan from Lyonel’s chest.

“You have won the attention of the buck and his doe,” Lyonel drawls, hand brushing across the back of your head as if he were petting a cat. “We would care for you to join us, if you so wish. If not, leave now so I can get my cock sucked by my pretty wife in peace.”

You moan something around Lyonel’s cock, brows furrowing just so, and that makes Lyonel chuckle. His hand returns to the nape of your neck and pushes, eliciting a gag from the back of your throat as his tip hit inwards.

Dunk gapes, flexing his fingers. Of course he wants this. Of course he wants Lyonel, but most of all, of course he wants you. Only a stupid man would let this opportunity slip through his grasp.

So he takes another step forward, and something mischievous flashes in Lyonel’s eyes.

“That’s a good lad,” the lord utters, watching as Dunk willfully crossed the tent. The hedge knight slowly drops to his knees, just on the edge of the cushions, his light eyes roaming along the arch of your back, following the dip of your spine and the curve of your arse. Lyonel smiles, nodding down at you. “You can touch her, Ser Duncan. As a matter of fact, I believe she would have my head if I did not allow you to.”

At your husband’s words, you hum around him, squeezing his balls just tightly enough for him to release a shuddered exhale.

Dunk’s arms tentatively extend, and reach across to trail his hands down your sides. Your eyes close in bliss as the warmth of his palms and fingers smooth down your waist, running hot against the threadbare material. Dunk watches closely as your body reacts, curiosity boiling-hot within him as your back arches further as his two large hands run across the curve of your arse. The material of your nightgown sits just where your arse meets your thigh, and Dunk drops his head to the side, finding you bare of any smallclothes.

His mouth drops open, your pussy slick between the fat of your thighs. “Oh, Seven above…”

Lyonel watches Dunk carefully, his tongue pressing to the corner of his mouth as he smiles. He notices the way the hedge knight’s hands still at your hips, as well as the thick imprint of his cock in his trousers.

“Take what you need,” Lyonel says, his hand leaving the nape of your neck. Palm coarse with sword-hilt callouses, he drags it along your spine slowly until he finds Dunk’s hand. He grasps it then, and Dunk’s breath hitches, as he allows the lord to shift his hand over the split of your arse and dip between your thighs. Lyonel presses Dunk’s hand onto your wet core, and you let out a loud moan around his cock.

“Gods,” Dunk whispers, the pads of two of his fingers finding your clit. You keen at the feeling as your husband’s hand pushes incessantly.

“Have you ever seen a pussy as pretty as this?” Lyonel asks, cocking his head and watching the heat that rises up Dunk’s neck. The larger man’s eyes don’t leave you, watching obediently as Lyonel’s hand begins to move, guiding Dunk’s fingers to grind circles into the bud of your clit.

“I—” Dunk breathes. “I—I haven’t, uh—”

Lyonel pauses, and so do you.

Slowly, you drag your mouth off of Lyonel’s cock, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth as you look over your shoulder at the blushing knight. Lyonel’s strong hand keeps Duncan’s pressed firmly to your core.

“Have you lay with a woman before?” Lyonel questions. There’s a subtle, mocking humour in his tone, but it is largely overwhelmed by genuine gentleness. You watch with watery eyes as Dunk’s ears flush a brilliant red, his eyes snapping away from the slick heat of your pussy to find both yours and Lyonel’s eyes on him.

He groans, attempting to draw his hand away, but Lyonel doesn’t let him. The lord’s mouth curves into a wolfish grin, eyes flitting between Dunk’s bashful expression and the large tent in the front of his trousers. Then, he bends, and presses a tender kiss to the top of your head.

“Our poor knight, little doe,” Lyonel mutters, hand finally releasing Dunk’s. It finds your hip as he guides you into a sitting position between his spread legs. “Has never been inside a cunt in all his life. Never tasted one, hm? Never had a pretty mouth wrap around that big cock.”

The lewdness of Lyonel’s words make Dunk moan, the sound strangled in his throat as the lord angles his leg and presses the ball of his foot against the knight’s covered cock. You watch the interaction with butterflies ravaging your stomach as Dunk’s head drops, lips parting in pants, strands of his shaggy hair brushing over his furrowed eyebrows.

“Our poor boy,” you whisper, and Dunk’s head shoots back up to look at you. His pupils are so wide in the bright candlelight that his irises appear black.

Slowly, you spread your legs, hooking them over Lyonel’s, exposing your core. You can feel the way your hole drools—courtesy of Lyonel’s tongue and fingers prior to Dunk’s arrival—and coats the soft curve of your arse. Dunk’s breath hitches.

Lyonel drags a hand down your front before wrapping his fingers around the hem of your nightgown. In one deft movement, he rips it over your head, your breasts spilling out into the warm air of the tent.

“Come on, Ser Duncan,” Lyonel says as his two large hands shift to pinch at your slowly hardening nipples. You whine, hips twitching, and the sound makes Dunk’s cock leak into his breeches. Lyonel kneads the flesh of your breasts as he speaks. “Put your mouth on my wife.”

Dunk pulls his tunic over his head, burning hot before he’s crawling between your spread legs. His muscles ripple as he drags himself onto the ground, chest raised slightly against the cushions as his hands find the flesh of your thighs. He lifts his eyes to watch your face as he massages you there, big hands strong and firm.

You moan softly, rolling your head back to capture your husband’s mouth. You moan again, louder this time, as your tongues meet, and Dunk feels something tighten in his gut as he watches the way your mouths move together, tongues meeting in flicks and curls. The sound of spit swapping has his ears burning hotter too, and he watches, transfixed, on the way Lyonel kisses you and cups your breasts simultaneously. Your body trembles in his hold, and Dunk marvels at the rapid rise and fall of your chest.

Then, a hand finds his head. Blindly, you thread your fingers into his hair and grip tight enough for Dunk to whimper. Smiling against Lyonel’s mouth, you push down on the knight’s head and guide him towards the heat of your pussy. Dunk whimpers again when he breathes in the smell of you, warmth washing over his lower face as he dips forward. He presses a chaste kiss to your bud, before he nuzzles it with his nose as he shifts his head downwards. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but this feels right.

Your head tips back, and Lyonel’s teeth nip along the line of your jaw. Your fingers tighten in Dunk’s soft hair, your hips twitching as you urge him closer.

“Just like that, Dunk, just like that,” you whisper, Lyonel sucking kisses down the curve of your neck now, rolling your nipples between his thumb and forefingers.

Dunk opens his mouth against you, the thick of his tongue pushing through your slick folds. He groans when he tastes you—heady, warm, a clean-water musk—on his tongue, and his stomach clenches tightly again at the way his vibrations make you quiver.

After licking a trail of wet kisses along your neck, Lyonel pitches his chin on your shoulder, beard tickling your skin, peering down at the large man nestled between his wife’s thighs. He watches the way Dunk’s hips jerk against the firm floor, the way his bare back, littered with small scars, tenses with restrained strength as his hands grip you. Lyonel listens to the way small, breathy moans fall from your lips as Dunk’s tongue works down, and down still, until finally, the lord knows when his tongue enters you, as your body tenses up and a high-pitch whine fills the tent.

“That’s a good lad,” Lyonel utters, sinking his teeth into your shoulder for a moment before licking over the shallow indents. “Make my wife come.”

Dunk moans into your heat, and you moan back. Lyonel’s wet cock twitches heavily against your back as one of his hands moves from your breasts and trails over your stomach. It travels over your mound, and then finds your pussy, middle and ring finger pressing tightly to your puffy clit. You whine, and Dunk’s eyes lift to find Lyonel’s hand inches from his face.

Lyonel draws circles across your clit, your stomach clenching tightly, pleasure quickly tingling up your spread legs. Dunk’s tongue is warm and thick and big inside you, your pussy stretching around the muscle as he curls and thrusts without a discernible rhythm. You dry to guide him, to settle his nerves, with your hand in your hair, and it works for the most part. He bobs his head, eyes falling closed as he whines through his panting as his tongue moves in and out. The sounds are wet and obscene, and it makes his ears burn even hotter than before.

“Dunk,” you whine out, hips bucking to meet his face. “Please, please, I’m—”

Lyonel kisses behind your ear as he works his fingers over your clit. “Good girl, little doe, tell our knight you’re going to come for him.”

You choke on a moan, body fiery hot. “Oh, gods, Dunk, I’m—ah, you’re going to make me—make me come.”

Your words force a groan from the deepest part of Dunk’s chest as he continues to work his tongue. He doesn’t dare change the pace, or the rhythm, or the pressure. He keeps steady, jaw practically unhinged as he laps up the ichor of your pussy. He’s never had anything like this before, and he’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to get enough.

You shake, body strung tight, before the pressure in the base of your belly is splitting into thousands of pieces and you come with a shaky moan into Dunk’s mouth. He moans into you as you gush, pussy drooling across his tongue and dribbling out the corners of his mouth. Lyonel’s fingers work you through it, tapping your swollen clit a couple more times before his hand is pushing Dunk’s head away.

Dunk whines, petulant, as Lyonel’s fingers dip into the slick that leaks from your hole. He shoves himself all the way to the knuckle, and you stutter around a surprised gasp as he pumps you once, twice, three times before retracting. Then, while your hand still grips Dunk’s hair, he presses his fingers to the knight’s lips.

“Suck,” Lyonel orders simply, and Dunk’s mouth opens instantly. A dog following the orders of his master. Lyonel pushes his fingers into Dunk’s mouth as you fizzle down from your high, the taller man’s tongue instinctively wrapping around the digits. His eyes are glossy, brow pinched as he looks up at Lyonel. The tears that well in his lashline have you moaning for him, hands shifting to cup his flushed face.

“Oh, gods, Dunk, you’re such a good boy,” you tell him, patting his cheeks.

He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch as he sucks on Lyonel’s fingers. You can hear Lyonel puffing against you, feel the deep rise and fall of his chest at your back, feel the heavy twitch of his cock behind you as well.

You run your thumb over Dunk’s cheekbone, directing your next sentence at your husband. “I need his cock inside me.”

Dunk’s eyes wrench open as Lyonel pulls his fingers away.

“You heard the lady, Duncan,” Lyonel says boldly. “Now take your fucking trousers off.”

Dunk scrambles to his feet, and you crane your neck to watch him untie his trousers and shuck them down his legs. His breeches follow, and both you and your husband moan softly at the knight’s cock, hard but drooping under the weight. The giant sinks back to his knees, one large hand clutching the base of his cock, the side of his hand lowered against the thatch of light hair at the base. Even swallowed by the size of his hand, Dunk’s cock is huge: thick and long, ridged with veins along the underside, head a painfully bruised red, slit wet with precum.

“Mm–uh,” Dunk breathes through a moan, clutching his heavy cock, eyes staring at your wet cunt. “S’not—It won’t… uh, m’too big.”

Lyonel laughs, the sound making Dunk shrink back a little. The storm lord tuts as his hands rub up and down your sides idly. “Oh, you’ll fit, sweet boy. Our little doe isn’t as fragile as you think—isn’t that right, my lady?”

You nod eagerly, eyes on Dunk’s cock. Despite your enthusiasm, the muscles of your stomach clench with nerves, your pussy tightening around nothing as you take in the sight of him. He’s bigger than Lyonel, bigger than the guard your husband practically spit-roasted you with three moons ago, and bigger than anyone you’d ever even seen.

But it’ll fit. You know it will.

“I’ll show you,” you utter softly, pulling yourself up and away from your husband, who lets you go with a smack to your arse. 

You wrap your hand around Dunk’s wrist and guide him over to the chaise, clambering onto his lap and pushing him down against the pillows. His head finds Lyonel’s chest, and he looks up with round eyes and parted lips as Lyonel’s hands find the sides of his face. As that happens, you’re taking Dunk’s cock in your hand, fingers barely reaching all the way around his girth, and the foreign contact makes Dunk groan. It’s whiny and desperate, and mirrors the way his cock drools in your hand, leaping with each small squeeze of your fingers.

Lyonel holds Dunk’s face tenderly and leans down. His lips press a small kiss to the larger man’s cheek, then his cheekbone, then the corner of his mouth. Dunk whines, and it’s him that turns his head to push their lips together. It’s brief, but wet and deep, Lyonel’s tongue too dominant, too strong. Their teeth clack together, and Dunk’s pulling away with a whimper when the lord’s teeth find his bottom lip.

You huff, stroking Dunk’s cock. “Lyonel.”

Lyonel lifts his head, eyes sparkling. “What?”

“You have to be gentle,” you say pointedly, straddling Dunk’s hips and leaning forward with your other hand pressed to the warmth of his bare chest. “Need to take care of him.”

Dunk ducks his head to meet your movements, his mouth slotting to yours and the sound he makes has pleasure searing up your spine. It’s a breathy whimper of your name as your tongues meet, and you’re so much more gentle than your husband. So much sweeter, so much softer. There’s no teeth, just the languid stroke of your smaller tongue against his, your lips across his, as your hand idly strokes along the length of his cock.

A grumbling purr leaves Lyonel’s chest. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s a good girl, being so gentle with our poor knight.”

His hands stroke Dunk’s face as you pull away slowly, a string of saliva connecting your lips. Dunk pouts when it snaps and you sit straighter in his lap. Suddenly, you’re grinding your wet slit across the heat of his length, and his breath stutters against his ribs at the flush of pleasure that overtakes him.

“Now…” Lyonel leans down to whisper in Dunk’s ear, teeth skimming the shell of his ear. “Our pretty little doe is going to show you just how good she is, okay? And you’re going to be a good lad and count the inches. You can count, can’t you?”

Dunk nods dumbly.

“Good boy. Now hold her hips.”

He does. The hedge knight reaches up and places two massive paws on your hips as you angle his cock to your hole, the fat head hot against you. You whine out, chewing on your bottom lip as you lower yourself gently until the tip all but pops inside you with only a small amount of slick resistance. The pressure is heavenly, and Dunk feels his eyes threaten to roll to the back of his head as heat envelops him. His balls twitch, the muscles in his lower abdomen contracting harshly. His fingers grip against your hips.

“That’s it, now fucking count,” Lyonel utters darkly, tone heavy with lust.

Dunk blows out a breath as you begin sinking down, your brow furrowed as you take him an inch at a time. Dunk doesn’t quite know his exact measurements—or numerical measurements, really—but you help him. Each time you stop and tremble against him, a soft mutter of Duncan or so big leaving your mouth, he whispers out a number.

“One… two…” He grits out, and he watches as your pretty little pussy swallows more and more of him. He holds you firmly, scared of hurting you, eyes finding your face as it screws up. Not in pain, but in pleasure. He continues breathlessly. “Three… f-four…f-uh-five…”

Another inch, and then another.

One of Lyonel’s hands strokes Dunk’s chest, thumb brushing a scar beneath the curve of his pectoral muscle. Dunk’s counting becomes stuttered, more of him sucked into the tight, wet clutch of your cunt as Lyonel’s finger flicks over one of his nipples.

And he’s still whispering in his ear all the while. “You’re a proper knight now, huh? Got a pretty sheath for that big fucking sword, yeah? S’all yours, lad. What’s mine is yours.”

Another inch, and gods, then another.

He fits.

By the Seven, he fits, and he lets out the loudest fucking groan as you finally take all of him. You whimper his name so sweetly that he’s scared he’ll spill straight away, pleasure hot in his belly, balls painfully tight. He’s never felt anything like this. It’s euphoric.

“Tell her to move,” Lyonel orders. “She won’t move until you tell her. She’s a good girl like that.”

You sit so pretty on his lap, waiting patiently. Your hands are on Dunk’s stomach, your legs trembling either side of his wide hips.

Dunk whispers your name. “Please move. Please.”

You smile down at him, before raising yourself, dragging your cunt upwards and then slamming yourself down onto him. Dunk’s moan gets caught in his throat as you lift yourself again, then drop back down. The stretch knots pleasure tight above your womb, a dull pain lingering at the edges as the thick head of his cock rams against your gummy posterior wall, nudging towards the plug of your cervix. His hands are impossibly heavy on your hips, the muscles in his arms working as he helps lift your weight.

Your pussy is so slick that his ruts begin to glide, slick dripping down his balls as his hips start to lift. He meets you as you work yourself onto him.

“Uh, uh, fuck—” he moans as he watches the way you practically bounce in his lap.

Meanwhile, Lyonel’s hands feather across the larger man’s ribs, his mouth sucking harsh, bruising marks along the strong curve of his shoulder. He presses his nose to the thrumming pulse beneath Dunk’s ear, kissing it gently.

“Tell me how good she feels,” Lyonel whispers to his knight.

“S-so good, my lord,” Dunk replies, words strained, strung taut with pleasure. “Feels—uh, fuck—feels so fucking good.”

Lyonel lifts a hand from Dunk’s side and beckons you to him. With a huff, you lean forward, anchoring your hands against Dunk’s broad chest. Your husband’s hand wraps around the front of Dunk’s throat as he meets you at his shoulder. You kiss, and Dunk turns to watch your lips slot together, the two of you panting into each other’s mouth as Lyonel grinds his cock against Dunk’s lower back, and you continue the stuttering movements of your hips. Dunk slants his head up, his forehead pressing to the warm skin of your cheek as he whines for the both of you.

Lyonel smiles into your mouth, and you return it. The hand on Dunk’s throat tightens a fraction as it forces his chin up. You hum out from the back of your throat as you and Lyonel both press your mouths to Dunk’s, lips parting against his, tongues converging. Dunk groans into the kiss, his hips bucking faster to meet your lazy grinding, hands trailing downwards to knead at the fat of your arse. He’s drunk on the taste of you both; Lyonel’s tongue mellowed with the taste of arbor gold, yours sweet with honey.

The hedge knight is quivering beneath you, and you pull out of the kiss to drop your hips onto him faster. Skin-on-skin, hurried slapping. You pant, mewling his name as you chase the high that builds thick amongst the warmth of your womb, pleasure blurring the edges of your vision like a black-lined tunnel.

“Told you you’ll fit,” Lyonel utters, fingers swiping up and down the column of Dunk’s throat. He feels the bob of the knight’s nervous swallowing beneath his palm. “Gods, fits like a fucking glove, doesn’t it? Our little doe’s pussy’s just made for you—made to take that big fucking cock, huh? Just look at her, Duncan. Look at the way she takes all of you.”

Dunk moans. “Gods—”

His cock twitches inside you, and you whine, looking down at the knight below you with soft eyes. “Dunk, need you to spill inside me. Please.”

Dunk’s mouth drops open. When he doesn’t hear a response from the lord behind him, he peers up, finding Lyonel smiling, canines flashing as he watches his wife.

“Well?” Lyonel looks down at Dunk, still smiling. “You heard our lady. Be a good knight and do what you’re told.”

Dunk knew what it felt like to release, mainly over his knuckles in the privacy of a forest clearing, or a dilapidated room in a quiet inn. But he knew this was about to be a whole different experience as something hot burned through the base of his belly, zapped along his spine and bloomed through his chest.

The warm clutch of your cunt sucks his cock in with each thrust, the head rutting up against the base of your cervix, and he can’t help the moan of your name that falls from his lips as he comes. His balls tighten and his cock twitches, seeming to swell inside you as he releases—pump after pump, filling you as you continue to move.

You groan, thrusts quickening as your orgasm builds, spurred by the warmth flooding you. “Fuck, Dunk—that’s it, that’s a good boy.”

You come apart not long after. The knot in your belly springs apart again and you clamp down around him, fingers curling against the soft muscle of his abdomen. Your head rolls back and your wanton moans fill the tent, a mixture of curses, pleas, and whimpers of his name as you rock yourself in your lap, chasing the shadows of your retreating orgasm as it slips from you slowly, slowly, until you still. You pant above him, and he caresses your hips as you lean forward, collapsing onto his chest with a grunt.

Dunk presses a kiss to your forehead, arms wrapping around you. His cock remains wedged inside of you though, only half-soft.

Above you both, Lyonel chuckles. His hands pat along Dunk’s head, and down your back, soothing his wife and his knight, bathed beautifully in the candlelight of the tent.

After allowing a moment of respite, the lord grows slightly restless, cock still painfully hard against Dunk’s back. So, he takes his hands and grips the two of you on the backs of your necks, guiding your heads to one another until he’s all but forcing you to kiss.

It is welcomed, and you and Dunk drink in each other’s whimpers as your mouths meet, lips lax with pleasure. You barely move, just swapping air and spit with lazed tongues as Lyonel watches, rutting his hips against the strong, firm muscles of Dunk’s back.

“That’s it, that’s it,” Lyonel mutters, before he’s using all of his strength to push the two of you to the side. You squeak as Lyonel switches the position of you both until you’re splayed either side of his lap, still holding the napes of your necks. Then, with as much boldness as you would find usual of your husband, he guides your kissing mouths to the head of his hard cock, your lips meeting against the sensitive skin of the tip. Lyonel groans, “That’s it, doing so well for your lord, just fuckin—hngh—”

He spills against you and Dunk’s conjoined faces, seed splattering your lips and skin in warm spurts. He groans your name mainly, but Dunk’s is thrown in there too, as his hips rock against the cushions and his hands go limp on your neck. You and Dunk pull apart, staring at one another with glossy eyes and parted, kiss-swollen lips.

“Are you okay?” You ask Dunk gently, reaching a hand up to wipe some of Lyonel’s cum from Dunk’s cheek.

Dunk nods. “This… this was great.”

You can’t help but laugh.

Lyonel pats the knight on the top of the head like a puppy. “We told you, Ser Duncan, you’re our knight, and you’ve got our attention. I think you’ll look good in black and gold, wouldn’t you agree, little doe?”

“Mhm,” you hum, kissing Dunk as he blushes.

———

His heavy head lolls on the thin pillow beneath him. The cushion propping up his stiff neck smells like something floral and sweet, like a woman. As his eyes scan the room, he finds that this quaint house, if it could even be referred to as such, is made of only one room — there’s a dining nook crowded in the corner by the window, a cluttered living area in the opposite corner by the hearth, and apparently a sickbed in which he languishes now. 

Through the haze still clinging in his vision, he spots a figure dressed in tatters stirring at a pot with practiced hands — sleeves pushed up to the elbows, faded skirts flowing just below the knee. You do not startle at the sound of his voice, nor do you turn to look at him right away as you crush a handful of dried rosemary into the bubbling water before you. 

“Starry Hill,” you answer plainly, as though you were talking to an old friend rather than a half-dead ghost in your bed. You turn slowly over your shoulder and watch confusion twist at the man’s handsome features — (he’d studied every keep, holdfast, and port in Westeros his father told him to, and yet he’d never once heard of this one). “And no, you haven’t heard of it before.”

The grin is evident in your voice as you turn away to wipe your palms off on a rag. You catch the man’s glassy blue eyes darting around your home — over the crooked shelf of clay jars, past the mismatched chairs around the ancient dining table, and towards the narrow window where dim orange light falls in slanted rays. He cannot yet tell whether it’s dawn or dusk, and the notion disorients him further.

“Apologies for the mess, my lord,” you sigh. “If I’d known I was going to be housing a Hightower for three days, I might’ve tidied the place up a bit first.”

Gwayne’s auburn brows furrow slowly as his face twists in a deeper confusion — both at the thought of having spent three days unconscious in this place, and at the ease with which you seemed to know his name. His house. His blood. “How… How did you know I was a Hightower?”

Your head turns lazily on your shoulder to flash the man a narrow-eyed, almost pitying sort of look. Your gaze falls across his flaming copper hair, the aristocratic slope of his nose, and the inherited Hightower beauty that not even war, nor three days on his deathbed, could manage to take from him. Even halfway ruined, the man still looks like something bred for portraiture. And it would, perhaps, be so easy to tell him as much.

“Well, you were wearing the sigil all over your armor, to be fair,” you deadpan instead and turn back to your cooking.

Only then does Gwayne realize that the heaviness of his armor is long gone from his frame. All of his clothes, in fact, are gone — the pale canvas of his bare chest is on display now, carved lean from a lifetime in the training yard, and now sporting a square piece of plaster across his ribcage. Beneath the heavy quilt thrown over his legs, he can feel a pair of baggy trousers riding low on his hips that do not belong to him. 

Which means you had to have undressed him; bathed him; patched up his marred skin. The thought alone is dizzying.

Panic wraps its hands around his throat as he rises onto his elbows, grimacing at the ache it puts in his side and somewhere deep in his bicep — where a linen cloth has been wrapped tight.

“How did I get here?”

“Your guess is as good as mine…” you huff without looking away from the pot ahead of you. “You’re the one who showed up half-dead on my doorstep, if you’ll recall— So I think I have more questions for you than you have for me, in truth.”

Gwayne’s eyes go glassy and distant as he strains to recollect the events that led him here. 

He remembers Ser Criston’s words about a death march, and the sudden screeching of his horse when the first volley of enemy arrows came flying every which way. He vaguely remembers his mare rearing up and tossing him onto his back against the heavy forest floor, and the way the world erupted with the shouting of a hundred men or more all at once. But he does not know what became of any of them now.

“I need to leave,” he announces at once.

“Oh, I wouldn’t,” you wince as you watch the man fling the quilt from his body, visibly toned from years of knighthood but still pale from his lingering brush with death. “Not on that leg of yours— I’m still not sure I set the bone just right.”

Gwayne’s jaw clenches tight as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. His tired muscles pull taut in protest, though it doesn’t hurt him nearly as badly as his left shin does when his bare feet hit the ancient floorboards. A white-hot pain sears from ankle to knee; his chiseled face screws tight as he chokes on a scream. 

He doubles over in agony and digs his trembling fists into the thin sheets of the down mattress, struggling to take stock of his injuries. 

There’s a plaster just below his knee and a sickly yellow-green bruise blooming just below that, from where the bone came through when the weight of his horse fell on top of him, perhaps. There’s a hot, pulsing feeling beneath the plaster on his right arm — a small but concentrated signature that must’ve come from an arrow. And the length of the shallow scrape along his ribs suggests that it came from a kiss of an enemy blade.

All of it is dressed now in clean linen, from the same kind hands stirring supper across the room from him, entirely unbothered by his suffering.

“Seven fucking hells…” you groan, more to yourself than to him. “I forgot the bloody potatoes.”

Gwayne blinks wildly at your passing figure as you trade the wooden spoon in your hands for the dark, beaten cloak hanging beside the door. “P-Potatoes?” he stammers in response, because he can think of a thousand issues much more pressing than potatoes.

“Yes,” you nod, sliding your arms through the thick woolen sleeves gone soft and shapeless with age. “You can’t have rabbit stew without potatoes. It ruins the whole dish— I’d think you’d know that, as a pretty little lord and all.”

He perks slightly at the mention of it — of food, and of the thought that some other man must surely live here to have killed and skinned the meat for your stew. 

“Where is your father?” he calls to your retreating form.

There’s a certain edge of command in his voice that tries to surface past the wavers of pain. He attempts to assert some Hightower authority in the walls of your home, despite being half-dressed and hunched over the edge of your bed and completely at your mercy. 

“Or a husband, perhaps? Someone I can speak rationally with.”

“No father… No husband…” you sigh and tie the top of your coat, which is a size or three too big for you. “You can speak rationally to me, if you wish, though I fear your current hysterics might render conversation somewhat impossible… But I require no thanks for saving your life, to be sure.”

Your words carry a certain bite that pierces him straight through the chest; the devastating reminder of a debt he has not yet had any sense to acknowledge. 

The door opens with a high-pitched creaking sound; the cool breeze that rushes in tells him that the day is ending rather than just beginning. You pause at the threshold, hand on the frame and hood half-raised

“If you’re going to leave, at least remember to shut the door behind you,” you tell him, detached but not totally unkind. “I don’t want the smell of supper bringing the animals down from the hill.”

The door screeches and clicks behind you, punctuating your leaving. The little house — smaller than his bathing chambers back in Oldtown — goes very quiet and very still with your absence. The eeriness unnerves a distant, boyish part of him that wishes most desperately for your return. The rest of him, however, wants nothing more than to be rid of this place entirely — from the strangeness of it and of you most of all.

Gwayne grits his teeth and hauls himself not-quite to full height. He’s doubled over and bracing his white-knuckled grip on the ancient wooden bedframe as he hobbles the short distance towards the door, fighting through the screaming ache shooting up and down his left leg. He makes it not even five steps before it gives out on him completely.

He crumples to the unforgiving ground in a graceless heap of limbs and injured pride, catching himself on instinct with the arm sporting the throbbing arrow wound going down.

He lies there, groaning and writhing and choking down cries of frustration with his cheek pressed to the cold floor. The sound of his ragged breaths fills the small, empty house as he watches the sunset dip low past the window, quietly waiting for the sound of the door to open — and for your presence to follow.

It opens at last; three minutes or three hours later. A silken breeze rushes in alongside you, as you enter with a basket of potatoes and other vegetables on your hip. You falter in the doorway at the sight of the man sprawled out on your floor, a crumpled puppet with all of its strings cut clean.

A strange, satisfied smile creeps across your face as you swipe your hood back with your free hand. “Well…” you croon lowly. “What do we have here?”

Gwayne lifts his heavy head. He looks up at you with watery blue eyes through the strands of wild auburn hair hanging over his brow. He loses every ounce of his composure in that moment, turning into a doe-eyed and pleading thing as his wet gaze peers at you from beneath his lashes.

“Please…” he rasps. “Help me…”

He doesn’t learn your name until the second day. He does not stand on his own until the fifth. And he does not bathe himself unaided until the seventh. 

You do not coddle him for any of it. You clean his wounds and change his bandages twice daily, and scold him for flinching at the sting — telling him that he’d spent too many years being pampered by wetnurses and that was precisely why he healed so slowly. But, after that first week, he learned to walk the length of your small home without his leg buckling underneath him; though he still requires the cane you’d fashioned for him out of a stag’s antler if he plans on taking more than a step or two.

“Here. So you can stop looking like a newborn calf every time you cross the room,” you’d said when you gifted it to him. “It’s starting to get hard to watch, if I’m honest.”

He is, if he’s being entirely truthful with himself, entirely unused to being spoken to this way. The ladies of his acquaintance back in Oldtown — the soft, sweet-voiced daughters of high lords and ladies — would never have dared to call him hysterical to his face or handle his wounds with such unromantic efficiency. They never would have laughed, as you had, at the sight of him crumpled on the floor. 

You’re nothing at all like the ladies he grew up with. 

You swear like a dockhand; you name your goats like they're your kin; you wear your dead parents' old clothes without a trace of shame and speak of your own life with a bluntness that would scandalize every septa he'd grown up with. It should, perhaps, trouble him a great deal more than it does.

Gwayne knows he could’ve and likely should’ve left days ago. He suspects that you know it, too. Tumbleton was not far from here, you told him, and his kin held the fortress now — a real castle with a real maester to tend to him — rather than this strange, sharp-tongued woman with rough hands and a rougher sense of humor. But still, he does not go. He tells himself that it’s his leg; that the roads were surely not safe yet and that he’d be long in the dying should he cross Daemon’s army a second time.

So he stays, and he makes himself useful to you in the waiting, in whatever small ways he can manage. He could not do much, at first — he could not chop firewood or carry water; he could barely carry himself, in truth — but he could mend a fence while seated, and feed the farm animals while leaning on his cane, and shell the peas you bring in from the garden for supper. 

Gwayne quickly discovers, to his own mortification, that he takes a strange satisfaction in it all. This was not a life meant for knights, certainly not one meant for a Hightower, but yet he can picture all the rest of his days playing out exactly like this — utterly unremarkable, but his just the same.

It has been three weeks since his arrival, give or take, and his days feel less like exile now and more like routine. He sits propped on the pillows after his bath, milky-white skin glimmering from your homemade oils, with nothing but a pair of borrowed trousers covering his lower half.

You sit on the edge of the bed beside him and redress the stubborn wound on his arm that refuses to heal — the worst of his injuries he came here with, Gwayne insists; a nerve-deep pain that he swears he can feel when he’s dreaming. But even still, weeks into the habit of tending to him, you are no gentler about it than you were that very first night.

“Ow—” Gwayne winces when you press too firmly against the wound. You catch his elbow before he can draw it away and urge it back into place with an unsentimental force.

“Stop squirming,” you scold and continue to dab the homemade, herb-flecked ointment onto the irritated skin.

“It hurts,” the man insists.

“It hurts because you’re squirming.”

Gwayne attempts to glare at you as you reach for the linen cloth on the table beside you. The playful frown softens with a soft smile despite himself. “Has anyone ever told you that your bedside manner is just extraordinary?”

“All the time…” you lilt back and slide the fabric around his arm, tying it off with one particularly harsh tug. “Usually right before they tell me that they're feeling much better and no longer require any of my help.”

“Well…” Gwayne croons, pale eyes glittering in the dancing candlelight. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted me gone…”

You glance finally up at him from beneath your lashes, at the handsome knight sharing your house — with bright copper hair gone soft from his bath, and bright blue eyes a little too earnest for someone meant to be teasing — the kind of man that belonged in the fairytales you’d read as a child; not in your own home in your own bed.

Something in your sharp expression finally gives, like The Wall finally weeping after the first warm day of summer.

“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen in years, Ser Gwayne,” you hum lowly. “So if you haven’t realized by now that I’m keeping you hostage here, then I fear you haven’t been paying attention.”

A breathy laugh shakes his toned stomach, and the scar along his ribs no longer pulls to do so. He’s fairly certain that you’re jesting, but even still, he doesn’t think he’d care all that much if you weren’t.

“I find that…” he trails slowly off with a squinted look in his pale eyes, as if the realization were hitting him the moment the words fell from his mouth. His melodic voice carries a sort of airiness in it despite the soft confession. “That perhaps I wouldn’t mind it. Being your hostage… Staying here. With you… I don't think I'd mind that at all…”

“Well… That’s a very dangerous thing to say to a woman with nothing to lose, Ser Gwayne,” you murmur, propping your fists on either side of his waist as you lean in close to him — until he can smell the lavender soap on your skin and count the flecks of firelight in your gaze. “Your army has surely presumed you dead by now… No one will come looking for you here… So if you do not wish to be kept by me, the door is still open…”

Something in his chest flares hot at your words, at the thought of being kept by you.

“For how long?” he teases with an arched auburn brow, pink lips curling into a slow smile.

Your eyes flit away and back again. “…Roughly the next ten seconds.”

“Well…” he lilts as his hand lifts slowly from the blankets to cradle your jaw, urging you that much closer. “That seems like plenty of time.”

He leans off the pillow to press his mouth to yours. His nose smushes into the side of yours as his plush lips slot with your softer ones. Your tongue darts between them with little warning and a degree too eager, swiping against his like velvet on velvet. Gwayne exhales a heavy sigh through his nose at the taste of you — like supper and wine and something foreign that he chases with each languid kiss.

You kiss him long and slow, like biting into the sweet skin of an apple, and shift on the mattress to straddle his waist. Gwayne’s free hand shoves the quilt down his thighs to accommodate you upon them. Your fingers rest around his neck like a collar as you grind your hips over his, up his lap and down again. A groan rumbles like thunder in his throat.

His hands dart instantly for your waist, knotting his long fingers in the skirts pushed up to your thighs, as he pulls off of you with a quiet smack. “Don’t,” he hears himself plead.

“Why?” you pant, blinking back at him with heavy eyes.

“It’s been…” His adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “A long… long time.”

Your lips curl into a grin before your head ducks down again. Your mouth smears along his pulse in a sloppy kiss. “Three weeks isn’t so long, is it?”

A laugh sounds in his throat. You feel it rumbling against your mouth. “The war’s been going on for a lot longer than three weeks, my dear…” 

“Don’t tell me Ser Gwayne hasn’t taken his fair share of whores on the road,” you quip against the milky white tendon of his neck.

He smiles with his nose in your hair. “Not many whores on the battlefield, I’m afraid…”

“Oh, you poor thing…” you croon as you pull slowly back from him, more gentle with him now than you were when he was half dead on your porch; though there’s still a playful air about you that he doesn’t yet miss. “No wonder you’ve been so uptight… You’ve just been looking for a little… release, haven’t you? Spit—”

Gwayne’s eyes widen as they flick between your expectant face and the hand you hold under his chin. Despite his obvious diffidence, he ducks his head and spits a glob of saliva onto your palm — and watches with held breath as your fingers dip under the hem of his trousers. They wrap around his cock, laying half-soft on his thigh, and use his spit to work him the rest of the way hard. He feels like heavy velvet in your fist.

His dizzy head tips back against the wall with a quiet thud. Your quiet giggling melts with his pleasured groan as he hardens slowly in your fist. 

“I’ll bet you’ll cum the second I tell you to,” you laugh.

Gwayne nods slowly, adam’s apple moving in his long throat as he fights to keep his lidded eyes open. His breath catches in his chest when your thumb swipes over the sensitive tip of his cock.

“I’ll bet you’ll do anything I tell you to… Won’t you?”

Gwayne nods again, jerking in your fist at your words.

“Oh…” you huff a mixture of a contented sigh and a devilish laugh as you squeeze him harder in your fist. “I am going to have… so much fun with you, Ser Gwayne…”

He has little time to ponder the weight of your words when you shift on top of him again. You pull your fingers from his trousers and tuck the hem beneath his heavy balls. His eyes snap open to find you urging your dress skirts further up your thighs. He’s left mourning the warmth of your touch only for a moment, before your hand slides between your bodies once more to guide the drooling tip of his cock into your already weeping confines.

He’s long and slender — not nearly as thick as the butcher’s son in town who’s been tending to your needs for years, but an inch or three longer still — and made of meandering veins you can feel when you pierce yourself upon him. Your head tips back to exhale a moan at the ceiling, mouth curling into a lazy smile as you adjust to the length of him.

Gwayne chokes on a groan in his throat when your hips sit flush with his again, fingers clutching mercilessly at the plush of your thighs hard enough to etch bruises on the skin. The sound turns into a strangled whimper when you clench absentmindedly around him, warmer than velvet and drooling something fierce.

“I can’t…” the man whines, chiseled features twisting into a pained sort of look as he shifts his hips under your weight — trying to chase his pleasure and run away from it all at once. “I— I can’t— Seven fucking hells…”

You smile down at him when he tries and fails to get the words out. He misses the amusement flashing across your face with his eyes squeezed shut, hard enough to make white stars speckle behind the deep black of his eyelids. You clench around him again, just to hear him whimper for you again.

“Can’t what, my lord?” you coo to him, with a gentleness he didn’t think you were capable of before now. Your hands smooth up and around his neck until your fingers twist in the short auburn tendrils at the very nape of it. Chills erupt down the length of his spine in their wake. 

“I don’t wanna cum yet,” he protests through gritted teeth. “’S too soon—”

“But I want you to cum,” you tell him, and punctuate your command with a calculated roll of your hips. You tighten around him once more when your clit brushes the coarse, dark-auburn hair above his cock. You swallow his subsequent groan in a sloppy kiss, more tongue than mouth, and run the tip of your nose along the bridge of his after. “And then… after I’ve milked your cock—”

“Fuck…” he swears, though it comes out more like a sob.

“—I’ll let you clean me up with your mouth,” you continue. 

A moan tears through his throat at the thought — of pressing his mouth to your cunt until his nose is smushed against your clit, of lapping at the mixture of pleasure leaking out of you like honey, of your hands in his hair pushing him further into your pussy. He bursts at the thought, losing himself completely as he draws you into his bare chest with two strong arms wound up and around your back. 

Gwayne hides his flushed face in your neck as he hugs you against him, meeting your thrusts with weaker ones of his own. He buries each of his pitiful moans into your pulsepoint while his cock jerks wildly within your unforgiving confines— spitting ropes of warm cum that your clenching cunt milks from him. 

“I’m sorry,” he hears himself say as he shudders just against you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… Seven hells— I’m sorry…” 

You pet at his wild hair as he comes down from his high, whispering murmurs of praise in his ear as the pleasure ebbs from his trembling body.  “There you go… Good boy… That’s it— Give me all of it…”

Gwayne pulls his face from your neck once he’s fully spent. His trembling hands reach for your face again, cupping your cheeks between his calloused palms to meet your eyes with his wide, wet, and pleading ones. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “Let me make you feel good— I want to make you feel good.” 

“I know,” you coo to him, almost sympathetically so. “On your back.” 

Gwayne’s auburn brows knit softly together, but his body obeys like it was designed to submit to you. You remain straddled against him as he descends back onto the pillows. He watches down the bridge of his nose as your hands smooth up his milky white torso — past the fine trail of hair on his lean stomach, over the healed scar on his ribs, and towards his heaving chest.

Your eyes stay locked with his heavy ones as you shift your weight above him, inching up up up. You cage your bottom lip between your teeth as you reach for the hem of your skirt. You drag the heavy fabric of your dress up and over your head. Gwayne has little time to admire your bare body before you’re straddling your knees on either side of his face. His mouth waters instantly at the sight of your glittering pussy as it descends over his mouth — he curls his arms around your thighs to pull you further in.

He groans when the taste of you hits his tongue — a sweet-salty mixture of your combined pleasures — and you feel the vibrations of the sound from your cunt to the top of your spine. You keep one hand braced on the wooden headboard and your other woven through his silken auburn locks, guiding his mouth along your cunt.

“Yes…” you sigh when his mouth meets your clit. “Right there…”

Gwayne moans again at your praise and does everything in his power to make you give it to him again. He focuses on the bundle of nerves — lapping his tongue against it and suckling it between his lips. You make a noise for him he’s never heard before, a high-pitched cry that swells across the quiet room. “Keep going,” he hears you whimper when his mouth wraps around your clit. “Fuck yes, keep going like that—”

Your fingers twist hard in his hair as your hips grind down over his tongue. He moans when you give the strands an especially harsh tongue, and the sound makes you tremble on top of him. You cum for him with a strangled cry, and Gwayne sighs through his nose when a mixture of his cum and yours drops onto the velvety pad of his tongue. 

He laps at every ounce of it with an eagerness that you can hear, a chorus of panted breaths and muffled suckling sounds.

He doesn’t stop until you’re shoving him away by the crown of his head.

You exhale a heavy breath and sit back on your haunches, resting your ass over his chest and propping your weight along his ribs. Your heavy eyes rake over his face — cheeks flushed red, pale eyes glassy with desire, pink lips swollen, chin glittering with your cum, hair wild from the pillow and your fingers alike. An angel carved from in. 

A lazy smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you shake your heavy head down at him. “You’re not going anywhere, Ser Gwayne… You understand that, right?”

“Gwayne,” he corrects, glittering lips curling upward. “Not ser.” 

“You’re not going anywhere… Gwayne.”

“I’m glad to hear it, in truth…” he confesses on an exhaled breath. “I was starting to like it here anyway…”