#asose

Lyonel walks through the beaded curtain into the room that has been readied for him and tosses his cloak at a chair immediately. “Good evening,” he says to the two men playing some Lysene board game in the light of an oil lamp. “Good evening,” one of them says back, the other only smiles. Lyonel looks them over, the breadth of their shoulders, the size of their limbs. The scruff on their faces. He had said to the Lady of the house that he wants men, not boys. She has delivered. His grin feels feral, even to himself. “Are we getting right into it, then?” “Whatever you’d like,” the talkative one says, his accent rolling like a gentle sea. Lyonel sheds his clothes, keeps his jewelry on. It is marginally harder to steal that way. “Let me look at you,” he says to the men, pulling his second stocking off. They share an amused glance and then stand, setting aside the little game table. They wear skirts, belted at the waist, made of the same sheer material that all whores and pleasure slaves this side of the Narrow Sea seem swathed in. Like gossamer sea foam. Lyonel loves it and keeps thinking he should buy a bolt and have all his nightshirts made from it. It feels simply gorgeous on naked skin. “Off with that,” he says now, snapping his fingers and the skirts fall to the floor soundlessly. Lyonel licks his lips. “Oh, you’ll do just fine, the two of you.”

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“I don’t know, ser,” Dunk says, swallows. His mouth tastes like seawater and his eyes burn with the salt of it. “Can’t let you go cliff-jumping with Beron if you can’t swim, Dunk. Or let you sail yourselves over to Tarth.” Ser Lyonel treads water, bobbing in the surf. The waves sometimes go over his head and he just takes it as if it doesn’t bother him. Spits water sometimes, like a fountain. Dunk crouches down, toes holding on tightly to the slippery rock. “I’m exhausted.” Ser Lyonel laughs. He crosses the distance and pushes himself half out of the water next to Dunk. Their foreheads almost bump together. “I’ve seen you work tirelessly in the yard for hours without complaint, Dunk, you’re scared. Not exhausted. Which is fine, I’d be scared too, if I was a lad half-grown and couldn’t swim.” Dunk has to concentrate very hard to hear what Ser Lyonel says. His breath is very warm on Dunk’s cheeks and his chest is very naked. The hair on it lies flat with the water, pressed into odd shapes that Dunk wants to see forms in, like in clouds. He blinks instead and sits back a bit, to look at Ser Lyonel’s face. “I am scared,” he admits. “And exhausted.”

Dunk gets another swimming lesson! this one is a lot more loaded then his last one lmao Read all about it on AO3 and leave me a comment if you do!

Dunk wakes with a start, nightshirt clinging to his thighs wetly, an arm around his chest, a hot body pressed against his back like a branding iron. “Oh no,” he whispers tonelessly and prays the Stranger take him this instant. Nothing happens. Beron snores on the far side of the bed, Ser Lyonel snuffles into Dunk’s hair. He’s the only one awake, he realizes, after a breathless moment. Small mercies. If he weren’t, Dunk would have to find something to impale himself on. Which would be easier in Storm’s End, what with the antlers everywhere. He doesn’t even know where the armoury is in Evenfall Hall and the daggers from their belts aren’t quite large enough for impalement. Disembowelment, maybe, if he applies himself. Dunk shifts, nightshirt sticking to his thigh, cold and drying fast. He cringes at the feeling and then the arm around his chest tightens. Rabbiting heart, his vision tunnels. The hand on his chest fists into his nightshirt and Dunk really wouldn’t mind if the floor opened under him and swallowed him. Ser Lyonel is pressed to him from shoulder to hip, his knee shifting against Dunk’s, pushing his leg up. He swallows the noise trying to rise from his throat. Scrambles out of the hold and slides out of the footend of the bed before Ser Lyonel can do anything more than make a sleepy noise.

Read the update here in full! Time for more torment nexus, a moniker to be coined and more cuddling!!

Lord Tarth leads them into a solar, large windows showing the view towards Durran’s Point, across the Strait. “Please,” the lord says. “Sit.” He gestures at a maid tending the small fire and she curtsies, dusting her hands on her apron. “Milord?” “See to it that our guests are brought something to break their fast. Hot and plenty, they’ve come through the storm.” The girl shivers, curtsies again and leaves them with that quick step that means she’d run if it were appropriate. Lyonel sinks into one of the cushioned chairs and points the lads towards a couch. They pull their cloaks off and drop into their seats heavily. “I’ll leave you to your rest,” Lord Tarth says warmly. “My maester will find you, Ser Lyonel, after you’ve eaten. For the raven.” “Thank you, truly, for your hospitality, Evenstar.” The man bows just enough and then closes the door behind himself quietly. Lyonel’s eyes close with the door and he stretches his legs. Groans. “I’d give a lot for a Lysene soak,” Beron says quietly, groaning himself. “Fuck, I might be compelled to give my left hand for that,” Lyonel agrees and Dunk snorts half a laugh. “You’ll be useless, with only one hand, ser,” Beron argues and Lyonel laughs at that. “Not useless, just insufferable.” Dunk mutters something and Beron laughs. Lyonel lifts an eyelid halfway, watching the lads lean together, chuckling. “Secret joys?” “Very much so,” says Beron haughtily, coming to Dunk’s rescue, as the lad stutters, wringing his fingers into his cloak. Lyonel closes his eye again. “Very good. You should have more of those.” An odd sort of noise comes out of Dunk and Beron whispers something, making him make an odd noise again.

They’re near Cape Wrath, just come out of the Myrish Sea, the sky threatening rain, the wind promising storm. A lot of the sailors look to the sky, to the water, with a restless worry and Lyonel can feel it tickle the back of his neck. This storm will be something. They should avoid Shipbreaker Bay until it passes. Maybe take shelter near Tarth, on the lee side of it. The Straits are the safest place to be, weather like this on the horizon. A crack of lightning cuts across the sky. Beron’s head whips up from his contemplation and his eyes meet Lyonel’s straight on. Tight mouth. Lyonel tilts his chin, Beron comes to him with quick, sure steps. “Should we wait it out?” “Probably. Tarth, I thought, if we can make it. Where’s Dunk?” Beron points up and Lyonel squints against the weather glare of sun on cloud. Dunk sits astride a beam, fixing a sail with Mero, Lyonel thinks. He’d prefer they weren’t up there.

One of the doors opens and a beautiful girl steps out of the room. Sleek dark hair runs down to her hips like water and she’s what Dunk thinks people mean when they say voluptuous. “Master Beron?” she asks with a lilt to her voice, looking between them. Beron looks at Dunk, face beet-red, grinning like he can’t believe his luck. He gets pulled into the room with soft hands and a softer laugh, the door closes and Dunk is alone with the other girl. She looks at him, something soft and gentle in her expression. He looks down, cheeks hot. She takes his hand and leads him a few doors down. Looks to him again, thumb rubbing over the back of his hand gently. “There are three girls in the room. You can send out the ones you don’t like.” “Sorry?” “Your Master didn’t know what kind of girl would please you best, so he told my Lady to give you the choice.” “Oh,” Dunk says quietly and wants to run back to the harbour, kick Ser Lyonel in the back of the knee as hard as he can and then hide in his hammock for the rest of their time in Lys. “It is very kind,” the girl says and Dunk bites his lip, nods. He supposes it is. She raps on the door and a warm voice bids them enter. Dunk passes her as she holds the door for him and she smiles at him, before closing the door. It leaves him alone with three other girls in the lavish room. There truly seems to be a pillow on every surface. The bed is piled so high with them that it’s almost impossible to imagine anyone lying down in it. “Welcome,” the three girls say in unison and Dunk studies the rugs under his feet. From their feet and legs they all seem tall and very under-dressed. He chances a glance, sees bronzed skin, skin pale as milk, and the third girl has black skin so dark it seems to gleam. Dunk's eyes linger on her. She must be from the Summer Isles. Her hair is braided into a million thin braids, slipping over her shoulders like silk ribbons. She’s beautiful.

read the new chapter now on ao3! Dunk gets his cherry popped!