#duncan

Tourneys were your favorite place to work, from the bustling crowds of nobles to the excitement and energy that filled the air. Your lord Lyonel Baratheon was a very generous patron to you, he even made sure you had the chance to go to see the matches yourself when he didn't need your service.

You and the rest of the servants worked the whole tent, preparing the meals and drinks and serving the guests. Everyone was dressed in the best finery, and the atmosphere was lively and exciting. Lyonel was a wild man, sitting at his high table sharing stories and laughing, the knights around him were drinking and eating, cheering on the tourney fighters and sharing jokes.

You were weaving through the crowd with a tray of empty cups when you first spotted him.

He ducked under the tent flap like a man entering a child’s playhouse, having to stoop just to clear the entryway. The other knights around him were tall men in their own right, but he towered over them like a great oak over saplings. Your feet slowed. Your tray tilted. One of the cups slid and you caught it just before it could clatter to the ground.

Seven hells.

He wasn’t just tall. He was enormous. Broad-shouldered, thick-necked, with hands that could probably wrap around your whole waist and then some. He moved with the careful, deliberate gait of a man who spent his whole life being too big for the world around him, ducking under doorways and watching his elbows. There was something almost gentle about the way he navigated the crowded tent, nodding apologetically to another serving girl he nearly bumped into, offering a shy smile to a lord who clapped him on the arm.

You suspected he was the infamous Ser Duncan the Tall. You heard the name from your Lord Lyonel, who was absolutely beside himself with glee to have such a specimen at his table. Lyonel had a tendency to attract unique and interesting knights, you had met your fair share, but Ser Duncan was something else. The way the firelight caught the broad planes of his face, the way his simple tunic stretched across shoulders that looked strong enough to carry a wagon.

You wanted to climb him like a tree.

The thought made you bite back a smile. You had always been bold; some might say too bold for a serving girl... but you would argue that you just knew what you liked. And you liked them big. Strong. Men who could pick you up and pin you against the nearest wall if the mood struck them.

And, well... you could tell Ser Duncan would definitely be able to do that.

You adjusted your grip on the tray and made your way toward him, weaving through the crowd with purpose. He found a spot near one of the side tables, sitting slightly apart from the other knights, like he wasn’t quite sure he belonged.

"What are you having, Ser?" You asked as you neared him, giving him a flirtatious smile.

Duncan startled, blinking like a deer caught in a snare. When his eyes met yours, you had to stifle a giggle. Gods above, he was adorable.

"Me?"

You grinned, setting your tray on the table and stepping closer to him. "I didn't think I was talking to anyone else."

A faint pink flush colored his cheeks. You resisted the urge to pinch them, instead pouring him a cup of wine and handing it to him. He accepted it, taking a small sip.

"Thank you," he said, his voice low. He set the cup back down, looking slightly embarrassed. "It's-it's good."

"You don't sound convinced," you teased.

"I, uh…" He glanced at the flagon, then back at you. "I'm actually not much of a wine drinker."

You set your tray down on the table, bold as you pleased. "But this is no ordinary wine, Ser. This is a special blend, crafted from the finest Dornish grapes, crushed beneath the breasts of the most beautiful maidens and aged for fifty years in the cellars of House Martell themselves. How can you turn up your nose at such a delicacy?"

Ser Duncan's eyebrows rose. His gaze flickered down to your chest, then quickly away, like a man realizing he'd been caught stealing. "Crushed beneath... what?"

"The breasts of beautiful maidens." You couldn't help the wicked grin that curled the corners of your lips. "Big ones, usually."

Ser Duncan's mouth fell open. He looked completely scandalized, his cheeks now positively flaming. The sight was too much for you. You laughed, unable to contain yourself any longer.

"I'm only teasing you, ser. This is watered down peasant wine."

He huffed a quiet laugh, and the sound of it rumbled deep in his chest. "That sounds more like it."

He reached for the flagon, and you watched his massive fingers wrap around the handle. Everything about him was big; knuckles, wrists, the corded muscles of his forearms. You wondered what those hands would feel like against your skin, squeezing your hips, pulling you down onto his-

You bit the inside of your cheek. Gods, the things he could do to you...

"You’re with Lord Baratheon’s retinue?" he asked, taking a tentative sip.

"Mmhm." You leaned against the table, angling your body toward him. "Pouring ales, fetching food, listening to lords tell the same stories they told at the last three tourneys."

He smiled again, broader this time. It softened his whole face, made him look even sweeter somehow. "I don’t imagine they’re very good stories."

"They get worse every time. Bigger battles, more dragons, more women who were definitely not that beautiful." You tilted your head, studying him. "You are Ser Duncan the Tall, aren't you?"

He ducked his head, a flush creeping up his neck. "Just Dunk, mostly. Yes. That's me."

"Lord Lyonel spoke of you earlier. Said you were a champion in the making."

Dunk rubbed the back of his neck. "Did he, now? I don't know about that. He's a generous man, is all."

"Don’t sell yourself short." The words came out before you could stop them, and you watched the flush deepen. "My lord has great instincts for talent. He can sniff out a great warrior a mile away. If he says you're a champion, then you're a champion."

He looked at you then, really looked, and you felt something warm curl in your belly. His gaze was direct but not forward, curious but not presumptuous. Like he was trying to figure out what to make of you.

"What’s your name?" he asked.

You told him. Watched his lips shape it as he repeated it back, like he was memorizing it.

"That’s a pretty name," he said. Simple. Earnest. Like he didn’t know how to be anything else.

Seven save me, you thought. He’s so sweet. Like a big dumb puppy.

Gods, but you had a weakness for the sweet ones. The idea of being pinned beneath him while he pumped his hips into you, his brow furrowed in concentration and his sweet mouth shaping your name over and over again, had the blood rushing straight between your legs.

The bold part of you. The part that had gotten you into and out of trouble more times than you could count; pushed you forward. You reached out and touched his arm. The muscle beneath his sleeve was solid as oak.

"You should dance with me, future champion, it may be the only time I have such an honor." You offered him your hand.

His eyes went wide. He looked around, like he was checking to see if anyone was watching, then back at you. "Me? I'm not much of a dancer."

"This isn't the lists sweet knight, it's not a contest. Just two people moving together." You wiggled your fingers, smiling encouragingly.

He swallowed hard, and rose to his feet. He was even bigger up close, towering over you like a redwood. The top of your head barely cleared his chest, and you could feel the heat coming off him in waves.

You took his hand. His palm dwarfed yours, his fingers wrapped easily around your wrist. You had to strain your neck to look up at him. He stared back down at you, a question in his eyes. You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, and then you pulled him toward the center of the tent. He kept his steps light, letting you lead, his expression open and curious.

The minstrels were playing a jaunty, wild tune. It filled the air, swirling with the smell of food and drink and laughter. You pulled Dunk close and let the music take you.

Dunk was clumsy at first, hesitant. You had to coax him, show him the rhythm, guide his steps. But he was a quick study, and soon he was matching your pace, mirroring your movements.

You lost track of time after that.

It could have been minutes or hours. Your blood was singing, and at some point Dunk had lifted you onto his shoulders, and the tent spun and blurred as he carried you around, laughing the whole time. You were only slightly distracted by the feeling of his hands on your thighs, big and warm, calloused fingers pressing into soft flesh.

You had to keep reminding yourself to breathe.

At some point, the minstrels started playing a slower tune. The dancers around you paired off, and Dunk set you gently on your feet.

"Sorry," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. His hair was tousled from the dancing, his skin flushed and shining with sweat. He was so gorgeous it hurt. "I didn't mean to carry you off like that."

"I don't mind. I like being carried." You bit your lip, reaching out and touching his arm again. "Do you want to get some air?"

"I-" He paused, and his gaze dropped to your lips. His tongue darted out, wetting his own. "Sure."

You took his hand and led him away, weaving through the crowd. When you glanced over your shoulder, his gaze was fixed on the curve of your hips. A shiver ran down your spine.

Gods, but he was adorable.

You ducked out the back entrance, into the cool night air. The moon hung overhead, half full and bright. You meant to keep walking, to find somewhere private, but the moment the tent flap fell closed behind you, Dunk's hand caught your wrist.

"Wait."

You turned. He stood there, backlit by the glow from the tent. His chest was rising and falling like he'd run a race.

"I just-" He stopped, shook his head. "You should know. I'm not... I don't do this. Usually. I'm not good at-"

You stepped toward him, rising on your toes, and pressed your palm to his chest. His heart was pounding. "Neither am I, Ser Duncan. But I'd like to. With you."

Something in his face shifted. Softened. His hand came up to cover yours. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You bit your lip again, looking up at him from under your lashes. "C'mon."

Dunk followed behind you. You could hear his footsteps, heavy and uneven on the grass. You slowed, and his hand found the small of your back. A simple, chaste gesture, and yet you felt it in every fiber of your being.

"This way," you said, leading him through the darkness. The castle gardens were empty, the trees standing dark and silent.

The two of you slipped into a cluster of trees, moonlight filtered through the leaves, dappling the ground.

Dunk's hand slid up to the nape of your neck, and as you turned, he pressed your back against the tree, his body caging you in.

He bent his head and kissed you, slow and gentle. His lips were soft, almost sweet, and the taste of him had your pulse fluttering in your throat. He was so much bigger than you, his broad chest blocking out the moon and stars.

"You're very forward," he murmured, kissing along your jaw, down the column of your throat. "Very bold."

"I like what I like." You arched into his touch, sliding your hands up his chest, his neck, burying your fingers in his hair.

He chuckled, his hands dipping under your bottom, lifting you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and you let out a soft gasp when his hips pressed into yours.

Even through the fabric of his breeches, the length and girth of him was unmistakable. You felt yourself clench, a wave of heat spreading through you.

"Like what you feel, sweet girl?" He asked, rocking into you.

"Yes, ser." Your voice was breathless, the title slipping from your lips before you could stop it.

"Just Dunk," he corrected, and his voice had gone deep, a rumble that settled low in your belly.

"Dunk." You tightened your legs around him, feeling the muscles in his back shift and flex as he held you.

One of his massive hands moved up your thigh, pushing your skirts ahead of it. The fabric bunched around your hips, and the cool night air hit your bare skin. His fingers found the damp heat of you through your smallclothes, and he groaned.

"You're soaked."

You whimpered as he slid a finger under the fabric, touching the slick heat of your sex. He pressed his lips to the hollow of your throat, licking a slow stripe up the side of your neck, his fingers exploring.

"You're so warm," he murmured, his thick fingers searching through the slick heat, finding the place where your body opened for him. He circled there, a teasing pressure, and your hips canted up against his hand.

"There?" He asked, his voice a low rasp against your ear.

You could only manage a nod, a broken sound escaping your throat as he pressed the tip of one thick finger inside. Just the first knuckle, and you felt the stretch, a burning sweetness that made you clutch at his shoulders.

"So tight," he breathed, pulling back slightly before pressing in again, deeper this time. "Gods, you feel like silk."

His thumb found the sensitive nub above your entrance, circling it with a devastatingly light pressure. The dual sensations had your head falling back against the tree, a moan tearing from your lips as he began to work that single finger in and out of you, a slow, deliberate rhythm that had your thighs trembling.

He was watching you, his blue eyes wide and fixed on your face, drinking in every gasp and shudder. His other hand held you steady against the tree, supporting your weight like it was nothing.

"Is that good?" he murmured, his lips grazing your ear.

"Yes." It was the only word you could manage.

He was panting now, his face pressed into the crook of your neck. His body was rock-hard against yours, the outline of his cock straining against his breeches. He added another finger, and your nails dug into his shoulders, a desperate noise slipping from your lips.

"Look at you," he groaned, his fingers beginning to pump faster, in and out, the heel of his palm hitting the apex of your sex with every thrust. "Riding my fingers, making the prettiest noises..."

You reached for his cock, fumbling with the laces of his breeches. The fabric strained, his size barely contained within. He groaned, looking down between you as you managed to slip your hand beneath the fabric and wrap it around him.

Your fingers didn't even meet.

The girth of him alone was incredible, hot and velvety against your palm, the tip leaking pre-cum that smeared across the head. The realization of what he was about to put all that inside you hit you like a wave, and a sudden surge of need gripped you, the ache of emptiness driving you crazy.

He seemed to have the same thought. His fingers slid out of you, and then those massive hands were gripping the backs of your thighs, shifting your weight. He stepped back from the tree, carrying you with him, and hitched you higher against his chest. The world tilted. Now you were looking down at him, knees bent around his waist, your body angled so that when he adjusted his stance, the blunt head of his cock nudged at your entrance.

He tilted his face up to yours, eyes half-lidded and dark. "It's been so long since I-" He swallowed hard. "Gods, you're perfect." A flush crept up his cheeks even as desire burned in his gaze. "If you want me to stop, just say the word and I'll stop, alright?"

You shook your head, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging gently. "Don't stop. Please, Dunk. Please."

He lowered you then. Or rather, he loosened his grip on your thighs, and gravity did the rest; easing down onto him inch by incredible inch, his gaze never leaving your face.

The stretch was a burning sweetness that had your nails digging into the broad planes of his shoulders. You could feel the muscles there, the way they bunched and flexed beneath your fingers, rock-solid from holding you like you weighed nothing.

"Easy," he breathed against your lips, though whether he was talking to you or himself, you couldn't tell. "Easy, sweet girl. Take it slow."

But slow felt impossible. He was so much thicker than any man you had ever taken, longer than his fingers had prepared you for. You felt full to bursting and he was barely halfway inside you.

Dunk made a sound low in his throat, something almost pained. His forehead dropped to yours, eyes squeezed shut.

"You feel..." He swallowed hard. "Gods, you're so tight. So small."

He took a step forward, pressing you back against the tree, and then he rolled his hips. The motion sent him a little deeper, and a moan escaped your throat.

"So sweet," he murmured, repeating the movement, this time with a bit more force. "The way you squeezed me? Do it again."

You tried, you really did, but the gentle command in his voice had your muscles fluttering uselessly around him. He was just so big, filling you so completely that there was barely room to move.

He seemed to understand. A slow, almost wondering smile curved his lips.

"Can't, can you?" He shifted his hips, pressing deeper just a tiny fraction, and you cried out at the sensation. "I've got you too full. Look at that."

He tightened his grip on your back and thigh, helping him to lift you and lower you on his cock. His strength was absurd, almost casual, and the realization that he could do this all night without tiring made you whimper.

Up. The drag of him almost pulling free.

Down. The heavy stretch of him filling you again.

He set a rhythm, slow and deep, and each downward stroke seated him so fully inside you that you felt him against your cervix, a pressure that bordered on too much and somehow made you ache for more.

Your hands scrambled at his shoulders, fingers finding purchase in the thick muscle there. You could feel every sinew, his body a furnace of heat and power. When you dug your nails in, he groaned, and the sound vibrated through his chest into yours.

"You're gripping my shoulders," he observed, voice rough with amusement and desire. "Like you're afraid I'll drop you."

He loosened his hold slightly, just enough that you slid down another fraction of an inch on his cock, and you yelped, clutching him tighter.

"I've got you." He tightened his grip again, pulling you up and then letting out a deep groan as he sank back inside. "Gods, I've got you."

He kissed you then, fierce and open mouthed, his tongue sliding against yours, the taste of him flooding your senses. You rocked into his thrusts, meeting his rhythm, chasing the feeling building inside you.

Your climax hit suddenly, and Dunk swallowed your moans as you clung to him. It tore through you, leaving you shaking, a shuddering mess in his arms.

His breathing was ragged, the tendons in his neck standing out. His rhythm grew erratic, his hips pumping into you, the sound of skin slapping on skin obscenely loud in the quiet of the gardens.

"Where do you... Fuck, where-"

"Inside," you managed.

Dunk's breath hissed through his teeth. "That's not- ahh- not a good idea. Not unless- not if we-"

He slammed his hips into yours, and his body went rigid. You could feel him, pulsing, his cock jerking inside you. He held you there, grinding, and the sensation had you gasping, a second, smaller peak rolling over you.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck. His mouth was open, his chest heaving.

When he finally pulled out, his seed dripped down the inside of your thigh.

You were both panting, a sheen of sweat coating his brow. The moment you were steady on your feet, he reached for the hem of your skirts and began trying to straighten them, his movements fumbling.

"Are you alright?" He asked, his gaze flicking to yours. "I wasn't too rough?"

The concern in his eyes was real, his expression sweetly open. You couldn't help yourself; you giggled and wrapped your arms around his neck, and he lifted you into a kiss.

"Not at all, champion. You were perfect."

A flush crept up his cheeks. He reached up and brushed his knuckles across your cheek.

"Can I see you again?" he asked, his voice hesitant. "I mean, I understand if not. But if you'd like to... I'd like to. Very much."

You smiled. You couldn't help it.

"I'd like that."

And when he grinned, and the moonlight fell across his face, his expression so bright and boyish and beautiful, you decided right then and there that you didn't just want him for one night.

No, if the gods were kind, maybe you could keep him for a while.