There’s a pleasant, amber-lit warmth around you as you recline back against the plush chaise, eyes dipping in the shadows of the tent. You nurse a cup of blackberry wine, remnants sticky and sweet between the grooves of your bottom teeth as you run the point of your tongue across them. You take a gentle breath, smelling the incense coiling out in thin, white wisps from the thurible suspended overhead: floral bergamot and the musk of something earthier. Shredded wildgrass. Rain on hot earth.

Languidly, your other hand cards through Daeron’s hair, fingers threading between the strands and rubbing along his scalp. His head rests in your lap, his eyes closed, his lips stained a reddish-purple from the wine and the press of your lips. He hums, a leonine purr from the depths of his chest, when the tips of your fingers run in circles along his temple.

He shifts, eyes blinking open to stare up at you. Beyond the canvas of the tent, the music of wandering bards clears the warm evening air of silence, matching birdsong with the plucking of strings and the drone of a wooden flute.

Wordlessly, you lower the cup to him, pressing it gently to his mouth and pouring some in. He drinks with his eyes on you the entire time, glassy and perfectly reflecting the candlelight over your shoulder.

“I’ve been thinking,” Daeron drawls after swallowing, eyes darting across the lines of your face.

“You’ve been thinking? That’s dangerous,” you comment softly, tugging at his hair. “Should I be worried?”

The prince rolls his eyes and continues, “Yes, yes, your jesting is hilarious. But, I have been thinking.”

You take a sip of wine. As you do, he watches the way your throat works around the swallow. His thoughts are softer around the edges, velveteen against the thick arch of his skull, and as his glazed eyes follow the wine down the drop of your throat, he feels his cock give a feeble jerk in his trousers.

You rub your fingers against the crown of his head, speaking when the silence stretches. “What have you been thinking, my prince?”

“Don’t my prince me.”

“You are my prince, are you not?”

Daeron huffs, and you smile down at him. You dip then, pressing your lips to his, the angle slightly awkward, but it doesn’t matter. The prince makes a noise from the back of his throat when your mouth drops to his, and he licks the overripe berries from your lips. He would’ve licked it from your teeth and your tongue too, but you pull away before he can deepen the kiss.

“What have you been thinking about, Daeron?” You repeat, his name so gentle rolling across your tongue. It’s a warm brush across his chest, like the feathering of fingers over his sternum. If he were less mortal, he may have started glowing, skin burning hot at the amorous lilt in that one word alone.

“Duncan,” he replies, almost breathless. The fingers in his hair are teasing, tugging, and he fights off the fluttering of his eyelashes as he looks up at you. “Ser Duncan.”

You peer down at him curiously.

A beat of silence passes, framed only by the distant strumming of a lute and the hammering of your heart against your ribs. The hand on his head shifts, and you swipe a stray lock away from his glistening eyes.

“Ser Duncan,” you say. It’s a statement. Firm and sound as the man who owns the name. The big oak of a man made up of sword callouses on his large hands and a stretching mass of shoulders beneath the thinning material of his tunic. You run your thumb over one of the prince’s eyebrows as you speak again. “And what about him?”

“He’s a big lad, isn’t he?” Daeron whispers out. “A good lad, too.”

“He is,” you agree without much thought.

Ser Duncan the Tall is a big lad. Carved from stone, fists of iron. His arms are thick, as are his shoulders, and his back, and his legs. He takes up space even when he hunches in poor attempts to make himself smaller. His chest and stomach are a solid mass of fat and muscle, soft to the touch which you had found out when, rather boldly—and rather drunkenly—you had placed a palm flat to his chest a few evenings ago. And gods, how he had blushed beneath the trailing of your hand over the solid bulk of his abdomen. Ser Duncan the Tall, a man who made you look bite-sized in comparison, all big and strong with a tendency to go bright red in the ears at the mercy of a pretty lady.

“Such a good lad,” Daeron murmurs, eyes finally closing as you trace the ridge of his browbone. The way he says it makes you smile around the rim of your cup as you take another mouthful of wine. Daeron opens his eyes at the movement, muttering, “Yeah?”

“He is,” you say again, dropping the cup to his face and pouring another decent amount of wine into his mouth. Your hand runs down his cheek, and you wipe a droplet from the corner of his mouth before it can roll down the side of his head. Thumb still at the corner of his mouth as he swallows, you ask, “And why exactly are you thinking about Ser Duncan?”

“I just thought—” the prince begins, almost sheepish, but the wine in his veins is honey-thick and warm, and that velvet brush of his thoughts isn’t bowing to any kind of sober shame. “—we could try something.”

You drink the rest of the wine, sediment swirling in the bottom of the cup as you place it to the side. The two bottles nearby roll empty against the ground. You let your pause linger as you listen to the combined plucking of chordophones somewhere across the camp.

“You want to try something with Ser Duncan?” You query, fingers feather-light as you trace over his cheekbone and the scar that sits there, gnarled but healed.

Daeron smiles. “Yes.”

“And… you think I would agree?”

Daeron continues to smile, but it grows. He reaches a hand, lazy in its movement, to cup the side of your head and bring you down to him once more. He kisses you then, gentle and sugared by blackberries, and there’s a subtle flick of his tongue against your lower lip. You huff into it, and he allows you to pull back. Looking down at him, your hand back in his hair now, you find him smiling still with a pink hue across his cheeks.

“Surely you’ve seen the way he acts around you,” Daeron says, hand trailing briefly over your throat, before tracing a line down your chest, between the valley of your breasts. He continues, “The man goes blood red when you so much as smile at him.”

You want to roll your eyes, but Daeron’s right. You know exactly how the knight shies away beneath your smile, beneath the sweep of your gaze, beneath the whisper of your praise.

Daeron’s hand stretches over the softness of your stomach, palm across your navel. “And he is such a good knight. Surely he deserves someone like you to care for him?”

You offer the prince a knowing smile. “And you wish to care for him as well?”

Daeron shrugs, the movement heavy against your thigh. He kneads at your stomach, and you puff, batting his hand away. He hums out a laugh before his head turns and he kisses your stomach through the thin linen of your chemise.

“If it pleases him,” Daeron murmurs against you. His cheeks are bright pink now, and you can’t help but skim your knuckles across it, feeling the heat prickling there. Daeron catches your hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing over the backs of your fingers. “So?”

A thick heat bundles tightly behind your navel at the thought of Ser Duncan and your prince and you. The wet kisses being left across the back of your perfumed hand aren’t helping the ache between your thighs either.

“You are very convincing, your grace,” you chide, free hand finding his hair and pulling his head back. He grunts, but takes it with lowering eyelids, watching you with the corners of his lips creeping upwards. You ignore the smug look on his face, bending to kiss him once more, lips brushing as you reply, “If it pleases him.”

—✿—

Ten minutes later, and slightly tipsy, you traipse out of your tent and across the camp, the blackberry wine hot in your veins. You shroud yourself in Daeron’s cloak, with your chemise exposed and hastily tucked into a pair of linen trousers, tied tightly around your waist. The material billows around your shins as you cross the encampment, peering through the darkness in search of Ser Duncan.

You follow the music, lured by the stringed quartet who gather beneath the golden lamplight in the opening of Lord Baratheon’s tent. You duck inside, smelling roasted meat and spilled ale, and you fight your way through the churning dancers until you reach the grand table at the very far end.

Lyonel raises his eyes from his supper, fork half-way to his mouth. His eyes twinkle, a few curls of his dark hair brushing messily over his eyes. With his other hand, he wipes them away as he addresses you by name.

“I thought you had retired for the evening,” Lyonel says, eyes trailing down your slightly dishevelled form. 

He bites the slab of meat from his fork and chews carefully as you wave off his comment, looking around the tent as you speak. “May you point me in the direction of Ser Duncan?”

Lyonel’s eyes are sparkling as he chews, then swallows. His grin is woolfish too. “Oh? Whatever for?”

Your gaze finds his and you challenge it, stern and unwavering. The liquid courage that builds like ichor in your blood is enough to chase any potential embarrassment away.

“Take a wild guess,” you say, cocking your head as you appraise him. And before he can make a wild guess—which, from experience, would be more than wild—you continue, “Do you know where he is or not?”

He takes a stab at another piece of meat, before gesturing vaguely with his fork towards the tent’s entrance. He shoves the piece into his mouth and says around the food, “I’ve put him and his boy in one of my tents for the night. He shouldn’t have gone too far, he left a mere few minutes ago.”

“Thank you, Lyonel,” you say, bending into a mocking curtsy. 

Lyonel barks out a laugh, tipping his head to you as you swivel and exit the tent. With your cloak billowing out behind you, you hurry across the encampment until the music has softened and you can make out footprints in the mud that are much bigger than everyone else’s. Ahead, Ser Duncan dips his head to avoid a lantern mounted to a post.

“Ser Duncan!” You call out to him, voice carrying honey-sweet through the warm, still air. 

He turns, slightly startled, just a few metres out from Lyonel’s tent. As you near, you notice the way his eyes widen at your state, taking in the thin material of your chemise, the well-stitched linen of your trousers, and the thick cloak that blankets your figure. He drops into a small bow as you approach, and you chuckle warmly.

“M’lady,” he greets, looking at you through those pretty light brown lashes you’d come to love staring at so much. He rises when you’re directly in front of him, forcing you to crane your head. No matter how tall you ever think you feel, Ser Duncan always makes you feel small. He clears his throat politely. “Are you alright?”

“I am,” you tell him, taking a step closer and feeling the heat radiating from his body. You watch his throat work around a swallow when you reach your hand out and gently touch the pillowy muscle of his bicep. You smile, blinking up at him. “Although, I wanted to ask something of you.”

“Of—” Dunk clears his throat again as if his mouth was too dry and his tongue too heavy. “—Of course, m’lady. Anything at all.”

You grin at that. “I was wondering if you’d like to join me and Daeron in his tent?”

Dunk’s eyes widen. Baby-blue but sparkling dark beneath the casting glow of the nearby lantern. His pupils stretch outwards, and you watch his irises cloud over as he considers the weight of your words. His eyes never stray from your face as your hand gently strokes up and down his bicep.

“I, uh, I mean, I’d… that would…” Dunk stutters, then stops, composing himself. His eyes flicker down to where your hand traces flat lines across the side of his arm, and then back to your face, where you blink up at him like a doe. He exhales a quick breath. “What would I—what would we do?”

“Drink, ideally,” you tell him, fingers drawing over his shoulder now. You reach, tracing line after line until you find the meat of his pec and you feel his breathing hitch beneath your touch. You continue quietly, “But we would like to take care of you, if that is something you’d also want.”

Dunk gapes at your boldness. “We?”

“We,” you assert with a firm nod. Your hand ghosts down one pec, thumb brushing his covered nipple. You’re tracing the hammering of his heart. “Me and Daeron. I must admit this was his idea, but if you are unwilling, that is absolutely fine. He and I will simply—”

Dunk shudders beneath your touch, and one of his large hands lifts slowly to wrap around your wrist. He stills your hand where you’d been drawing circles around his clothed nipple, and you peer up at him with a small smile etched across your face. He stares down at you, chest heaving, eyes scanning your face. Then, he spares a glance towards the tent.

He speaks facing away from you. “I am not unwilling.”

Your smile grows larger. “Yeah?”

The knight turns now, and his cheeks are pink. His ears are even pinker, and you coo up at him, lifting your other hand to feather the pads of your fingers across his cheekbone.

“I am willing,” he whispers, bending his head to draw in more of your touch. His eyes flutter closed as you cup the side of his face, feeling the heat of his blush and the subtle movement of his jaw as he speaks again. “I’m willing, m’lady.”

“Ah,” you say simply, drawing your hand away. His eyes open and he releases your wrist too. You pet his chest again. “He was right.”

“I beg your pardon?” There’s a tip of his head like a puppy.

“Daeron,” you say as if the name was gilded in gold. Perhaps, in many ways, it was. “He told me you were a good lad, and he was right.”

Something like a whine breaks out from the back of Dunk’s throat, and his eyes rise to scan the encampment, but no soul wanders in this direction. You notice the flush creeping down the column of his neck now, and you can’t help the heat that kindles behind your navel as you observe it.

Quickly, you withdraw your hand from his chest and offer the tall man your arm, which he takes without a second thought. He has to stoop slightly, which makes you chuckle.

“Come now, Ser Duncan.” You guide him towards your tent, earth churning beneath you.

The knight clears his throat. “Dunk is fine, m’lady.”

You peer up at him, patting his arm. “Dunk it is.”

—✿—

You pull the flap of Daeron’s tent aside and allow Dunk to duck in, his body hulking through the small opening. You fasten the canvas shut when you both stand inside, and you smile warmly, heart fluttering, as Dunk takes in the interior of the tent with awe. He gapes at the high ceilings draped in blacks and crimsons, the suspended lanterns, and the ornate thurible that overflows with white, bergamot-scented smoke.

Across the room, Daeron lounges much like you left him, stretched across the cushioned, ground-level chaise like a sun-drunk cat. His tunic is gone though, abdomen exposed to the lanterns and candles that fill the tent with a sunset glow. The prince opens his eyes, drawn by the movement, and the smile that pulls across his handsome face is nothing less than excited.

“Ser Duncan,” he utters, low and heady through the shadows, and the tone hits you straight in the bottom of your stomach, heat seeping between your legs as you wrap your arms around Dunk’s arm.

“Dunk,” you correct tenderly, pressing your cheek to his bicep. Your hands drift down his arm, fingers interlocking either side of his hand. You speak to the prince, still separated by metres of intricately-spun Myrish carpet. “Would like us to take care of him.”

Dunk couldn’t blush any harder if he tried.

The smile on Daeron’s face stretches even wider as he sits up and leans against the back of the chaise.

“Perfect,” he whispers, reaching across to secure a new bottle of blackberry wine.

You gently lead Dunk over to the chaise, and he lumbers behind you with his hand in yours. He inhales deeply, smelling the powdery incense and the sweet, perfumed oil on your skin as you remove your hand from his and shrug the cloak from your shoulders. Daeron gestures to the chaise, and Dunk lowers himself with a stiff grunt as you stand before him, pulling apart the knots of your trousers.

Daeron hands the knight a cup then uncorks the wine. “Ser?”

“Please,” Dunk whispers, barely aware of his own voice. 

His eyes linger on the prince, whose hair is perfectly dishevelled and framing his pretty, amber-lit face. After a moment, his eyes flit to yours, and he lets the prince pour wine into his cup as he watches the trousers drop from you, leaving you in just your thin chemise. He swallows, eyes snapping to the dark burgundy wine swirling around his cup.

Dunk takes a sip and is pleasantly surprised. It tastes nothing of the ale or cider he’s used to. It’s rich and sweet and perfectly fermented. Blackberries and sugar, but there’s a berry tartness to it too that lingers along the sides of his tongue. It tastes expensive.

You settle at his other side, and you are so close to him. Dunk can feel the press of your breasts against his arm as you lean to take the cup offered by the prince, and he can feel the shifting of your breathing before you take a sip. Daeron is close to him too, head parallel to his shoulder leaning back against the cushioned chaise. The strumming of instruments from Lyonel’s tent filters through the thick canvas, and the knight downs his entire cup as nerves begin clawing up the inside of his chest.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” Daeron chides suddenly, leaning his head against Dunk’s shoulder. He blindly reaches for the wine and pours more into Dunk’s empty cup. “You are a good knight, Ser Duncan. An honorable one at that. Don’t you think you deserve to be taken care of?”

Dunk’s heart beats wildly against his sternum. Granting him time to think, he takes another deep sip of wine. He feels slightly dizzy already, but he’s not sure if it’s the wine he’s chugged or the heady incense that clouds above his head.

“I don’t think so, your grace,” Dunk answers after a moment. “I don’t think I deserve—”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” you add, hand finding his chest again. It’s still over his heart. A resting comfort that does nothing to cool his heated blood. You smile up at him. “You’re a good knight. The best knight.”

Dunk shakes his head, a small dip in his brow. “I don’t—”

“Our favourite knight,” Daeron interrupts, watching as Dunk drinks his second cup of wine. The prince is already holding the bottle, and he refills the cup quickly, noticing the flaming flush across the giant’s face and neck. “You’re a good knight, aren’t you, ser?”

Dunk looks between you both. You feel him shudder beneath the press of your palm.

“Yes,” he responds meekly, then takes another drink from his cup.

You do as well. As does Daeron, and you and the prince exchange a knowing glance over the rims of your cups as you all drink. A quiet moment passes, the song beyond the tent changes tempo, and suddenly the heat inside you is just that. Heat. A blistering need spreading wild through your diaphragm as you finish your cup—you forgot how many you’ve had—and place it aside.

“Dunk…” You draw out, hand balling in his shirt now.

“Hm?” He hums, mouth full.

“Can I take this off you please?”

You tug at his tunic. He swallows, nearly choking on it, and nods. Smiling, you snatch the hem and tug it over his head, stretching to pull it from his arms too, leaving him bare in the warmth of the tent. You hum, pleased, two hands finding the mounds of his pecs as he reclines against the back of the chaise.

“So strong…” You mutter, squeezing the fat there. 

It makes Dunk groan, his pink-stained lips parting as he watches your fingers work across the muscle of his chest. You grip, palms flat over his nipples, watching the shift of skin and flesh. Daeron watches too, enraptured, before a scheming smile splits across his face and he holds his cup near Dunk’s collar bones. He pours a little then, and you watch with wide eyes as a trickle of wine falls across Dunk’s chest and slips between his pecs.

Dunk groans. “Oh gods.”

“Don’t make a mess now, sweetheart,” Daeron chuckles as you dip and catch the wine with the point of your tongue. You flatten it, just at Dunk’s sternum, and begin licking upwards, trailing back between his pecs and cleaning the blackberry from his skin. Daeron purrs, head resting against Dunk’s shoulder still, smiling proudly. “That’s good…”

Dunk cranes his head upwards so you can suck the remnants from the dip of his collarbone. Then you pull back, holding most of the wine on your tongue. You look at the knight imploringly, but he shifts his head, looking down at the prince.

Daeron nods. “Go on.”

Dunk grunts, a sound of unbridled relief, as he lowers his head and slots his mouth against yours. His lips are warm and surprisingly soft, and they move against yours slowly, timidly. You clutch the muscle of his chest as you crawl over into his lap properly, straddling the mass of his thighs as your mouths move. When his lips split open just enough, you swipe your tongue in, and it’s met with a low groan.

Daeron drinks and watches, but his free hand slinks upwards until he can take a fistful of Dunk’s hair, massaging the back of the knight’s head. Dunk groans again and his tongue meets yours, firm and salt-licked, and you smother it with blackberry wine. One of your hands trails off Dunk’s chest and dips lower, brushing over the hair that thickens beneath his navel in a messy line. You rub your palm over it, and you feel the contraction of muscle beneath fat, and that draws your heartbeat heavily between your spread legs.

Casually, Daeron reaches around where you and Dunk connect and takes the cup from the knight. Dunk makes a noise into your mouth, some kind of gruff acknowledgement, before both of his hands find your hips. They’re warm and solid and big.

“Alright, ser, c’mon now,” Daeron mutters and pulls at Dunk’s hair. The knight swallows his moan as he’s yanked away from your mouth, and you hide a giggle at the blush painting his cheeks and the glaze across his bright blue eyes. All cups are long forgotten now, and Daeron’s hand finds the back of your neck before he’s bringing you towards him. “We have to share the lady, yes?”

Dunk nods dumbly, the movements sluggish, as you smile and slot your mouth against the prince’s while one of your hands continues to trace the line of his trousers. Daeron’s mouth is firmer than Dunk’s, more experienced. His tongue pushes in harder, more incessantly, and his lips shift against yours with a speed you’ve only recently gotten used to. It’s messy and loud, and the prince moans wantonly into your mouth, the sound ricocheting off the tent’s canvas.

Dunk watches and you feel the stirring of his cock beneath the material of his trousers. Blindly, your hand drags down and you press your palm flat to the outline of his hardening cock. The knight sucks in a sudden breath, eyes on where you and Daeron kiss, hiding a groan as the warm pressure of your hand bears down on him.

You take your other hand, previously kneading across the thick fat of Dunk’s chest, and place it across Daeron’s lap too: his cock tenting his linen trousers and aching. He huffs into your mouth and you catch the sound with the tip of your tongue. After a moment, both of your palms working against fabric, you pull away, and Daeron gives you one last wet kiss on the corner of your mouth before he turns his attention to Dunk, who stares at the two of you like you were born from the heavens above.

“Dunk…” Daeron drawls, snatching his nearby cup and quickly downing the rest of his wine. It remains pink on his lips as he tosses the cup across the tent—the sound of it clattering making you roll your eyes—and turns his attention to Dunk. The knight snaps his gaze from you to him, enraptured. Daeron smiles, taking a hand and running a couple of fingers down the curve of Dunk’s jaw. “I would like to try something.”

Dunk’s eyes find yours for a split second. “With me?”

“With you,” the prince affirms with a molasses-thick lilt, fingers sliding down the side of Dunk’s neck. “If it pleases you, of course.”

In the amber light, candles and lanterns glowing like dozens of little suns, Dunk’s pupils swell even more. His attention flits from Daeron, to you, then back to Daeron, tracing the lines of the prince’s face, before ultimately settling on his mouth. You smile, heat unravelling in the depths of your belly, heartbeat thick between your thighs, while you continue to grind your hands against both men’s obvious bulges.

A high-pitched trill from the distant flute swirls through the tent like birdsong. Silence stretches, and then another ballad commences with a clamouring of singing voices and a dramatic strum of a lute.

A single beat of your heart passes before Dunk slowly, slowly nods, and the smile that cracks across Daeron’s face is utterly victorious. You feel the ache of your own wide smile as you remove your hands and take a fistful of each man’s hair, knuckles firm against the backs of their heads. Dunk groans, and Daeron’s smile grows wicked as you press them closer, closer, and closer still, until they both close their eyes and their mouths meet hot in front of you. Daeron’s hand stays firm on the side of Dunk’s neck as he presses inwards, mouth moving. A small, whimper-like sound slips from between the knight’s wine-stained lips as Daeron’s tongue pushes in. His hands tighten on your hips as Daeron kisses him, kneading the flesh at the top of your arse.

“That’s it, that’s so good, Dunk,” you whisper, tugging lightly on his hair. 

He whines in response, eyes blinking open as he angles his head to look at you—but Daeron doesn’t let him get far, pulling the knight down by the side of his neck and slamming their mouths back together. Dunk groans, eyes falling closed once more, and you can’t help the chuckle that escapes you as you remove your hands.

You shift in Dunk’s lap, leaning across to take the ties of Daeron’s trousers apart. They hang loosely around his hips, the knots falling apart easily, and still tongue-deep inside Dunk’s mouth, the prince lifts his hips for you. You bite down on your lower lip, another hot flash sounding through your belly, as you pull Daeron’s trousers down. He’s not wearing breeches—following your drunken round together prior to Dunk’s arrival—and his hard cock flops out hard against the lines of his abdomen.

You take it in hand, feeling the velvet-warmth of his skin, the head flushing a deep, bruising red as pre-cum pearls at the slit. The prince moans like a whore, loud and unabashed, into Dunk’s mouth as you swipe your thumb across the head, then trace it down the dip of his frenulum.

Daeron breaks the kiss and immediately slams his mouth to yours, and the sound that leaves Dunk’s throat sounds more akin to a wounded animal than a knight of the realm.

“Oh, praise the seven,” he mutters, cock throbbing in his trousers as he watches you stroke the prince’s cock as you kiss. That makes you smile, and you rip yourself from Daeron and take hold of the laces of Dunk’s trousers. You look at the knight, imploring, asking, and he nods too fast and too eager. But you love it. “Please, love, please.”

Daeron licks and sucks down the side of your neck as you pull the knight’s trousers apart. You do the same with his breeches. His hips lift momentarily, and you move awkwardly in his lap to pull his trousers and breeches down the thick mass of his thighs, bunching them near his knees as his cock falls free, thick and heavy and wet against his leg.

“Fuck,” you can’t help but breathe, and Daeron picks himself out of your neck. You reach forward and wrap your fingers around Dunk, both hands full now. He groans thickly, head rolling back against the chaise, as you slink your fingers up to the blushing head. You whisper, “Gods, Dunk, it’s—you’re so big.”

Dunk groans again. More embarrassed this time. His ears are bright red.

Daeron hums, delighted, and shoots a hand down too. He meets yours, brushing over your fingers as he wraps his own hand around the thick of Dunk’s cock, feeling the hot pump of blood and the subtle give of the velvety skin.

“You’ll split her apart,” Daeron mutters, speaking as if you weren’t right next to him. He leans his head back against Dunk’s shoulder, peppering the skin he could reach with soft kisses, before speaking again. “But she’ll take you, lad—” his eyes flit to you. “—she always does.”

Dunk groans at the prince’s words, righting his head to watch both of your hands work up and down the length of his leaking cock. You work together—Daeron leaning across to spit a blackberry-stained glob of saliva over the knight’s tip—in taking Dunk apart stroke by stroke. The poor knight shakes beneath you, chest shuddering, lips parted as whine after whine erupts from the back of his throat.

“You’re so pretty, Dunk,” you tell him, leaning forward to kiss the dip in his brow. He inclines his head, pleading, and you whisper against his lips before kissing him properly: “And you’re such a good knight.”

Daeron sucks a mark onto Dunk’s freckled shoulder, eyelids low as he watches his hand and yours stroke up and down, slick with spit and pre-cum. He bites off a moan, his cock jerking in your fingers as you move your hands at the same time. His breathing begins to pick up, a heat firing up in his belly as his eyes find where you and Dunk lick the wine from each other’s teeth.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Daeron says, and you pull away to listen. He takes hold of your chemise, and you break your hold on them for a split second so he can pull it over your head. Dunk groans, one hand immediately shifting to cup one of your tits. Pawing, kneading. Daeron continues, “Y’wanna let our knight stretch you out on his fingers?”

Dunk’s eyes widen.

You nod. “Please.”

Daeron grabs Dunk’s wrist, pulling it away from your chest and instead redirecting it between your split legs. You continue to straddle the knight’s lap as Daeron slides two of Dunk’s thick fingers over your mound then down between your thighs, tips brushing over the puffy bead of your clit. You keen, feeling the heat of your slick—and remnants of Daeron’s cum—as Dunk’s fingers dip over your clit and spread your folds apart under Daeron’s guide.

The knight moans. “This is—oh, she’s—”

“Soaked,” Daeron mutters, pushing Dunk’s fingers against your hole. You suck in a breath. As does Dunk. Daeron purrs, other hand squeezing the base of Dunk’s cock. “She’s soaked, Dunk. All for you—our good knight.”

“Our favourite knight,” you add, the final syllables stretching out into a moan as Daeron urges Dunk to press his fingers inside. Blunt and heavy and thick, spreading you apart. A dull ache builds across your womb, your thighs trembling slightly as two sword-calloused fingers push in, in, in, and then curl. You don’t know how he knows to do that, but he does, and he finds that perfect spot inside you that makes you yowl. “Oh my—ah f-fuck, Dunk, oh gods.”

His cock jerks in your hold, his chest heaving as your pussy clamps tight around his fingers. It’s unlike anything he’s felt before. Lush and silken, all vice-like around his fingers as he slowly pumps them in and out. Daeron’s fingers circle around his wrist, leading his movements.

Stuttering out a breath, you slowly wriggle your hips to meet the rutting of his fingers. You continue to stroke him too, and you feel him twitch again when your pussy flutters. A minute of this lapses before Daeron removes his hand and angles his head to the side, facing the knight, imploring with a batter of his eyelashes.

Dunk grunts but obliges without a second thought. As he splits you apart on his fingers, he dips his head to kiss the prince on his own accord. His mouth moves firmer this time, more confident. He’s finding his feet. Daeron responds to the knight’s eagerness with a lewd moan, his fingers jerking over Dunk’s cock again.

Dunk pulls to the side, panting. “Wait, wait, I can’t—”

Daeron shushes him, kissing his cheek, “I know, Dunk, I know, s’okay.”

And with that, Daeron withdraws his hand. You do as well, whimpering quietly as you place it back against Dunk’s chest for anchorage. Dunk’s head rolls back, eyes to the canvased ceiling, and he groans: half in pain, half in relief. Ghost-like tendrils of bergamot and wildgrass float just above his head, and when he exhales, now completely focused on the warm, wet heat around his fingers, the smoke shifts and dances in the lantern light.

“Add a third,” Daeron suddenly says, voice commanding but drunkenly tender.

Dunk listens. Of course he listens.

A third finger pushes inside you unceremoniously. You moan, gasping simultaneously, nails digging bluntly into the fat of Dunk’s pec. Daeron grins, watching Dunk’s fingers disappear inside you as his hand wraps around yours, helping you fist his own cock. The response Dunk has to your sounds is feverish—his head whips down and he slams his mouth to yours, although it’s mostly tongue and spit and a brief clash of teeth. You both whimper, but the kiss lasts less than five seconds before Daeron is removing your hand from his cock and urging you off Dunk’s lap.

You pout in protest. “Daeron—”

Dunk’s expression is much the same. “M’lord—”

“Gods, you’re like puppies,” Daeron chides, easing you off Dunk’s lap. The knight’s fingers slip from the clutch of your cunt, pulling a thick web of slick with them. You mewl at the loss, the emptiness, and Dunk’s wet hand instantly finds the fat of your arse as Daeron shuffles back, pulling you onto your hands and knees. The prince continues, “Here we go, Ser Duncan. Let us take care of you.”

Daeron cradles the back of your head as he settles you across the chaise, your elbows and knees pressing deep into the cushions. He presses your face against his thigh.

Dunk sits up immediately, his pout gone. Instead, awe spreads thick and fast across his handsome face as he kneels behind you. One large hand paws the fat of your arse, the curve of your hip, whilst the other clasps near the head of his cock as he drags it lightly down the split of your arse.

He moans your name. “Oh this—this is—”

“Be a good lad, Dunk,” Daeron begins, massaging circles along the nape of your neck as he wipes the head of his cock against your mouth. You’ve lifted your head now, smelling the musk of his skin and floral bergamot as you wet your lips. “You’re going to listen to your prince, okay?”

Your pussy clenches around nothing at Daeron’s words, and they’re not even directed at you. The heat behind your navel burns hotter, and hotter still as the tip of Dunk’s cock messily slides down between your folds.

“Yeah,” Dunk breathes out, nodding. His eyes are glazed over and a few loose strands of hair cling to his sweaty forehead.

“Good,” Daeron says, finally feeding his cock into your mouth. You part your lips and lax your jaw, moaning low as the prince slides in. Fending off a moan of his own, he whispers, “Push in just a little. Just the tip—oh, yeah, that’s a good lad…”

Daeron’s sentence shifts mid-air as Dunk immediately heeds his instructions: sliding the head of his cock against your hole, tracing it once with a clumsy circle, before pushing inside.

You moan around Daeron’s cock. Your heart slams against your sternum and the heat in your stomach festers into an ache. It’s a viscous need that claws up your diaphragm, set alight where he slowly pries your pussy apart. Behind you, Dunk shakes—a full body tremor as he holds himself, the tip of his cock buried inside you. His balls twitch and a heavy tension is already settling deep in his bones, his joints, as he feels you pumping warm around him.

“Is this okay?” He whispers, glassy eyes falling up the dip of your spine. “Is this—am I doing okay?”

You say something, but it’s garbled around the thick of Daeron’s cock, your words shoved back down your throat as the prince holds you by the back of the neck. Daeron laughs, a deep, rolling hum as he pets you, hips twitching and angling his cock even deeper down your throat.

“So good,” Daeron mutters, answering for you. The distant music changes again with a loud drumming of fingers against wood. Daeron smoothes his other hand down your back. “Y’can go all the way now. She’ll take you.”

You moan around his cock, tongue writhing over the warm skin. The prince’s eyes fall to you and you exchange a glance. He smiles.

Dunk groans loudly, the timbre shaking the candles nearby as he slowly pushes his hips forward. There’s a tensing in his lower stomach, up the muscles of his thighs as he tips himself against your arse, cock bullying open the clutch of your cunt. You moan again—the slide of him drawing the air from your lungs as your lips wrap around Daeron’s tip—and he whimpers.

“Oh g–gods above, this—oh, fuck, this is—you’re so—” Stinging hot with his blush, the knight struggles to string his sentence together. 

It makes your pussy flutter, something flipping low in your stomach as the heat inside you spreads further. It pulls tight as Dunk continues to feed his cock into you, prying you apart.

“Tight?” Daeron suddenly finishes for him as he begins guiding you up and down his length. Your hand works around the base, smoothing over the curve of his balls as your head moves beneath the press of his hand.

Dunk groans, eyes still closed as he nods. “Yeah, yes, shit, she’s—”

He bottoms out then, pelvis flat against the curve of your arse, his hands gripping the jut of your hips as though you mean to flee him. It’s vice-like, almost too tight. You fight off another moan as Daeron edges down your throat, cock twitching against your tongue as Dunk cuts his sentence off with a whimper.

His cock is thick inside you. The width of him splits you apart, and he reaches so far that the pressure inside you stretches from your womb to your chest. It makes you shake, thrumming like the string of a lute, trembling slightly as you arch for him. He opens his eyes and finds where your pussy takes him. His cock jerks inside of you, and you moan around the prince’s cock.

“She’s the best you’ll ever have,” Daeron begins, still drawing shapes across your arching back as the knight pulls himself from you. He thrusts back in, almost like he’s afraid to hurt you, as Daeron reaches across to paw at the flesh of your arse—simultaneously shoving his cock further down your throat. He ignores the way you gag. “My prettiest girl. Always so good for me—and now she’s being so good for you, isn’t she, Dunk?”

Sweat clings high on Dunk’s forehead, cheeks pink as he begins rolling his hips. His thrusts slowly build in pace, and his heart flips in his chest at Daeron’s words. Nodding dumbly—that’s all he feels he can do—he mutters out a string of, “yes, so good, so good, such a good girl,” as he fucks you atop the cushioned chaise.

Daeron’s hand returns to tracing across the warm skin of your back. He writes his name, his full name and title, not that you can discern that anyway.

Dunk’s thrusts are sporadic in their pressure, and it makes you whine around Daeron’s cock, trying to get the prince’s attention with your lips spread wide around him. The warmth gathering in your womb is there, festering, as your clit throbs with the weight of your pulse. He’s so close to getting it perfect—your best knight, trying so hard to please you.

You manage to catch the prince’s eye when he finally looks away from the huffing knight. His cheeks flame pink, matching the blackberry wine that clings to his lips. He coos, knowing, then directs another lilting order across your body and onto the burning red ears of Dunk.

“You won’t hurt her,” he says. “Go harder.”

Dunks looks over at the prince. “Harder?”

Daeron nods, and so Dunk listens. His fingers tighten on your hips as he pulls out, resting just inside you, before inclining in at such a force you topple forward onto Daeron’s lap. The prince groans, content, as he cradles your head against his lap while you moan around his cock. Dunk grunts as he sets his pace, the sounds bearish as the hazy cloud of incense churns like a thinning stormcloud above his head. The fat of your arse shifts, rippling as he fucks you into the chaise.

Then, he finds the spot that has your eyes rolling. The thick, blunt head of his cock nails it and, by the gods, he feels you tighten around him, and he sees your arch deepen. So he chases it: he chases the high-pitched keens stuck in your throat, and he chases the fluttering of your cunt around him, and he chases the way you rock your hips back to meet each of his thrusts. And the entire time he chases, hounding your pleasure, Daeron praises him, and that sets his pulse thundering in his ears.

“That’s a good lad… that’s it, y’doing so well for us,” the prince utters as he continues to guide your head up and down. “You’re making her feel so good, Dunk.”

You keep your mouth lax, but can barely keep up with him since Dunk’s all but forcing you towards release. You feel it building like stone in the base of your spine. And you know your knight is much the same as, despite his stamina, his thrusts slowly begin to falter.

“Please,” he mutters, practically holding you up now. “Please, sweet girl, I’m—gods, you feel so good. You’re just—you’re so good.”

You whine around Daeron’s cock, saliva stringing wet from the corners of your mouth.

“Yeah, that’s it, Dunk, she’s close,” he drawls, hand shifting from your back to your chest so he can palm at your tits. “Lean forward for me.”

Dunk does as he’s told, and he and the prince meet in the middle. Thanks to Dunk’s height, their mouths slot together easily, a clash of steel and sharpened swords. It’s rough and wet and loud, and the fact you can’t see them makes you writhe between them, both your mouth and your cunt stuffed full. You’re spit-roasted, strung out tight between their bodies as their tongues meet.

“Such a good listener,” you hear Daeron mumble against Dunk’s mouth. Then, they’re kissing again and you’re left shaking. 

Dunk’s cock ruts into you, knocking right up beside the plug of your cervix, drawing a thick, incandescent pressure from the base of your spine. It settles right at the bottom of your womb as you gag around Daeron’s cock, and as tears begin blurring your vision, the pressure mounts, and mounts, until you’re moaning loud around Daeron.

Both men pull apart at the same time to watch you come apart. Your release hits you hard, and Daeron pulls his cock from your mouth, resting your head against his thigh so you can moan “Dunk, Dunk, fuck, oh gods, nnngh—”

“There she is,” Daeron says as he pets the side of your face. His other hand is quick to rut down his length, fucking his fist as he coos down at you. “That’s my girl, taking it so well.”

The muscles in Dunk’s jaw jump as he grits his teeth, fucking you through it. He bullies his cock into you, losing his sense of self the more your heat consumes him. The way your pussy clamps around him, pulsing like the beating of his heart, makes him dizzy. The need he has for you is sickly sweet and he can taste it where he bites his teeth together. He needs you. He needs this again, and again, and again—

“Stuff her full, Ser Duncan,” Daeron says, but the order is breathy as he runs the head of his leaking cock over your cheek as you fizzle down from your high. His fist moves quickly, and Dunk can hear the wet shlick-shlick-shlick as the prince’s head rolls back against the chaise. “Spill inside her. I want you t’feel how well she takes it. How well she takes you.”

Dunk’s a pyre and Daeron the match, his words igniting all that Dunk had been holding back. With a guttural groan, nearly a growl the way it claws out of his throat, Dunk slams you down hard onto his hips—the motion drawing a tired hiccup from you—before his cock jerks. He buries himself to the hilt, stretching you apart, then moans your name like it’s the only word he knows.

“Sweet girl, sweet girl—ah, gods, m’coming, m’coming,” the knight rambles, then spills right up against the base of your womb.

It comes in thick, viscous spurts. You whine, nuzzling your face against the short, coarse hair across Daeron’s thigh.

The knight’s sounds, which have now dissolved into meek whines as his balls draw up and he pumps himself inside you, spur the prince on. Daeron moans your name, followed by a quick “Dunk, fuck,” before he’s spilling over his knuckles and painting the dewy skin of your cheek. You feel some splatter all sticky across your eyebrow too.

Dunk shudders behind you, shoulders heaving as he catches his breath. His cock rests deep inside you, plugging his seed at the base of your cervix as you tremble against him. Dizzy, he reaches across you to stroke a tender hand down your back while Daeron slides the leaking head of his cock through the cum splattered across your cheek.

A minute of panting passes before Dunk slowly removes his cock from the clutch of your pussy—much to your shared chagrin as you both let out a similar sound. He whines, watching his seed spill out of you, and you whine at the feeling of it seeping like molasses through your folds.

Daeron pats your cheek, smearing his cum across your face even more, and the stickiness against your skin and the feel of it growing tacky when you open your mouth makes you cringe.

“Daeron,” you mutter, but it’s not as firm as you wanted it to be.

Dunk collapses back onto the chaise and, much to your surprise, pulls you with him. He collects you with one strong arm around your middle and hefts you like your body mass is no more than a kitten’s. You mewl like one though, shocked and slightly sore, as he bundles you into his side and tucks his chin against the top of your head. You curl into him and he’s boiling hot.

Dunk beckons the prince with a crook of his finger too, and Daeron shuffles across the chaise—slightly unsteady, teetering nearly—before settling half on top of you. You don’t argue as he plasters himself against you, Dunk’s arm reaching around him too.

You trace the freckles across Dunk’s pec as you speak, “You alright?”

Dunk blinks down at you, dazed. “Am… I alright?”

You look up at him and smile. “Yeah.”

“Aye, m’more than alright,” he answers quickly. “M’grand, sweet girl. Are—I wasn’t too rough with you, was I? I didn’t want to—”

“You were perfect,” Daeron interrupts the knight’s stuttering, speaking for you as one of his hands—still damp with cum and spit—takes hold of one of your breasts. He kneads the flesh like he so often does when you lie together like this. “If you weren’t, she wouldn’t’ve come screeching like a wild cat.”

You roll your eyes and Dunk goes even redder.

“You were perfect,” you say gentler than Daeron. You shoot your prince a pointed look—which he counters with a soft kiss to your forehead—before you shift and press a kiss to the patch of skin just above Dunk’s nipple. “You did so well, Dunk. Our good knight.”

“Our perfect knight,” Daeron adds through a purr. 

In response, Dunk takes his hand and threads his fingers through Daeron’s hair, clutching the prince tightly as he dips his head. They share a kiss, any remnants of blackberry wine licked clean by now. A moment passes before you whine, and Dunk can’t help but chuckle as he breaks the kiss and dips even lower, kissing you too.

“I suppose you’ll fight for the honour of both a prince and a lady on the morrow, won’t you?” Daeron mutters, dragging his mouth down the column of Dunk’s neck while the knight kisses you, sucking and biting at the sun-kissed skin.

You hum against Dunk’s mouth, adding with a smile, “And when you win, you’ll have both a prince and a lady waiting to congratulate you.”

Dunk’s cock jerks against his thigh. He couldn’t go any redder even if he tried.

———