Archive of Our Own

It had been three years since the tournament at Ashford, and Dunk found himself under yet another pavilion of Baratheon yellow. Much had changed, though more remained the same. Dunk’s hair was longer, brushing the tops of his shoulders now, and he had somehow gotten even taller—but he still slept under a canopy of leaves and stars most nights. He still liked horses more than most people.

The tourney at Ashford Meadow had left a sour taste in Duncan’s mouth, and he’d lost his appetite for jousting before he’d even gotten the barest taste—but Egg loved them. Dunk had no desire to compete, but he couldn’t deny his squire the same rush and excitement he had felt when Ser Arlan relieved him of his duty and let him join the crowds in the stands. They’d end up at a hastilude every few months, Dunk indulging the presence of so many knights and lords to let his guard down and relax.

Lyonel wasn’t always in attendance—he was Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, after all—but he frequented the lists often enough that Dunk and Egg ran into him four or five times a year. Dunk always put up a token protest at being drawn into the storm, but Lyonel was unrelenting. Each time, Dunk resisted less, and each time, the strange, sharp barbs of awe-admiration-nerves-need sank further and further into his gut. Dunk’s excuses to part felt flimsier each time, and Lyonel’s grin grew sharper, smug, and it set off a lightning storm in Dunk’s chest.

There was little and less for a hedge knight and a Lord Paramount to have in common, but those details only seemed to enrich their connection rather than strain it. Dunk liked Lyonel’s bold, unapologetic temper, and Lyonel was ceaselessly enthralled by Dunk’s adventures and view of life from the hedges. Dunk half-expected Lyonel to tire of his stubborn adherence to the humble life of a wandering knight. For him to find Dunk’s staunch moral code and dedication to his oath a hindrance rather than a virtue—but that moment never came.

He shouldn’t have been surprised; Lyonel was a seasoned huntsman, and patience was the key to a successful hunt.

As for the joust, Lyonel’s success ensured the pavilion was alive with energy. The cool weather was kept at bay by good wax-treated pavilion tarps and the heat of dozens of dancing, drinking, feasting bodies. Lyonel was the day’s champion, unhorsing all comers. When Egg asked what his favorite part of the day’s events was, Dunk said it was cheering with Raymun and Red as Lyonel knocked a particularly priggish Red Apple Fossoway off his horse before beating him into the dirt with nothing but his fists. It wasn’t Steffon, just some other rotten knight that hated those who took his side in the Trial for their part in Raymun’s knighting and break from Cider Hall.

In truth, Dunk’s favorite part—if the intense, squirming, flustered ball of emotions in his breast could be considered a favorable thing—was realizing the favor tied around Lyonel’s helm was the strip of linen Dunk had pressed to his lip the night before, when Lyonel’s damned antler crown gave Dunk a split lip just two meads in.

That scrap of bloodstained fabric now adorned that damnable antler crown. He swore they got more elaborate each time he saw them, and this was no different. The impressive twelve-point rack of antlers sat atop a band of braided gold designed to look like knotted wood, and Dunk could tell the story of its hunt by heart. The antlers themselves had glints of gold gilt dripping down in that same wooden style, hints of precious gems glinting in the light. Thin golden chains criss-crossed in artful, draping arcs, a handful of golden charms dotting the decadent web.

Said charms currently held Dunk’s attention. Lyonel was half-draped over the table in front of them, resting his heavy head on his hand as he talked Dunk’s ear off. Neither was drunk, merely a bit merry, and in that moment, Dunk felt like a fat, contented tomcat that was unfairly favored despite not serving its purpose. He had a full stomach and wore soft, clean clothes, sitting at the head table of a lord he didn’t serve as Lyonel denied him any opportunity to earn his keep, as it were. Dunk fetched no drink nor filled his own plate. He had no cause to care for his horses, kept as they were with the Baratheon mounts. He had no tent, nor did he need one, as Lyonel would not entertain the thought of Dunk elsewhere.

Dunk raised his glass to drain it of the strange, sweet pink wine Lyonel had procured for that evening, only to find it empty. Lyonel was too distracted describing his disagreement with the ‘whoreson victualler that wouldn’t know a fig from a fart’ to gesture for Dunk’s cup to be refilled (thank small mercies). The charms dangling from Lyonel’s crown gleamed hypnotically in the firelight from the many taper candles littering the table, begging for Dunk’s attention. Unable to help himself, Dunk tapped the point of the small golden sword that caught his eye, small ruby teardrops on the chains below in a pretty mockery of blood.

Lyonel couldn’t quite quell his smile to sell his mock-outrage. “You’re not even listening to me!”

“Yes, I am,” Dunk countered calmly. “Whoresone victualler, sold you not-figs, you’ll end his family line only he doesn’t have one because, as you’ve mentioned, he’s a whoreson.”

One of Lyonel’s eyebrows flicked upward in an expression Dunk couldn’t parse. Somewhere between surprised and sinful, making Dunk’s insides squirm with the feeling of revealing things he had not meant to. “Well, well. You do listen to me.”

Dunk made an inelegant sound and rolled his eyes. “Everyone listens to you. Sometimes you even command them to.”

“Only when I’m feeling profound.”

“D’you not always feel that way?” Dunk asked, somewhat serious. “I feel like profound things always happen around you—for me, at least. Or it feels that way.”

Lyonel went silent, staring at Dunk without blinking. The intensity of his eyes brought forth that strange squirming; a flutter in his chest, a coil of confusing want and embarrassment low in his stomach, a wave of gooseflesh from neck to knee. Dunk searched for something to draw attention away from his Seven-cursed, too-expressive face.

He could see Egg curled up under the table with one of Lyonel’s squires. The nephew of Lyonel’s goodbrother’s brother, or something like that. Dunk had had too much wine to remember the exact details, only caring that Egg was safe and asleep and with a lad his own age. “Egg says you’re most profound when you’re not seeking attention,” he declared, sending a silent apology for the ribbing his squire was sure to receive in return.

It worked, and then it was Lyonel’s turn to roll his eyes. “Your squire is a bad influence on you. Any longer together and you’ll say something rude to me on purpose.”

Shrugging, Dunk follows the trail of blood-rubies with his fingertips, tapping each one in sequence. “Might. You’ll probably just laugh, though,” Dunk said.

Lyonel just smiled; they both knew he would.

Dunk absently reached upward to run his fingers along the golden wood designs along the tine of an antler, only to have Lyonel playfully bat his hand away. “I’m not just talking because I like the sound of my own voice, you know. You could at least pretend to be interested.”

“I am interested,” Dunk said honestly.

Lyonel was not convinced. “Is that so?”

Dunk nodded, his lips quirked downward in the hint of a pout at his honesty coming into question. “A’course. I always listen when you talk,” he promised. “I like the sound of your voice.”

Lyonel straightened from his slouch against the table. It was a slow, sinewy move, his dark eyes going clear and intent as he regarded Dunk. “Do you?” he asked.

Helpless to answer with anything but the truth, Dunk nodded mutely. His throat went tight, suddenly desperate for more ale to wet it so his voice wouldn’t crack like Egg’s had started to. “I do,” he said softly. “It suits you. Figure’s that a Storm Lord’s voice should sound like thunder.”

And that was too far. They didn’t do that. Dunk had been resisting the urge to fall into such earnest intimacy each time they met. His pulse raced in response to his nerves, and once again, Lyonel responded with more grace than Dunk thought he deserved. He tossed his head back in laughter, exposing the appetizing line of his throat and silvering facial hair. Lyonel rocked forward, still laughing, and used the momentum to yank his crown from his head and carelessly discard it onto the table.

He scrubbed his fingers through his hair until it was a riot of curls before sighing in pleasure. “Fuck, it feels good to get that thing off. It looks incredible on me, but it’s one heavy cunt,” Lyonel declared. He turned to Dunk and lounged back against his ornate seat. He crossed one lone leg over the other, nudging Duncan’s knee with the toe of his boot. “Feel free to keep complimenting me, dear hedge knight. I do so love to be admired.”

Dunk huffed out an incredulous laugh. “Thought that’s what all your whatchacallits were for—toadies.”

Lyonel cackled at Dunk’s bluntness. “I definitely did not call them that, but I should. Bunch of wart-covered cunts. Besides, they could stand to take notes on how to pay a man a compliment from you, Ser Duncan the Tall.”

“Must be pretty shite at it if they need pointers from a Flea Bottom urchin.”

Crown gone, the gold of Lyonel’s earring tempted Dunk from within wild salt-and-pepper ringlets. “Not a Flea Bottom urchin anymore,” Lyonel proclaimed, voice soft with sincerity and the ever-present rumble of thunder.

“Always an urchin from Flea Bottom,” Dunk insisted. “You don’t stop being something just because you get older, you just become more. Many men in every man, yeah?”

Lyonel chuckled. “Suppose I did say that, once upon a time.”

“‘Once upon a time,’ he says. Like Ashford fucking Meadow was a century ago,” Dunk mocked. He gave in to temptation and flicked the glint of gold hanging from Lyonel’s ear.

Lyonel jerked at the unexpected touch before uncrossing his legs with a whirling kick and lunging forward with a bark of amusement. His strong fingers dug into Dunk’s chest and side, pinching sharply and then retreating before Dunk could retaliate. Lyonel lounged back and bit his lip, staring at Dunk with narrowed eyes. He leaned forward again, his outstretched hand announcing his intent.

Dunk nodded and found his chin in the gentle grip of callused fingers. Lyonel turned Dunk’s face to and fro before releasing his chin and brushing his copper blond hair behind his ear. He gave a tug to the end of Dunk’s hair before sitting back, his eyes still on Dunk's face. Now they were evaluating, calculating, and Dunk waited to hear what Lyonel had to say with equal parts dread and impatience.

“Have you ever thought about getting one?” Lyonel asked.

Dunk furrowed his brow at Lyonel’s vague question until it dawned on him. “Oh, fuck off—”

“Rude!” Lyonel exclaimed in delight. “How rude you are to me for asking but a simple question!”

“A hedge knight with an earring is asking to be robbed,” Dunk drawled.

Lyonel scoffed. “Please. The miscreants who would dare to rob a man for a single earring are the same ones who would piss themselves at the sight of all seven magnificent feet of you!”

“Lyonel, you are almost as tall as I am—”

“Exactly! Not once have I been accosted for my jewelry!”

Dunk snorted. “Out under the stars by yourself very often, milord?”

“By the Mother’s milk-filled teats, Duncan, if only there were some generous and handsome lord doggedly pursuing a noble hedge knight’s service!”

“Fine!” Dunk relented, shocking even himself.

Lyonel went rigid for the blink of an eye before he lurched forward. He tangled his fingers in the collar of Dunk’s tunic and hauled him close enough that the pair of them leaned out of their chairs, heads bent together as though conferring about something secretive.

“‘Fine’ what?” Lyonel demanded, the rasp of his voice zinging down Dunk’s spine. He clamped his other hand on Dunk’s shoulder to keep him in place. “Be very fucking specific, ser.”

Dunk cleared his throat, eyes shifting away until Lyonel prompted them back with a demanding little shake. Lyonel’s eyes had gone from warm brown to glittering black in their intensity, hard and ravenous in a way that Dunk knew Lyonel regularly held himself back from. “Duncan?”

“Let’s start with the earring,” Dunk replied.

His voice may have shaken, but he refused to look away from the storm in Lyonel’s eyes. Lyonel stared at him, eyes boring into Dunk’s skull, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulder, searching. Without a word, Lyonel stood and pulled Dunk from his seat. He didn’t bother to bid his attendants or retinue goodbye, and Dunk’s protests about Egg were only answered by Lyonel snapping his fingers at an older lad and then pointing to where Egg dozed with his new friend.

“Slow down, Lyonel! There’s no need to—”

“There is every fucking need,” Lyonel countered. “Three fucking years I’ve been trying to get a concession out of you; I’m not about to let you change your mind.”

Dunk stumbled after Lyonel into the night. The cool air was refreshing, but the energy between them crackled dangerously. One wrong move and Dunk knew they were just as likely to end at one another’s throats as they were wherever Lyonel intended to take them.

“Where are we even going to find someone to—”

Lyonel actually paused to level him with an unimpressed glare of such magnitude that Dunk half expected to hear thunder. He also very nearly laughed, but Lyonel turned back to continue blazing a warpath through a labyrinth of Baratheon yellow tents.

“Who the fuck do you think did mine?” Lyonel called back. “I was bored and had a spare needle after sewing myself up after falling off my horse because I let Dondarrion goad me into doing some stupid competition—which I won, by the way.”

“Before or after falling off your horse?”

“Before, obviously. Falling would have meant I lost. No, I made Dondarrion fall first. Then I had to sew myself up lest word get around I might be easily unhorsed in the lists,” Lyonel explained as they neared his tent.

Lyonel slapped open the entrance flap and hauled Dunk through like a misbehaved child being sent to bed before the festivities had ended. He nearly knocked over the privacy screens dividing Lyonel’s sleeping area from a small sitting area, but Dunk steadied them as he was tugged along. He found himself spun around and given a firm shove onto Lyonel’s extravagant nest of furs and fancy fabrics that passed as a field cot for the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.

Dunk landed with a grunt and stared up at the yellow ceiling of Lyonel’s tent. He didn’t even attempt to get up, his mind spinning even if his vision wasn’t. He felt drunk, or maybe just feeble-minded, thoughts whirring in his brain with no discernible direction or purpose.

“Fuck,” he murmured, panting softly as he tried to find his metaphorical footing.

Lyonel didn’t comment on his coarse language for once. Instead, he gave Dunk’s booted feet a nudge of his own until Dunk got the hint. He fumbled to untangle his laces without prying his eyes away from the ceiling, eventually settling for kicking at them with his opposite heel until his boots hit the floor.

Glass clinked together, finally drawing Dunk’s eye. He looked over just in time to see the absolute mess Lyonel had made of the little table holding his grooming supplies, as well as the one harboring all his alcohol. He whirled on Dunk with a mad twinkle in his eyes that had surely sent men shouting from the lists. Men smarter than Duncan, more skilled, but men who only knew the Laughing Storm, not Lyonel Baratheon. Dunk liked to think he had the privilege of knowing both, but he was still in uncharted territory.

Lyonel advanced with a bottle of clear liquor in one hand and a needle in the other. He knelt on the edge of the bed and held out the implements of Dunk’s concession. “Hold these for a moment, won’t you? Good lad.”

Dunk considered setting his foot to Lyonel’s sternum and shoving him from the bed, but thought better of it. He’d save it for another time, one that didn’t feel as though they were balancing on a tightrope between prodding an exposed nerve and clashing like titans. One wrong move, and the next time they crossed paths might not be so joyous. That thought alone nearly made Dunk sick and he had to clear his throat to rid himself of the sudden sourness at the back of his throat.

The twin thunks of Lyonel’s boots hitting the floor brought him out of his spiral. Dunk watched Lyonel shuffle up the length of the bed on his knees before he stretched his legs to the side and leaned his weight against Dunk’s middle. He propped a hand near Dunk’s head and leaned forward, trapping Dunk between his arm and body as he still held what Lyonel had handed him.

Lyonel took a deep breath, settling his weight on Dunk more fully. Something Dunk was afraid to name sang in his blood. He and Lyonel had gotten well into their cups together. Enough that passing out next to one another was not strange, but they’d never been close like this.

Making a contemplative sound under his breath, Lyonel brushed his fingers through Dunk’s hair. “How the fuck do you get your hair to lay to smoothly?” he grumbled to himself. “Mine looks like I’m perpetually about to be struck by lightning.”

Dunk’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought that was on purpose. Part of the whole…” he trailed off, waving the bottle of spirits and spare needle at Lyonel’s rakishly disheveled visage.

“Mmm, no, but thank you, dear ser. I simply act like it is, lest someone think there may be things outside my control,” Lyonel said loftily. Dunk shook his head until he was stopped by a gentle grip on his chin. Again, Lyonel directed him to face one direction then another, pausing to brush Dunk’s hair into different arrangements. “This side, I think,” he mused, tracing his finger over the shell of Dunk’s ear. “Your hair usually covers your other ear, and it would be a shame to hide such a pretty trinket.”

Dunk took a deep breath, willing the frantic beat of his heart to slow, lest Lyonel feel the racing of his pulse, the chaotic gallop of his heart, pressed so firmly to Dunk's chest. His charming face showed no trace of it, if he did, so Dunk chose to ignore it as well. “Whichever side you think.”

Lyonel hummed vaguely, plucking the needle and bottle from Dunk’s hand. He jabbed the needle into a nearby pillow for safekeeping and opened the bottle of spirits. Lyonel tipped his head back and drank straight from the bottle, Dunk’s eyes riveted on the long line of his throat as he swallowed. Lyonel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a self-satisfied look in his eye that said he knew where Duncan’s attention had been.

“Your turn,” Lyonel said, his voice roughened by spirits but still as smooth as cream.

Dunk reached for the bottle but Lyonel didn’t relinquish it into his hold. He arched a brow at Dunk and held it to his mouth instead. Dunk froze for a moment, not sure how to proceed without making a complete fool of himself. Lyonel had no similar struggle, and Dunk was grateful for it, content to follow his lead. Privately, Dunk had to admit it was a relief for Lyonel to be so certain and unashamed in what he wanted. He had no qualms ordering or directing Dunk when he hesitated, which was a boon to someone so prone to freezing as he agonized over things that need not be agonized over.

Case in point: Dunk’s mind slammed back into the present as Lyonel dragged the thumb of the hand holding the bottle over his bottom lip, pulling it downward and encouraging his jaw to follow. Lyonel's mouth mirrored his as Dunk parted his lips and let strong, astringent liquor be poured into his mouth. He expected Lyonel to pour too much, like he often did when he filled Dunk’s glass, but he was restrained for once.

Dunk swallowed the powerful spirits with a grimace, barely managing to get a hand over his mouth as he coughed and sputtered in response to the intensely aromatic flavor. Lyonel laughed at Dunk’s plight before taking another short pull of the bottle as Dunk glared up at him. “That’s foul,” Dunk croaked. “Tastes like I just drank perfume.”

“Ha! I’m telling Penrose that,” Lyonel crowed. “I told him he was fucking up some perfectly good Stormlands stills with all his ‘infusions’. Stormlands spirits aren’t brandy; they’re meant to hit like lightning!”

Dunk chuckled as his sputtering petered out, settling into the soft furs with a long exhale. Lyonel’s grin went fond and soft for a moment before he laughed at something in his own head. He tipped the bottle and poured a small amount of spirits into a glass that Dunk hadn’t noticed, though Lyonel made sure to ‘accidentally’ spill some directly onto Dunk’s tunic, expression unrepentant.

“Thanks,” he drawled.

Lyonel stuck his tongue out with a wink as he reached across Dunk to set the bottle on the floor. He dropped the needle in the glass, and it landed without a sound, immediately followed by a heavier metallic clink. Dunk turned to look into the glass, but Lyonel intercepted him with a soft tutting sound and turned his face forward before he could see what was hidden.

He made himself comfortable over Dunk again, staring down at him for a long moment before directing Dunk’s hands under his arms and out of the way. He gripped Lyonel’s shoulders and jumped at the cool touch of Lyonel’s fingers on his ear. Unspeaking, he held Dunk’s eyes as his callused, alcohol-wet fingertips massaged Dunk’s earlobe. The touch blew past stimulating and straight into sensual, Lyonel’s persistent eye contact making Dunk want to squirm against the sheets in embarrassment.

It was a delicious agony, one that was over before Dunk could decide how to respond to it.

There was another tinkling sound as Lyonel grabbed the needle. “Stay still,” he instructed.

Dunk’s body disobeyed without his consent, a visible shiver running through him from the way Lyonel’s words rolled off his tongue. He felt the tiniest pinprick of cool metal against his ear as Lyonel carefully aligned the needle. His eyes were turned down toward his task, biting his lip as he readjusted the position of the needle over and over. Once satisfied, Lyonel’s fingers tightened on Dunk’s ear, and Dunk’s heart pounded painfully in his chest.

Lyonel caught Dunk’s eyes again and held them. He spoke softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Take a deep breath and hold,” he told Dunk. “Exhale when I tell you.”

Dunk didn’t nod, forcing himself to remain as still as the grave. He took a deep, stuttering breath in, the feeling of Lyonel leaning over him increasing as he filled his lungs with air. Lyonel nodded in approval at Dunk’s compliance and began counting down.

“Three.”

Dunk’s fingers twitched against Lyonel’s shoulders. He felt a fuzzy, punch-drunk dizziness, grateful that he was already lying down.

“Two.”

Lyonel licked his lips, eyes flicking to Dunk’s ear once more to give Dunk a moment to panic in the privacy of his own mind. He was a bloody knight, for Seven’s sake! He’d been stabbed, though he’d preferred the pain of the blade to the sting of the needle sewing the wound shut.

“One—breathe out.”

Dunk’s mind went fizzy as he exhaled, breath to hitching at the sudden pinch of the needle. It was nothing, in terms of intensity. Dunk had endured injuries he felt blessed to have survived, spent days and weeks languishing in pain with nothing more than willowbark tea to soothe his ills—but it was the fact that Lyonel had inflicted it that made it different. More. It turned a tiny twinge into something that ached like a well-earned bruise one might press against, just to relive the moment.

“Almost,” Lyonel soothed, incorrectly interpreting Dunk’s tense muscles. He quickly took the earring from the glass with a clink, wrinkling his nose in apology as he fiddled with it out of Dunk’s view. “Sorry, this part might sting a bit.”

And it did. In one smooth move, Lyonel removed the needle and pushed the earring in place. Dunk grimaced as the burn of the alcohol spiked. He and Lyonel were of the same opinion that the sting of cleansing liquids on any kind of wound was worse than receiving stitches. The pop of the earring back being secured was loud and made Dunk feel somewhat sick, but the soothing glide of Lyonel’s fingers down his neck was a balm to it all.

“There,” Lyonel said with a smile. His eyes were fixed on Dunk’s new adornment as he toyed with Dunk’s hair, a pleased look on his face. “It suits you. You paint quite the winsome picture like this.”

Lyonel continued to card his fingers through the hair framing Dunk’s face. He seemed in no great hurry to move, and each pass of Lyonel’s fingers through his hair eased the dull throb of the piercing. Dunk lay still and gathered the courage to be bold. He smoothed his palms over Lyonel’s shoulders before hesitantly reaching for Lyonel’s own hair. Dark eyebrows twitched at the first touch before Lyonel’s face eased into a tentative kind of contentment.

His breath sounded loud to his own ears as he ran clumsy fingers through Lyonel’s curls. They coiled and clung to Dunk’s fingers the way he wouldn’t let himself cling to Lyonel—hadn’t let himself cling to Lyonel. Resisting became harder each time they collided. Harder to part, harder to keep distance between them, harder to find excuses.

Dunk’s uncharacteristic bout of introspection came to a screeching halt when he realized what he was seeing, or what he wasn’t seeing.

Both Lyonel’s ears were bare.

“What—where is…?” His eyes widened, reaching for his ear instinctively.

Lyonel tutted and slapped his hand away. “Hands off, my dear hedge knight. I’ve already got my work cut out for me, making sure this doesn't get infected when you invariably end up sleeping in the dirt under some wretched, pollen-filled tree.”

“T-this…but this is yours,” Dunk protested.

“They’re all mine, Dunk!” Lyonel laughed. “Any I would have used. Perhaps if you had refused me this evening, I would have made a point to get something to drag along with me to every tourney and hastilude from now until the world was remade on the off chance I could change your mind, but you actually agreed to a spontaneous idea of mine the first time I had it!”

Dunk shook his head, frustrated by his inability to string the right damn words together the first time. “I meant that this is a symbol of your house,” he corrected.

He had seen Lyonel sport more dangling little bits of finery from his ear that Dunk could rightly recall, but the gambolling stag held pride of place in all of the Lord Paramount’s ornamentation. Now, a golden stag hung from his ear, a glittering yellow gemstone cradled in its antlers. Lyonel batted Dunk’s hand away when he tried to reach for it again, smiling down at Dunk like he hadn’t just made a monumental, life-changing statement for all and sundry to see.

“Well,” Lyonel said glibly, affecting an air of nonchalance. “Since I can’t convince you to meet me in the lists—”

“I won’t meet anyone in the lists.”

“—or come with me to Storm’s End, or convince you to let me travel with you and your spoiled little squire—”

“You can’t just abandon your house’s seat jus' to keep me company while I make sure Egg doesn’t end up as scrambled as the rest of his family!”

“And since you are the most stubborn, bull-headed, ascetic man to ever live—”

He knew Lyonel didn’t mean for his words to cut, but each tally of Dunk’s refusal to give even the slightest bit of reciprocal attention felt like an accusation. Guilt hit him in the chest like a kick from Thunder. Lyonel demanded and took and insisted, but it was for inconsequential things. Strong-arming him into dinner, when Dunk couldn’t remember the last time he felt full. Shoving him into a hot bath to soothe the aches he got from sleeping under the sky. Sneaking ‘indulgences’ into his and Egg’s pack, when Dunk was starting to realize they weren’t indulgences at all. He was afraid to allow himself the barest of comforts lest he feel bereft without them, and that somehow started to extend to Lyonel himself.

If Dunk was doing himself a disservice, his behavior toward Lyonel bordered on cruelty.

“Yield,” Dunk laughed out. The act of surrendering to something he’d denied himself was as exhilarating as it was frightening. “I yield, Lyonel.”

Lyonel let out a single peal of laughter. “This time,” he said, throwing his hands up in mock-frustration.

Dunk caught one of his wrists, drawing it back down to his chest. He hoped Lyonel could understand his meaning from the hectic clamor of his heart against his ribs. “No,” he murmured. “I yield, Lyonel.”

All amusement fell from Lyonel’s face. “What?”

“Ser Arlan used to say that I worked myself ragged to run from things I didn’t want to handle. That I was too afraid to face,” Dunk corrected. “He said he could see when I’d decided to stop running—because the time for a man to stop running would always come, whether or not he willed it. You could choose when to surrender, or something would choose it for you.” He forced himself to hold Lyonel’s gaze, even though the tell-tale sting in his eyes shamed him. “I don’t want the choice to be taken from me. Not because you could no longer tolerate being rebuffed for extending kindness I didn’t understand how to accept. So I’m choosing now.”

Lyonel’s fingers went tight in Dunk’s hair. “It’s not just kindness I was extending,” he said roughly. “Do not paint me as some paragon of virtue who acted only out of the goodness of my heart. I won’t be able to stand it when you let yourself see the truth, Ser Duncan.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Lyonel demanded.

Dunk didn’t shrink from the tightening grip on his hair, even as his scalp stung in protest. “I do, Lyonel. I’m thick as a castle wall, but I’m not blind. When I’m in need of gallant camaraderie, I know how to find my way to New Barrel,” Dunk said honestly. “I have Raymun for that, and the Seven love 'im for it—but you’re different.”

“Why?” Lyonel asked, with so much emotion in his voice. Hurt, disbelief, hope, all of it made Dunk want to hide his face. “Why am I different, Dunk?”

“You’re the only person who ever wanted me to be tall, right from the start,” Dunk replied, heart cracked open and bleeding. He hoped Lyonel could hear all that he meant, all it encompassed, despite the poor turn of phrase.

Looming over him, Lyonel looked like something out of one of his tall tales. He was half a creature of shadow and glistening candlelight and yet nothing more than a man, and Dunk was weak to him either way. “How could I want you as anything but what you are? How do smallfolk and lords of houses great and small just let you slip from their fingers and back into the hedges with nary an effort to keep you?”

Lyonel’s fingers gentled their grip in his hair. Dunk’s eyes fluttered at the unexpected touch of Lyonel’s hand to face, cupping Dunk’s cheek in a warm, broad palm. The silence stretched thin between them, the air almost humming with tension. Dunk watched Lyonel’s throat bob as he swallowed, noted the fine tremor in the hand cupping his face. He wasn’t surprised when that energy translated into a tight grasp on his jaw, Lyonel’s own jaw tightening in response.

“I don’t want you in my service,” Lyonel forced out. “I meant it after Ashford, and maybe I would have been content with it. Now, after years of watching you slip through every carefully constructed, richly fucking baited net I’ve ever cast, it won’t be enough to just see you in Baratheon livery.”

Dunk leveled Lyonel with an unimpressed look. “I’m not a hunting trophy.”

A wicked spark animated Lyonel’s face, but his throaty laugh felt like a predator’s victory bellow. “No, but by the Maiden’s blessed cunt, you’d make a good one. My crowning glory, mounted in my great hall,” he mused. A feverish flush spread across Lyonel’s face as his eyes went distant for a single moment before honing back in on Dunk’s face. “I can settle for a portrait. I suppose it’s traditional, anyway.”

“What in Seven hells is traditional about the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands havin' a portrait of a hedge knight in his halls?” Dunk asked, laughing despite the tight hold Lyonel still had on his jaw.

Uncertainty shuttered Lyonel’s face for the first time Dunk could ever recall. Dunk could see the care Lyonel took while choosing his words, and that thought alone had a nervous chill drip down his spine. He released Dunk’s jaw to rub a hand over his beard before speaking.

“A portrait of a hedge knight being traditional? No, can’t say I’ve seen that. But a portrait of one’s spouse? There are centuries of evidence for that.”

Dunk’s heart tripped over itself at Lyonel’s words. He couldn’t name the emotion that gripped him by the throat, but he was entirely unprepared for it. “Spouse?” he breathed weakly.

Lyonel’s face belied his incredulity at Duncan’s confusion. “I am not a subtle man, Ser Duncan. You cannot tell me you were blind to my overtures.”

“No, no, it’s—” Dunk floundered for what to say, drowning under the weight of his emotions and his struggle to express them without a massive cockup. “You never said.”

“I have some dignity,” Lyonel groused, nose scrunched. He sobered as soon as he noticed Dunk was genuinely overcome by emotion. “Aside from the last few times we’ve crossed paths, you seemed ready to flee at the merest hint I had done something in anticipation of us possibly running into one another.”

Dunk exhaled shakily, knowing Lyonel spoke nothing but the truth.

“Did you think I would be content with keeping you a secret? That I would want to?” Lyonel pressed.

“Believe it or not, my thoughts on the matter had little to do with you,” Dunk admitted, sheepish and reticent. “I didn’t think to assign myself more importance—”

“Fuck that,” Lyonel spat angrily. “And fuck you. Have I ever kept my thoughts about anything a secret?”

Dunk’s throat tightened at Lyonel’s honest ire. Deserved, if Dunk was honest, as his anger at Lyonel’s flippant behavior after the Trial of Seven had been. Lyonel had humbled himself and eaten crow at one of their later meetings, and Dunk had accepted his apology. Dunk only hoped that he could adequately offer up a suitable apology of his own.

“You haven’t. I haven’t always understood your meaning, but that’s no fault of yours,” he said carefully. “I know you don’t give a damn about rank, Lyonel, but that’s only a privilege afforded to lords and ladies.”

Lyonel’s lips pressed into a thin line. He was clearly displeased but also unable to refute Dunk’s statement. Still, he withheld his rebuttal for the time being.

Dunk took a calming breath and pressed on. “I’ve survived this long because Ser Arlan made sure I knew how to recognize my place—and as soon as he died, I went and fucked it all up and kicked a prince.”

Neither of them could contain their laughter at Dunk’s frank evaluation of the events at Ashford. Dunk was glad it broke the tension between them, making it easier for him to collect his thoughts.

“Leaders of houses great and small have obligations. Duties. Commitments. I never imagined being in your life in a way that might prevent you from fulfilling those obligations—not because I thought you would cast our association aside!” Dunk rushed to clarify. He saw the outrage gathering in Lyonel’s eyes, but he needed time to say his piece. “Don’t misunderstand me jus’ because you’re cross.”

Lyonel showed his open palms in surrender, letting Dunk continue.

“You’ve made light and teased and extended some ridiculous offers, but you never tried to convince me to abandon my word when I’d given it to others. I won’t pretend to know what kind of obligations you have, but I’d never want to be the reason you weren’t able to honor your duties to your house.”

“There are no duties I cannot fulfill with your presence by my side,” Lyonel swore.

His tone and words were earnest, but Dunk couldn’t imagine how that could be true. Dunk gave Lyonel a pointed look. “Heirs?”

Lyonel rolled his eyes. “I have plenty of nephews—some of whom would be excellent successors,” he explained. Lyonel warmed up to the idea of convincing Dunk of the error of his thinking, starting a tally on his hand. “I’m the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, and my various relations have married into great houses in the Westerlands, the Reach, and the Riverlands. We’ve married into the Targaryens before, much as it pains me, and you and your squire would connect me to them in the present, which is arguably better than any other tie I could make to them. What other agonies have you built up between us?”

“The spouse of a lord to a great house has their own responsibilities,” Dunk said falteringly, his tone miserable. His inadequacies to fulfill such a role made him feel sick, but Dunk knew he would bear the humiliation of failing if Lyonel asked it of him.

“There hasn’t been a Lady or Lord Consort of Storm’s End in over thirty years, Duncan. It’s a bastard of a stone keep, just as stubborn as us Baratheons,” Lyonel said. “It hasn’t crumbled yet, and it won’t just because its Lord Consort wasn’t raised to know how to throw a feast. There are plenty of competent people in my employ, and I am content to keep them there—especially if it means I would be free to watch you endear yourself to the smallfolk of the Stormlands, one hedge at a time. It’s good for people to see their lords toiling alongside them. Keeps the riots at bay.”

Reluctantly, Dunk allowed himself to smile at Lyonel’s irreverent humor. “Might say it does lords more good to do some toiling. A reminder of what smallfolk do to keep them so comfortable in their keeps and castles.”

Dunk expected more teasing or grumbling, but instead, Lyonel’s face split into a radiant grin. “Can’t even tell when you’re making my own point for me,” he said. “I don’t need you to fill in whatever role you’ve imagined, or seen others fill; I just need you as you are; I want you as you are. Someone to remind me when I’m being a spoiled cunt, or when I’m making an ass of myself. Someone who’s not afraid to shove me back or step in my path when I’m charging in headfirst. Someone to remind me that, occasionally, patience is the only option.”

Put like that, Dunk had to admit he was more than capable of fulfilling those duties. Lyonel was larger than life in a way that exceeded him just being the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. He was a man of formidable stature and presence, and in that regard, Dunk was his equal. He might not command attention in the same way Lyonel did, but a man as large as Ser Duncan the Tall drew attention wherever he went, regardless of whether or not he wanted to, and he had finally learned to manage it.

“I’d say you’ve been rather patient,” Dunk replied. “You only held my horses and squire hostage that one time, and I might have deserved it.”

Lyonel laughed. “Might have?” he exclaimed in disbelief. “You still had a piece of an arrow lodged in your shoulder that you did fuck all about! It had been there for a week! The only reason you’re alive is that the blessed Mother loves you best out of all of us mere mortals!” He gripped Dunk by the shoulders and shook him with enough force that Dunk was glad to be lying on a soft surface. “Fever or infection would have taken you from us in a matter of days if Egg hadn’t ratted you out. I would have ended up burning half of the Reach in retaliation if Egg had to lay you to rest under some lonesome elm tree, all because of a Rose Road bandit.”

Dunk grimaced, abashed over his past foolishness. “As I said, I deserved it.”

Lyonel made a skeptical noise as he stared at Dunk before he bent low to rest his forearms on either side of Dunk’s head. “You’ll come with me? To Storm’s End?” he asked into the quiet space between them.

Dunk could still hear the sounds of merriment going on all around them, the sounds occasionally spiking when someone slipped from tent to tent. It was a pleasant buzz outside the bubble of Lyonel’s tent, and it helped to dull the nervous ringing in Dunk’s ears.

“Anywhere,” Dunk conceded. The words made his throat feel scraped raw. “I’ll go with you anywhere.”

Hovering above him, Lyonel regarded Dunk solemnly. His face went through a complicated series of expressions before something that made Dunk’s heart pound ignited in Lyonel’s eyes. A dark heat made his eyes glitter, as hard as cut crystal, but molten, like steel ready to be shaped into a blade.

The earring, Dunk realized. He twitched as a featherlight touch traced the shell of his ear. Clearing his throat, Dunk found his voice again. “You like it?” he asked, turning his head to better display his new adornment.

“Love it,” Lyonel whispered. Pressed together as they were, Dunk fancied he could feel the rumble of Lyonel’s words in his own chest, and he didn’t bother to hide the shiver it elicited. Lyonel opened his mouth before closing it again, pressing his lips together in a clear denial of something he wanted to say.

“Say it,” Dunk encouraged.

Lyonel still hesitated. “It might shock you to know this, good ser knight, but I am not always such a giving and generous man,” he said wryly. “I can be greedy and possessive. It’s not becoming.”

Dunk shrugged. “Could be nice, every once in a while.”

“What would be nice?”

“You bein’ possessive,” Dunk confessed. “No one wants urchins because they’re just another mouth to feed. Same for hedge knights, too. Aside from you, I’m more used to folks eager to see my back. I’m not used to being wanted.”

Lyonel’s eyes darkened again, his chin tipping upward as if answering an unseen challenge. “The mark of my house suits you, ser. You look fetching in gold, but you look even better when you’re mine.” His voice growled at the end, making ‘mine’ sound like every sinful thought Dunk had ever had, and dozens more he could only fathom. Heat trailed down Dunk’s neck and chest, and the rush of desire coursing through his veins only doubled when Lyonel’s face went soft. “And as good as you look while you're mine, I’ve been at my best since I’ve been yours.”

Dunk’s throat went tight with emotion. He tilted his head back as he blinked away tears, absently rubbing his fingers along the hinge of Lyonel’s jaw and dragging blunt nails through his neat facial hair. His breathing was shaky, but Dunk felt like he was entitled to a little unsteadiness as he basked in the storm of their feelings.

He gasped, his entire body jerking in response to the butterfly-light touch of Lyonel’s lips against his throat. The static prickle of his beard accentuated the softness of Lyonel’s lips. The warmth of his breath made Dunk feel feverish in a way that was foreign to him. It was a heady, vulnerable feeling, and he craved more of it.

Dunk was not a man prone to unprompted desire. His mind was often occupied, thoughts heavy with the simple burdens of being a man of humble means tasked to provide for someone in his care. Dunk was used to scarcity, planned for it, but Egg was not. He wanted to show the young prince the lives of the smallfolk, but he did not intend for him to share in their basest struggles. The logistics of keeping them fed and clothed and finding shelter when the weather demanded it were more than enough to fill his mind from sunup to sundown.

On the rare occasions Dunk felt the stirrings of arousal, he lacked the privacy to indulge. It was simpler not to engage at all rather than foster a desire for something that could only serve as a distraction in the best of times. As such, he was wholly unprepared for the strength of longing Lyonel evoked in him. Dunk’s blush burned hotter at the loud catch in his breath as Lyonel languidly explored the column of his throat with his mouth.

Dunk was alight from each slow, unhurried caress of Lyonel’s lips and tongue, the exquisite pressure of each gentle nip from his teeth. The tease of Lyonel’s breath against his spit-slick skin was electrifying, enhanced by the obscene way the wet sounds of Lyonel’s mouth made Dunk want to writhe in aroused mortification.

Lyonel lingered at the notch at the base of his throat, groaning as he sucked a mark into Dunk’s skin. Dunk felt the vibrations of Lyonel’s pleasure, and it made him shudder in return. He could feel Lyonel smile against his skin, nuzzling his nose against the lurid mark he had left before kissing his way back up Dunk’s throat.

“I can feel you blushing against my lips,” Lyonel muttered.

Dunk chuckled weakly. “Don’t let it go to your head, milord. I blush like a septa among soldiers.”

His cheeky remark was spoiled by a breathy cry as Lyonel bit the hinge of his jaw and gently worried the skin between his teeth. “That was a pretty sound,” Lyonel whispered against his unpierced ear. A sharp nip to the lobe of his ear made Dunk jerk, melting back into the lavish furs as Lyonel soothed the sting with his tongue. Lyonel pulled himself away from laying waste to Dunk’s control with a parting kiss to his temple.

Lyonel gazed down at him with eyes full of heat and affection, all traces of humor gone. “I can still be patient,” he said. It was an out, and Dunk appreciated it despite having no intention of taking it. “It’s enough to have your word that you wish to remain with me.”

“You have my word,” Dunk vowed.

“I’d like to have more than that,” Lyonel quipped, winking.

“What happened to patience?”

Lyonel hummed in contemplation, shoving himself back up to look down at Dunk with a playful gleam in his eye. “I’m sure I left it somewhere around here,” he said, looking around the dimly lit tent.

“D’you need me to help you find it, ser?” Dunk drawled. “I’m told you lose it quite often.”

Lyonel’s grin was a thing of beauty. “You insolent little shit. Fuck, we’re going to drive each other mad,” he said. Far from annoyed, Lyonel appeared gleeful at the prospect of having someone to get under his skin.

Lyonel’s fingers flexed in the furs around Dunk’s head, clearing itching for something, but holding himself back. He heaved a put-upon sigh before hefting himself into a sitting position. Dunk reflexively twitched away from the ticklish sensation as Lyonel’s hand dragged down his side. Fiendish anticipation dawned over Lyonel’s face and Dunk’s stomach flipped.

Lyonel was a soldier and a knight, quick to capitalize on an enemy’s weakness. Dunk might not have been an enemy, but as the man had implied only moments before, they had a predilection for spurring one another on into madness. Dunk tried to tuck his arms to guard the sensitive length of his ribs and waist, but he was a second too late. He yelped and batted at the fingers digging into his sides.

He had a height advantage on Lyonel, though only barely. Broader of shoulder, too, and with a certain advantage to his increased weight, but Dunk was loath to force the man off him. There was something to the feeling of being beneath a man such as Lyonel that was worth exploring.

Mercifully, Lyonel relented after a few breathless, wriggling moments. Dunk uncurled from his defensive position and collapsed back into the supple sea of furs that was Lyonel’s bedding with a musical sigh. Quiet, breathy laughter filled the air as Dunk worked to catch his breath, Lyonel’s face bright with joy above him.

Lyonel ran the back of his knuckles down Dunk’s reddened cheek. “Red as a maid on her wedding night,” he teased.

Dunk was reminded of Lyonel’s taunting words the night they met. “Not the first time you’ve brought up wedding nights,” he said, still breathless.

“Indeed, it is not. It was one of the first things I ever said to you, so you must forgive me for being shocked you didn’t know my intentions from the start.”

“If I must.”

Lyonel arched an imperious brow. “You must,” he declared. His haughty expression remained for only a moment longer before his eyes crinkled in good humor. He cupped Dunk’s face and gently turned his head to the side to admire the stag dangling from his ear. Lyonel’s thumb swept over Dunk’s flushed cheek, desire making his eyes simmer with heat.

“You’ve experienced quite a bit of the world since that night,” Lyonel said, his voice low in his chest. “You may blush like a maid, but no longer do you cower like one.”

Dunk turned to look at him, eyes widening at how close Lyonel had gotten. He tipped his head back, angling in anticipation of a kiss that didn’t come. Lyonel held his lips just out of reach, the corner of his lips quirking upward in amusement. “Tell me,” Lyonel urged him. “Is there any maid left in you?”

“What do you think?” Dunk shot back.

Lyonel beamed in the face of Dunk’s clumsy deflection. “I think you look like the Warrior made flesh, my dear ser, but a chaste one—much to the disappointment of many, I am sure.”

“To your disappointment?” Dunk checked.

“To my delight.” Lyonel insisted. He tipped forward to rest his forehead against Dunk’s.

“Aye? You’re not just appeasing me with pretty words?”

Lyonel shook his head, his brow still pressed to Duncan’s. “Ser Duncan, I would have you either way—any way—but I can’t deny that I would be hideously envious should another have laid claim to you before me,” he admitted.

Appeased, Dunk nodded and curled his arms between them so he could rest his hands against Lyonel’s collar and shoulders.

Unable to remain serious, Lyonel's mouth stretched into that cocksure grin he was known for. “You blush so sweetly from my words, what would you like—”

“I’d like for you to kiss me, you glib-tongued—”

Lyonel’s lips descended on his. The hand cupping his face held Dunk still for the rough press of his mouth. They parted before Dunk could do more than hum against Lyonel’s lips, grumbling in protest as Lyonel pressed him back into the furs when Dunk made to follow. “Lyonel,” he breathed out, trying to tug him back.

Lyonel surged forward again with a growl, crushing their lips together for another brief kiss. He nibbled at Dunk’s bottom lip before sitting up again and pressing his thumb to Dunk’s mouth to cut off more complaints.

“Fuck, just one moment, you gorgeous thing,” Lyonel begged off, scrambling from the bed. “Fuck, I promise, just a moment.”

Dunk pushed himself up with his elbows and watched Lyonel stride into the vestibule at the front of the tent. The privacy screens covered much, but Dunk heard a great deal of clattering and fabric being slapped at until the opening to Lyonel’s living space was secured tightly. Lyonel reappeared, his hair wilder than it had been when he slipped from view.

The white flash of his teeth was bright in the dim light as he bared them in a grin. “Needed to make sure we weren’t going to be interrupted,” he said breathlessly.

Dunk’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Did you just tell—”

“No, no, no,” Lyonel denied, waving his hand in Dunk’s direction. His hip collided with the corner of the table, still covered in a mess of bottles and jars. Lyonel cursed under his breath as he worsened the mess in search of something. “Just hung a handkerchief over the antlers above the door. My attendants know not to just barge in lest they interrupt me and my company.”

Dunk fell back onto the furs, covering his face as he shook in silent laughter until something hard and cold pelted him in the stomach. He pulled his hand away to scowl at Lyonel and found the man chuckling as he tore through the buttons on his doublet.

“Less laughing, more undressing,” Lyonel instructed jauntily, winking as he tossed his doublet over Dunk’s face.

Dunk was glad for the momentary reprieve of having his face covered by Lyonel’s doublet, but the scent of him only set Dunk’s pulse to racing. He tossed the doublet from his face after a steadying breath and hefted himself into a sitting position. Dunk pulled his tunic over his head before he could agonize over it, letting it fall into a pile on the rug.

Lyonel was on him before he could blink. He’d lost his own shirt, the dark hair on his chest shot through with hints of silver that caught the candlelight. Lyonel was a tapestry of muscle and scars, though his skin was soft and fragrant from the years of oil in his bath and privileged living, and Dunk was glad for it. Where most of Lyonel’s scars had healed well, many of Dunk's were roughened. Maesters were for things he and Ser Arlan couldn’t handle themselves, and there was very little that Ser Arlan deemed himself incapable of handling.

The evidence of Dunk’s rough living didn’t seem to displease Lyonel’s in the slightest. He bestowed a reverent kiss to the scar on Dunk’s palm from the Trial of Seven. It made Dunk’s eyes sting, and his throat went tight with emotion until he felt Lyonel smirk against his skin. He tossed Dunk’s hand away and dove for the unprotected expanse of his chest.

Dunk yelped as Lyonel got a firm grasp of each muscle. “Gods be good, ser. You could put the Maiden to shame with these,” Lyonel groaned rapturously. “I only let myself peek once or twice, but fuck, knowing you had these hidden under a parchment-thin layer of linen plagued my thoughts for weeks every time we crossed paths.”

“Lyonel!”

Lyonel’s curls bounced as he righted himself to look at Dunk. “Is it the blasphemy or the peeking that’s got you all scandalized?” he asked with a brazen grin.

Dunk laughed helplessly. “I don’t even know.”

Lyonel wrinkled his nose in a puckish expression and ducked down to nibble at Dunk’s unpierced earlobe again. “Let me make it up to you.” He blazed a burning trail of toothy kisses across Dunk’s jaw and down his neck, pausing to darken the love bite at the base of his throat. He slowed his descent, lingering more with each kiss pressed to Dunk’s skin.

Dunk grasped at Lyonel’s shoulders, wondering if he wasn’t leaving marks of his own. He knew the strength of his hands eclipsed many men, and while Lyonel wasn’t a slight man in the least, Dunk’s hands spanned an impressive amount of skin. The lazy, meandering path of Lyonel’s mouth was offset by his fingers kneading the soft swell of Dunk’s unflexed chest. The skin of his chest was more sparsely covered in hair than Lyonel’s, though it was darker than that on his head. He pressed up into Lyonel’s touch as he clutched at his shoulders, wondering if he should be doing more.

Jesting aside, Dunk rather felt like the proverbial maid Lyonel had implied him to be. Gentle, affectionate touch wasn’t as rare as it had been when it was just him and Ser Arlan, but it was still something he was unaccustomed to. Egg was a tactile lad, but Dunk yanked and patted and held him like his very tiny, very impertinent little brother, which is to say, nothing like Lyonel.

And Lyonel felt incredible against him. He was densely packed with muscle, which made for a grounding weight above him. His hands and mouth seemed to be everywhere at once, ensuring no part of Dunk’s exposed skin felt neglected. Dunk felt rather overwhelmed by it all—good overwhelmed, like receiving wonderful news after an unexpected windfall.

“Lyonel,” Dunk sighed, sliding shaky hands down the firm planes of Lyonel’s back.

Lyonel cursed under his breath, teeth digging into Dunk’s shoulder a little harder in response to his name. “Seven hells, I’ve wanted to hear you say my name like that for ages,” he rasped. “I’d tear the heart from a man’s chest if you asked me to do it after saying my name like that.”

It might have been an odd sentiment to get worked up about, but the tone of his voice only made Dunk burn with want. Lyonel released one side of Dunk’s chest to smooth a hand downward. He settled his weight between Dunk’s legs, pressing his stomach into Dunk’s cloth-covered groin. Dunk felt embarrassment flutter in his chest at his body’s response. He knew it was the very purpose of such activities, but unfamiliarity made it feel like a shameful thing.

Determined to stop agonizing, Dunk focused on the play of Lyonel’s muscles under his palms. His reputation in the lists was well deserved, both for his laughter and his energy, and Lyonel’s dedication to such knightly pursuits had shaped him into a powerful man in every sense of the word. Knowing that Lyonel could match him measure for measure set Dunk at ease. Not having to worry about his stature was intoxicating, especially when his every interaction was a careful dance of navigating his size in a world both frightened and unaccommodating of him.

Dunk’s mind went white as Lyonel set his teeth to the meat of his chest. Just a hint of teeth at first, as if to test his reaction. “Lyonel,” he pleaded, and the man delivered.

Lyonel had clearly realized Dunk appreciated the blunt press of his teeth. Each place Lyonel had marked thrummed, all demanding his attention and scattering his thoughts until all he could focus on was a desire for more. He gasped, arching into the sweet ache of it as Lyonel slowly increased the force of his bite until a broken moan forced itself from Dunk’s lips. His hips rocked against Lyonel of their own volition, rubbing his hardened prick against Lyonel’s stomach.

He whimpered as Lyonel released him and blood flowed back into the now-tender flesh. “Lyonel,” he begged again.

“Anything, fuck, anything,” Lyoned swore. “Tell me.”

Dunk laughed, the sound thin and wavering. “Kiss me.”

“Fuck, right, yes,” Lyonel babbled, attempting to lever himself up without dislodging Dunk’s clinging hands. “Smith’s sweaty fucking stones, you’d think I was a hound. Lost all damn sense at the sight of you, but fuck, there is so much to look at.”

Lyonel’s wild hair popped into view first, and then his feverish face. Dunk was hopelessly enamored, so fond of the ridiculous, prancing, peacocking storm of a stag who had refused to let Dunk hide. He smiled up at Lyonel and felt his chest fit to burst when Lyonel returned his dopey smile.

“There you are,” Lyonel said, hushed and happy.

Dunk huffed in amusement. “Here I am.”

Lyonel braced a hand near Dunk’s head, curling the other around the nape of his neck. “C’mere.”

Despite his urging, Lyonel bridged the distance between them himself. The first kiss was a simple press of lips that Dunk found himself humming into as he tangled his fingers in Lyonel’s hair. Dunk was unpracticed but eager, letting Lyonel lead him and trying to respond in kind.

Encouraged, Lyonel nipped at him before coaxing Dunk’s lips to part with the tease of his tongue. He broke away with a wet sound, staring down at Dunk as they caught their breath. “Okay?” Lyonel checked.

Dunk nodded. “Yes.” Lyonel’s eyes fluttered closed, grin widening as he let his head hang. His curls swept over his overheated skin and the ghost of sensation made him shiver. “Okay?” Dunk parrotted.

Lyonel’s head snapped up, eyes flying open. “My dear, ser, ‘okay’ doesn’t even come close to how I feel.”

He kissed Dunk again, uncurling his hand from the nape of his neck and letting it roam over Dunk’s chest and arms. His skin twitched and danced in response to Lyonel’s touch, a bolt of heat lancing through him each time Lyonel groaned against his mouth and dug his fingers into every sturdy bit of Dunk he mapped.

Lyonel pulled away after an enticing curl of his tongue to nudge his nose against Dunk’s. He stilled above him, waiting for Dunk’s attention. “What do you want?” he asked softly. Dunk made a plaintive sound and angled for a kiss. Lyonel’s smiling mouth brushed against his in a brief caress before he pulled back. “Hmm? You have to tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” Dunk insisted. “I do. I swear.”

Lyonel tossed his head back with a blissful chuckle before looking down at Dunk with adoration. “Maiden’s dripping cunt, how I want you,” he remarked. “And I love hearing that you want me—but how do you want me?”

“I-I,” Dunk stuttered, suddenly feeling the depth of his inexperience.

Humming, Lyonel molded himself to Dunk’s front. He nuzzled his nose into the hair at Dunk’s temple before drawing the tip over the shell of his ear. “Do you want to rut against each other like squires hiding in the stables?” he purred into Dunk’s ear. “Or maybe you’d like to see how my mouth feels on that gorgeous cock of yours?”

“You’ve never seen my cock,” Dunk protested.

The heat of Lyonel’s breath against his ear made Dunk shiver, ruthlessly biting down on a pathetic whimper. “From what I can feel against me, I don’t need to, ser,” Lyonel quipped with a sinuous roll of his hips. “You could also lie back and let me ride you until you spill inside me. Leave me with a favor no one else can see me take into the lists.”

Dunk’s face burned at Lyonel’s filthy tirade, mortification like a flame in his chest, but he would be damned if he said he wanted Lyonel to stop. “Lyonel, gods,” he gasped out, clapping a hand over his eyes as he laughed in embarrassment.

Lyonel’s answering laughter was wicked and knowing, punctuated with a teasing growl against the pulse point in Dunk’s throat. “There’s that maid again,” he ribbed. “Is that what you’d like, to be a maid for me? For me to spread you across my furs and gentle you open on my fingers? Press myself between your thighs and take your maidenhead, get you to shake apart from how good it is?”

Dunk had heard the giggles of whores and various paramours that had lain with Lyonel. He’d tried not to pay attention to them, lest the beast within him go green in envy despite having no claim on the man. The mouth on him, they said, all atwitter. Dunk had assumed they were speaking of the lord’s kiss, and perhaps they were, but Lyonel’s obscene whispers were truly awe-inspiring.

“Yes,” Dunk said, voice strangled. “I want that. Lyonel, fuck.”

Lyonel pulled Dunk’s hand from his eyes and pressed it to the bedding. He entwined their fingers and held their linked hands in place as he loomed above Dunk. “Say that to me with your eyes open,” he begged. “I need you to look at me and tell me you want that.”

Dunk forced himself to hold Lyonel’s eyes. “I want that,” he repeated. “Don’t know that I have a maidenhead for you to claim, but it’s yours if you want it.”

There was a moment of stillness before Lyonel shoved himself off Dunk and flopped onto his back with a joyful whoop. He planted his feet flat on the bedding to lift his hips and get at the ties to his trousers. Dunk bit his lip at Lyonel’s exuberance. He must have smiled more in the short time knowing Lyonel Baratheon than he had in his entire life prior. Lyonel’s happiness was contagious, and Dunk supposed that it made sense for it to apply to bedsport as well.

He reached for the fastenings of his own trousers, and Lyonel’s eyes tracked the movement like a hawk. Dunk’s fingers grew clumsy under such scrutiny. Still, Dunk persisted, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and smallclothes to slide them off his legs. He sat up and kicked them from around his ankles before peeling the socks from his feet.

Dunk startled at the touch of Lyonel’s hand against his back before relaxing into it. He turned to meet Lyonel’s eyes over his shoulder. His dark eyes were heavy with want, a look of such hunger on Lyonel’s face that Dunk could hardly bear it. Arousal dripped down Dunk’s spine as Lyonel bent to mouth across the broad expanse of Dunk’s shoulders. He melted into the touch, letting Lyonel take his weight. His breath stuttered as the velvet heat of Lyonel’s cock pressed against him. Dunk could feel he was thick and hot as a brand, the leaking head smearing against the small of his back.

Callused hands curled around his middle, the warmth of Lyonel’s skin and the darkness of his hair emphasizing how fair and prone to redness Dunk’s own skin was. One hand trailed up to Dunk’s chest, the other down over his belly, splitting his attention. His breath caught as Lyonel drew teasing circles around his nipple. He felt the flesh pebble and harden as Lyonel groaned in his ear, peering over his shoulder to stare down the length of Dunk’s body. The hand trailing over his middle rerouted back to his chest to run through the reddish curls there.

“Gods, you are incredible,” Lyonel murmured against his skin.

“Flattery is unbecoming,” Dunk rasped. “You’ve already got me in bed.”

He gasped as Lyonel delivered a sharp bite to the curve of his shoulder in retaliation. “If septons had specimens of the Warrior or the Smith in your likeness to tempt folk into being faithful, there wouldn’t be a single non-believer."

Dunk was speechless in the face of Lyonel’s bold declaration, but Lyonel didn’t seem concerned with a response. He tugged at Dunk’s nipples, playing with them until Dunk had to bite his lip to keep from whining.

Lyonel’s hand darted up to pull his bitten bottom lip from between his teeth. “Don’t,” he pleaded softly. “I want to hear.”

“Fuck,” Dunk said under his breath.

He let his head fall back against Lyonel’s shoulder, grateful for his steady presence. He whimpered as Lyonel continued to fondle his chest. Dunk hadn’t considered that part of his body in an intimate way, assuming a woman might find pleasure in such touches but not a man. It left him unprepared for the way Lyonel’s touch made him feel and in need of an anchor.

Dunk reached back with shaking hands until he could grip Lyonel’s thighs for support. Knelt behind him as he was, Dunk could feel the strength in Lyonel’s thighs. He was a man who spent hours on horseback, at swordplay, the active nature of his life honing the strong legs that bore the Laughing Storm around Westeros. He exhaled roughly as he reflexively mirrored the way Lyonel kneaded at his chest, squeezing the firm muscle to keep himself present.

Lyonel turned from sucking another mark onto Dunk’s skin to nose at his temple. “You blush so prettily,” he marvelled. “It goes from your cheeks and all the way to your chest.”

“It’s a bloody pain,” Dunk complained, trying to keep his mind on Lyonel’s words and not his fingers. “Can’t hide a damn thing.”

Lyonel tutted. “It’s a great color on you. Here,” he said, tweaking Dunk’s nipples for emphasis before letting go. “And that gorgeous prick of yours, all fat and pink against your thigh.” His hands began a slow slide down Dunk’s torso, taking time to trace over scars and freckles. Dunk reflexively sucked in his stomach and felt Lyonel’s chest contract with laughter against his back. “No tickling, I promise.”

Dunk let himself go lax, though he was still as taut as a bowstring inside. He let out a soft moan as Lyonel’s fingers followed the growing trail of hair that led to his cock. Dunk was aware of every twitch of his cock as it leaked into the crease of his thigh, his hold on Lyonel’s tightening at each subtle movement. His breath left him in a whine as Lyonel’s fingers ghosted over the base of his prick.

Lyonel wrapped his hand around the base of Dunk’s cock with a groan. Dunk’s eyes darted down and a bubble of involuntary laughter escaped him. “You’re still wearing your rings.”

“Help me take them off?” Lyonel asked. Dunk nodded, flexing the feeling back into his digits as they gripped Lyonel’s sides, but Lyonel’s hand moved to Dunk’s mouth instead. Dunk moaned at the thought of what Lyonel meant for him to do and opened his mouth without prompting. “That’s it.”

Lyonel swept his thumb over Dunk’s mouth a few times before pushing at the top row of Dunk’s teeth with the pad of his thumb. Dunk bent his head to take Lyonel’s thumb into his mouth as Lyonel ground his cock against Dunk’s back. His fingers still tasted slightly of bitter alcohol he’d used earlier, but the sound that left Lyonel’s mouth made up for it.

The gold clacked against his teeth as he sucked Lyonel’s finger in his mouth. Lyonel’s other hand went tight around the base of his prick, making Dunk moan at the sudden bloom of pleasure. Now slick with spit, Dunk was able to slide the ring off Lyonel’s finger with his teeth. The metal was heavy on his tongue and heated from Lyonel’s skin, clicking against his teeth as Dunk slipped it from his mouth.

He jolted in surprise as Lyonel plucked it from his grasp. “I’ll finish on these fetching dimples on your lower back if I let you do that to all my rings,” Lyonel explained urgently. “Let me just—there!”

There was a metallic clatter as Lyonel carelessly dropped his rings off the side of the bed, pinging off the bottle of spirits and gods knew what else. Dunk choked on his laughter a moment later when Lyonel’s hand wrapped around his cock again, the saliva on Lyonel's fingers helping his fist glide along Dunk’s length. He curled his fingers under the leaking head of Dunk’s cock and worked the foreskin back, making the stroke down even slicker.

Dunk had taken himself in hand before, but the touch of another was so much more. He fucked up into the ring of Lyonel’s first once before stilling. He was already trembling from the effort of not rocking into Lyonel’s hand, but Dunk wanted to feel Lyonel open him up desperately. Keeping still was a tremendous effort, but it was worth it to fulfill Lyonel’s lewd promises ringing in his ears.

Lyonel worked to undo his restraint, wrapping his free arm around Dunk’s waist as he slowly pumped his fist. “You don’t need to hold yourself so still.”

Dunk shook his head, his throat clicking as he swallowed. “I’ll spill if I don’t.”

Lyonel’s breath was a humid tickling caress over his shoulder and neck as he stared down the length of Dunk’s body. “I mean you to, dear knight,” he breathed roughly. “I like the look of you in my hand, and the feel even more. Fuck, just the sight of you is enough to drive a man mad, so pink and eager and finally fucking mine.”

“Oh, fuck, Lyonel,” Dunk whined, words tripping over one another.

He gasped as Lyonel shifted away from him, leaving Dunk unbalanced. His arm stretched back to clutch at Lyonel and steady himself until Lyonel surged forward to catch him with a contrite murmur. He urged Dunk to recline against him so the back of his head lay against Lyonel’s collarbone. Dunk followed, setting a foot flat on the bed to scoot back into his embrace. Groaning, Lyonel unwrapped his arm from Dunk’s middle to fit his hand where hip met leg. He squeezed gently before smoothing his hand up Dunk’s inner thigh with light pressure to encourage him to let his leg fall open.

“Seven fucks, Duncan. Your legs,” Lyonel hissed. His grip on Dunk’s cock tightened, making Dunk arch his back on the next upstroke. Lyonel gently dragged blunt fingernails down the inside of Dunk’s thigh with his other hand until he reached the nest of hair at the base of Dunk’s prick.

His breath punched out of him in a pitchy gasp as Lyonel toyed with the sensitive furrow at the apex of his thigh. “All this pretty red hair is making my mouth water.”

Between the stroke of Lyonel’s hand and the surge of pleasure Dunk felt with each squeeze at his thigh, his crisis was imminent. Dunk would feel more embarrassed for how quickly he was pushed to the edge if not for the answering urgency of Lyonel’s own cock against his back.

“Want to see you make a mess of my hand,” Lyonel said.

The growl of his voice was low and commanding, where Dunk had been reduced to pitiful whining and breathy sighs. He teetered at the edge of release without being able to tumble over, rolling his hips with each pump of Lyonel’s fist. He turned to bury his face in the side of Lyone’s neck. “So close, uhn, I’m—”

Lyonel’s fingers dug into the furrow of Dunk’s thigh hard. His mouth fell open in a shocked, silent shout as his pleasure crested, holding his breath as the first white-hot sparks of bliss raced down his spine. Lyonel’s hand grew slicker as Dunk spilled into his pumping fist, each rush making him tremble.

“That’s it, you beautiful, sweet thing,” Lyonel crooned. “You’ve got so much to give. Almost a shame I didn’t have you spill inside me after all.” The words triggered another rush of aroused embarrassment in Dunk, making him whine as Lyonel’s come-covered hand worked Dunk toward pleading for mercy.

Finally, the pleasure started to twist into something sharper. It wasn’t bad, simply overwhelming, though Dunk was oddly compelled to push through the hurt and see if there was something on the other side. Lyonel seemed to be able to read the language of Dunk’s body, gentling him down from the dizzying height he’d reached. Lyonel eased Dunk back so he could recline in the scrumptious piles of furs to catch his breath, blood still singing with pleasure.

Lyonel wasted no time clambering atop Dunk’s prone form. His long, muscled legs folded on either side of Dunk’s lap, much to his delight. Dunk’s heart gave a weak lurch as he realized Lyonel was stroking himself with the hand covered in his come. Shifting to his knees, Lyonel shuffled forward to be able to brace his hand next to Dunk's head and loom over him. It seemed to be a pattern, that looming, and Dunk found he was fond of it. It was an excellent look on Lyonel, the muscles of his arm flexing and silvering curls framing such a fine face.

A face that deserved to be touched.

Dunk’s hands trembled, but they didn’t falter as he gingerly brushed his knuckles over Lyonel’s well-groomed beard and down his neck before he let them wander downward. Lyonel’s eyes fell closed at Dunk’s light touch, a rapturous look on his face. Again, Dunk felt the blunt impact of guilt in his chest, but he forced it down. He’d make up for it going forward and reciprocate Lyonel’s affections, just as soon as his head stopped swimming.

“Can’t tell you how many times I’ve imagined you like this,” Lyonel told him. Dunk felt the low, rumbling gravel of his voice like a physical touch down his spine and it must have shown. “Fuck, imagined your face just like that, your hair a mess and all seven feet of you spread out in my furs and silks.”

He shuddered as Dunk’s fingers danced along his spine, rutting into the grip of his fist with a bitten off curse. The grip of Lyonel’s thighs tightened firmly around Dunk’s hips, like one might adjust their seat on a horse for a charge. Dunk’s mind went back to Lyonel’s description of riding him, and he knew, with a certainty, such an experience was going to ruin him.

His mind was still fuzzy and whirling with pleasure, but Dunk craved more. A good deal of Dunk’s romantic imaginings were as chaste as Lyonel had teased him for being, featuring kissing and little more. It was the result of decades of all manner of tales about heroic deeds that had captivated Dunk as a gutter rat in Flea Bottom, but Dunk wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to make them a reality. Not when the most frequent star of said fantasies was literally at his fingertips.

He pushed himself up onto an elbow and used his free arm to pull Lyonel in for a kiss before his thoughts started escaping his mouth. Lyonel groaned against Dunk, leaning into each touch as his fist worked furiously over his cock. He smiled against Dunk’s mouth before curling his tongue and taking their kisses from needy, quick pecks to a slow and filthy tangle. Dunk changed the caress of his hands to match, enjoying the shift and bunch of Lyonel’s muscles underneath his slow, meandering exploration.

Lyonel was every inch a man. From the smell of his skin to the rasp of his beard against Dunk’s lips, his body honed by skill and practice in a way that set Dunk’s blood alight. Though Lyonel had heaped the word ‘pretty’ on him all evening long, it’s Lyonel that most closely resembled that remark in Dunk’s mind. He was something beyond pretty. Striking. Stunning. Dunk has ever been transfixed by Lyonel’s vibrance. Captivated by him, and it was a testament to Dunk’s own stubborn resolve that he had managed to withstand Lyonel for as long as he had.

“Fuck,” Lyonel spat against his lips, breaking away from Dunk’s mouth. His face scrunched in pleasure as his hand flew up and down the length of his cock with a rhythmic, lewd squelching that made Dunk’s breath catch. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m gonna come!”

Dunk gasped like he’d been struck at the first hot pulse of Lyonel’s release against his skin. He’d come a long way to steady his breathing, but it was all for naught as he fought for breath with each spurt of Lyonel spilling across Dunk’s trembling stomach. A thin sheen of sweat covered them both, and while Dunk was sure his hair stuck to his forehead in tufts and he had gone pink with exertion, Lyonel just seemed to glisten in the flickering firelight.

Lyonel heaved a final, shuddering breath and flopped onto his back with a blissful expression. Dunk missed the feeling of Lyonel above him, but stretching out alongside someone nearly as tall as him was something to savor. He couldn’t look away from the appealing sight of Lyonel on his back and out of breath, his hair mussed in a way that invited touch.

Lyonel cracked an eye open, his perpetually grinning mouth twitching in a pleased way. “What are you looking at?”

“You,” Dunk said honestly.

Lyonel winked. “Like what you see?”

Dunk didn’t bother dissembling. “I do.”

“Fuck,” Lyonel cursed breathlessly. He shut his eyes and sank into the furs. “You’re not supposed to be so damn earnest. Can kill a man with talk like that.”

Dunk rolled his eyes. “Apologies, m’lord. I swore when we first met that I weren't there to kill you, and I still mean it now.”

Lyonel shifted so he could knee Dunk in the side. “Impudent creature. I can’t be expected to be clever after finally bringing down the quarry that’s eluded me for three long years.”

“You’re a very persistent hunter to pursue a beast for so long,” Dunk said. His voice was hoarse with gratitude, painfully thankful Lyonel was so devoted in his pursuit and attentions.

“Worth it,” Lyonel asserted. He got his elbows underneath him and hefted himself up enough to tip to the side. He dragged his mouth along Dunk’s unmarked shoulder in a toothy kiss. “Stay right where you are, Ser Duncan. I’m not finished with you yet.”

He rolled from the nest of furs with a leonine grace, stalking across the room as bare as the day he was born. Lyonel wore his skin like a fine cape of cloth-of-gold, his confidence fitting better than finely tailored raiments. The candles had burnt low, casting Lyonel in silhouette as he scrubbed the evidence of their pleasure from his skin. His shadow was no less appealing, and Dunk spared a moment to wonder if he should worry about the intensity of his captivation with a man he had willfully barred himself from noticing for so long.

But if Ashford had proven anything, it was that life was short, and happiness should be seized at any given opportunity.

Light bloomed as Lyonel prodded the brazier back to life. His striking features sharpened as he neared the bed, a dangerous expression on his face. “You better be careful looking at me like that,” he cautioned. Lyonel slid back into bed beside him, trailing the warm, wet cloth he’d brought back up from Dunk’s shin to his hips.

“What for?” Dunk asked, struggling to hold Lyonel’s eyes as he worked the warm cloth over his cock in the same manner he’d stroked him to completion.

Lyonel tossed the cloth away with the same disinterest they’d shown everything else that had been similarly discarded in their desperation for one another. He stretched out beside him, propping his chin on his hand as he regarded Dunk with a singular focus. “Because if you keep looking at me like that, I’ll never let you go.”

Dunk let the words sit between them for a moment before replying. “Aye, that matches my reckoning of how marriage works.”

Lyonel made an aborted move to roll from the bed before his body froze to regard Dunk in happy delirium. “If I were reasonably certain I could get away with it, I’d drag you to a septon right now.”

“Egg would never forgive us.”

“Nor would our dear Green Apples, for that matter,” Lyonel snorted, the tension receding from his limbs as he splayed across the furs once more. “Good Lady Red would beat me bloody, but I think Ser Raymun might actually cry.”

“Could always follow in their footsteps.”

“Compromise your honor and then make an honest woman of you?”

Dunk laughed weakly. “It’ll have to do since I can’t persuade you with the possibility of a babe.”

Lyonel chuckled darkly, plastering himself to Dunk’s side, his still-hard prick grinding against Dunk’s hip. He walked his fingers across Dunk’s torso until he could trace the outline of his teeth on Dunk’s chest. “We’ll never know unless we try.” Lyonel carefully brushed Dunk’s hair behind his ear, blowing a cool stream of air against the still-heated flesh of his pierced ear. He dipped down to press a kiss to Dunk’s stubbled chin. “If my father were around, he would have been devastated to learn I wasn’t a gentleman.”

Dunk sighed into the soft, affectionate touch he so often craved. “You seem plenty gentle to me.”

“If I were a gentleman, I’d leave you untouched for our wedding night,” Lyonel growled.

Chuckling, Dunk wriggled until he was propped up on his side, chest to chest with the Laughing Storm. He captured Lyonel’s hands in his, rubbing as if to warm them. “Lucky for you, I’m not of gentle stock. I’m just an orphan and a hedge knight. I’ve no father or brothers to stand in defense of my honor or safeguard my maidenhead, though I remember you fighting for my honor once.”

“You know, I do seem to recall standing in defense of your honor,” Lyonel drawled. His grin suddenly went mischievous. “You weren’t wearing a pretty white gown, but you were the loveliest damsel there. I could hardly get to you fast enough to pledge my sword.”

Dunk let out a peal of surprised laughter. “Aye, I’d say you were sufficiently heroic in coming to my aid that I could qualify as a damsel. Seven knows I was distressed enough.”

“Well, my damsel knight, while you may not have any known blood relations to take me to task for ruining you, your squire will certainly take offense, and he’s a wily little cutthroat.”

Dunk snorted. “In this one instance, what Egg doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Agreed.” Lyonel cupped Dunk’s face, bending his head to close the distance between them. Their noses brushed as Dunk reached up to curl his hand around Lyonel’s propped-up arm. “We can stop here,” he offered. “I want you more than breathing, but I don’t want you to feel coerced into proving your words be true.”

“We could stop, aye. But I don’t want to.”

Lyonel brought them together in a soft kiss. “What do you want?”

Dunk let himself think, for a moment, of all the things Lyonel had whispered in his ear and the handful of tawdry imaginings he’d indulged in since surviving his first encounter with the Laughing Storm. The thought of using his own mouth on Lyonel’s prick was alluring, but not enough. Being able to admire Lyonel astride him as he used Dunk for his pleasure was tempting, but Dunk was man enough to admit he would finish far too quickly for either of them to be truly satisfied. But still, the idea of Lyonel making space for himself between Dunk’s thighs and inside his body made arousal burn down his spine.

“I want you to have me. To have you inside me,” Dunk admitted, curling into the pocket of warmth growing between them. “That’s what I want.”

Lyonel’s eyes fell shut, his face blank of emotion. For a moment, Dunk feared he had blundered. Dunk the lunk, thick as a castle wall. It was on the tip of his tongue to take back his admission in favor of whatever Lyonel preferred in its stead, but his breath caught in his throat when Lyonel’s eyes flicked open. Dunk felt the banked heat in Lyonel’s gaze, blistering his nerves and leaving them raw and thrumming. It altered the seemingly blank expression on his face to one of devastating intent.

“You’re going to unmake me with talk like that,” Lyonel rumbled dangerously. He bullied his way into Dunk’s space with a playful growl to nibble on his neck. Dunk tipped his head back to give Lyonel more skin to mark up with his beard and teeth, and the Laughing Storm seized every surrendered inch with glee. “Stretch out on your back for me, you scrumptious thing. I want to be able to see that pretty trinket in your ear while I take you apart.”

Dunk had almost entirely forgotten that the night had begun with an ill-advised agreement and an earring.

He let himself be rolled onto his back, stretching across the length of the bed at Lyonel’s coaxing. An inch short of seven feet tall, Dunk was accustomed to having to think about his body more than most. He didn’t fit so much of the world around him in the most literal of ways. He made himself small to compensate, something Lyonel had noticed before speaking a single word to him. The past years on the road with Egg had helped him settle into the generous proportions of his body, but the look in Lyonel’s eyes as he drank in the long sprawl of his limbs was a potent remedy to any lingering insecurity.

“You, ser, were made to bring men to their knees. In every conceivable way,” Lyonel said, tone reverent and eyes rapt. He knelt between Dunk’s knees and set a hand to both legs, leisurely rubbing the muscles found there as he moved up Dunk’s body. He gripped Dunk’s thigh tightly, watching the slight pad of softness Dunk had finally put on bulge through the gaps in his fingers. “Mother’s sacred cunt, I will never get enough of you.”

“You act as though you’re not half a head shorter than me. ‘Cept for me, you’re the tallest man in the room, and your bearing makes you seem as big as mountains.”

Lyonel bit his lip and smiled, tipping his back as he preened under Dunk’s praise. “Mm, tell me what else you like about me.”

“Who said anything about liking?”

“Oh, sweet damsel, I know that look in your eye,” he crooned with a wink. “Just like when you look at strawberry tarts.”

Dunk laughed, bending his leg to knock against Lyonel’s side before stretching out again. “I don’t think there’s a strawberry tart out there I could like even half so much as I like you.”

“For that, my dear Ser Duncan, we will have no other dessert but strawberry tarts at our wedding feast, no matter the cost or effort to procure them,” Lyonel swore.

Dunk went quiet at the mention of their wedding. His voice caught in his throat at the depth of honest affection in Lyonel’s words. For all that the Laughing Storm was a man of boisterous living and strong appetites, Dunk often forgot that he was also a man of great depth. He was privileged to see Lyonel swing between both extremes, often within minutes of each other.

Tonight was no exception, as Lyonel tempered his adoring words with glib teasing. “It is a good thing you have no designs on the lists, ser, for my plans for your thighs would make sitting a saddle quite troublesome,” Lyonel said, a rakish smirk on his face. It disappeared as he bent his head to press his face to the meat of Dunk’s inner thigh, groaning in delight. “You could crush a man between these thighs. If that’s not a death worthy of the Warrior, I don’t know what is.”

He grabbed the jar he’d lobbed at Dunk earlier and lay on his stomach between Dunk’s legs. Lyonel’s fingers danced up Dunk’s torso to give the bite mark on his chest a gentle squeeze as he pressed his face into the inside of Dunk’s thigh. “Pull my hair if I bite too hard—no, actually, pull my hair anyway—”

“If you bite too hard, I’ll tell you so,” Dunk snorted.

Lyonel sucked an obnoxious kiss against his pale skin. “Good.”

He sank his teeth into Dunk’s sink without preamble, teeth digging in hard from the start. Dunk’s body jolted at the unexpected rush. He tangled his fingers in Lyonel’s curls with a gasp. A ragged, broken sound forced its way past his clenched teeth that Lyonel echoed. He gentled his mouth on Dunk’s thigh into a kiss before pulling back to admire the imprint of his teeth.

“Gorgeous,” he said breathlessly, leaning forward to nuzzle at the mark. He tapped Dunk’s thigh, staring up the length of Dunk’s body with enough heat to melt. “Bend your knees a bit for me, love. Let your legs fall open.”

Dunk obeyed. Lyonel’s easy use of the word ‘love’ made him feel like he’d been punched in the chest. It would be easy to dismiss; despite talks of weddings and devotion, there had been no declarations between them. Lyonel was free with his affection, in words and deeds, but he had never let that word slip past his lips until now.

Lyonel made a wordless sound of pleasure as he stretched out on his stomach. Dunk expected to feel teeth again, only to get lingering, sucking kisses instead. An arm slid under the thigh being marked, curling around to hold him in place, while Lyonel’s other hand snaked up to wrap around Dunk’s cock.

Dunk twitched in his grasp. He was still sensitive from his release, almost painfully so, and couldn’t help but shift away with a whine. “Not yet,” he said. “Too much.”

Lyonel tutted against his leg, crooning apologetically. His act of contrition was ruined as Lyonel sank his teeth into Dunk’s thigh again, this time higher up than the last. Dunk could feel Lyonel’s self-satisfied grin against his skin, how it got sharper as Dunk bit his lip around a whimper when Lyonel dragged his hand against the length of his prick as his touch retreated.

With his head propped up on a pillow, Dunk could see the emotions flit across Lyonel’s face as he lay between his splayed legs, though he could barely keep his thoughts in order to appreciate what he saw. His fingers tugged at Lyonel’s hair as he set about marking Dunk’s thighs with his teeth. Each tug of his hair was rewarded with a guttural sound of need against Dunk’s skin. Back and forth between each thigh, Lyonel alternated between soft, unhurried brushes of his lips to the firm bite of his teeth and everywhere in between, and Dunk loved it.

He distantly registered the sound of something opening but didn’t put the pieces together until a slick hand traveled up the thigh Lyonel wasn’t biting. It kept going until Lyonel reached the damnably sensitive spot at the apex of his thigh. The merciless press of his strong hands combined with the feather-light touch of his lips made him moan and clutch at the sheets.

“I was so hoping that you’d react like this to me touching you here. Be a shame if you barely noticed my attention on something I lost sleep over.”

Dunk laughed. “Apologies for disturbing your sleep, m’lord.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to mention being starved for even the most casual of touches for most of his life, but Dunk had no desire to turn this into an evening of unburdening his woes. He was sure Lyonel would pry it out of him another time.

Lyonel’s curls bounced wildly as he flipped his hair back to send a coy look Dunk’s way. “Is it terribly boorish to admit that I quite like the sound of my title on your tongue?”

“I should hope you like it. You’ll be hearing a version of it for quite some time.”

“Will I?” Lyonel asked eagerly, eyes bright.

Be tall, Dunk told himself. “Aye, seeing as you’ll be my lord husband.”

Dunk’s eyes fluttered as Lyonel gripped that sensitive furrow where trunk met torso in a punishing grip. “I will,” Lyonel declared triumphantly. “And you’ll be mine. My lord husband and my lady wife. My damsel and my knight.”

“Lyonel,” Dunk sighed, tenderness and lust sizzling through his blood like a fine summer mead.

Lyonel didn’t reply, not with words at least. He bit a searing line of kisses across the skin of Dunk’s inner thigh, both their breath equally unsteady. His oiled hand dragged downward, bypassing Dunk’s cock to slide lower. Dunk’s breath caught in his throat as slick fingers delved between his legs, the flat of Lyonel’s fingers rubbing slow circles into the tight ring of muscle there. Dunk had to fight not to shy away from the touch—not because it was wrong or improper, but because it lit his nerves up like nothing he’d ever felt.

Dunk shifted into each pass of Lyonel’s fingers. His knees fell open even wider of their own accord to invite more touch; an invitation Lyonel took gladly.

“Relax for me, darling. You always hold yourself so taut,” Lyonel crooned, enticing Dunk with sweet words and heated eyes. “I’ll make it so good for you.”

“I know. I know you will,” Dunk assured him. “Your teeth aren’t makin’ it any easier for me to calm down.”

Lyonel chuckled, ducking to press kisses against the most lurid of the marks on his skin. “I’ll try to restrain myself, at least for a little while.”

Dunk shivered at that, and it didn’t go unnoticed. The next press of Lyonel’s fingers was firmer, intentional, not pressing inside yet, but giving Dunk a taste of what was to come. Lyonel got his knees under him and braced an arm to the side of Dunk’s waist. He kept his head bowed to dot reverent kisses up Dunk’s quivering stomach, pulling his fingers from Dunk’s hole to rub at the space behind his balls with firm pressure. Each repeated circuit of Lyonel’s touch eventually made Dunk’s body go lax even as his nerves drew tight.

He made a mournful sound when Lyonel’s hand pulled away, one that Lyonel was quick to catch with his own lips. “Just need more oil,” he explained.

Dunk kissed back with a fervor, greedily touching all that had been just out of reach the entire evening. Lyonel’s life in the lists had shaped him into someone looked at by many a covetous eye, and Dunk had so rarely had the opportunity to covet anything. To have anything, let alone something others might think to be jealous of.

“Just one second, just let me—” Lyonel said, pouring more oil onto his hand. It was warm, thanks to being pressed into Dunk’s side, and the feeling of Lyonel’s fingers was even better a second time. He pinned Dunk’s hips to the bed with just a suggestion of a touch. “Breathe nice and slow for me, my lovely maid.”

Dunk’s head fell back against the plush pillow, eyes open but unfocused as he did as he was bid. Lyonel pressed his mouth to the hollow of Dunk’s throat, not to bite or kiss, but simply just to feel. The tip of a finger prodded at him, so slick and eager from Lyonel’s careful touch. Lyonel finally breached Dunk as he exhaled, the breath rushing out of him at the blunt intrusion.

Lyonel’s fingers were thick and callused and so very warm, and his cock was even thicker. The slide of something inside him made desire simmer in his blood, even if the stretch of it was strange. Not painful, not unpleasant, but unfamiliar. The languid strokes inside him were something Dunk could crave, was already craving it, quietly voicing his pleasure.

Lyonel nudged Dunk’s upturned chin with the tip of his nose to grab his attention. “Yes?”

Dunk nodded. “Keep going.”

Lyonel did, but he refused to be rushed. He smoothed a hand down Dunk’s flank like he was gentling an agitated beast, soft, appeasing nonsense flowing from his lips. He curled a hand around Dunk’s hip to ease his restlessness until a frustrated whine clawed its way from Dunk’s chest. Finally, another finger slid in alongside the first. The added stretch seemed to ignite something inside him, making every bite and bruise and bit of beard-burned skin demand attention. They all competed for his attention, thrumming out of time as Dunk tried to accommodate the width of Lyonel’s fingers.

The stretch was more intense. It wasn’t as easy to dismiss in favor of the pleasurable feeling of something moving inside him, and Lyonel saw the struggle in Dunk’s quiet.

“Talk to me,” he begged in a whisper.

Dunk tangled himself around Lyonel to keep him close. “It’s just more. Still good, just…m-more to…” he trailed off, not quite sure how to voice what he was feeling.

But Lyonel was already nodding, somehow able to read Dunk’s silences and the need in his touch. “It is,” he agreed. “And it looks so good on you. My pretty maid. Fairest in the Seven fucking Kingdoms.”

“Fuck,” Dunk spat weakly.

He turned his head into the pillow, trying to get some much-needed control of his senses. Lyonel wielded words as well as a blade, and they all cut. They cut through Dunk’s defenses to expose the raw, painful nerves within and then handled them with nothing but care. Sometimes that care laughed, or prodded, or lanced open old hurts, but it was care all the same.

Lyonel echoed Dunk’s curse under his breath, shifting to gaze down at Dunk all the better. “The mark of my house looks good on you, too, framed by all that golden red hair.”

Dunk groaned at the thought of all the eyes that would be on him on the morrow, correctly guessing the ways Lyonel had staked his claim. He tightened around Lyonel’s fingers and felt the heat inside him begin to bubble over again. Dunk was used to all sorts of aches, and very few of them pleasurable, but the ache of being spread on Lyonel’s fingers made his cock harden and press into the firm plane of Lyonel’s stomach.

“Oh, fuck,” Dunk hissed, gritting his teeth against the urge to move.

Lyonel’s unwavering attention on him was a heady thing, overwhelming in its intensity. “That’s it, you magnificent thing. Relax into it. Let me make you feel good.”

“It does, it feels good,” Dunk swore.

“Mm, but it can be better. You’ll see.”

Lyonel’s fingers pressed inside him deeply and stayed there. His voice broke as Lyonel carefully spread his fingers, working Dunk open even further. Lyonel paused only to curl his fingers and caress him from within, slicking Dunk for what was to come. Dunk’s eyes began to sting from the intensity of his emotions as he floundered in the lightning storm of aches and pleasurable agonies Lyonel was making him feel.

Unmoored, Dunk could only laugh weakly. “Not sure I can take it getting much better without crying.”

“Then cry for me, love,” Lyonel cooed. “So long as they are good tears, let me have them.”

“You ask for much, my lord,” Dunk said, desperately trying to regain mastery of himself with a feeble attempt at humor.

Lyonel’s teeth dug into the thin layer of skin over Dunk’s collarbone in a sharp, fleeting bite. “I ask for everything.”

The curling of Lyonel’s fingers became deliberate, stroking over something inside Dunk that made his entire body seize in ecstasy. Dunk’s mouth fell open in shock, not able to utter a sound. Lyonel groaned from deep in his chest as Dunk gripped the hair in his fist hard, letting go as the overwhelming pleasure receded.

His hands shook as he disentangled himself from Lyonel and switched his grip to the cushions and fabrics around his head. “What the fuck?” Dunk gasped out in a reedy whisper.

Lyonel’s answering grin was near feral in its intensity. He pet over that spot again in place of a response. The touch lingered, and Dunk could barely withstand the brutality of such a pleasure. Still, he arched into the touch, his spine curving up as he threw his head back. Dunk heard fabric tear just seconds before the tide ebbed and he could breathe again.

“F-fuck,” Dunk gasped. He let go of the torn fabrics, wincing as the blood rushed back into his fingers. “What—”

He was interrupted by the curl of Lyonel’s tongue against his own. Lyonel claimed Dunk’s lips in a fierce kiss, holding him close with a hand at the back of his neck. Lyonel pulled away just as fast and left Dunk reeling from the pace. “That’s how I’m going to make you fall apart,” he said, voice wrecked. “I said I'd have your legs shaking when I take your maidenhead.”

“They already are.”

“Fair warning; if I manage to make you come again before I’m inside you, I’m going to be insufferable.”

Dunk managed a half-hearted shove to Lyonel’s shoulders. “You’re insufferable now.”

“Mm, imagine how much worse it will be.”

“If you make me come again before you’re inside me, my maidenhead will remain intact,” Dunk managed, breath catching in his chest as Lyonel kept his fingers spread as he pulled them free of his body. “The entire camp will be able to imagine how insufferable you are from your spoiled wailing.”

Lyonel pouted outrageously just to make Dunk laugh. He beamed at his success before pouring more oil on his fingers. He nodded to the mound of pillows sloppily spread around the head of his extravagant field cot. “Under your hips,” Lyonel directed. “The angle will be easier for both of us.”

Dunk grabbed the first one at hand and shoved it under his hips in a way that betrayed his ardor. Again, he shivered through the glide of Lyonel’s fingers inside him. Two to start, but a third finger flirted around his rim before Lyonel had made a handful of thrusts. Dunk wondered if he would ever get used to the sensation of being filled. He idly hoped it was always just as consuming as it was at that moment. Even with the addition of more oil, the feeling of Lyonel taking up space in his body demanded to be felt.

The width of three fingers seemed so much more than going from one to two. He wrinkled his nose as he tried to parse all the sensations vying for his attention. The cushion under his hips helped Lyonel’s fingers reach even deeper, that enticing silken slide of thick fingers driving him to whimper. Plainly, the stretch was uncomfortable—but not unpleasant. There was something there, something about a hard-earned ache that Dunk had always liked.

“Breathe, lover. That’s it,” Lyonel murmured, his fingers avoiding that spot that made Dunk see stars. “I know this one’s harder to take.”

Dunk wasn’t sure he agreed, but he couldn’t get the words out. It wasn’t harder to take, but it was harder to settle. Dunk fought the urge to let himself writhe on Lyonel’s fingers, in search of that spot that would make everything else a distant echo. His attention had never been more captured by Lyonel, the man he was so desperately reliant on for this new pleasure. A litany of every vulgar word Dunk had heard in rowdy taverns and his late ser’s bawd houses ran through his mind. It made him blush to his ears at the thought of what someone would see if they ignored the warning Lyonel tied outside the tent.

His leaking cock was evidence of how thoroughly Dunk enjoyed being used—used by Lyonel. He was covered in bite marks from his neck to his knees, legs splayed wide to let Lyonel spear him on his fingers and cock. Hips propped up for Lyonel to work open his hole so Dunk could know what it was like for his lord to spend inside him. He thought of how much oil glinted off his skin, between his legs, as Lyonel held him still.

Dunk groaned as Lyonel twisted his wrist before realizing the stretch had changed. He’d worked himself up in his mind enough that it had changed from uncomfortable to unignorable, and Dunk had no desire to ignore how it made him feel. Lyonel tore his gaze away from his face to stare at his fingers disappearing inside Dunk’s body. He cursed softly, gingerly easing his fingers apart as Dunk did some of his own staring.

Dunk had been able to feel the impressive length of him against his lower back, able to tell that taking Lyonel inside himself was going to be a feat just by feeling alone. Lyonel had idly ground his cock into Dunk’s back as he feasted on Dunk’s neck and stroked him with a firm hand. His cock was flushed a ruddy red in a tidy nest of dark curls shot through with silver. So hard and dripping between his legs. Dunk would be able to feel that in his fucking ribs, and he was just about out of patience. Paired with the depth of his feelings, Dunk wondered if he should be concerned that his heart might just beat out of his chest.

“I’ve never wanted to be in your head more than I do right now,” Lyonel remarked. “I’d probably spill like some yearling buck at whatever put that look on your face.

“You, Lyonel, you bloody fucking fool,” Dunk gritted out, desperation making him snap. “It’s you.”

He didn’t expect the surprise on Lyonel’s face, nor to suddenly find himself empty. Dunk almost thought he should be offended by it—until his mind went to all the long hours and days and weeks and years of Lyonel’s thankless chase after a hedge knight with more honor than sense. On all the occasions Lyonel plainly wore his heart on his sleeve and let Dunk scamper away from their encounters by maintaining the illusion that they were friends and nothing more.

And that couldn’t continue, nor could it wait.

“I love you,” Dunk declared, artless but honest. “I have loved you. I needed time to move past Ashford. Once I did, the loss of Ser Arlan finally laid me low. After having to wait so long to properly mourn him, I was taken aback by how deeply his loss still hurt. It was never you that held me back.”

Lyonel stared at him as he spoke, his face curiously blank until he surged forward. Dunk met him halfway. Lyonel was quick to press him back into the furs, and Dunk went happily. He surrendered himself easily, letting Lyonel take whatever comfort or reassurance could be found on his lips. He cried out against Lyonel’s mouth at the sudden stretch of fingers inside him. Lyonel’s body was trembling with tension above Dunk’s, his fingers unerringly seeking out the place inside him that made stars dance in front of his eyes.

Lyonel kissed across Dunk’s jaw until he reached his newly-pierced ear, resting his forehead on Dunk’s temple. “I love you,” he whispered fiercely. The pace of his fingers didn’t waver, relentless in their quest to drive Dunk mad. “Fuck, I love you. I wasn’t going to insist on hearing it; words are wind, and all that—”

“W-wind’s pretty imp-portant for a storm,” Dunk stammered, struggling to think past the rush of aching pleasure as Lyonel fucked him on his fingers. “You’re important t-to me. I-insist on them, damn it.”

“I love you,” Lyonel repeated.

Fuck, I’m gonna come, Dunk thought in a panic. “S-slow d—oh, fuck! Slow—”

Contrary to his words, Dunk hitched his leg over Lyonel’s hip to keep him close, trying his best to move with Lyonel and not against him. Lyonel made a regretful sound, immediately gentling the rough pace of his fingers until they stilled. Dunk let out a breathy cry as he collapsed back on the bedding at the reprieve. He had been teetering dangerously over the edge and very nearly let himself tumble over. He was glad to back away from that ledge, though a part of him was disappointed he hadn’t let himself experience the conclusion of that blinding rush.

“Fuck,” Dunk said, voice in tatters.

Lyonel nuzzled against the side of his face. “Sorry, sweetling. That was some rather indelicate handling without warning.”

Dunk shook his head, hoping to stave off any guilt despite how his voice broke. “No. No, it was good. Too good. P-pretty sure you still could have had me after, but—”

“Don’t you ever grin and bear it for me,” Lyonel commanded. “I’m happy to fuck you into an overstimulated mess, my dear knight, but only if you like it.”

Dunk giggled, lightheaded from coming down from such a dizzying height. “Probably will. I just like you. Like everything better with you.”

“Maiden’s sweet, perfumed thighs, Ser Duncan. I’m starting to think your reticence returning my affections saved me from making an even bigger fool of myself,” Lyonel swore. Dunk grumbled in protest as Lyonel’s fingers slid from him. “Your words strike like a blow from the Smith’s hammer.”

“M’not exactly a poet. Can barely read.”

Lyonel sat back on his knees, forehead pressed to Dunk’s bitten chest. “And yet your words have left me in ruins time after time tonight.” He clapped his clean hand over Dunk’s mouth to stop another senseless apology. “Don’t. Do not apologize. I would not have you take them back. It is a dream to hear them.”

“A good dream, then?” Dunk hoped, the words barely audible between them.

Lyonel’s teeth looked so white in the flickering light of the brazier, the points of his eyeteeth snaring Dunk’s attention as he smirked. His voice rolled off his tongue like the slow crawl of smoke over water. “Fucking incredible. Surpassing all expectations, as usual.”

The slow drag of Lyonel’s hand down Dunk’s stomach felt like a dozen different vices, and all of them made Dunk want. Lyonel’s long fingers curled around the base of Dunk’s prick as slickened fingers teased at his hole. “Time for me to make good on those promises.”

Dunk nodded, eager to know Lyonel in all ways. “Please.”

“Fuck, you sweet thing. So earnest and polite, even when you’re begging for me to take your maidenhead,” Lyonel groaned.

He prowled up the length of Dunk’s body. The head of Lyonel’s dick smeared against his abdomen before he made himself comfortable atop Dunk. He bent his head to slot their lips together in a slow, languorous kiss, seemingly in no hurry. They parted with a soft smack of sound, leaving Dunk’s mouth free to moan as Lyonel rolled his hips. Dunk was treated to the sight of the muscles in Lyonel’s jaw clenching before he spoke, and it made all the imprints of his teeth on Dunk’s body twinge deliciously. “How do you want me to have you?”

Dunk rocked his hips in time with Lyonel’s. “I just want you to have me. Don’t rightly care how.”

Lyonel let out a low, pleased hum. “I’ll definitely want to have you on your hands and knees for the spectacular view it will afford me,” he said heatedly. “But this first time, I want to look at your face. Need to see how deep you blush when I’m inside you. See the sign of my house glinting amongst all that pretty copper hair.”

Though he had denied having a preference, Dunk was glad he’d be able to look upon Lyonel while they took their pleasure—while Lyonel took his pleasure—though his words made Dunk burn from the weight of Lyonel’s attention. Dunk had no idea how to begin examining those feelings, nor did he know how to reply.

Thankfully, the years since Ashford had made Lyonel an expert at reading Dunk’s silences. Sometimes he got overwhelmed by the inherent chaos of the Baratheon pavilion, and he needed to pause; other times, Dunk simply got stuck in his head, agonizing, and needed prompting.

Tonight was one of those times. And because it was Lyonel, it nearly always involved a cheeky remark that broke the dam Dunk had been building in his mind.

Still grinning—always grinning, may Dunk never give him cause to despair again—Lyonel nipped at the copper scruff on his face before needling him. “Objections, ser? It’s your maidenhead, after all.”

“Aye, it is,” Dunk agreed, managing a breathless huff of laughter. “And I said it was yours to take, if you wanted it.”

The flash of Lyonel’s teeth in a triumphant leer made desire crash through Dunk’s like a thunderclap, his need reignited all at once. “Rest assured, ser; I want nothing more,” he declared.

Lyonel rolled his hips against Dunk’s before righting himself. He cursed and rooted around in the furs in search of the oil, and Dunk was glad for the break. The urgency of his release had faded, but Dunk felt as though the slightest touch would have him racing toward the edge. He knew he was green in matters of intimacy. Inexperience would make his body finish before either of them had their fill of one another.

Dunk shoved the cushions out from under his head so that he could look up at Lyonel better and readjusted the pillow under his hips at Lyonel’s gentle direction. His stomach swooped in arousal as Lyonel poured more oil onto his fingers, warming it in his hand before stroking it over the length of his cock with a hiss. Anxious anticipation made his chest feel like it would rattle apart. Dunk knew it was clear on his face, but he was used to feeling some kind of overwhelming, emotionally fraught thing around Lyonel now that it was practically commonplace.

Then Lyonel was sliding his hand up the back of Dunk’s thigh, and the time for fretting was over. “Up a bit,” Lyonel suggested, his hand under Dunk’s knee. His eyebrows went up in delight as Dunk bent his knee toward his chest and held it there. Lyonel’s hand rested on Dunk’s chest, thumb brushing over the love bite he’d left at the base of Dunk’s throat. “Flexible? Oh, hedge knight, we’re going to enjoy that.”

Dunk twitched at the first touch of Lyonel’s cock. He guided the blunt head of his prick against where Dunk was slick and open for him, gliding through the oil to occasionally catch on his hole without pressing in.

“Just breathe with me, darling, and promise to tell me if anything hurts,” Lyonel said in a hush.

Dunk nodded. “Promise.”

The maddening brush of his cock wasn’t easy to ignore, but Dunk found a balance between desperate want and uncertainty. He laid the palm of his hand over the back of Lyonel’s as the other still held his leg to his chest. Dunk rocked back to meet Lyonel the next time the head of his prick caught on his hole, ready for more.

Lyonel hissed under his breath before tightening his fingers on Dunk’s chest. “Tell me if it’s too much, or if you need to slow down. Fuck, anything, just promise you’ll tell me.”

Dunk nodded, hoping that he wasn’t making himself a liar. Words were difficult for him, and they were harder when he was struggling against sensations. Until recently, that had only meant pain, but pleasure had stolen his wits and stilled his tongue more than once that evening. He gripped Lyonel’s hand to pull him closer and felt his nerves lessen just by Lyonel drawing near. Lyonel made a happy sound as he met Dunk in a kiss, seemingly pleased just by Dunk’s desire to touch him, kiss him, be close.

Time slowed as Lyonel kissed him. He matched the glide of his prick between Dunk’s legs with the slow, languorous curl of their tongues. Dunk looped his arms over Lyonel’s shoulders and whined as each roll of Lyonel’s hips dragged his firm stomach against Dunk’s cock. The press of Lyonel’s cock got more insistent with every teased pass over Dunk’s hole.

Lyonel shifted away as Dunk angled his hips to try to move things along. “Don’t force it,” he murmured against Dunk’s lips. “Let me work you up to it.”

“I’m plenty worked up already,” Dunk insisted.

Lyonel huffed in mock exasperation, though the effect was ruined by the roughened, trembling quality of his voice. “Impatient creature. Three years, you make me wait, and in a single evening you make me the sweetest promises,” he said, briefly brushing their lips together in a tantalizing kiss before continuing. “Then in the same breath, you make demands that test my honor.”

Even as Dunk’s breath hitched as Lyonel guided the head of his prick to Dunk’s hole with deliberate pressure. “I should hate to bore you, m’lord,” he retorted weakly, unable to resist responding to the levity that only Lyonel was able to bring out of him.

“I’ll never be bored with you a day in my life,” Lyonel swore, his eyes twinkling. “Though you might get sick of me.” He cut off Dunk’s smart reply with his lips. Slick, seeking fingers teased around his rim, tracing where Dunk wanted him most. “Are you sure you don’t want my fingers again? I can open you up some more, rub that spot inside you until you’re a puddle.”

Dunk was so frustrated he could only laugh, head falling against the bedding. “Do you wish to hear me beg, ser?”

“Oh, I definitely want to hear you beg me, sweet hedge knight, but that is not why I am behaving with such restraint,” Lyonel said, his voice deliciously hoarse. “I’ve waited for this, and I’ll be damned if I get overzealous and make you avoid our marriage bed.”

Dunk was mollified by his words, but no less needy. “A little zealousness would be appreciated at this point.”

“As my damsel commands,” Lyonel drawled, rolling his eyes as though Dunk were the one being unreasonable. His amusement faded to tenderness as he guided the head of his leaking cock to Dunk’s hole without shying away. “Try to bear down from inside, not with your hips.

Dunk’s mouth fell open at the deliberate press of Lyonel’s cock. He was thick, the heat of him so intense and consuming it distracted Dunk from convincing his body to accept such an intrusion. He could feel Lyonel leaking with arousal as he paused to rub the head of his cock against Dunk’s rim in a teasing slide. The thought was enough to slip past his guard, and between one second and the next, Lyonel was inside him.

Dunk inhaled sharply as his body yielded, his mouth falling open in surprise. The scalding heat of Lyonel’s prick made the stretch of it fade to the background long enough for Dunk to catch his breath, but it would not be ignored for long. Lyonel’s fingers had prepared Dunk to take him physically, but that experience hardly compared. The width, the impossible warmth and weight of something inside him, the tremble in Lyonel’s hand, all of them making demands of his mind and body.

“Too much?”

“No,” Dunk insisted. “I just…I don’t know what to focus on first. It’s different than your fingers.”

Lyonel peppered kisses across Dunk’s jaw. “Good different?”

Dunk nodded fervently. Lyonel shifted above him and unintentionally nudged his cock deeper, and the tangle of need he’d felt at the slide of Lyonel’s fingers reignited. That, Dunk could focus on, crave again and again, even without touching that spot inside him. His face colored at the raw, guttural sound of need that left his lips.

“Keep going,” Dunk rushed out, hitching the leg he wasn’t holding around Lyonel’s hip to keep him in place. “Fuck, please, just move.” Lyonel eyed him skeptically, his hips stubbornly still. Face burning, Dunk pressed on. “Can’t relax when you’re still. S’too much at once, but when you move it’s…”

Lyonel made an inquisitive noise as he nibbled on the lobe of his unpierced ear, easing deeper every few thrusts. Dunk’s ability to express himself had reached its end. Instead of replying, Dunk hitched his leg higher on Lyonel’s hip and urged him closer. Lyonel spat a curse as he found himself sheathed halfway in the tight clutch of Dunk’s body.

“Shit! Easy, lover. I hear you, I hear you,” Lyonel soothed. “Fuck my overabundance of caution, eh?”

Dunk just moaned in response, reeling from the scorching heat of Lyonel’s prick sinking deeper. He shifted fitfully against the furs beneath him, unable to be still. Dunk’s hands felt clumsy as he trailed them down Lyonel’s back. He uncurled his leg from around Lyonel’s hip so that he could coax Lyonel closer with his hands at the small of Lyonel’s back. Dunk groaned in protest when Lyonel retreated instead, only for his voice to break when thrust back in with a roll of his hips.

“Oh, fff—,” Dunk hissed, curse incomplete on his lips.

His stomach clenched at the feeling of Lyonel moving inside him. Lyonel’s fingers had been warm, of course, but they were nothing in comparison to the burning warmth of his cock. It ached to take the thickness of him, and it was incredible. It was a good hurt, if ‘hurt’ were even the right word to describe it. Dunk felt tender in the best way, soothed and scorched by the heat of Lyonel making space—taking space—inside his body.

“Fuck, you are a vision,” Lyonel bit out. “I can see how good it feels for you. It’s all over your pretty face.”

Dunk turned to press his face into the silky furs, willing his mouth to respond with something other than some wanton, broken sound pouring from his lips. “D-don’t get to f-feel good very often,” he gasped out, compelled to explain why he wore his need so clearly on his face. Dunk’s eyes fluttered shut as he attempted to meet Lyonel’s thrusts with his own, breath hitching as each slow roll sheathed him deeper than Lyonel’s fingers had been able to reach. “Usually j-just with you.”

Rather than deliver some pithy remark as Dunk expected, Lyonel just made a wounded sound as he buried his face in Dunk’s neck, his thrusts losing the careful control he wielded. Dunk tried to smother his sounds of pleasure into the bedding as all the overwhelming stimulation from their coupling demanded his attention without mercy. Lyonel braced his forearm near Dunk’s head and tangled his other hand in Dunk’s hair. Held in place, there was no place for Dunk to escape to, nowhere to hide the shockeddesperateneedy look on his face.

The next stroke of Lyonel’s prick inside him glanced off that spot that made Dunk forget his own name.

“Fuck!”

“There?” Lyonel asked, as though Dunk wasn’t seconds from blissful tears.

He tried to nod but was held in place by the hand in his hair. The dull throb in Dunk’s scalp only accentuated the pleasure—but it wasn’t enough. Dunk was finished with slow, with gentle and sweet and tender, and his need made him unrestrained. He planted a foot on the bed and canted his hips to be able to thrust up to meet Lyonel firmly.

They both cried out in surprise as he took Lyonel to the hilt with a rough slap of skin. The twinge of discomfort that came with each of Lyonel’s careful thrusts spiked, pushing past his senses into an incredible, addicting ache. Dunk felt full, as though Lyonel were lodged in his ribs, in his lungs, and he hoped it stayed that way. He was quickly realizing that a small hurt was a fine thing indeed, if said pleasurable aches were delivered by Lyonel in such a manner.

“Again,” Dunk demanded.

“Doesn’t hurt?” Lyonel asked through gritted teeth.

Dunk shook his head before his conscience got the better of him. He promised he’d tell Lyonel if it hurt, but that was before he realized it could hurt so good. “It does,” he admitted, choking out the words. “But it’s good. I—ngh, fuck!—I like it. I want it.”

Lyonel shuddered, fucking into Dunk with a single rough thrust. Dunk shouted his pleasure to the tent ceiling until Lyonel’s mouth covered his own. “Sweetling,” Lyonel said against his lips. “Tell me if that changes.”

“I will,” Dunk swore. “Now stop performing and fuck me.”

Blessedly, Lyonel complied for once in his life.

Pressed together as tightly as they were, Dunk couldn’t gain any real leverage to spur Lyonel to move faster. It was a frustration made easier to bear by his cock trapped between their bodies, each grind of their hips only making more of a slick mess on their bellies. Lyonel’s hand was still tangled in Dunk’s hair, but Lyonel had mercifully tugged his head to the side to admire his new adornment. It afforded Dunk the last little bit of dignity he had left to his name, letting him hide his pleasure-wrecked face from view.

“Need to get you a necklace next,” Lyonel rasped, attention darting between Dunk’s flushed face and the golden stag on his ear. Dunk could read the possessiveness in the smoldering heat of Lyonel’s eyes, feel it in the way his hips snapped against Dunk’s skin. “Two. One that’s a close fit, so everyone can see it around your throat. Gold links shaped like leaping stags. Maybe one of obsidian and topaz, for a subtler claim.”

Dunk laughed, a breathless, husky thing. “You’ve never been—ngh—subtle a day in your life.”

“You like me bold,” Lyonel growled, and fuck, it was true.

Dunk nodded, groaning as Lyonel rutted against him in sharp, fast motions for a few blinding seconds of bliss. He whined as Lyonel resumed his campaign to drive Dunk mad without the leverage to thrust into him good and proper.

“I’ll commission something for when you’re feeling bold, my dear damsel.” Lyonel let go of Dunk’s hair after a final, affectionate tug. He straightened his spine so he was knelt between Dunk’s legs, sliding his hand down Dunk’s throat until it landed in the center of his chest. “Something that sits right here. Something to have everyone imagining it on your bare chest. Fuck, I can picture it, right in between these.”

Lyonel grabbed the softness of his unflexed chest and squeezed, his thumb pressing into the bite mark he had left behind. Dunk cried out from the tender, aching pang that shot through him, his cock twitching against his stomach. He raised his hands above his head to find purchase on a headboard that didn’t exist.

Lyonel noticed his fumble as Dunk floundered for something that wasn’t there. “Last fuckin’ time I tell ‘em not to bother with the bed frame.”

Dunk laughed and let his hands flop back down onto the bedding. Headboard or not, Dunk had the room to move. He eagerly rocked into every stroke, knocking his calf against Lyonel’s flank to prompt him to speed up, but Dunk’s plea went ignored. Instead of fast, he got deep, a new twinge in his gut every time Lyonel bottomed out. The long stroke of each thrust made pleasure coil and writhe low in his belly even as his heart fluttered in his chest at the sight of Lyonel above him.

“You greedy thing,” Lyonel said, delight dripping from every word.

He looked so much like Dunk’s first memories of him. Hair a rakish mess, glistening with exertion, mischief and more in Lyonel’s eyes. But tonight, Dunk was treated to the sight of so much golden skin, his muscles bared and flexing, his thick, ruddy length disappearing inside Dunk in a steady rhythm.

His mind went back to Lyonel in the ale pavilion with Dondarrion, shirtless and caterwauling bawdy songs to an appreciative audience. Jealousy curled in his chest for the briefest of seconds, but it was long enough for Lyonel to spot it on his face.

“What’s put that look on your face, ser? Or am I being a fool again?” Lyonel asked. He was out of breath, but his pace never faltered.

“We both are,” Dunk admitted, breathless. “You inspire jealousy.”

“Fuck, please be jealous over me.”

"Lyonel, I swear to—"

He yelped as Lyonel tossed one long leg over his shoulder, pressing a toothy, wet kiss to the inside of his knee. Dunk shifted to his side to accommodate the new position, lips twitching as Lyonel swept his tangled hair away to uncover the gold stag on his ear. The smile quickly fell from Dunk’s face, the change in position making it all the easier for Lyonel to angle himself deeper inside him. The head of Lyonel’s prick skated over the spot that stole Dunk’s wits and left him at the mercy of his overwrought senses.

“There,” Dunk demanded, his voice far too breathy to truly be commanding.

Lyonel nodded against his knee. He nipped at Dunk with enough bite that every other mark from Lyonel’s mouth thrummed, eager to remind Dunk of how good that attention felt. Dunk’s toes curled as Lyonel fucked into him in long, fluid strokes, his hips snapping against Dunk’s ass and thighs. The sound of muffled merriment could still be heard in all directions, but the sound of their skin coming together was loud enough to make Dunk squirm at the thought of being overheard.

Each deep plunge of Lyonel inside him had ecstasy surging through Dunk to coil and knot together low in his belly. He squeezed his eyes shut to block one avenue of pleasure in an effort to process the rest without spilling. It had the opposite effect, making the pleasure spark brighter. Dunk felt an unexpected anxiousness as tension mounted within him and tangled his fingers in the furs below him, brow pressed to the bedding as a buzzing pleasure mounted in his chest.

Lyonel turned his face into the inside of Dunk’s knee and groaned. He drove into Dunk with unfaltering steadiness, though Dunk’s pride was relieved to see that it took great effort on Lyonel’s part. His hands grasped greedy palmfuls of Dunk’s thighs as he noticed Dunk’s attention. His eyeteeth seemed to glint in the dim light and sharpened his smile. “You need to tell me when it’s too much, lover. I’ll glut myself on every bit of you I can get until we’re nothing but dust.”

Dunk muffled a string of curses against the bedding before he could manage a reply. “I’ll tell everyone at this fuckin’ tourney that you’re impotent if you stop now.”

Lyonel threw his head back with a breathless bark of laughter. “Can’t have that!” he exclaimed, looking far too delighted for a man whose rumored virility was on the line. “Better put my fucking back into it.”

A broken groan stuttered out of him as Lyonel made good on his word. Dunk had begun to crave the ache of being spread on Lyonel’s cock, the lighting whip of pleasure he felt as Lyonel moved inside him. That brutal burst of ecstasy he felt each time Lyonel touched that spot inside him still made Dunk feel as though he might cry from how good it was, but the earlier embarrassment he had felt at the idea was entirely eclipsed by his need.

“Fuck,” Lyonel hissed. “The fact that you have had so few opportunities to feel good is an offense against, fuck, everything. The Gods. Me. You’re the future Lord Consort of Storm’s End; I intend to make you feel as good as you can stand.”

Dunk moaned into the furs, toes curling as Lyonel gave a series of short, quick thrusts that rubbed the head of his prick right against that sensitive spot. “Oh, fuck!”

“Touch yourself,” Lyonel demanded. “You already made a mess of my hand; I want to see my pretty damsel make a mess of my furs.”

“Shit, Lyonel,” Dunk sobbed out. Between the feeling of Lyonel inside him and the man’s way with words, Dunk was at the precipice already. He curled his fingers around his cock and tried to stroke himself in time to Lyonel’s quick pace, but found his coordination lacking. He moaned as he couldn’t help but tighten around the thick heft of Lyonel’s prick as he worked himself to the edge.

Lyonel cursed at the feeling, his pace finally faltering. “Sweetling,” he pleaded. “Let me see you fall apart. I want to see you come apart on my cock on all these furs, with that shiny golden stag dangling from your ear. Let me—”

Dunk toppled over the edge like a wave crested and crashed against the sand, dragging all in its path back into the sea with it. Dunk let out a hoarse shout at the incredible ache and throb he felt as he tightened around Lyonel as he came, all of his awareness narrowing down to Lyonel moving inside him. He fucked into his fist in jerky, rough pumps of his hips, groaning around his gritted teeth, ears ringing as he spilled into his fist and the dark grey fur beneath him.

His pleasure spiked to near intolerable levels each time Lyonel skated over that spot, drawing out the tears he’d managed to keep at bay until then. “Please, please, please,” he begged, not knowing if he was begging Lyonel for mercy or for him to keep going.

“Tell me,” Lyonel begged breathlessly. “What do you need?”

Dunk could only turn his face into the bedding to muffle his shout as a final rush of bliss seized him by the throat. He went silent and shook, holding his breath as he withstood pulse after pulse of pleasure with each pump of his overtaxed heart. He inhaled greedily as his vision started to whiten around the edges, the roaring in his ears fading away as Lyonel’s thrusts went unsteady. Dunk’s breath hitched at the spreading warmth inside him, realizing it was the feeling of Lyonel coming. The slide of his cock got slicker, the sound of it lewd and obscene in the quiet of the tent.

“Duncan,” Lyonel forced out, his tense face buried against the leg over his shoulder, hips pressed snug against Dunk’s ass. His chest heaved as he tried to calm his breathing, one hand idly rubbing the long line of Dunk’s leg hanging limply over Lyonel’s shoulder.

Dunk chuckled deliriously, his hand still curled around his prick to catch as much of his spend as possible. He felt Lyonel’s lips twitch into a smile. “What got you giggling down there, ser, hmm? Make a man self-conscious about his performance.”

Sighing, Dunk shook his head. He jostled Lyonel by the leg tossed over his shoulder. “You really did make my legs shake.”

He felt Lyonel’s smug grin grow when he realized Dunk’s legs were, indeed, shaking. The Storm Lord hummed in satisfaction. “I certainly did, didn’t I?” His hand continued to caress Dunk’s trembling legs for another moment before he murmured a warning. “Gonna set your leg down, sweetling. Might smart.”

It did, but in a way that enhanced the tiny tremors of pleasure still sneaking up on him. A kind of haze settled over his mind, dulling the thoughts that tended toward doubt. He wrinkled his nose as Lyonel pulled out but he could manage little more than a disgruntled huff. He tried to make his limbs cooperative when Lyonel prodded at him until Dunk was clean and nuzzling into fresh furs,  draping himself over Lyonel’s side.

“S’pose I see what the fuss is about sex,” he mumbled into Lyonel's skin.

Lyonel laughed, arms coming around him in a tight squeeze. “Glad that I could illuminate that for you, my dear.” Dunk grumbled as Lyonel turned to face him. He gently carded his fingers through Dunk’s hair, pausing to trace a finger over his ear every few passes. “You went away there for a second,” he said eventually.

Dunk frowned. “Sorry—”

“No, I shall hear no apologies. I just wanted to ensure all was well.”

“Very,” Dunk said quickly. He saw the worry in Lyonel’s eyes; worry that he had caused Dunk to tune out something unpleasant, and rushed to dispel Lyonel’s concern. “It was just…” he trailed off, searching for the words to describe the strange but pleasant haze. “It was overwhelming. Going from feeling so much and then back made me… lightheaded? Made the quiet in my head actually quiet, instead of just space waiting to be filled with agonizing, like usual.” Dunk huffed out a quiet laugh. “I don’t make a lick of sense.”

Lyonel shook his head. “I’ll not hear you speak ill of my future spouse,” he said lightly. Lyonel cupped his jaw and ran the pad of his thumb over Dunk’s lips, pressing against them when Dunk opened his mouth to contest Lyonel’s refusal to let him be disparaging. “I will not hear it, ser.”

The hand cupping Dunk’s jaw slid to cradle the nape of his neck, holding him steady as Lyonel pushed up onto an elbow and pressed him into the furs. Dunk made a soft, contented sound as Lyonel slotted their lips together. Time moved at a syrupy crawl as they traded lazy, pleasure-drunk kisses back and forth. Lyonel’s hands mapped Dunk’s skin, the warmth of Lyonel’s hands lulling Dunk into a sublime puddle.

Lyonel nibbled at Dunk’s bottom lip before trailing kisses to the ear marked with the sign of his house. He nuzzled into the mess of Dunk’s hair before speaking. “As much as I’d love to lie here until we’re both ready to go again, we should rest. We have an early morning ahead of us.”

“We do?” Dunk puzzled aloud. “I can’t imagine anything so pressing as to rouse us before you have to ready for the lists.”

“Mm. I meant it when I said I meant to drag you to a septon at the earliest opportunity, and if we’re to avoid the wrath of your vicious squire and the Fossoway’s both, we’ll need to roust them from their beds as well.”

Dunk’s heart thudded in his chest at the casual way Lyonel spoke of joining their hands—for it had to be hands, as Dunk had no house for Lyonel to join with. He turned to catch Lyonel’s smiling lips with his own until Lyonel could no longer hold his laughter. Lyonel’s head lolled as he laughed for the sheer joy of it, and Dunk was helpless to do naught but smile.

“Truly, you can wed so easily?” Dunk asked, hesitance creeping back in. “I can’t claim to know much about noble houses, but even the smallest of folk know that wedding invitations are social currency.”

Lyonel bit his lip around a wicked grin. “Perhaps other houses, but you’re wedding the Laughing Storm, my dear damsel,” he said loftily. “Should someone take issue with my spouse or how I chose to take them, they may take it up with me. Whether in court or in the lists, so long as I have your favor, I shall conquer every foe before me. But do not think I can’t see the doubt in your eyes, ser. Worry not, for I will prove myself true when I earn your ire and wake you with the dawn.”

Dunk closed his eyes and let himself be arranged against Lyonel’s chest. “I look forward to cursing your name, milord.”

“You should. It’ll be the last time you can curse my name without cursing your own.”

The wild crescendo of emotions and two euphoric releases took their toll on Dunk, quickly pulling him toward sleep. His mind puzzled no worries nor agonized over future routes to take. The constant vigil of sleeping under the stars with a young charge was assuaged by Egg’s presence with the Baratheon squires, who cared for Egg nearly as much as Dunk himself. The thought of the future didn’t fill him with the same queer sickness it had before, though perhaps that was because in every future Dunk allowed himself, he was alone.

Lyonel’s voice broke through the silence just before Dunk could tip into unconsciousness.

“Should you think to slip away in the night, Ser Duncan, I will remind you that I am an excellent hunter. I’ll not let the greatest, most worthwhile quarry of my lifetime escape me without chase,” he threatened playfully, sleep roughening the edges of his voice.

Dunk chuckled, his face still pillowed on Lyonel’s chest. “Be sure to wake the boy before you come after me. He’ll be in raptures to finally set dogs on me.”