Chapter Text
“So? What did you bring me?”
It’s all Dunk can do to stare. Mouth agape, barely holding onto its bite of pie, unable to find a worthy response. Though it might be lost on him, the Lord of this Tent had been verifiably eyefucking the hedge knight since the birds were served and dance began. Half of it could be easily explained away. Dunk’s towering stature always guaranteed him as the tallest in a room. What it couldn't account for was the vitriol behind Ser Lyonel's eyes. The same fire that fueled every Baratheon action, far as Dunk could tell from his short time at the feast. A small wonder he found himself pulled into the Laughing Storm’s orbit, easy as a maid on her wedding night. In spite of any sense Dunk might yet lay claim to. The Stormlord’s entourage are all drunken giggles and slurred sardonicism. Comments hurled Dunk’s way more often than not, especially after he’s summoned to approach. It’s a sorry sight, all rope-scabbared and twill-spun. His rough clothes a far cry from the nobility’s fine silk. This one tent contained more wealth than Dunk had known in his entire life. More than he could ever reasonably earn. The banquet tables hold enough to feed all of Fleabottom, maybe for a month if they could be sparing, though they never could. On the morning, their half-eaten scraps and still-viable leftovers would be dumped in a sty. From the look in Lyonel’s companions’ eyes, Dunk too might be breaking the pigs’ fast. But even as the glares around him soured, storm-blue eyes fixed squarely on Dunk. Never moving from his face, except for a fleeting glance to size him up. Any shame he should’ve felt is easily ignored, instead his focus remains only with one Lyonel Baratheon.
Even without Fossoway’s help, Dunk had heard enough stories about the Laughing Storm. Truly, he thought he’d be bigger. Granted, every other man seems small compared to Dunk, though this realization only adds to his intrigue. Although the many accomplishments of Ser Lyonel Baratheon were impressive in their own right, his smaller stature only adds to Dunk’s admiration. It’s hard enough winning a proper fight, even at his immense size, whereas Lyonel’s several heads shorter. At least. Still, he climbed the tourney-rank with ease, his uproarious laughter cementing the Storm in the smallfolk’s hearts. Taking the one disadvantage he was born with in stride to unhorse the opposition, regardless of height. Even Dunk himself can’t remain so unaffected. Now, the distance between them so significantly shortened, he is only looking at Ser Lyonel’s lips. Framed in whiskers of salt-and-pepper, behind which shine the whitest teeth he’s ever seen. So perfect in size and clarity Dunk wonders absently if the highborn replace theirs with pearls. That mouth, resplendent as the rest of Lyonel, forms syllables and sounds that go completely ignored. Head swimming with the sights, sounds, smell, of the feast, it is intoxicating. Exasperated by the fact that Dunk hadn’t eaten so well in months, maybe years. His false sense of security is only worsened by the drink dulling his senses. If Dunk were in his right mind, he would respond immediately. Appropriately. All “m’lords” and courtly pleasantries, or at least, his best attempt at service. It should be embarrassing, presenting to Ser Lyonel Baratheon as nothing more than a stammering, slobbering fool. Instead, Dunk cannot find the mind to care. His thoughts lay only with the Laughing Storm, even watching those magnificent lips curl into a sneer at his expense. The few, quick glimpses of tongue as Lyonel monologues send his mind to an even lower place. Thoughts unbecoming of any knight of any standing, let alone the hedge. The burgeoning spark of shame within Dunk does nothing to combat his train of thought. As the lords twitter on, his mind flits idly between hypotheticals and ‘what-if’s’, each more ridiculous than the last. Dunk is not even fit enough to serve in the Stormlord’s court, let alone do half of what he’d like. If Lyonel weren’t a Baratheon, if Dunk weren’t himself, or even if there weren’t any spectators about…
It’s not that he imagined the Laughing Storm would be unattractive. In honesty, Dunk had never given much credence to another’s physical appearance. It would only make a hypocrite of him, with the way his skin crawls at any unwanted attention. Unfortunately, unkind words seem to follow Dunk wherever he goes, as if his height could ever go unnoticed. He’s heard what it means to be attractive, though, if only from the whores barking their wares, or ladies gushing over their lords just shy of earshot. Then, of course, there were the knights. Swaggering pillars of perfection, pedestaled high enough so even the smallest of folk might see. There were innumerous tales of handsome cavaliers, honorable champions of the downtrodden. Warriors like Symeon Star-Eyes and Serwyn of the Mirrorshield. Each story grander than the last, each hero could not be a further cry from Dunk. Recently, there has been no shortage of tales about the Laughing Storm. Whether they focus on his great, armored helm, Baratheon-black hair, or his great rapport with the crowds. Gossip and whispers turned to out-spoken admiration, the men gawk at his might while the women are more like to blush. Second only to Breakspear in charm, perhaps even more favored than the bristly Prince Maekar. Now, Dunk feels himself more like a maid than a man. The Storm’s characteristic bark threatens to send him to his oversized knees. Even with the hedge knight’s head brushing the tent’s silk roof, Lyonel Baratheon lords over them all. His icy, unreadable gaze somehow only makes Dunk feel even shorter. Ser Arlan had told him before that a man’s worth is not proportional to his size, though not using so many articulate words. That was true enough, and a known weakness of his. Just as there’s no reprieve from his height, comments about Dunk’s meek demeanor were never in short supply. Still, Lord Lyonel had summoned him, right up to the lords’ table. Even a hedge knight would know better than to refuse such an order. Not just from the head of a great house, but the Baratheons. The one line closest to the untouchable Targaryens, though Lyonel’s helm makes him look every bit a king. He speaks like one, too, the way his lords hang on to every dramatic word. Whatever spiel the Laughing Storm’s been on continues, with the occasional commentary from his equally wasted companions. On the contrary, Dunk’s mind flits from one train of thought to another. His wine-addled brain struggles to focus, highborn words falling on effectively deaf ears. Instead replaced with fleeting thoughts of dark curls and well-worn hands, curling around the hilt of a blade with such practiced ease…
Except that the owner of said curls, hands, and blade has not stalled his speech. Whatever he’s saying causes the Stormlord to sour. Gorgeous lips curl into a near-sneer, pointed squarely in his direction. Only that startling gaze is enough to jolt Dunk from his line of thinking. He begins to process, again, just where he is, whose company he keeps, and what exactly is being said.
“- understands that, all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head.”
Lord Baratheon takes on a serious look, not quite like any they’ve seen since entering the tent. Stormy blues fix squarely on Dunk with something between disdain, confusion, and pure belligerence. It earns no reply. The nobility on either side of Ser Lyonel stiffens. The blade he’d been twirling about stills, now a threat more than a toy.
“You’ve come for my head, then.”
Well, now Dunk is listening. His mindless admiration is now swiftly replaced with panic. Wandering into a lord’s tent, helping himself to another’s feast, now accosted by the host of this banquet. Worse, he lacks any excuse, or even the ability to defend himself. Dunk’s known lowborn men to be quartered for much less. Perhaps some part of the hedge knight has already accepted his fate, the clean release of a headsman’s blade surely beats starving to death. Which surely was what would become of Dunk soon. Once he loses, unable to ransom back Ser Arlan’s sword or even a horse to eat, he’ll find some nice, quiet ditch to waste away in. And still, Dunk would have lived a much better life than many who came from the slums. At least his last supper was truly fit for a lord, not the meager rations and forages Dunk’s used to. That, alone, gave apt cause to die happy.
All of this logic, though, is lost to Dunk in the moment. Instead, his eyes grow big as shields, huge mouth stammering in a great, stupid gape.
“What? No! No,I,” There’s an attempt to get something else out. Courtesies, apologies, anything to appease the armed highlord aimed right at Dunk.
“Then why the fuck are you in my tent?’
A million answers run through Dunk's head, each excuse poorer than the last. Fossoway. Dondarrion. He could find someone to vouch for Ser Arlan here, if he’d not been so immediately distracted by the food, drink, and … oh, yes. Lord Lyonel Baratheon. Waiting on him for a reply. For half a heartbeat, he’s tempted to default to a knight’s usual oath. Whatever you might need, m’lord, for I am here only to serve. But something about Ser Lyonel's contemptuous, almost hungry, expression tells Dunk that would leave him unsatisfied. Even a man with so few wits about him could tell the Laughing Storm is chasing a thrill. All this time contemplating a reply means none comes at all. Instead, he stands dumbly there, effectively forcing any words to come forth.
When he speaks again, it’s barely audible, even to himself. The truth is forced through his stammer. “S-sup.. Supper.” Dunk smiles weakly. Lifts his hand holding the Baratheons’ food, as if to clear any doubt.
There is a beat, and Lord Lyonel laughs. The rest of the night is a blur, all song and dance and … um. Whatever they were doing that left him holding the Laughing Storm by his waist. Doubled over in pain, no less. Surely this will change nothing in him. Bad Dunk. Bad knight. So improper, already, to talk to a lord this casually, but touching? Without permission? Not to mention: stomping his fucking foot? Men are hanged daily in Fleabottom for much, much less.
But Lyonel only did what seemed to be his favorite thing in the world; he chortled and hollered like it was the funniest fucking thing he’d ever seen. The same way he’d cackle at the next joke or fumble or whatever else caught Ser Lyonel’s attention. It could be the drink clouding his memories, but Dunk could've sworn he'd even worn his helm. Just another attempt at a joke, surely but a memory that would stick with him long past the hangover.
In the morning, it didn’t much seem to matter anymore. Lord Lyonel was, well, more sober, back to lordly status, while Dunk was left scrambling to even enter the lists. Certain that was the last, blessed time their paths might cross.
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“You are indebted to me yet, Ser Duncan the Tall.”
Lyonel’s mouth is so full of food, drink, and laughter that may as well have been intangible. It takes Dunk even longer to truly process what his lordship’s said.
“I, I,” is his eloquent reply.
“You, you,” the Baratheon chortles. “Easy, man. ‘M only fucking with you!” Lyonel pauses the crusade to turn back to his cup. As if narrating into it, he mumbles what sounds like ‘well, not yet I’m not…’ before it's drowned out in a splash of wine.
Dunk doesn’t know what to say, though he very rarely does. Instead he… laughs. Well, attempts to. It feels foreign on his face, feeble in comparison to Lyonel Baratheon’s trademark roar. Supper continues swirling on around them, this one at least more civilized due to the Prince’s presence. After their first, maybe only day of preparation. Each hour bringing them closer to a Trial by Seven. With not much else standing in the way between Dunk and the Targaryen blade. At least Prince Baelor proved sociable enough, surprising even Ser Lyonel with his well-hidden wit. Tricks up his royal sleeve that no one else could get away with, each given freely with an unassuming smile. His presence alone brought great comfort to Dunk, even if the rest of his family seemed sworn to torment him. If there had to be one good Targaryen, the Seven were kind enough to put him on their side. His only ticket into this place, now putting his princely neck on the line for a hedge knight’s sake. Such chivalry even Duncan struggled to comprehend, though he felt more than grateful. Where Breakspear went, Dunk might even feel safe. Under Baelor’s protection, no threat of Targaryen intervention could harm him. The Prince sits now at the head of their table, each seat occupied by some great lord Dunk couldn’t name. Except for the seat occupied by Dunk himself, on the very end of the table. Easily ignored by everyone, just as he liked it.
The only other familiar face, for better or worse, sat to Duncan’s right. Laughing Storm, Lyonel Baratheon, in his usual decorated and exceptionally drunk glory. The Lord of Storm’s End is enraptured in conversation with some small-councilman. Dunk can’t even make out their conversation over the uproarious crowd, but that cackle is impossible to ignore. As if he can hear the wandering line of thought, Ser Lyonel throws a casual arm around Dunk’s neck. Dragging him down to the same level. Thank the gods he forewent his antlered helm today, or Dunk surely would’ve lost more than an eye. From so close, he can smell Arbor wine on Ser Lyonel's breath. Instinctively, Dunk looks towards Breakspear, searching for any semblance of aid from the crown prince. Over the near-riotous crowd, only seats away, he can’t make out Baelor’s voice, though it doesn’t take much to get his attention. It’s hard to ignore a seven-foot bumbling fool on the best of days. There’s something that looks like ridicule on his lips, though it just as easily gives way to one of the Prince’s amused smiles. Like a father who can’t possibly bear to stay strict. No harsh reaction, no call for his head, not even a limb chopped off for touching a noble out of turn. Just as quickly, Breakspear’s moved on to the next point of interest with whoever lucky enough to share his time. Some of the tension begins to leave Dunk’s broad shoulders, as if given the permission to relax. Lord Lyonel, ever perceptive, surely takes note. In fact, he only eases further into Dunk, and Lyonel Baratheon is not that small of a man. Despite his short stature, the boisterous personality more than makes up for it. Every room felt dominated by his presence, so much so, even the Prince has no choice but listen. It would take a giant to truly tower over him and … well, the gods do not disappoint. It’s amazing, for the first time in history, the Laughing Storm seems tiny in comparison to another.
A few moments pass, Dunk anxiously scanning the crowd for any observant onlookers. Luckily, the hoi polloi’s too preoccupied with the wine, women, and song to process Ser Lyonel Baratheon basically hugging the hedge knight. It takes another moment to process Lyonel Baratheon’s saying something. At least, this time, there is significantly less drink splashing about.
“- No, no. I know what you bring me, yes… " It sounds like the Stormlord is about to fall asleep. Sluggishly speaking into Dunk’s side rather than to him. That takes another moment to register in his head. It’s kind of hard to focus on anything except the Laughing Storm of legend, tucked into his side almost like a blushing maid. Almost. If anyone’s blushing here, it’s unfortunately Dunk. He swallows, trying desperately to arrange his thoughts enough to respond … though, expectedly, Lyonel Baratheon beats him to it.
“… Nothing but trouble.”
Dunk sinks. It’s true, of course, but hearing it with Lord Lyonel Baratheon’s voice is another kind of heartbreak. His eyes fall fixed to the floor, now unable to look at the man inches away. He can feel that familiar, unfortunate heat creeping past his ears. Just another instance of Dunk’s body betraying him, the oafish, bulky thing couldn’t even show discretion right. What good’s a knight that can’t even control himself? Suddenly, he’s overcome with the desire to shove Lyonel right off and flee, fast as he possibly can. Return to his squire with tail tucked between legs so the proper nobility might never see him again. It’d be the Wall or worse for him, but even that seems preferable to this humiliation. Dunk gets so far as raising his right hand, though it falters before ever grabbing Lord Lyonel. Even now, amidst the impropriety of Baratheon basically laying atop him.. Dunk still can’t bring himself to touch a lord out of turn. There’s nothing to do except grit his teeth in a deep-set frown, nodding in firm agreement. His throat’s too tight to speak, anyway, anxiety threatening to strangle the life from him before the Stormlanders ever get the chance.
Another beat, a winedrunk pause, before Ser Lyonel tries to stand. If he hadn’t noticed Dunk’s expression before, he surely would now. Their heads bump uncomfortably as he attempts to leave his seat, never once loosening his hold on Dunk. Stuck there, stupidly, with no choice but to go along with … whatever the fuck Lyonel Baratheon thinks is a good idea. Who’s to say.
The Laughing Storm clears his throat, as if to address the room, though the room shows no interest. They just keep partying on, babyyy, completely oblivious to the lords above them. So Lyonel turns to the crown prince Baelor, perhaps the only person actually listening.
“It has long since passed Ser Duncan’s bedtime,” he declares, officially.
Thank the gods their audience is too drunk or distracted to notice. Unfortunately, as noted, that does not include the Heir to the Realm. Breakspear looks immediately amused, brow furrowing slightly alongside his growing smile. The kind of entertainment one can only glean from Lyonel fucking Baratheon. Without further question, he gives them both a small nod, silent permission to leave his table first. Ser Lyonel basically manhandles Dunk out of his seat and effectively towards the door. It shouldn’t be a surprise, Lord Lyonel’s no small-fry, but Duncan’s not one to be tossed around. Especially not like it’s easy. No time to be gay about that now, though. The entrance to the pavilion slowly approaches and Dunk readily accepts his fate. Going to be beaten bloody, if he's lucky, for undue comfort amongst the lords. Speaking out of turn, not to mention the problems he's caused the royal family … yeah, there’s ample cause to kill him right here and now. Save the realm a whole Trial by Seven, even. At least Dunk’s made it farther than he ever intended. Much, much better to be killed by an anointed knight than anything in the slums of King’s Landing.
Once they’ve made it outside, the night air is a welcome break from the stuffy, perfumed air found in the tents. And Dunk waits patiently for the first blow to land. They're far enough from the prince’s tent now, no worry about staining his fancy silks with blood. As he's dragged through the muddy tourneyfields, equally drunk and boisterous lancers chattering around them, Dunk thinks back to Egg. The little menace waiting for him, camped under a canopy of leaves. If the boy has any wits about him, Egg’ll abandon camp at first light and find a proper landed knight to mooch off. Unfortunately, Dunk knew for all his wits, the little Egg would sooner wait for his return. However long it might take. The thought is so painful, Dunk would much prefer the bite of a Baratheon’s fist. He cranes his head upward, as if in search of a landing blow, but Ser Lyonel shows no plan of attack. Actually he’s … quiet. Perhaps the quietest Dunk had ever seen in their short meeting. Each step gets more staggered, like the drink is slowly taking its toll on the Stormlord, until Dunk is more or less walking for them both. What a sight it must be. The Laughing Storm wandering drunkenly, Hedge Knight in a headlock to use as a crutch. For the first time, Dunk considers they might’ve left for reasons other than a fight. It seems obvious now that Ser Lyonel was only looking for an excuse to leave. Tolerant as he is, especially where parties are concerned, a man has his limits. It was a dull affair anyway, by Baratheon standards, held back by the Prince’s presence and apparent propriety. Bummer. Dunk, though, is clearly relieved. He dares to put a hand on the small of Lyonel’s back, steadying him as they head towards … wherever they are going. He’s not actually sure where that might be. Now, it’s Lord Lyonel’s turn to stiffen. His pace hastens, only threatening to trip them up more. But they cross the fairgrounds and as a pavilion of gold&black comes into sight, Dunk’s suddenly aware of their destination. He never once claimed to be called Ser Duncan the Wise, ok?
Only now does Ser Lyonel release his hold on Dunk’s nape. He uses both hands to toss the heavy, silk entrance aside. Even without the Stormlord present, his household bustled about the tent. Squires, pages, stewards, Dunk thinks he even sees a maester present. Once it’s apparent just who’s approaching, the servants lower their gaze accordingly. It does nothing to spare them from his next command.
“Out.”
No one moves.
“NOW!”
That does it. In an instant, the entire host is scrambling to leave, more than a few shoving past Dunk in the process. Adding insult to injury, Ser Lyonel throws in a few more ‘out, you driveling fool, yes, now’s in there. Once the tent’s been good and thoroughly cleared out, Dunk turns to leave himself. An escort’s all he needed, surely, though Dunk can’t for the life of him imagine why the Laughing Storm might need a guard. Never mind one so humble as him. At least he’s being allowed to walk away with his life. Just another confusing, drink-fueled encounter for Ser Lyonel Baratheon to forget come morning. A hand on his wrist stalls Dunk’s escape. By the time he’s turned, Lord Lyonel is once again in his space- only difference is, now, they lack any audience. He, at least, has the good sense to make sure the tent’s flaps are drawn before zeroing in on Dunk. Now, there’s nothing to stop the Laughing Storm from cornering the much taller man against the fabric-thin walls.
“.. M’lord?” Dunk stumbles, for what feels like the millionth time tonight.
“We’ll have to be quiet.” Lord Lyonel’s tone is hushed, barely above a whisper. Dunk didn’t know he was even capable of such softness. The hedge knight just nods along, dumbly, without thinking to question why. What they could possibly be doing to require such discretion.
Until the Stormlord’s lips meet his, and suddenly, it all begins to fall into place.
That is to say, Dunk’s thought a lot about his first kiss. Seldom else to do, when you’re hungry and cold and the only escape is into daydream. He always imagined it’d be with a girl, of course, someone almost as tall as Dunk. She’d be soft and gentle as damsels in a song, with a spring in her step and an all-too-open heart. This is nothing fucking like that. Lyonel Baratheon nips at him with the same ferocity behind everything he does. It’s all hot, febrile kisses, placed to the corner of his mouth and jaw all the way to that soft skin atop his throat. Like Ser Lyonel can’t even bother to aim his strikes, so long as Dunk’s the recipient. A far cry from the beating he’s been expecting. The hot, heavy touch to every inch of accessible skin feels more intoxicating than any booze he’s ever known. Drowning out any sense Dunk has left about him. The tourney, the Trial, even thoughts of the Prince are banished in an instant. Replaced instead only with dark curls, matching stubble, unmistakably blue eyes. The Laughing Storm’s lips softer than he could ever imagine, and don’t worry, Dunk had been imagining it. Only ever in fleeting moments and private thoughts, a fantasy stashed away quietly for more reasons than just one. Even if they weren’t men, even if they were of the same status, it seemed little more than a fever-dream. Best kept to their stolen, drunken moments until Lyonel would exit his life entirely. Now, it feels like Lord Baratheon is trying to swallow him whole. Crack open his own ribs to make space there, enough for even Duncan the Tall. Experienced hands snake around Dunk’s waist, forbidding him to stray any further. It’s strange. Reverent, albeit sloppy, kisses begin to move slowly downward. With Lord Lyonel clearly relishing each one.
A wistful sigh escapes Dunk’s lips, a little too loud to ignore. Still, it seems to bring back some of his senses. Surely, the Baratheon household would remain close by. Even if they weren’t, the thin panels of silk wall do nothing to dull the sound. That, truly, has become his only real concern. It’s becoming harder and harder to think of anything except Ser Lyonel’s fingers trailing the top hem of his trousers. Even Dunk is aware of what that must surely mean. It takes all of his remaining strength to not give in immediately. To roll over and let Lord Baratheon have whatever he wants, whenever he wants. If a knight exists only to serve, there could be no prettier hand to hold his leash. Somehow, yet in spite of himself, he manages to pull away. For all of his faults, at least he knows himself. And Dunk knows he will not be able to keep appropriately quiet. Ser Lyonel makes no attempt to hide his sigh of disapproval. Dunk attempts to take a step back, though he’s not able to truly break the Storm’s hold.
“… Is that a good idea, m’lord?”
Clearly not. And yet…
There’s Lyonel Baratheon. Not even a foot away, so amazingly unattainable, nowhere to look but those piercing eyes. That alone threatens Dunk’s knees to give way. For all of his daydreams, childish fantasies of knights bold and heroes true, he never truly expected anything like this. How could he, an urchin from the dregs of the Realm? Even following that line of thought would be a great insult, the worst sort of disrespect to his lords. Never mind the fact that they were, y’know, men. Dunk had heard rumored stories of such trysts. Another impulse spared to the rich, while the poor’s penalty is death. He simply cannot afford to act on such baseless desires: man, woman, make it no difference. Knights are sworn to chivalry, some even to chastity. Either way, all it takes is one accusation from a noble to get him sent to the Wall with his bits chopped off first. Too much risk to reap any reward, even if the reward only seems more and more tempting.
“Oh, it’s a horrible idea.” Ser Lyonel reaffirms, before swiftly diving back in. He’s trying to steal another kiss, though it only gets so far as the stubble lining Dunk’s jaw. Duncan feebly sighs again, his resolve can be felt crumbling at record-speed. All the excuse Ser Lyonel needs, fingers digging into the meat of the hedge knight’s hip. He can’t remember the last time he’s known such a benevolent touch, if, indeed, he had at all. His shoulders still hold their usual tension, though, making it even clearer just how much Duncan’s holding back. What little buzz he still feels from the feast’s wine gives way to the heat of Ser Lyonel’s touch. A rough, ringed hand climbs Duncan’s back to rest between his shoulderblade. Somehow, unbeknownst to him, Lyonel’s managed to snake a hand past the rough tunic. Without any buffer between them, the curious feeling of bare skin on his is downright dizzying. More intoxicating than any liqueur Dunk’s tried yet. Lyonel traces gentle fingers along the course of his spine, earning an obvious shudder. At least, Lord Lyonel finds the courtesy not to laugh. Instead craning his head further, impossible to ignore salt&pepper whiskers now tickling Duncan’s cheek with every word. The Stormlord, amazingly, keeps finding new ways of invading their limited space. The flat of Lyonel’s chest presses against Duncan, though that could be due to the effort of trying to reach him. Surely that’s all it is.
When he speaks again, the Laughing Storm’s voice is uncharacteristically soft. Like he’s addressing a virginal maiden rather than an anointed knight. For all intents and purposes, Duncan may as well be. “No harm will come to you here.”
Outside of this tent, of course, Ser Lyonel could never promise such safety. Even now, it’s a stretch, the Stormlanders have never been well known for their hospitality. But Lyonel is a Baratheon, Dunk only a hedge knight. Far be it from him to disobey a Lord’s orders. As if on command, Duncan eases. He actually stands up straight, for once, the way Ser Lyonel directed upon their very first meeting. Now, though, it seems to be the incorrect answer. Only furthers the distance between Duncan and the lord he’s wearing like a belt. Without warning, Ser Lyonel’s foot comes down, hard, on Dunk’s. Causing him to immediately double over, bent at the waist, tortured sounds torn from his lips. He only just manages to bite them back from becoming a wail. Duncan swears under his breath, though it only seems to have played into Lyonel’s hand. Finally, brought down to near-the-same level, he takes Duncan’s face in hand. One could even call it ‘cradling’ if they didn’t know any better. The harshest of jabs soothed with the most foreign of touches. Fingers idly run through Dunk’s coarse hair, before yanking him down into a proper kiss. One broken only by Lord Lyonel’s laughter, felt more on Duncan’s lips than heard. “Now no harm will come to you.”
Message received, loud and clear, and Dunk can’t the strength to argue. Now that it’s within reach, the only matter of true importance is whatever he earns from Lord Baratheon. Duncan’s hands scramble to touch, to get a hold, to do .. something, anything. He’s actually not really sure. It’s all based on instinct now, listening to both bodies not unlike a traditional fight. A half-hearted swordplay joke dies on his tongue as Dunk decided it could have much better use. The difference in experience between the two men is clear as a sparrow from a hawk. He is so, painfully, obviously out of his depth here, Duncan can’t help but feel rightfully embarrassed by it. Lyonel moves with practiced ease, each touch a carefully considered tactic, same as any joust. For such a staggeringly large man, Dunk easily shrinks. Tries to minimize himself best he can, like the Lord of the Stormlands isn’t fixated only on *him*. What a terrifying position to find yourself in. It’s all Duncan can do to poorly imitate him, returning each frantic, fevered touch with five of his own. All scrambling for purchase, desperate to touch what he’s never been allowed before. There’s a conscious effort by Dunk to slow down, trading softer pecks for something much longer, deeper. A rare kiss, sweeter than a slow-dripping honey. Clearly, he’s doing something right, the way it earns a muffled fuck from the Stormlord. All the encouragement Dunk needs. Trying to catch lightning in a bottle, he dwells in that sweet sweet spot, anything to recreate those results.
Then; the most incredible thing happens. Those experienced hands trail down past Duncan’s waist, Lord Lyonel even bites back a comment about the rope-belt there. His breath hitches in his throat as cold fingers wrap around Duncan’s still-soft length. Now, it’s Lyonel’s turn to sigh.
“Fucking size of ‘ya.”
It almost earns a laugh in response. Not the first time Dunk’s gotten that, sure, but never in such compromising circumstances. He bites down on his lower lip, sharp enough to taste the drawn blood, perhaps the only thing keeping Duncan well and truly quiet. By now, he’s dissolved into little more than some desperate whimpers and a pliant hand. There’s embarrassingly little resistance as he tries to widen his stance, giving Lyonel proper access to the space between his legs. He wonders, dumbly, if this might be what Lord Baratheon might’ve been after from the start. Then, there is the question of: why him? The Laughing Storm could so easily take whatever he desires, man or woman, smallfolk or highborn. What could Dunk possibly offer where Seven Kingdoms fall short? There’s fingers fumbling with his coarse, hemp belt- and it takes a moment to process just who they belong to. With that, he jolts into action, pushing Lyonel’s hands away to finish the job himself. The knots slacken easily, and Duncan finds himself grateful for the Lord’s discretion. Such an easy target for mockery it almost takes the fun from it. If it’s not his height, there’s his clothing, all scrounged together and a far cry from the tourneygoer’s fine doublet. Then his uncoordinated swagger, as if it’s his first day inhabiting such a body. His rough, obvious accent, not to mention his lack of the right words. Dunk can’t even speak at the level of such noblemen, so out of his depth in this silk-laden pavilion. But if Lyonel’s noticed his sorry state, he shows no sign of it. Only lowers his attention further, kisses moving downward from lip to jaw to neck. The Lord of Storms end sinks slowly to his knees, never once letting up his touch. Now gripping the meat of Duncan’s hip, holding him firmly in place. Still, he can feel Lord Lyonel hold himself back. By rights, he could cast the hedge knight to the floor and do whatever he pleased. Duncan wouldn’t even complain. Instead, his tight grip never digs enough to injure, just short of being truly painful. Cautious not to damage or break him, Dunk can’t help but feel like one of the highborn’s favorite toys. Worst of all, he can’t find himself to care. Just another intrusive thought cast aside in favor of savoring the Storm’s presence.
Eyes flutter shut and a whine escapes his lips. Duncan could be dreaming. Probably is, the only reasonable explanation for how he’d find himself with the Lord of Storm’s End between his legs. As if attuned to his thoughts, Lord Lyonel presses a kiss to the newly exposed skin by his navel. Making his presence impossible to ignore, as if a Baratheon’s ever gone unnoticed. There’s a rough yank, and the unforgiving cold air meets his skin with a brutal jolt. There’s not a second to react before Lord Lyonel traces a line up the entire length of Duncan’s cock, hands coming to rest on either hip.
“Fuck,” He more-or-less yelps, earning a sharp pinch from Lyonel. Otherwise, the only reaction from the Stormlord is a soft, sickeningly-sweet 'shhh'. Duncan brings up his own fist to bite at the knuckle there, muffling any desperate noises to come. His one free hand tangles into Lord Lyonel’s curls, never once thinking to ask for permission. They’re a little past the point of decorum now. He’s only vaguely aware of soft laughter against his hip, before Lyonel’s tongue peeks out past wet lips, as it's so apt to do. Now, though, it only finds purchase against the tip of Dunk’s cock. Pink tongue flattening against the slit there, lapping at the ever-growing bead of pre-cum shamelessly there. His stupefied reaction can’t be lost on Lyonel, in fact he’s only encouraged to swirl that devilish tongue further around him. There’s a soft, breathy kiss placed to the side of his shaft, all too sweet for the position they’re in. A trail of wet streaks across Lyonel’s cheek, though he hardly seems to mind. The rough drag of whiskers against his skin just deepens Dunk’s stupor, so close to the pain-pleasure he’d never known but now only needs.
Then, Gods above, Lyonel takes him in hand and sinks down.
A dreamlike groan escapes past Duncan’s length, though he’s hardly in a position to notice. His eyes have once again screwed shut, struggling not to buck into the other’s waiting mouth. Kiss-swollen lips curl in a wide O, far past what any typical woman-or-man possibly could. Of course, Dunk barely manages to think, the Laughing Storm’s done this before. It’s clear in the seasoned way he works his wrist, stroking the inches left that even he couldn’t take.
Too hot, too tight, and so incredibly wet. He’s barely touched the entirety of Dunk’s dick yet, even the Laughing Storm struggles to get further than a few inches. The gods, in the cruelty, at least felt kind enough to make Duncan proportional. That hardly seems to frighten Lord Lyonel, who only slackens his jaw to offer more space. Then, the unmistakable bulge of his throat sends Duncan swearing, quietly, under his breath. He cranes his hips forward, ever so slightly, testing what he might get away with. It turns out, a lot. There’s no resistance from Lyonel, in fact, it only seems to encourage him. With practiced ease, lips relax, taking his cock still, impossibly deeper. Then, Seven help him, Lyonel begins to move. A hand, uncharacteristically gentle, sneaks its way to cup his balls. There’s no escape, nowhere to run, enveloped fully in the Storm. The sound torn from Duncan’s throat is not one he’s proud of. If the heat was blinding before, now it’s unbearable. Paired with the sweet drag of friction against tongue, Lyonel’s mouth only tightens around him. Even his own fist does nothing to dampen the quiet groans coming from Dunk now.
All too soon, Ser Lyonel slides off with a vulgar pop, tongue lolling out to lick up the wetness of his lip. “What’ll it take to fuck me like you mean it?”
Duncan doesn’t respond. He may as well be on another planet. Words seem to hold absolutely no meaning to him now.
The same, though, cannot be said for the Laughing Storm. His eyebrow cocks, the usual grin curdling into a glower. A far cry from the ever-pleasant appearance Lord Baratheon’s maintained till now. The sight sends a sharp chill up Duncan’s spine. That, alone, is enough to jolt him from his stupor. Though, not by very much.
“What?” Dunk finally pants. Clearly the wrong answer.
“Gold?” Lyonel barks, dumbfounded. “Land?”
Again, no response. Duncan can barely process who he’s with, let alone what he’s gotten himself into. It takes another drawn-out moment to process what he really means. Not gentle, reassuring touches- someone wants to be fucked like he’s been paid to. Who knew the Lord of Storm’s end was such a slut?
… everyone with two wits about him, really. So it's a small surprise Duncan’s never noticed.
The Laughing Storm snarls, a sudden shift in the easy-going lord Dunk’s known so far. Only now, with the haze of his hold removed, can he really see what’s become of the Laughing Storm. Tousled hair thrown aside, eyes glazed over in a clear reflection of what Dunk’s must look like. Even now Lyonel’s mouth remains open, providing a clear sight of the tongue that drove men crazy, in more ways than just one. From this position, Duncan finally notices how the lord snuck a hand past his own belt, motion clearly visible under the fabric of his doublet. This, too, takes another moment to process. When it does, Dunk’s almost sure he is mistaken. Yet another glance confirms the Lord of Storm’s End is on his knees, clearly stroking his own cock. There’s no question to doubt, no room to argue about what Lyonel really wants, needs. And who is a hedge knight to refuse an order? So, Duncan uses his hold on the Baratheon’s black hair to keep him firmly in place. There’s a slow roll of his hips, testing just what the Storm will allow. When met with no resistance, Duncan takes it as his sign to thrust properly. Pushing past where he’s ever dared before, chasing the tight, slick heat. Falling into a newfound rhythm, he bucks up against the strain of the Lyonel below him. Finally fucking his Lord’s mouth the way it’s been demanded of him.
Miraculously, Lyonel’s throat gives away, relaxes enough to accommodate Duncan’s (near) full length. He pushes to the back of the Lord’s gullet. Dunk swears as he’s sure his dick hits the base of his throat. Only now does he manage the courage to look down. The liege-lord of Storm’s End, on his knees before a hedge knight of all things, eloquent mouth stuffed too full of cock to attempt speech. Put to work as easily as a whore in a brothel. No, at least whores get paid. Lord Lyonel only has one reason for doing anything, and Dunk is just the latest in a long line of cheap thrills. Whoever can keep the Storm’s attention long enough, until he inevitably flits away to the next bit of entertainment A truth he knows all too well, though Duncan can scarcely bring himself to care. Looking down, he commits the sight of a spluttering Lyonel Baratheon to memory, damn well sure he’ll never see this again. Just as well. Duncan could, and very well might, die tomorrow. At least he’d die a happier man than most.
For a moment, from his new vantage point, Dunk swears he sees a tear beading at the corner of his lord’s eye. It stops Duncan dead in his tracks, moving immediately to pull away. Surely, it must’ve hurt him. Dunk knew better, tried to be careful, even as Lord Baratheon goaded further. The Laughing Storm is still only a man, and over ten inches is a big ask from anyone. Whatever concern he begins to feel is killed in an instant, as Lord Lyonel swallows ravenously around him. His grip on Duncan’s waist turns vicelike, preventing him from pulling out. That’s all the go-ahead he needs to keep pounding into that pliant, waiting mouth. The noises now ripped from Lyonel are unlike anything he’s ever heard before. Perverse, primal sounds, devoid of any easy description. A combination of sighs, slurps, and something much softer brought forth with every thrust. If he didn’t know better, Dunk would clearly call it a whine. Such sweet sounds he could not so easily forget. More material for later, once Lyonel’s moved on as usual and Dunk finds himself alone, again. No time to think about the future now, though, as he is so embarrassingly close. In almost no time flat, the hedge knight’s been sent scrambling, no longer aware of the many whispered curses falling from his lips. As if sensing this shift, Lord Lyonel hand hastens around the base of Duncan’s cock, stroking what three inches he couldn’t fit in tandem with his mouth. Every purposeful twist of his wrist threatens to send Duncan closer to the edge.
“Lord, my lord, I… ” Duncan falters, struggles to find the words. No use keeping up courtesies now. “Fuck, I’m close,” embarrassingly fast, as well. In his defense it's a pretty big jump to go from blushing virgin to using liege lords like a throat-cozy. He feels his breath hitch in its chest, basest instincts screaming for release. So, so tauntingly close…
and Lyonel must be aware of it, too. Now, he pulls away completely. When the Storm laughs again, his voice is noticeably hoarse. That hardly seems to stop the Baratheon, who pushes up from his knees to meet Duncan halfway. A mournful sob’s drawn forth from the much taller man, though Lyonel’s smile only widens further. When their lips find each other again, Dunk can taste himself on his lord’s mouth. What should be disgusting is instead exhilarating, his arms feel like lead as they come to rest on the Storm’s shoulders. Now, it’s mostly Lyonel’s strength keeping them both afloat. Ser Duncan’s about five seconds away from coming completely undone, if it even takes that long. No, there are borderline whimpers escaping him now, barely muffled against Lyonel’s wicked smile.
“Why did you … “ He tries between huffs, as if the answer isn’t glaringly obvious.
Lord Baratheon makes no attempt to hide his next amusement, even breaking away enough to chortle properly in his face. If Duncan flushed pink before, now he must be downright scarlet.
“Quiet,” is the only response he gets. Quickly as he left, Ser Lyonel’s back on his knees. Breath sends another shiver up Duncan’s sign, felt against the still spit-slickened skin of his cock. Now, not even inches away, the Laughing Storm stills again. One free hand moves to cradle his balls in a warm, supportive hold. An eyebrow cocks, steely gaze cast up to the knight now towering above him. A painful, drawn-out moment passes before it dawns that he’s waiting on Dunk. The hedge knight moves, a little too softly, to brush dark curls from his lordship’s eyes. The corners of Lyonel’s mouth quirk into a frown at its continued emptiness.
“I will. I’ll be good.” That little slip of the tongue is almost lost on Duncan himself, instead preoccupied with keeping his voice low. “Quiet, I will.”
Even stammering to correct his mistake, the damage has already been done. If anything, it only encourages Lyonel further; without warning, Dunk’s cock is in-hand, jumping eagerly at the return of touch. Soft lips brush his tip, again, before Lyonel opens up around him. The gentle, testing pace of before is gone. His fingers tighten in the Laughing Storm’s hair, yanking to greet his cock with every thrust. Now, Duncan allows himself to chase the pleasure, each drag of tongue against bare skin hastening his approach. Lord Lyonel’s eyes drift shut, again, jaw slackening impossibly further to accommodate more. Whatever sighs came from him before are replaced with muffled gasps and chokes. Still, he only pushes forward, taking each additional inch of dick like he was made for it. For his part, Dunk does manage to be quiet. The only sounds he can make now are panting heaves, struggling to catch his breath. It only seems to act as encouragement for Lyonel, the hum of a stoppered moan shoots straight to Duncan’s cock. He’d have the good sense to be embarrassed about his quick performance, if the Laughing Storm weren’t so clearly preoccupied. As he jacks himself with one free hand, each fevered motion sinks him further around Ser Duncan’s length. Further still, nose threatening to brush the soft bush at his hilt. When he swallows again it sends Dunk sputtering, white-knuckle grip tightening in dark hair, scrambling for any purchase. Rather meeting with resistance, Lord Lyonel eases himself further on, a playful hum shoots lightning up the hedge knight’s spine. Yeah, that fucking does it. Duncan attempts to pull away, to rend himself free of his lordship’s eager mouth.
“M’lord,” at least he whispers this time, clearly heading the words from before. It falls somewhere between a sigh and a moan, just quiet enough to provide them some plausible deniability. Only an attempt to warn Lord Lyonel of his upcoming approach, as if there’s any fucking question. Rather than let up, his tongue another line over Duncan’s head before pushing past again. Impossibly deeper than the last, each stroke quickly adding to the tightening knot in his gut. He processes the Laughing Storm’s one free hand coming up to smack him on the ass, though the cover of roughspun hemp there muffles any noise. Left with no other choice, Duncan struggles to tighten his grip on the liege lord’s head. There’s a faint taste of blood on his lip, as he bites sharply down to silence the sounds threatening to come forth. Lyonel’s newfound tempo turns near-frantic with every stroke, craning forward to more effectively fuck with throat. Duncan’s hips buck forward unconsciously, slamming a startled gag out of his lordship. Though the only effect this seems to have is encouragement. Breath hitches in his chest, one of Duncan’s hands releases the Storm’s hair in favor of his own. He brings it down, covering his face, as if there were any use in hiding. Dunk’s sharp bite is now instead directed towards the soft skin of his palm, a vain attempt to stifle any moans from escaping. At least this time Lord Baratheon remains firmly in place, all yielding lips, pliable tongue, lax throat. And without apt time to stop himself, Dunk explodes.
Equal parts stars and static cloud his vision until it darkens completely. Hips crane forward again, shooting hot ropes of white for Ser Lyonel to effortlessly swallow. Throat seizing around the intrusion, whether intentional or not, threatens to drain him of every last drop. Duncan’s only vaguely aware of the tight, painful hold on his hip- though now everything comes secondary to the comfortable fog settling over his mind. Dunk’s lost track of how long they’ve been connected here, certainly not more than an hour, though it feels a small eternity. Even as it softens on his tongue, Ser Lyonel makes no effort to move from his dick. The once entrancing feel of wet mouth on bare skin is now white hot. His sensitive member screams for release, anything gentler than the overwhelming sensation now. Duncan’s hips stutter, along with the rest of him, pushing feebly against Lyonel’s vicelike hold. Another minute draws by, maybe several. Any concern he might’ve felt about this engagement, their surroundings, even the Trial by Seven is replaced with nothing but haze. Eventually, he becomes aware of a startled sound around his length, until Lord Lyonel seizes all the same. Watching reverently as Ser Lyonel comes around his cock, mouth lolling into an open, drunken smile. Even Dunk, for all the wine it took to get him here, is certain this memory will not leave him so easily. A shaky exhale leaves Lyonel’s lips, though it just as quickly turns to laughter. Still quiet, softer than the usual bark, but unmistakable all the same. It’s all Duncan can do to return that with a smile of his own. Only then, finally, does Lord Baratheon pull away with a sickening-squelch. He comes slowly up from his knees, finally offering Dunk a look at his still weeping cock.
One decorated hand comes up to wipe his cheek and mouth. If the expression is anything to go by, Ser Lyonel seems impressed by the amount of mess left there. But even copious amounts of semen is not enough to suppress his growing, satisfied smile.
“Good man,” is all the Laughing Storm can manage, punctuated by two playful slaps to Duncan’s cheek with that same, cum-stained hand. All it earns is a shiver, the hedge knight’s brain still struggling to process the events that led him here. There is something to be said, surely, so Dunk should say it. But his inexperience only rears its ugly head once more, he falls short of any thanks, or apology, or… well, what do you say to the lord that just sucked your dick? Before, the hazy cover of wine made Duncan feel almost invincible. Now, that fervor’s only been replaced with an encroaching coldness, thoughts far-too addled to make any real sense of. His legs turn boneless, great knees threatening to give way so Dunk might eat dirt instead. Incredibly, he manages to keep some composure: reaching instead to Ser Lyonel for support. Credit it to the wine, or the blowjob, but he meets no resistance as hands settle on the Laughing Storm’s shoulders. He dares not push it further, his hold slack against the soft fabric of his tunic. The heavy weight of newfound quiet sinks over them, though Duncan still struggles to find the words. If Ser Lyonel is so affected, however, he does a great job of hiding it. A mournful whine is torn from Dunk as his lordship pulls away, this time for good.
The absence of warm, curious hands against skin leaves him feeling impossibly cold. His shiver is just as obvious, disappointment impossible to ignore. What was he really expecting, here? Sucking dick is one thing, an easily explainable fling that can well be avoided in the future. But the idea that he might be truly invited into Lord Baratheon’s bed, now that is laughable. This meant nothing. The Storm’s indifference makes that much clear. Duncan was the next in a long line of cheap thrills, soon the latest to be cast aside for another. Just a bit of fun to cap off one of many drunken nights, never to be spoken of again. That is how the world works. The highborn lords take highborn wives to sow their highborn seed. Dunk, on the other hand, represents the lowliest of the low. It should be the great honor of any hedge knight to serve a great lord, even for such a limited time. That, Ser Arlan maintained, was the true worth of their lifestyle. Their ability to move from cause to cause, welcome for as long as he is useful and not a second more. This dull sting, almost akin to disappointment, is one he’d have to get used to. That is, assuming Duncan manages to continue down this path at all. More likely, his sword, shield, and horses will be forfeit come weekend, ending his tenure as a knight once and for all. Even in the face of such devastation, he finds his thoughts remain only with Ser Lyonel instead. Watching mutely as the Storm stumbles backwards, first towards the ground, then reorienting towards his oversized bed. Before flopping ceremoniously upon it. He sprawls out with a muffled, contented sigh which Duncan takes as his sign to leave. Still, he hesitates. Lingers by the bedside for just a moment longer, gaze trained on the prone form of his lordship as Dunk tries to get ahold of his thoughts. Stalling, sighs, and lowers his head into a deferential nod.
“My lord.”
After a drawn-out pause, there is no response. He winces, though thankfully with no way of Lord Lyonel seeing. Only when the silence becomes too much to bear does Duncan move to finally leave. He, at least, has the good sense to hoist his drawers back up before exiting. Large, but deft, fingers work his rope-belt back into its usual knot. Only now does it truly process just how embarrassed he should be. There was just no telling what the dawn might bring, though certainly it was not anything pleasant. The Laughing Storm, in all of his notoriety, has never been known for discretion. A problem for the morning, though surely, Duncan will not be knowing much sleep tonight. The hum of the tourney-camp continues idly around, even as the Baratheon’s tent remains silent. With a last, mournful look in his lordship’s direction, he bows his head in a final show of fealty. All it earns is a snore in response.
The ride back to his lodgings is a sullen, painful one. The quiet night air leaves no room for reprieve from the assault of his intrusive thoughts. Lamenting his present, agonizing the future, and more oft’ than not, replaying the night’s events in an attempt to make sense of them. Of course, there’s none to be found. Before the Trial even comes to fruition, Duncan may have just eagerly signed his own death warrant with a kiss. He can only imagine how Lord Baratheon will respond come morning, each hypothetical seems so much worse than the last. Yet, in the midst of such anxieties, Dunk is surprised to find himself wanting most of all. He wants to turn around, to shamelessly throw down his sword before the Storm. His steel, his service, Lord Lyonel could take whatever he wants- only if a kiss was promised in return. That familiar knot in his stomach tightens itself now with shame rather than pleasure. Really, that was all it took to forget the way of the hedge? A few empty words, action unbecoming of any knight or lord, and suddenly Duncan’s called to heel. Sweetfoot’s hooves clip-clop quietly against the unladen path, each step thankfully taking them further from the grounds. With any luck, Ser Duncan would be dead soon, struck down for a cause all-too honorable. The Targaryens have never been known for their leniency, never mind against those stupid enough to strike a prince. Still, there’s great relief in knowing a corpse can’t starve to death. Of course, that is assuming Lord Lyonel doesn’t come to his senses in the morning and strike Dunk dead. Although this seems an end far too noble for the lowly hedge knight, the thought alone is enticing. To be killed by the Laughing Storm, their names etched permanently together through the annals of history… If he had to die, which surely Duncan did, let it be at such a lovely hand. As her rider bounces between equally devastating lines of thought, Sweetfoot makes light work of bringing them home. Some ‘home’ it is, the sorry excuse of a pavilion that’s been set here. Under the protective awning of forest, he finally catches sight of Egg.
Once the horse and her occupant can be clearly seen, too, Egg rises from his bundle by the hearth. His excited, wide-arched waves all directed at Dunk. As usual, his squire hurls countless inquiries and commentary his way. Most of which, tonight anyway, is lost to Ser Duncan. Usually, he’d make a more valiant effort to keep up, to really understand what Egg might mean. Now, though, the exhaustion that’s been growing since leaving Lord Lyonel’s tent weighs Dunk heavily down. There’s a few sorry excuses, slurred now more with sleep than any drink, as he secures the horse to wind idly down. The last embers of cookfire burns themselves out bit by bit, threatening to take the last traces of light with them. Even in the face of such darkness, Duncan is able to identify the shape of a child curling up beside him. Still out of touch, just close enough to share what meager bedroll they had. Duncan forces his eyes to close, though his rapid internal monologue does not quite get the memo. It’s all fleeting memory of liege lords and mistaken kisses, each thought more anxiety-inducing than the last. The starry sky above gives little reprieve from the slow-building dread. From this distance, the difference between him and Lord Lyonel Baratheon could not be any clearer. For all his talk of sense, Dunk had thrown his honor and perhaps even life away for the chance. Even in his current despondency, should the Laughing Storm appear right now, Ser Duncan would fold just as easily. The sting of bad decisions drowned out tenfold by the hot, heavy touch of lips against his. Surely, his dreams would, too, now be plagued by that damned, amused smile. Second only to tresses of dark, curly locks and unreadable blue eyes. Content to drift away to thoughts of him, Ser Duncan finally slips into the first slumber he’s known all night. Until …
“Good night, ser,” Egg pipes up.
Dunk nearly jumps out of his skin. Little shit. Of course he’d only been feigning sleep. Duncan holds back a swift clout to the ear, perhaps softened by the night’s encounters. As if satisfied with his startled response, Egg turns on his side to hide a growing smile. Minutes pass until his breathing evens out, shoulders slackening all the same. Duncan can’t help but let out a sigh of relief. The kid’s clearly smarter, too much so for his own good. Sometimes, Dunk worried that his powers of observation bordered on telepathy. It’s this worry alone that finally forces him to relax.
“Night, boy.” He huffs, all Duncan can manage between his carefully measured breaths. A trick Ser Arlan mentioned once, lifetimes ago. Surely unaware of the effect it’d take on his squire. Even still, with his ser dead and buried, the monotonous act brought comfort. Little room to entertain any trailing thought if you’re too preoccupied counting. And rest assured, it takes a lot of fucking brain power for Dunk to count.
With each exhale, his anxiety dies obediently down, until he’s approaches some semblance of rest.
Before long the two friends slip into a comfortable sleep, heedless of the unforgiving morrow to come.