Chapter Text
It started with a kiss.
His first kiss, to be exact. Dunk still remembered clear as a day how you stole it—during the merriment of Lyonel Baratheon’s pavilion in Ashford Meadow. You, a daring stranger disguising your royal lineage to him back then, had been bold as brass, taking him by the hand to lead him to the dance floor.
You’d spun him in clumsy circles that he was dizzy, and before he could gather his wits, you had risen on your toes and planted a quick kiss square upon his lips.
“Oh, Ser Duncan—” you still laughed whenever the memory came to mind, eyes glinting wickedly. “How good a kisser are you, really? No matter. You were just utterly adorable, bolting out of the tent like that.”
Dunk dragged a hand down his face with a heavy sigh. He might’ve been green as spring grass, but he’d been earnest—painfully so.
“Who was your first kiss anyway?” he shot back gruffly. “Couldn’t have been me.”
He’d known it even before asking. Someone who danced like flame and smiled like you surely had a history he couldn’t hope to match.
But he couldn’t have guessed who.
You only gave a careless shrug, a sly smile tugging at your lips. “Valarr.”
Dunk’s mouth went dry. “As in His Grace—?”
The Young Prince. Second-in-line to the throne. He was your first kiss?
“Yeah, him.”
Even if he were to be reborn a dozen times over... what chance did a hedge knight stand against a prince?!
On second thought, of course it had to be a prince of the realm, Dunk concluded miserably. You were a princess. You could dye your hair, put on a roughspun, and roam the Seven Kingdoms by his side as if you were no one at all— but you were born and bred a princess.
And poor, humble Dunk was a pauper.
At once, the realization sat heavy in his chest. Valarr Targaryen— heir to Iron Throne, a knight in gilded armor. No doubt he’d been taught courtly graces alongside swordplay. A prince would have an arsenal of kissing techniques, wouldn’t he?
Meanwhile, all Dunk could have managed so far was not tripping over his own boots and knocking you flat.
“Ser Duncan...?” you asked him then, tilting your head at his sudden quietness. “Is there something wrong?”
He shifted awkwardly where he stood, suddenly far too aware of his size, his rough hands, the scar at his cheek. “Well,” he muttered, staring somewhere over your shoulder, “I suppose he was… good—”
“Ser Duncan! Sister! Honestly, must you dawdle? Hurry up!”
Egg’s voice rang sharp as a bell down the road, standing ahead of you both. Dunk swallowed whatever words had lingered on his tongue and you noticed, but said nothing as you both moved to catch up with your brother.
He brooded all the way though.
Ever since you’d chosen to travel beside him, Dunk had made a vow to himself—no more sleeping under hedges when it could be helped. No more cold earth for your bed or rain-soaked cloaks for blankets. If there was coin in his purse, he would spend it on four walls and a proper roof for you.
He never said it aloud, but it was evident in how he always asked for the cleanest room, always checked the shutters, and always made certain the door of your room latched properly.
You and Egg would always share the single bed and Dunk would take the pallet near the hearth without complaint. He had slept in worse places, he said.
“Good night, Ser Duncan,” you said softly, and your smile warmed his heart more than the fire ever could. “Don’t stay out for too long.”
“Good night!” Egg chimed in, giving him an exaggerated wave. Your cute brother was growing on him too.
“Night,” he rumbled, smiling despite himself.
. . .
The tavern below was still alive with murmurs and the scent of ale. Dunk took a seat at a corner table, shoulders hunched, hands wrapped around a tankard he barely tasted.
Sleep would not come it seemed. Because every time he closed his eyes, he imagined a prince in shining armor, bending gracefully to steal a kiss from you that was never clumsy. It made it him groan under his breath, and—
How good a kisser are you? Your voice seemed to taunt him in his head.
“Evenin’, ser.”
Dunk glanced up that instant. An older man suddenly stood before his table, well-dressed with sharp eyes and easy smile. He took a seat next to him. For a moment, they were in good silence, until...
The stranger’s gaze flicked briefly toward the stairs, pouring himself a glass of ale. “The lady you came in with—she your wife?”
Dunk stiffened almost imperceptibly. “What’s it to you?”
“Peace, ser. No harm meant. Just observin’. Pretty thing like that draws eyes.”
His jaw tightened. “She’s my woman, yes.”
Saying it out loud made his face broke in heat, because while it was true that you were fond of him and he too for you, there was no way your stations would allow what he had for you to happen. Heck, you were betrothed to House Lannister right before you decided to ditch it and went with him. And even he didn’t know if his own head was safe from Prince Maekar for spiriting away his two children.
But if this stranger was trying to mess with you, then yes, you were his woman. He would have to face Dunk first.
The man studied him a moment longer—then chuckled. “Aye, I don’t doubt that. Big as you are, you could frighten off half the realm.” He leaned in slightly. “Still, women like more than size, you know.”
Dunk’s brow furrowed.
“They fancy confidence. Experience.” The stranger smirked into his drink. “Manly men who know what they’re about.”
The words struck closer to his state than Dunk would admit. While he had intended to ignore him, he hesitated… then, awkwardly, “And how would a man… go about learning such things?”
The stranger’s smile sharpened, pleased. “Ah. That sort of trouble, is it?”
Dunk shifted in his seat, feeling absurdly large and young all at once. “Not trouble—”
“Of course not,” the man agreed lightly. “But if an eager man wished to polish certain… skills, I might know a place.”
“What place?”
“Come along. I’ll show you.”
The thought of remedying his inexperience gnawed at him. And so, after a moment’s hesitation, Dunk rose and followed.
They did not go far before the air changed. The street grew louder, more crowded. Poor, innocent Dunk felt it then—that prickle of warning in his gut and immediately regretted following him. He should have refused. He knew he should have.
Too late, Dunk realized when he came face to face to the painted lanterns glowing red above the doorway ahead. Laughter spilled from within. Music, too. The kind that didn’t belong to inns or honest halls.
“A whorehouse?” he muttered, stunned.
The stranger only flashed him a wide grin. “Best in the district. Mine, in fact. Come along, lad—finest pleasures you’ll find for miles!”
Before Dunk could properly protest, he was half shoved through the door by the (apparently) master of this wretched place. The mixed smell of perfume, wine, sweat immediately suffocated him.
“Oh, hello, handsome,” purred a woman drifting past in a robe so sheer she might as well be nude. She lifted her fingers and tilted his chin upward. “A farmer? No… a knight, perhaps?”
Dunk jerked back at once, brushing her hand away as if burned. “What the fuck—”
More women gathered, bright-eyed and smiling in ways that made him squirm in place. He stared at them as if they had sprouted horns.
This was madness. What in the Seven Hells had possessed him to follow him? He had to know that following strangers was never a good choice!
He was about to leave this place when—
“Ser Duncan…?”
Dunk’s heart plummeted when he heard that small voice. He whirled.
There you were, in your night shift beneath a hastily thrown cloak, the hem brushing your bare ankles. You breathed, wide-eyed, staring at him who was suddenly surrounded by a flock of improper women.
Understanding dawned across your face, slow and devastating. “Oh.”
No. Nononono!
“M’lady, this isn’t what you—!”
Dunk felt something inside him twist violently the moment your face fell and heartbreak flashed in your eyes—because he swore, the sight of your face marred with hurt like that was enough to hurt him too.
Before he could move, you turned and fled into the dark.
“Princess!” Dunk bolted after you, heart pounding against his ribs. “Wait!”
It took only a few long strides for him to catch up, his hand closing gently but firmly around your wrist. “Wait, please!”
You turned to him, schooling your expression into a stony one, pride warring with pain. “I was just following you when I saw you going out. You don’t have to explain,” you insisted, voice tight. “Truly. I know I can’t expect—”
“This is not what it is!” His voice was rough, settling his hands on your shoulder to ground both himself and you. “I didn’t do anything, I was a fool for following him—that’s all!”
“Men have needs, and I would not deny you that—”
But Dunk wasn’t having it, he had to make you understand.
“I’m your man, princess!”
The words burst from him, solid. You stilled, startled. His thumb then moved to brush your knuckles, hesitant but resolute.
“Your man,” he repeated, finding your gaze, voice low but steady as stone. “I’m yours wholly, so long as you’ll have me.”
You searched his face, still wounded and uncertain. His cool blue eyes held yours with a fierce sincerity, a deep frown etched between his brows. There was something almost fearful in his expression—fear that you might lose faith in him. It made your heart flutter and lurch at the same time.
This was Dunk of Flea Bottom. He was earnest, gentle, thoughtful in the way he always put you first. Naive he might be, but he never would cause you any harm.
That was why you had fallen for him.
“And I’ve no need of whores or the like,” he went on stubbornly. “If you told me I’m not to take a wife—or even if you wish to castrate me—I’d be more than willing.”
You blinked at him. “Ser Duncan, I wouldn’t castrate you. That would be a loss— I mean, do more harm than good.”
For a heartbeat, silence hung between you. And soon, the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly. Large hand still holding yours tightened, and slowly, as though afraid you might pull away, he leaned down.
The first brush of his lips against yours was hesitant. Careful. Almost uncertain—like a man asking permission without words.
When you did not move away, when your fingers curled faintly into his tunic instead, was when he finally let it loose.
“Mmm...”
He kissed you again, savoring the softness of your lips. The kiss deepened naturally, unhurried yet full of intensity. Your breaths mingled between soft pauses, and the warmth of him seemed to seep into every part of you as he tugged you closer. No courtly finesse, no rehearsed charm, just warmth and sincerity. His palm came up to cradle the side of your face, large and gentle despite its roughness.
It was not the kiss of a man trained in arts and graces. It was Ser Duncan the Tall’s kiss. Pure, grounding, intimately deep— and a little breathless.
And when he finally drew back, forehead resting lightly against yours, his voice was low.
“My princess,” he breathed, gazing at you with such devotion in his eyes. The night air was cool, but his hands were warm—one steady at your waist, the other caressing your face, careful as though you were something precious.
Before he could say another earnest, stubborn thing, you pulled him into another kiss, biting his upper lip on a whim that he hissed, “Ow.”
This time, you were the one to pull away first—laughter spilling from your lips, bright and melodious.
“You were right, you are thick as a castle wall.”
He huffed. “Aye. I’ve been told so.”
You only giggled at that, leaning in to press a quick, playful peck to his plump lips—you can’t get enough of it, really—just like you had the very first time in Lord Baratheon’s pavilion.
“But you are mine.”
Epilogue
“You know… What I told you earlier, it was actually an accident that I kissed Valarr. We were not even ten back then.”
On the way back to the inn, you finally broke it to your lover. Dunk turned to you, almost gaping. “…Huh?!”
You sighed, thinking back on the disastrous memory.
“I didn’t mean to push him down the stairs. He was being insufferable, and I only meant to nudge him. When he tumbled, I tried to grab him back, and I tripped as well. I landed on top of him,” you explained dryly. “My lips landed directly on his royal face, unfortunately.”
Dunk’s eyes widened, imagining all it in his mind.
“Valarr immediately ran to tell my uncle, of course. Claimed I had attacked him. After that, he kept a very respectable distance from me at all times. I’ve traumatized the heir to the Iron Throne, I’m afraid.”
There was a beat of silence. Dunk felt like the thickest soul in all of Westeros, which actually, he might be. All brooding he had done, to the point of almost being misled to a literal brothel, only for the truth to be that?
He scrubbed a hand down his face, looking so lost. “Seven save me.”
You laughed, slipping your hand into his.
“So, Ser Duncan,” you said, shooting him a playful wink. “You are my first kiss too—where it counts. And the one earlier?” you added, squeezing his fingers. “That one is most certainly my favorite. You are a good kisser, ser.”
You were quite certain his face had turned at least three shades of red at your bold declaration—and you delighted in every second of it.
“Good,” he rumbled at last, slipping an arm around you and tugging you a little closer as you reached the inn door. “Because I intend to see that it stays that way—for all the many kisses yet to come.”