—summary: as you continue courting him, dunk gets jealous of prince valarr, so you have to prove to him with a little gift that he's the only one you really want.
—pairing: ser duncan the tall x female!baratheon!reader
—word count: 3.6k
—content: fluff, slow burn romance, dunk is so pathetic for the reader😭, egg's appearance, intense sexual tension, jealous!dunk, a LOT of yearning, they want each other so bad, but dunk has to work for it, manipulative!reader (not malicious really), knight x princess trope, they hug!!!
ᯓ✵ part one ── part two ── part three
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
Dunk can't forget you.
You are everywhere.
In every flower that blooms among the grass, in every shooting star that lights up the dark night sky when he gazes at it from his camp, in every bright yellow flame of the fire, alive and blazing. Even when he closes his eyes— when he blinks or sleeps; there you are behind his eyelids, a celestial goddess, beautiful and eternal. So far away and yet so close.
He is clearly spellbound. And he wonders, basically every few minutes, if there are other men out there around the world dealing with exactly the same situation as him. Because the Stormflower is as charming as she is gorgeous. Any man would swoon at your feet.
Even him.
And it's been barely a day since he last spoke to you.
And since that, Ser Duncan has been desperate, searching for you in crowds, in the darkness of night, through countless forgettable faces.
At the jousts, at the market, in places where he and the Seven know you would not be. But still, he keeps looking for you.
From his position among the standing crowd of commoners, Dunk looks up at the royal pavilion. And this time, he doesn't have to struggle to catch sight of your face; his eyes are instantly drawn to you, magnetized.
And there you are, radiating beauty, a shining jewel wrapped in silk with the proud, glorious Baratheon colors.
And by your side, stands Prince Valarr Targaryen.
Valarr had just stepped down from his horse after a mediocre performance in the tournament's first joust. He has removed his helmet, setting his pretty dark hair loose.
You are watching him laugh at something you have said, consoling him over his poor display and for that, with a confidence that only birthright can afford, he reaches for your hand and presses a lingering kiss to your knuckles. His two-toned eyes burn with an elegant timidity as he whispers something in your ear that makes you tilt your head toward him, smirking.
Dunk clenches his fists and can vaguely hear Egg nagging him about how stiff he has become, but he just ignores him. He feels a stinging, bitter ache in his gut that has nothing to do with hunger. Hunger surely doesn't hurt as much.
Because Valarr seems like the perfect match for you. A prince for a lady. Gold for gold.
“Looks like the Stormflower has found herself a dragon to pollinate her,” a heavily drunk man beside him teased, nudging Dunk. “What a pair they make, eh, big guy?”
Duncan doesn't respond to the drunk. He doesn't even look at him.
His eyes remain fixed on you.
And the way Valarr leans his head toward yours. The way his hand lingers a second too long on your own.
All of it sticks in Duncan like a splinter under his skin.
This isn't his place to feel this, he tells himself. This isn't his world. You belong in the high courts, to silk, to a prince.
Dunk clenches his jaw so tightly that he feels his teeth grind together, and watches as Valarr, the Young Prince, the pride of the crown, flashes a smile that seems to contain all the sunshine of Westeros.
“Let's go, Ser,” Egg urges, tugging impatiently at his tunic. “If you stand there any longer, you'll put down roots, and we need to see if the horses have eaten.”
What right does he have to feel hurt just because a prince kisses a lady's hand?
The next day, whitin the main dining tent there is a chaos of thunderous singing and clinking mugs.
Lord Lyonel Baratheon is at the center of it all, dancing on a table and clinging to a lamp hanging from the ceiling to keep from losing his balance. His dark beard stained with wine and a mug full of ale in his other hand, his crown of antlers is perched on his head and he bare from the waist to the neck.
He's so drunk that it's almost shameful. But it's better this way, you try to reason with yourself, as he barely pays any attention to you and you can pretty much do whatever you want.
He and his drunken crowd are singing some song about a crippled girl named Alice. It's as scandalous as it is obscene, although you're not paying much attention to the lyrics the drunks are slurring all around you.
From a distance, you observe that Ser Duncan is doing his best to pass unnoticed, seated at one of the tables, while simultaneously scanning through the sea of unfamiliar and irrelevant faces, searching for a glimpse of you.
Beside him sits a young bald boy, talking to him about something, but your big man seems not to be very interested in his conversation.
A moment later, you decide to appear among the crowd like a ray of serene light in the eye of the storm.
Without saying a word, you walk up to the big knight and gently touch his shoulder.
“I found you, Ser Duncan,” you greet him, with a smile of complicity.
“My lady!” he exclaims, putting down his mug of ale on the table and offering you a quick bow and as he does, he almost knocks over the bench, making a couple of noble folks look at him with displeasure.
The boy sitting next to him looks at you with wide, amazed eyes, clearly surprised.
“Oh my, so the love story you told me was real, then—?”
Dunk nudges him so hard that the poor boy almost gets knocked off his feet, and he remains rubbing his side with a grimace of pain, but quiet.
“Lady Baratheon, this is my squire, Egg,” Duncan announces in a peculiarly high-pitched voice that causes the young boy to look up at him in curiosity and then, he lightly pats him on the shoulder, “Egg, stand up, lad”
Egg gracefully bows, offering you a small, shy smile. “It is an honor to meet you, Lady Baratheon.”
You smile back at him, “It's a pleasure, Egg. I hope you're being treated well.” You give a courteous bow to him. “You seem hungry, darling. I informed the cooks to bring you a big plate of food. It should be here shortly.”
The boy nods enthusiastically, delighted with your kindness, “Thank you very much, my lady.”
Your gaze then returns to Ser Duncan, who has been looking at you in awe practically since you appeared in his line of sight. “Come with me, Ser Duncan. Let’s find some peace while we leave Egg to eat undisturbed, shall we?”
Dunk just stands there, looking at you dumbfounded, his bright blue eyes coming down to the hand you are holding out to him.
“Don't just stand there looking like a fool, go!” Egg says to him under his breath.
And then, he nudges the tall man with his little foot to make him accept the hand you are offering to him.
“V–very well,” Dunk finally stammers, smiling goofily at you, and he follows you like a loyal little dog, of course, as obedient as ever. “My— my lady”
You guide him through the crowd, walking past your father, who doesn't even spare a glance to notice that you're heading out with a man twice his size clinging to your hand like a lost puppy.
Instead of questioning anything at all, Lord Lyonel just points at Dunk and bursts out laughing, making the young knight blush.
You walk together beside a branch of the river, far from the noise of everyone else at Ashford Meadow.
Your dress is stunning today, dark in color and accented with glimmering golden details on your shoulders and down your back. Your skin reflects the sun's gentle glow, looking so ethereal that Dunk simply can't help but sneak glances at you every time he takes a small step or two to match your own pace.
“My lady,” Duncan struggles to form words, which come out as a strange, deep croak. “About the other night, I–I wanted to apologize. I had been drinking and eating a lot, and— and I did not mean to cause any trouble at all. To you or—or to your father.”
You let out a soft giggle, and the sound pierces Dunk like the most accurate arrow. He blinks, confused and pathetically hopeful.
“There's nothing to apologize for, Ser Duncan,” you reassure him sweetly, motioning for him to come closer, and trying to encourage him to be more relaxed now that you're just the two of you in the woods. “I just wanted to see you again. I really enjoy your company.”
“My company?” he echoes, huffing softly, clearly unable to believe it. “Prince Valarr… he seemed very interested in you yesterday. You seem perfect for each other. He can offer you castles, lands, and… and noble titles. He’s a good knight.”
The sudden switch in the conversation has you intrigued, and you glance up at him with a glimpse of a playful smile.
“Yes, and yet he's terrible with lances,” you joke lightheartedly, bringing a chuckle out of him with your frankness. He knows it's true. “But he gives me what is expected of him. And I have plenty of lands and titles already, Ser.”
You can sense the way his blue eyes wander down your body as you walk by his side, marveling at the perfect fit of that dress, the fabric hugging your curves so perfectly. His pupils dilate as they pass over the sway of your hips and the contour of your bust.
You know it's something he does out of primal instinct, as he clears his throat, forcing his eyes back up to your face.
“He... he is a prince,” Dunk eventually manages to say, his voice even deeper with nerves. “I am just a hedge knight. From nowhere.”
“Valarr is a charming prince, it's true,” you acknowledge with a gentle smile. “But princes already have everything they need. I prefer to invest my attention in someone who truly deserves it. Someone who protects others even when they have nothing but their honor.”
“You kissed him…” he suddenly accuses, regretting it immediately.
You release a bright laugh that makes his heart skip a beat. “He kissed my hand, Dunk. That's what princes do when they want something.”
You come to an abrupt halt, and that causes him to stop as well, turning his body to face you, looking genuinely perplexed.
“What do you want from me then, m’lady?” he asks in a husky whisper. “Why is it that I am here and not the prince?”
“You know why, Ser Duncan,” you answer, looking up at him with knowing eyes, bright with longing. “We're friends, remember?
His lips pronounce your name with no formality for the first time, barely a whisper, close to a prayer, a plea for mercy.
“And if you're so jealous of princes, why didn't you come looking for me then?” you ask in return, raising an eyebrow.
Dunk blushes, caught off guard by your question. For a moment, it looks like he's going to say something, but the words get stuck in his throat.
Because of course he has been looking for you, ever since he last saw you. He has been looking everywhere for you.
“Because... because I didn't know if I had the right,” he finally confesses, sheepishly lowering his gaze, as if ashamed of his own thoughts, but you step closer to him, enough to make him look up again and meet your eyes. “I didn't want to put you in an uncomfortable position.”
“And you think I'm not already uncomfortable?” you ask. “I saw you looking at me from afar, Dunk. I'm not blind.”
Duncan nervously rubs his neck with his big hand beneath your attentive gaze. It's impossible to hide anything from you, not when you look at him like that, with that dangerous combination of sweetness and cunning. You're sharper than anyone he's ever met, quick-witted and perceptive.
Quite the opposite of him, who considers himself a big, foolish brute.
“I... I didn't mean to disrespect you,” he blurts out, defensively, like he's guilty of a crime made up in his head. “A lady like you shouldn't be pursued by a man like me.”
“Pursued?” you exclaim, placing a hand on your chest in exaggerated alarm. “Good Seven! Ser Duncan, is that what you believe we are doing here?”
Before he can even formulate some sort of convincing rebuttal, you're already speaking again. And Dunk remains perfectly silent, content to listen to you talk and even happier that you're talking to him at all.
“I'd say you're avoiding me,” you correct, tilting your head, with a little pout on your lips that makes you appear upset. “And that's much crueler, don't you think, my sweet Dunk?”
Duncan is overwhelmed. He absolutely loves the way you say that lovely term of endearment. He would have beaten up anyone else who dared to call him such a name, but you, Seven Hells, it's a dream come true. The most beautiful dream.
“Cruel?” He raises his eyebrows as he denies with his head, gulping loudly, “No! No, I–I would never do anything to make you feel hurt, m–my lady”
“But you did,” you argue, looking up at him through your long lashes. “You left me searching for you in the crowds. You left me wondering if I had said or done something wrong.”
That hits him right in the heart. As he opens his eyes wide, they become a deeper shade of blue—filled with remorse and despair.
It's like a little game for you. Teasing him like that, luring him in, lifting him up in the air and then letting him fall into the palm of your delicate hand.
Because last time, you told him you'd find him, and now you're reproaching him for not finding you.
Dunk is falling into a spiral, not understanding you at all. And still, he's quick to apologize.
“No!” he gasps, unconsciously taking a small step toward you, his fingers hesitating to reach for your arm to comfort you. “Never. I would never think that of you.” His face is as red as the crimson flowers blooming around you. “It’s just that... when I see you with princes and lords, I feel out of place. Like I'm watching a story that doesn't belong to me.”
You bite your lower lip, holding back a smile as you turn away, pretending to be more interested in watching the river flow than him.
“And who decided that?” you demand to know, turning your back on him, interlacing your hands below your stomach. “The king? The Seven? Or just you, Duncan?”
“I just know my place, my lady,” he tells you, with that near-painful honesty. You hear his feet barely stumble as he stands beside you, studying your side profile, “And it’s not next to a woman like you.”
“What a silly thing to say,” you eventually look at him, a little smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Because here you are. By my side. Without anyone kicking you out.”
He is looking at you like you're the eighth goddess of the world, his eyes catching the light reflecting off the waters of the river and capturing the radiance of your energy, of your beauty, absorbing it all in.
“Besides,” you continue, playfully, “if princes are so wonderful... why do you think I rejected the wonderful Prince Valarr? And why do you think I escaped from a tent full of drunken nobles just to come walk with you by the river?”
If it's a kind of puzzle, he's hopeless. Duncan is terrible at puzzles.
“B-because... because you're very kind,” he attempts to give you the answer you expect, his voice breaking pathetically.
You chuckle under your breath, holding his gaze, “Well, I'm not kind to everyone. Only the ones who are lucky enough.”
As you finish speaking, you hook your arm through his and pull him along beside you, snuggling happily up against his bicep. You can feel how muscular he is beneath the thin, cheap fabric of his shirt.
For some reason, that makes you blush, and you try to hide it by admiring the beautiful forest scenery around you.
“My lady, I—I shouldn't—”
“I shouldn't what?” you cut him off, amused. “Enjoy my company? Walk with me?”
Defeated, he sighs tremulously, bending his arm to allow you to be comfortably leaning up against him as you walk together. As you get closer, he can smell the sweet scent of your hair, feel the skin of his hand brush against yours, the fabric of your dress brushing against his leg.
A tingling sensation runs up his thigh all the way to—
“Tell me something, Ser Duncan,” your voice once again cuts through the growing tension that reigns between you, a tightness that hangs over your shoulders and makes your belly flutter. “A knight as... impressive as you, how many ladies are waiting for him? How many favors do you already have tied to your armor for this tournament?”
He scratches the back of his neck with his free hand, and the movement causes the muscles in his arms to flex, attracting your eyes to them.
“Favors?” he stammers. “I... I don't have any, my lady. No lady has ever given me anything, unless you count an old woman at a tavern who gave me an extra piece of bread for moving a barrel. But I don't think that counts for the tournament.”
“None? In all of Westeros?” you tease sweetly, clicking your tongue skeptically. “I don't believe it. With that size and those eyes... any lady at court would be delighted to have you wear her colors.”
“I'm not elegant, my lady,” he scoffs with bitter humor, looking down at you, clinging to his arm, so pretty and so small next to him that the thought makes his head spin. “You must know that. And a man like me can't just wander around begging for a lady's favor”
“You don't have to beg, Dunk,” you taught him, bringing your hand to your own neck, where severeal small golden silk ties held your black cloak in place. “You just have to know how to ask for it.”
You untie the small golden silk bow that holds your cloak closed, letting the fabric slip slightly off your shoulders, and hold the cloth between your fingers, right in front of his eyes.
As you do all that, he stands still once more, but he doesn't step away from you. Instead, he just remains there, open-mouthed, marvelling at your actions.
“Say it, Ser Duncan,” you whisper, leaning in so close that your breath brushes his arm. “A knight cannot be shy if he wants a lady to give him her heart. Ask me.”
Dunk swallows loudly, and you see his Adam's apple rise and fall with difficulty, trapping the hasty words that are rushing up his throat. His blue gaze fall to the silk and then rises to your eyes, finding in them an invitation that no one had ever made to him before.
“My lady... would you—would you do me the honor of... of granting me your favor?” He is so obedient to you, such a good boy. “I will defend it with my life, I swear. I shall not bring you dishonor.”
“Much better,” you praise him in a velvety voice and he buzzes as he hears it.
Then you slip closer to him, carefully folding your golden silk cloth and tucking it into one of his vest's pockets, never breaking eye contact.
When you finished, you don't let go of him just yet, instead, you move your hand up his chest, smoothing the pocket close to the place of his heart, until you reached the nape of his neck, forcing him to lower his head toward you and then you bring your hand up to his face and gently brushing a strand of his sun-kissed hair away from his forehead.
He snuggles up against your gentle touch, letting his eyes close for a moment and bending down as much as necessary for you to reach him easily.
“You make me feel special,” his lips pronounce your name with more certainty now, a greater sense of belonging and love.
He's so sweet to you. It almost makes you feel bad for teasing him so much. A trait you inherited directly from your father. To tease and joke.
“Dunk...” you murmur, and there is no mockery or trickery in your voice. Only warmth. “You already are special. Not because I say so. Because you are. Different. I knew it from the first time I saw you in my father's tent."
He takes a deep breath, as if he needs courage for what comes next. His large hands hover in the air, awkward, uncertain, as if they don't know where to go next.
“My lady,” his voice is low and shy, yet he is courageous enough to hold your gaze, “may I?”
You only nod, accompanied by a soft smile.
And upon your approval, Dunk carefully pulls you close in a warm embrace with his strong arms.
His arms close around you with such gentleness that it is surprising for someone so big. He pulls you close to his chest, with the same delicacy a gentleman would treat his most precious possession.
Naturally, you hug him back, pressing your face against his chest. That allows you to hear his heartbeat. It's fast. Strong. Nervous.
Dunk lowers his head slightly, resting his cheek close to your hair, breathing in your scent as if he wants to engrave it in his memory forever.
It gives the feeling of a forbidden and dangerous act, yet at the same time, it feels so right and warm.
It feels right, to be safe in the arms of him, with your cheek snuggled against his body. His pecs press against your face, his back is broad under your grasp, his muscles tense as you let your hands explore his body.
His own hands roam over your body, gliding over the curve of your waist, sliding up your spine, bringing chills of pleasure along their tender path.
At that moment, you realize that you shall not endure a single day without feeling the arms of your sweet knight all around you.
—summary: as the only daughter of lyonel baratheon—and the most spoiled—you get everything you want. the only thing you want tonight is to get that big man. and the big man you shall have.
—pairing: ser duncan the tall x female!baratheon!reader
—word count: 3k
—content: pure fluff, shy!dunk, sassy & spoiled reader, sexual tension, love at first sight trope, lots of romance, height difference, protective/intimidating dad!lyonel, dancing, knight x princess vibes!!!
ᯓ✵ part one ── part two ── part three
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
Night is just descending, bringing darkness to the world, and men are already stumbling around and fighting each other in drunken brawls. Some have even pulled out their swords—you don't know if they're just fooling around or if they're serious.
Your father has always been very permissive with you, often letting you have whatever you want, however you want it. You are his only daughter, after all. And as his only daughter, you are frequently his guest of honor at his feasts and gatherings.
This gathering... it's like every other gathering you've been to. There's not much of a difference. Lots of noise, lots of people you've never seen before, lots of stinking booze, and to top it all off, way too many arrogant men who are bold enough to ask you for a dance. You reject them all, as you naturally would. There's no one who stands out tonight for you.
That is, until your eyes fall on him. Clearly, he stands out from everyone else. Your eyes are pulled to his massive size and broad frame.
He's tall, the tallest man you've ever seen. You wouldn't be surprised if he could touch the ceiling of the tent if he raised his hand.
Who is he? You ask yourself over and over, wondering if you've ever seen that face and those eyes before.
But you're sure that if you had seen him, you would never forget his name.
It doesn't take long for one of your guards to signal him to come to your table, where you are sitting next to your father, quietly watching the other guests celebrate and toast.
When his eyes, reminiscent of the gentlest sea, lock onto yours, it's as if suddenly everything just makes sense. Something clicks in your mind. The reason you are there and he is there that night, is because of each other.
He approaches with uncoordinated, clumsy steps, flashing you a shy little smile before looking at your father and giving you both an awkward little bow with his head.
He is munching noisily on a piece of pastry he is carrying in his big hand. He smiles at you once more, visibly flustered and visibly quite hungry.
“Have you ever been punched in the face before?” your father asks him for no apparent reason, studying him carefully.
You shoot him a disapproving look, gently shaking your head in embarrassment.
“I beg—” the tall gentleman responds, his voice laced with a noticeable stutter, forcing his eyes to move away from your beautiful face and look at the Lord sitting in front of him, clearly confused, “I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”
He does knows your father. That surprises you, since judging by the worn-out clothes he's dressed in, the messy state of his hair, and the ravenous manner in which he's devouring his slice of cake as if it were the first meal he's had in days, you suspect he's not a man of noble lineage. However, he's not uneducated, at least. So he must know you too.
“Big men get punched more than little men,” Lord Lyonel calmly explains, twirling his treasured dagger on his fingers, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the newly arrived man. “Did you know that?”
“He's just messing with you, Ser,” you join the conversation, looking up at him again, your eyes scanning his face, his strong jawline, his pretty lips, his sharp nose, and his bright blue eyes. You could get lost in them, you fear. “He likes to mess with people.”
“I... I meant no disrespect, Ser, my lady,” the man apologizes anyway, lifting his free hand in a gesture of appeasement, “honest.”
“What have you brought me?” your father still asks back like a spoiled little child, in a dull tone of voice.
“Um... uh, Ser, I...” the big man clears his throat, his face reddening as he catches your gaze fixed on him. “I beg your pardon. I... I didn't realize—”
“You wish to curry my favor some. Yet you come with an empty hand. Lord Cafferen, the smug cunt in red...” You sigh softly as you hear Lord Lyonel start to explain, gesturing toward the drunken man dancing a few steps away from your table, “...he is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinied up this... bauble from his family's cellars, for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head. You've come for my head, then.”
“W–What? No!” the blond man vehemently denies, vigorously shaking his head. “N–no”
“Then, why the fuck are you in my tent?” your father demands to know, his tone thick with impatience as he points at him reproachfully.
That's your call.
“He's my guest, father,” you interject before the unknown man can say a word, smiling innocently at your father, who frowns as he turns to look at you, skeptical. “I told him he did not need to bring you a gift because he is my friend. My special guest.”
Then you turn your head, slowly, intentionally and your eyes find his again, those big, ocean-blue eyes. You lift your chin slightly and give him a complicit, gentle smile.
Your eyes sparkle with complicity and a hint of danger.
And the blond man almost drops the pastry at that.
His ears burn red instantly, and his mouth opens as if he means to protest—to deny it, to correct you, to say he’s no one special at all really—but no sound comes out. Your smile steals the words right out of his throat.
Your father’s sharp eyes flick from your face to the man's towering form, lingering there longer than comfortable. His dagger stills in his hand.
“Your… friend,” he repeats slowly, tasting the word like it might be poisoned.
“Yes,” you answer easily, still smiling, still holding the giant man's gaze. “My friend.”
“I've never seen him before in my life,” Lord Lyonlel replies in an exasperated tone, not quite believing your words. “How can he be your friend, my dear?”
“I met him today,” you explain, nodding your head, “and I wanted to introduce him to you at tonight's feast.”
Lord Lyonel lets out a thunderous laugh that makes the wine glasses on the table rattle. The sound, rough and unexpected, seems to slightly deflate the tension in the knight's broad shoulders.
“You met him today and he's already a 'special guest'?” Lyonel stops playing with his dagger and points at Dunk with the hilt. “A dangerous position for a man who doesn't know what to do with his hands when a lady is looking at him.”
The young man blushes intensely, putting the piece of cake on the table and wiping his hands on his clothes. That makes you smile. “I am Dunk, my lord. Ser Dunk.”
“That's ridiculous.” Lyonel nods and cracks a small chuckle. “Ser Dunk from where?”
“He's had enough of your questioning for one night, father,” you snap in a determined voice, standing up with an elegance that contrasts with the awkwardness of the giant in front of you.
You take a step toward Dunk and finally, he has the opportunity, the privilege of seeing you completely, in that beautiful golden dress, that you carry with such elegance and grace as you move. The silky golden fabric has brown and dark details around the shoulders and waist, shaped like branches and flowers, wrapping around your body like he'd want to with his hands.
The difference in height is almost comical; you have to tilt your head back to hold his gaze, but you don't hesitate to do so. You are bold, fierce, and dangerously gorgeous, the most gorgeous thing he has ever seen. And that has Dunk gasping for breath.
“Ser Dunk,” you say his name so sweetly that he thanks the Gods for being named that way. You extend your hand toward him. “Do you like dancing?”
Dunk looks down at you, utterly dumbfounded. He can feel your father's gaze on him, and perhaps that of every man in the tent, eyes full of jealousy.
He holds your gaze as he takes your hand very gently, as if he were handling the most delicate and precious thing in the world. “Doesn't everyone, my lady?”
A small, sly smile appears on your lips at his response. You got what you wanted.
Dunk holds your hand so reverently that it almost seems as if he fears you might faint if he squeezes a little harder as he guides you to the center of the tent.
“That's the right answer, Ser,” you reply with a twinkle in your eye. “Although I fear those lords out here think 'dancing' means stomping on my feet while bragging about their castles. I hope you are... different.”
Dunk swallows loudly, feeling the heat of your skin against his, his fingertips sparking warm sparks across the back of your hand. “I... I'm very big, my lady. My feet are like bloody boulders. I wouldn't want to...”
By the Seven's will, you are praying in your mind that it will be as big as his whole being.
“Oh, do not concern yourself with that,” you interrupt him, giving him a gentle but firm tug to pull him closer to you, giving him more confidence and allowing you to lower your voice to a more confidential tone, “If you step on me, I will have an excellent excuse to force you to carry me around camp until I heal. Does that not seem like a fair deal to you?”
Dunk lets out a kind of gasp, a mixture of nervous laughter and amazement, while his cheeks turn a shade of red that would rival the Lannister banners. The idea of carrying you across the camp seems to leave him speechless for a second, caught between the panic of hurting you and the wonderful mental image of holding you in his arms.
“That would be... scandalous, my lady,” he manages to say, though his eyes sparkle with charming shyness, “And I doubt your father would allow me to make it to the third tent before declaring that my head would look better on a pike.”
“Then I suggest you be careful,” you wink at him, guiding his big hand to your waist.
Despite his evident nervousness, Dunk moves with a surprising lightness for a man of his size. At first, his movements were stiff, as if he were a wooden puppet, but your gentle guidance and the way your fingers caress his shoulder helped him find the rhythm of the lute and drum.
“Actually...” he begins, bending his head so that his voice is drowned out by the clamour of the feast and only audible to you, “my name is Duncan, my lady. Though everyone calls me Dunk.”
“Duncan,” you repeat, savoring the syllables. “Now that's a name fit for a knight.”
“I’m no knight,” he murmurs. “Not really. Not yet.”
He ducks his head slightly, embarrassed, and you notice how long his lashes are when he does.
“I have to thank you,” he whispers just after, guiding you in a slow turn that takes you even further away from the main table. “For what you did just now. With Lord Lyonel. You saved me from... well, I don't know exactly what, but I'm sure it wasn't going to end well for me. Lying to your own father for a stranger... that's a kindness I don't deserve.”
“Lie?” you ask, raising an eyebrow with feigned innocence. “I didn't lie, Ser. I said you were my friend. And friends we are, are we not?”
His thumb brushes, almost unconsciously, against the fabric at your waist—an accidental touch that makes him stiffen, terrified he's overstepped.
“I... I'd like that,” he finally says, softly. “Being your friend, I mean.”
“You dance better than you let on, friend,” you remark lightly, glancing up at him.
He snorts quietly. “I’ve danced with horses more than people, if I’m honest.”
You laugh—a clear, bright sound—and his mouth curves into a grin so wide and unguarded it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. It transforms his whole face, softening the sharp lines, making him look younger somehow, softer.
He guides you through another turn, his grip firmer this time, and when you return to him, you're closer than before. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body through the layers of fabric. And certainly close enough to have you yearning for him. Dunk yearns for you as well.
Step after step, the movements grow easier, more natural. You begin to feel the strength in his frame—not stiff, not clumsy, but controlled, careful. Every time he spins you, it’s with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. Every time you come back to him, he catches you like it’s the most important thing he’ll ever do.
You notice eyes on you then.
Lords watching with narrowed gazes. Ladies whispering behind their cups. Envy, curiosity, scandal simmering quietly at the edges of the feast.
“Everyone is looking at you,” he notices as well, gazing down at you, his fingers lightly squeezing your hand. “And they all want to kill me.”
You slowly shake your head, flashing a playful smile at him. “Everyone is looking at you, Ser Duncan”
He blinks at that, clearly unconvinced, but before he can argue, the music begins to slow. The drums soften, the lute draws out the last lingering notes, and the dancers around you start to drift apart, clapping and laughing as the song comes to its end.
Reluctantly, Dunk lets the final step settle.
His hand lingers at your waist a second longer than necessary—still proper, still careful—before he seems to remember himself and draws it back, clearing his throat.
“That was…” he searches for the word, brows knitting together, “…very nice.”
You smile at him. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”
His lips twitch. “I meant it as the highest praise I know, my lady”
You laugh softly, mercifully sparing him from your teasing for a moment.
“Come,” you say, slipping your hand back into his without ceremony. “You’ve earned a proper meal.”
You have a keen eye for detail, but you don't have to make much of an effort to figure out that he doesn't fit in a place like this. He doesn't exactly come from a wealthy background, and he's probably not used to feasting like this. So, you're delighted to urge him to enjoy the occasion.
You lead him toward one of the tables, weaving easily through the crowd as servants move to refill platters and cups when they see you approaching.
Dunk follows half a step behind you, still holding your hand. He looks so out of place at your side, standing like an looming tower of shadow behind you.
His big body next to yours is definitely arousing you. But you have to be careful. There, under the watchful, treacherous, and envious eyes of others, you can only hold his hand. You'll be able to do more when it's just the two of you. Soon, you hope.
You stop near a table heavy with food and gesture grandly.
“Eat,” you command lightly. “Before you faint and cause a scandal, Ser.”
Ser Duncan hesitates. “Are you sure, my lady? I wouldn’t want to take—”
“Oh hush,” you interrupt him as you have already done several times that evening, already reaching for a piece of bread and pressing it into his hand. “I insist. If you faint in the middle of my father’s feast, it will be terribly embarrassing. For him.”
“Thank you,” his voice drops sheepishly. “Truly.”
He eats then—careful at first, then with more confidence once he realizes no one is about to drag him away or punch him in the face. You watch him with amusement, resting your elbow on the table, chin in your palm.
“So,” you begin casually, “did you truly come here just for the food? Since you don't intend to assassinate my father, I see.”
He swallows, then smiles softly. “At first, yes. I was looking for someone.”
You raise an eyebrow, already anticipating his answer, “and now?”
He meets your gaze, steady despite the nerves. “I found something much better.”
Dunk seems to realize, a second too late, just how boldly that might sound.
“I—” he starts, then stops, color flooding his face again. He hastily wipes his hands on his trousers and straightens, suddenly reduce to nothing but nerves and babbling. “Forgive me, my lady. That was… forward. I didn’t mean to presume. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and I— I shouldn’t speak as if I had any claim to your attention.” He bows his head slightly, earnest to the point of pain. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”
He is truly pathetic. And you love it.
You hum softly, amused.
“If you truly overstepped, Dunk,” you reassure him, “I would have told you already. And I would have had you kicked out of here.”
He looks up at you then, searching your face as if afraid he’s misread everything.
“And,” you continue, your thumb brushing against his on the table, tantalizingly, you bite your lower lip, “I don’t think honesty is something that needs apologizing for.”
His breath leaves him in a slow exhale. “You’re very generous.”
“No,” you correct, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “I’m very aware.”
Dunk looks at you as if stars were hanging from your hands, as if your eyes held the light of the sun itself, with every blink of your eyelashes bringing a beat of his heart. He looks at you with the closest semblance of true love you will ever encounter in your life.
It's hard to believe. The way you have bewitched him, body and soul, and he has barely known you since just today.
“I didn’t expect…” He stops, frowns slightly, then tries again. “I didn’t expect to be seen.”
Your expression softens.
“You’re very hard to miss, Ser Duncan,” you confess, very gently.
You don't think twice about reaching out and brushing some of the flour off his knuckle. The contact is brief, polite... and yet he remains perfectly still, not daring to breathe.
“Do you think I have any chance of making it through the tournament?” he blurts out all of a sudden, looking at you like he’s mesmerized.
“Well,” you say, reaching out and tapping his chest with one finger, right over his heart, “that simply won’t do.”
He blinks. “M-my lady?”
“You cannot die,” you inform him matter-of-factly, as if stating an obvious truth. “Not now. You can't hesitate.”
His blond brows knit together. “I— I beg your pardon?”
You lean a little closer, lowering your voice, playful but firm. “I only just met you today, Duncan. It would be terribly rude of you to go and get yourself killed before I’ve properly decided what to do with you.”
His mouth opens. Closes. His ears turn red again. He blushes like a love-struck boy.
“That’s… that’s not how death works,” he breathes out after, weakly.
You smile wider. “You’d be surprised how persuasive I can be.”
He laughs then—really quiet, disbelieving, warm. “I’m not worth bending fate for, my lady.”
That makes you still.
Your teasing fades, just a little.
“Don’t say that,” you murmur. “You’re worth more than you think. And besides—” your eyes sparkle again, mischief returning, “—I would be quite cross if the first man who ever danced properly with me decided to get himself skewered.”
Dunk swallows hard. “I’ll try not to.”
“No,” you correct gently. “You’ll succeed.”
Your father’s voice carries across the big tent, calling for you, and you know you cannot linger much longer with your newest whim. Your new craving.
You straighten, smoothing your dress and Ser Duncan watches you stand, gazing at the way the torchlight catches in your hair, the gold of your dress glowing like something unreal.
“I must go,” you announce softly.
Dunk’s smile falters—not fully, but enough for you to notice. He sets his plate aside, suddenly very sad.
“My lady,” he calls for you, then hesitates, with his hands half-curled at his sides. “Will I… will I see you again?”
There it is. The question he’s been holding back all night. The kind of revelation you've been eager to hear from him since you first saw him.
You tilt your head, pretending to consider it, entertained by the sight of him squirming just a little.
“Well,” you say slowly, eyes dancing between his lips and his eyes, gleaming with shameless desire, “that depends.”
“On what?” Dunk asks, hopeful and terrified.
You lean in closer, just enough that only he can hear.
“You survive the tournament,” you whisper. “And I’ll consider it a personal favor.”
You raise your hand, now bolder, without fear, and brush a lock of his bronze hair off his forehead, a brief touch that makes him flinch like a puppy desperate for affection.
“I don’t make promises to dead men, my sweet knight”
“Then I’ll live,” his breath catches. “I swear it, my lady.”
“I’ll find you, then,” you promise. “Good night, Ser Duncan.”
“Good night, my lady.”
You don’t look back as you return to your father’s side.
Dunk presses a hand to his chest, right where you tapped him earlier, and lets out a shaky breath.
He is no one. He is dirt and brutish. You are silk and grace.
i can’t say shit about liking a character that acts slightly in a very specific way without being hit with a tidal wave of “of course you would” to live is to suffer
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