Ser Duncan the Tall x female reader / smut / angst / size difference / forbidden love / one night only
Words: 9k
A/N: my knights. my westeros loves. you’ve asked for more dunk x female reader and i can tell that yer not ready for this one.🗡️🌹
You have loved Ser Duncan the Tall since you were small enough to vanish into his shadow, and he has wanted you in ways he was never meant to. Now the Crown is taking him from you, and he swears leaving is the only way to keep you safe from what his hands ache to do when you are near. Tomorrow, another knight will stand beside you. Tomorrow, he will be gone.
But tonight, he unravels.
In the low light of a shack, against the scarred wood of a workbench, the place where steel bends under his grip, he finally lets his restraint slip. The want he buried in duty finds your skin instead, rough and desperate and too late to be gentle.
Tomorrow, he will walk away because he believes loving him is dangerous. Tonight, he proves how dangerous it really is.
The camp is quiet beneath the vast, indifferent sweep of the stars. You had chosen this spot for the night's rest because of the abandoned crofter’s shack that sat perched on the rise of the hill, overlooking the wagons and the sleeping men below.
For the few days you had been camped here, Ser Duncan had claimed the small, weathered structure as his own, a place to mend harness, grease leather, and escape the prying eyes of the Court.
A small fire burns low outside the shack’s door, its orange fingers reaching into the dark, devouring the last of the kindling. Horses shift and breathe softly nearby, their bodies dark shapes against the deeper black of the trees. Your ladies are asleep in the wagon at the base of the hill, a muffled sigh or a cough the only sign of life. And here, beside the fire on the ridge, sits your world.
Ser Duncan the Tall.
He is sharpening his sword, the shhhink of the whetstone on steel a familiar night music. He does it with a steady, practiced rhythm, his large hand moving with a grace that belies his size. The firelight catches the few silver threads in his hair, glints off the steel, and paints the hard lines of his face in shifting shades of golden and shadow. He is a mountain of a man, a warrior carved from stone and resolve, and he has been your shield since you were small enough to hide behind his legs.
You rise from your bedroll, the wool blanket rough against your bare feet as you cross the few steps to him by the fire. He hears you, of course. He always does. He turns, and even in the dim light you see it; the way his spine straightens, the way his shoulders lock as if bracing for a blow.
“Your Grace.” His voice is a low rumble, like stones shifting deep in the earth. “You should be sleeping.”
“So should you, Ser.” Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to. You sit on a fallen log opposite him, the bark biting into your delicate palms. “The fire is dying.”
He sets the sword and whetstone carefully on the ground, as though they are fragile things, and glances toward the open door of the shack where his tools wait in shadow. “It is enough. For now.”
Silence settles between you. Crickets sing in the grass. An owl calls from somewhere in the trees. Firelight crawls over his face, over the scar you know by heart, over the lines that have deepened since the news came.
“You will have a new knight,” he says at last, still staring into the flames. “Ser Gerold of Greywatch. A good man. Of proper birth.”
“Ser Gerold is not you.”
The words leave you before you can soften them.
For a moment, he does not move at all. His hands stay wrapped around the blade, knuckles pale.
“Your Grace,” he says, and the title lands between you like a wall. “Lower your voice. The ladies… the men… they sleep beyond the wagons.”
“Let them wake.” The ground is cold under your feet, the fire hot against your skin. “Let them see the great Ser Duncan the Tall handing me over like a horse with a ribbon tied to its neck.”
He finally stands, and the sheer scale of him is overwhelming. He towers over you, a shadow that could swallow you whole, but he moves with a terrifying politeness. He holds up a finger to his lips, a gesture he used to make when you were a child sneaking sweets from the kitchens, but there is no playfulness in his eyes.
"Enough," he whispers, the word vibrating in his chest. "You are tired, Your Grace. The journey has been long. Go back to your bedroll, and we shall speak no more of this."
"We will speak of nothing else," you hiss as you rise, closing the distance until your chest nearly brushes the leather of his brigandine. "You’re leaving at dawn. You’re leaving me. And you’re doing it with a bow and a 'yes, Your Grace.' After fifteen years, Ser Duncan? After everything?"
He flinches as if you’ve struck him with a blade. He looks over his shoulder at the dark shapes of the tents, his jaw working as he fights to keep his composure. "I have my orders. The King’s Word is—"
"I don't care about the King!" The shout is muffled but sharp. Duncan instantly reaches out, his large hands hovering near your shoulders as if to catch the words and shove them back into your throat.
"Your Grace. Please. Do you want them to hear you? Do you want them to see you like this?"
"I want you to tell me why!" You grab his wrists, your fingers barely meeting around the thick bone and muscle. You try to shake him, but he is an anchor, unmoving. "You’ve never lied to me. Not once. But this? This 'duty'? It’s a lie. I see it in the way you won't look at me. I see it in the way you've avoided my touch for a month. Tell me the truth, Ser Duncan. Why are you running?"
He pulls his wrists back, his breath coming in a ragged hitch.
"I am not running," he says, though his voice trembles with the effort of the lie. "I am obeying. It is my place. My place has always been to do what is right."
"Your place?" You laugh, the sound brittle. "Your place is with me. Your place is right here! It has been since you lifted a crying girl onto her pony and told her the horse wouldn't throw her. It has been since you carried that same girl through a storm because her fever burned too hot for her to walk. Your place is not a command, Ser Duncan. It is a choice. And you are choosing to leave me."
You step closer still, until your forehead rests against the cold, unbending steel of the gorget at his throat. You feel the vibration of his swallow, the frantic beat of his pulse through the metal.
"Tell me you do not feel it," you whisper, your breath fogging the steel. "Tell me you do not want to stay. Tell me, and I will let you go."
His hands, which have been hovering awkwardly at his sides, finally move. One comes to rest on the small of your back —a heavy, possessive weight that sends a shiver through you. The other rises, slowly, as if through water, and his thumb brushes against your cheek.
"Don't," he breathes, the word a plea, a prayer, a protest. "My lady... please. Don't make me."
"Make you what?" You tilt your head back, searching the shadows of his face. "Make you be honest? Make you choose something for yourself instead of for a crown you never wanted to serve?"
"Don’t make me break," he confesses, the words torn from him.
The tears you've been fighting finally escape, hot and angry on your cheeks. You swipe at them furiously, hating this weakness, this show of emotion that you know he will misinterpret as childishness rather than the profound grief it is.
The campfire light catches the tremor in his fingers, the desperate struggle behind his eyes. His tendons are standing out on the back of his hand. He looks from your tear-streaked face to the fire, then back again, as if searching for an answer in the flames.
"You are a princess," he says again, but this time the words are a plea, not a shield. "And I... I am sworn to protect you."
"Protect me from what?" you ask, your voice cracking. "From myself? From this?" You gesture to the space between you, to all the unspoken years, to all the moments you've shared and all the ones you've lost. "From loving you?"
The words hang in the air, raw and exposed, and you see the exact moment they hit him. His shoulders slump. For a heartbeat, the formidable knight is gone, replaced by a man laid bare by a single, forbidden truth.
“Your Grace,” he breathes, and the title is a desperate attempt to hold on to the world as he knows it. “You… you don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying,” you insist, your chin lifting, a spark of royal pride returning. “I have known it for years. Since I was old enough to understand that the way I felt for you was not the way a princess should feel for her guard. Since I was old enough to know that the way you looked at me was not the way a knight should look at his charge.”
You take one more step, closing the distance he tried to create. This time, you are the one who reaches out. You place your hand on his chest. You feel the steady, too-fast rhythm of his heart beneath your palm.
“Don’t leave me,” you whisper. “Please, Ser. Don’t leave me.”
For a long, agonizing moment, he is still. Then, with a shuddering breath that sounds like it’s been torn from his very soul, he covers your hand with his. His grip is gentle, but firm; a promise and a warning all at once.
“I must,” he says, and the words are a death knell. “My lady,” he begins, his voice heavy with a confession he’s clearly been dreading. “The reason… the reason I am being reassigned… it is because of me.”
“Because of you?” you repeat, bewildered. “What do you mean?”
“The Crown,” he says, stumbling over the words, his eyes fixed on a point just over your shoulder. “They have noticed… things. How much time we spend together. How you seek me out. How I…” He breaks off, swallowing hard. “They believe it is unseemly. For a princess. To be so… attached… to her guard.”
The words hit you like a wash of shame and fury. “They think…? They dare to suggest…?”
“Your father fears for your reputation,” he continues, finally forcing himself to look at you, and the raw pain in his eyes takes your breath away. “Whispers. Rumors. They could tarnish your name before you are even wed. I cannot… I will not… be the cause of such scandal for you, Your Grace. You deserve better than that.”
“So this is your solution?” you ask, your voice trembling with a rage so cold it feels like ice in your veins. “To abandon me? To let them win? To let them separate us because of gossip?”
“They are not separating us,” he says, and the lie is so transparent, so painful, that you almost want to laugh. “I am being reassigned. For your own good.”
“My own good?” you echo, pulling your hand from beneath his, the sudden loss of contact leaving you feeling adrift. “Did it ever occur to you, Ser Duncan, that I might have some say in what is for my own good? Did it ever occur to you to ask me?”
“I cannot ask you to choose,” he says, and the desperation is a tangible thing, a raw, bleeding wound between you. “I cannot ask you to choose between your blood and… and me.”
The sobs tear from your throat, ragged. You are not a princess in this moment. You are the little girl who fell from her pony and scraped her knee, and you want him to pick you up, to hold you, to tell you that everything will be alright.
But you are not that little girl anymore. And everything will not be alright.
Your legs give out from under you, and you collapse onto the ground, the rough earth a harsh and unforgiving reality. You bury your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking with the force of your tears. You don’t care about your dress, or your dignity, or the crown that rests uneasily upon your head. All you care about is the gaping wound in your chest where your heart used to be.
You feel him approach, a tentative warmth at your back, and you flinch away.
“Don’t,” you gasp, the word a broken plea. “Don’t touch me.”
“My lady,” he whispers, and the sound is a knife in your heart. “Please…”
“Leave me alone,” you sob, pushing weakly at the air between you. “Just… leave me…”
But he doesn’t leave. He can’t. You know this. You have known this since he first swore his oath to you, a lanky, serious boy with earnest eyes and a sword that was almost too big for him. He could never really leave you.
He drops to his knees beside you, the thud of his armor on the ground a dull, final sound. You can feel the heat of him, the sheer size of him, a mountain of a man brought to his knees by your tears. Then, with a trembling hand, he begins undoing his armor straps. The pauldrons slip off first, followed by the gauntlets, the breastplate clinking against the earth. The gorget falls last.
His chest rises and falls with the force of every withheld emotion. Sweat, dirt, and the lingering smoke from the campfire cling to him, a tangible testament to a man who has spent a lifetime as a shield for others.
“Forgive me,” he whispers, and the words are a desperate, broken thing. “Please, my princess… forgive me.”
You risk a glance at him, and the sight brings a fresh wave of tears. Ser Duncan the Tall, the unshakeable, the unmovable, is crying. Silent tears track paths on his cheeks, his face a mask of such raw pain that it takes your breath away. He looks broken, shattered; a man who has lost not only his purpose, but himself.
“Forgive you?” you ask. “For what, Ser? For doing your duty? For protecting me?”
“For wanting… for being a man when I should have been only your shield. For every selfish thought, every stolen glance, every moment I coveted what I could never have.”
He reaches for you, then pulls back as if he has forgotten himself. His hands, usually so steady, tremble in the firelight.
“I never meant to cause you pain,” he says, and the honesty in his voice is a brutal, beautiful thing. “I swear it. I would rather die than see you hurt, Your Grace.”
“I am hurt,” you say, the words a simple, devastating truth. “You are leaving. How could that not hurt?”
He bows his head, a defeated hedge knight. “It is the only way,” he confesses to the ground, to the fire, to the gods who have clearly abandoned you both. “The only way to keep you safe.”
You are silent for a long moment, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the ragged rhythm of your breathing. You watch him, this man who has been your rock, your everything, and you see him for what he is: a prisoner of his own honor. A man who would sacrifice his own happiness to protect yours, even when that sacrifice is the very thing that breaks your heart.
You gently reach for him, as you take his face in your hands. His beard is coarse against your palms, a comforting roughness, and you feel him flinch, a full-body shudder at the contact.
“You think leaving is the honorable thing to do.” Your thumbs stroke the line of his jaw, feeling the tension coiled there. “But you’re wrong, Ser Duncan. The honorable thing would have been to tell me the truth years ago. The honorable thing would have been to trust me with your heart, as I have trusted you with mine.”
He makes a choked sound, a gasp of pain and denial, and you feel the tears welling in your own eyes again, but this time, you do not let them fall. This is not a moment for weakness. This is a moment for truth.
“I have spent my life being protected,” you continue, your voice low and steady, a stark contrast to the turmoil in your chest. “Protected from bandits, from political enemies, from the harsh realities of the world. But no one ever thought to protect me from the loneliness of loving a man who believes himself unworthy of me.”
“Your Grace,” he breathes. You cannot… we cannot…”
“I cannot…?” you challenge, your thumbs still tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the tremor that runs through him at your touch. “Or you will not? There is a difference, Ser Duncan.”
He closes his eyes, another deep shudder wracking his frame. When he opens them again, the walls have crumbled. The honor, the duty, the distance. All gone.
“Gods help me,” he whispers, the words torn from the depths of him. “I love you, my princess.”
The world stops. The fire, the stars, the sleeping camp, it all fades into the background, a mere backdrop to the three words that have ruined you.
“I have loved you since you were a girl of sixteen with fire in your eyes and too much curiosity for your own good,” he continues, the words a torrent now, a floodgate opened after years of restraint. “I have loved you through winters and summers, through battles and sieges, through every moment we have shared and every moment we have lost. I have loved you so much it has become a physical ache, and a reminder of what I shall never have.”
You are crying again, silent hot tears, but you don’t care. All you care about is the raw truth in his eyes.
“I am a fool.” His words are a self-inflicted wound. “A selfish, unworthy fool to want you, to dream of a life I have no right to even imagine.”
You shake your head, a silent denial of his self-condemnation. “You are the bravest, most honorable man I have ever known. And you are mine.”
“Yours,” he repeats, the word a prayer and a curse. “I am your man.”
You lean in, your lips brushing against the stubble on his cheek. He shudders again, a full-body tremor that runs through him like a lightning strike, and you feel the last of his control finally, irrevocably, shatter.
He closes the remaining distance between you, his lips finding yours in a kiss that is both a surrender and a conquest. It is a kiss of years of longing, of stolen glances and unspoken words. It is a kiss that tastes of salt and smoke, of tears and a desperate, aching need.
His hands, which have been hovering at his sides, finally move with a certainty that takes your breath away. One buries itself in your hair, holding you to him as if he's afraid you might vanish. The other wraps around your waist, a heavy, possessive weight that pulls you flush against him, the hard lines of his remaining armor a contrast to the softness of your body.
You respond with a passion that matches his own, your arms wrapping around his neck, your fingers digging into the thick muscles of his shoulders. You have imagined this moment a thousand times, but none of them compare to the reality of him. The presence of him, the feel of his heart hammering against your chest.
The fire crackles, a forgotten audience. The stars bear witness, their ancient, indifferent light a silent judgment on this forbidden love. The world has shrunk to this small but sacred space, to the two of you, to the breaking of oaths and the mending of hearts.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing raggedly.
"We can't," he whispers, the words a tortured confession. "My lady... Your Grace... this is madness."
"Then let us be mad," you reply. "Just for tonight. Give me tonight, Ser Duncan. Before the world comes crashing in. Before we have to remember who we are supposed to be."
He closes his eyes. You can see the war within him, the honor that has been his guiding light warring with the love that has become his consuming fire. But then he opens his eyes, and the decision has been made. The conflict is gone, replaced by a raw, desperate resolve.
“One night,” he agrees. A vow, a prayer, a surrender. “Just this one.”
Your heart lurches. You take a trembling step forward, and he mirrors you. His hand finds yours, fingers entwining, thumb brushing over yours in a possessive, slow claim. Neither of you speaks; words are unnecessary now.
The shack.
He nods, eyes dark, lips tight, and leads you down the slope. Grass brushes your ankles, dew dampening your bare feet. Each step is slow, deliberate, a countdown to what’s waiting in the shadows; the smell of wood, smoke, leather, and him. You feel the anticipation in your chest coil tighter with each movement, the world narrowing until it’s just you, him, and the night.
When you reach the shack, he pauses, letting the door hang open. The air is thick with the heat of your bodies, the tremor of years of longing held just beyond reach.
Your hand finds his again, thumb brushing over his knuckles. Time stretches, each moment a delicious torment, until finally, he steps inside, closing the door with a soft click that feels like a seal on this night alone.
The shack is small, cluttered, alive with the scent of work: wood smoke, leather, oil, and the faint tang of steel. Tools hang from walls darkened by use, a half-finished bridle rests on the workbench. You find the room intimate, charged and impossibly small.
He turns to you, looming in the dim light, every inch the mountain of a man you’ve loved from afar.
“My lady,” he starts, but you cut him off with a shake of your head.
“No,” you say, voice soft but firm. “Not ‘my lady’. Not ‘Your Grace’. Not tonight. Tonight, I am just me. And you are just you.”
He takes a step closer, then another, until he stands directly in front of you. The warmth radiating from his chest is almost unbearable.
The past flashes. Being a girl of sixteen in Highgarden, watching him train in the courtyard, heart aching at each glance, each flex of his muscles, the secret thrill of his attention. And now, the memory melts into the overwhelming reality of him here, close, real, tangible.
“You are so beautiful,” he says, cutting away the memory with his simple words. “Always have been.”
You reach up, brushing fingers along the contour of his lips. And then he is kissing you. It is slower, deeper. His lips move against yours with a reverence that makes your heart ache, a tenderness you never knew this warrior was capable of. His tongue traces the line of your lower lip, a hesitant, questioning touch, and you open to him.
The kiss deepens, becoming wetter, more intense. You taste the smoke of the campfire on his breath and the unique flavor of him. His tongue slides against yours, a slow, sensual dance that sends through you a fire hotter than the one dying outside on the hill.
His hands begin to move, tracing the curve of your waist and the line of your ribs. His touch is respectful, but there is a new confidence in it. He is no longer the awkward knight who stumbled over his words. He is a man claiming what is his, and the force of his need is what you find terrifying.
"You are my Dunk," you whisper, the words a breathless confession against his lips. "My gorgeous, brave knight."
He freezes, his whole body tensing at the nickname, a name you have never dared to speak aloud, a name you have only ever whispered in the secrecy of your own heart.
You lean in, your lips finding the sensitive skin of his neck, your tongue tracing the hard line of his jaw. His hands tighten on your waist, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of your corset, and you know you have won.
"Please," you whisper, hands tangling in the thick, silver-threaded hair at the nape of his neck. "Please, Duncan. I want you to touch me. I have wanted this for so long."
His hands move from your waist to your back, his large, calloused fingers fumbling with the laces of your gown, a clumsy, desperate attempt to get closer, to feel the warmth of your skin. But the laces are stubborn, an intricate knot of silk. His frustration is a palpable thing, a guttural growl of impatience.
"Seven Hells," he mutters, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing ragged. "I cannot... this is... I am fumbling like a boy."
"It's alright," you whisper, your hands covering his, guiding them to the simple knot at the small of your back. "Here. Just pull."
But the knot, tied by your anxious lady-in-waiting, refuses to give. You pull together, your bodies pressed against each other, your breath mingling in the small, cramped space, but the laces remain a frustrating barrier.
"Rip it," you beg. "Duncan, please. Just rip it."
He freezes, his hands still on the laces. "My lady," he begins, but you cut him off.
"No," you insist, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of your bodice. "Not 'my lady'. I am begging you. Rip it."
With a low sigh, he grabs the fabric, his hands closing into fists. With a single, powerful tug, he rips the laces apart. The sound of tearing silk is an arrow in the quiet of the shack. A final, irrevocable act of defiance against the world.
Your gown falls open, pooling at your feet, and you stand before him in your thin linen shift. The cool night air raises goosebumps on your skin, but you only feel the heat of his stare.
Your breasts, heavy and full, spill over the top of the shift, your pale skin glowing in the sliver of moonlight.
His breath catches in his throat at the sight. His eyes are dark and fathomless, filled with a primal hunger.
"Gods," he whispers, the word a prayer and a curse. "Your Grace... I... I am a traitor. Unworthy to even look upon you."
"You are my traitor," you reply, your voice a low, husky purr. "My unworthy knight. And I want you to touch me. I want you to put your hands on me.”
You take his hands, which are hanging at his sides, and place them on your breasts. They are so big, so warm, a thrilling contrast to the coolness of your skin.
He hesitates for a heartbeat, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive peaks, while your heart is in your throat. Then he is touching you, his hands moving with a new certainty. He cups your breasts, thumbs stroking the nipples until they pebble into tight buds. You arch into him with a soft gasp, a silent permission for him to explore further.
He leans in, his lips finding yours in a kiss. It is wetter and deeper than before. His tongue slides against yours, a slow dance tasting of desperation. You can taste your own desire in his mouth, the most intoxicating thing you have ever known.
Your fingers dig into the thick muscles of his arms. You are his princess, he is your sworn protector, and here in this shack, he kisses you like he wants to devour you whole.
He breaks the kiss to trail a path of fire down your neck and across your collarbone. You close your eyes, head falling back as you anticipate what is to come.
“Oh, Duncan… Please-please…”
His lips close around one nipple, and you cry out—a sharp sound that is half pleasure, half pain. His tongue is wet and hot, a slow torture that sends waves of heat coursing through you. He sucks gently, and you feel a deep, aching throb between your legs.
You tangle your hands in his beard, fingers digging into the coarse hair to hold him as he lavishes attention on your breasts. He moves from one to the other, mouth demanding, hands stroking your sides and the curve of your hips.
Your pleas are soft, breathless whispers against his temple. "Please... oh, please... Duncan..."
His head snaps up. For a heartbeat, desire is replaced by naked fear. "Quiet," he begs, voice a strained whisper. He covers your mouth with his, a silencing kiss. "Please, my lady. If someone hears... I am a dead man."
The threat is a cold splash of reality that only makes the fire burn hotter. You whimper into his mouth, a sound swallowed by the intensity of the next kiss. Your hands roam the expanse of his back, feeling the hard planes of muscle.
You need to feel all of him. Your hands, trembling with urgency, find the laces of his breeches, pulling until the leather ties give way. You push the rough fabric down over his hips.
He is free and heavy against your palm, a hot, living thing that jumps at your touch.
"Duncan," you gasp, fingers wrapping around him, feeling his overwhelming size. "Please... I need..."
The urge to taste him, to show the depth of your devotion with this forbidden act, is overwhelming. You begin to slide down the cot, hands reaching for him, body humming with need.
"No," he gasps, large hands finding your shoulders to still your movements. "Your Grace... no. I cannot... it is not... proper."
You look up at him, eyes wide with frustration and hurt. "Proper? After all this, you speak to me of propriety?"
"It is about reverence," he insists, thumbs stroking your collarbones in attempt to soothe you. "You are my princess. I will not have you... on your knees... for me. Not like this."
The old honor, the knightly code, rears its head, and you feel a flash of white-hot anger. You are not a prize to be placed on a pedestal. You are a woman with desires of your own, tired of being protected from your own passions.
"Then what, Ser Duncan?" you demand, hands pushing against his chest. "What is it that you want? What will you allow?"
He is silent for a long moment, the only sounds the crackle of the fire outside and the ragged rhythm of your breathing. Then, with a low sigh, he speaks.
"I want to taste you. I want to put my mouth on you and drink you in. I want to make you cry out my name until you forget all others. I want to feel you tremble against my tongue until you are spent."
The sheer vulgarity of his words is a punch to the gut. It is more intimate than any gentle caress. Before you can respond, he is finding your hips and lifting you as if you weigh nothing. He carries you across the small room and sets you down on the rough-hewn workbench. The wood is hard against your bare skin, but you only care about the desperate truth in his eyes.
He kneels before you, a knight at the altar of his princess. He hooks his thumbs under your knees, spreading you open. You feel a dizzying rush of vulnerability, quickly replaced by a sharp, aching need.
He leans in, breath hot against your inner thigh. You tremble. He places a kiss there, then another, higher, until he is hovering at the source of your desire.
"Look at you," he whispers, voice rough with emotion. "By the gods, my lady... you are the sweetest thing I have ever seen."
His tongue traces a slow, deliberate circle around your most sensitive spot. You cry out, hands fisting in the wood of the bench to ground yourself against the sensation.
The remaining fabric of your torn dress feels like an insult. With a growl that is more animal than man, he rips that too, the sound a violent declaration. You are completely bare to him now, a feast laid out on the workbench.
“Please hold me down. Use your hands,” you command. “I need to feel how heavy you are... how much you want me.”
“So much, my princess… I want you so much…”
His hands grip your thighs, forcing them open. You are utterly at his mercy, and the power of this moment is intoxicating.
You whimper as your hips arch off the bench, a beg for an end to this sweet agony. He licks and sucks, a deliberate exploration both tender and savage.
"Gods be good," he groans against you, the vibration a delicious torment. "Tell me to stop. Please... tell me to be a knight, because the man in me is forgetting everything but the way you taste."
With a wet sound, his tongue finds your clit. He circles it slowly, then flicks it, a teasing motion that makes you gasp.
"Don't you dare stop. You aren't a knight right now, Duncan... you're my heart. You're the only one who's ever really touched me."
You writhe on the bench, hands fisting in your own hair. As he continues to lick and suck, he slides a finger inside you. He is slow at first, testing your tightness. Then, finding you slick and ready, he begins to move. In and out, a rhythm mirroring the movements of his tongue. You are being truly, deliciously fucked by the man who swore to protect you.
As he senses you are nearing the end, he raises his head, resting his cheek against your belly. He continues to fuck you with his fingers, slow and intimate, as if savoring this perfect, impossible moment.
"Look at me," he commands. "I want to see you when you come."
You force your eyes open to meet his gaze. There is no knightly grace left in him, only a starving desperation to memorize you before the sun steals his right to touch you. When his mouth finds you again, it is a wet ruin of every vow he ever took. You arch off the workbench, fingers clawing at his hair, breath hitching in jagged sobs as the friction turns the midnight cold into a white-hot blur.
He feels the violent tremors racking your frame and grips your hips, pinning you to the wood with strength that is both a tether and a command. He slows just enough to prolong the agony, his tongue swirling in a heavy rhythm that makes you cry his name into the rafters.
"Easy," he rasps. He looks up, eyes swimming with terrifying devotion as he watches your face shatter. "Easy, my beautiful Princess. Don't fight it. Just give it to me. Give me all of it so I can carry the taste of you into my grave."
The contrast of his calloused hands holding you steady while his mouth worships you is a sacrilege and a prayer. You break in the hands of the only man who has ever truly seen you.
He drinks in your cries as if they are the only air he will ever need.
He stands, and for a heartbeat, you see him in all his glory—tall, broad, a warrior of muscle and honor. The sight of him, so big and utterly yours, sends a fresh wave of arousal through you.
"Are you certain, my lady?" he asks, hands resting on your thighs.
"I have never been more certain. You are my only certainty, Duncan."
He nods and positions himself between your legs. The broad head of his cock nudges your entrance. He is bigger than you imagined, and a thrill of anticipation runs through you.
"Relax, my princess," he whispers. "Relax and let me in."
You take a deep breath, and then he is pushing into you. He is a thick, stretching burn, a sweet agony you have craved as long as you can remember. He pauses to let you adjust to the reality of him inside you.
"Did I hurt you?" he asks in a strained whisper.
You shake your head, unable to speak, and then he is moving in a rhythm both tender and savage. Deep, filling thrusts send pleasure through you. You are being possessed, and the intensity is almost more than you can bear.
"Gods," he gasps, hands tightening on your hips as his movements become faster. "My lady... you are so... tight... so warm..."
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. Your hips rise to meet his.
"I can't hold it back anymore," he groans. "I'm going to break. I'm going to ruin you."
"Then ruin me," you gasp, nails digging into his hard muscle. "Break me. I've been too whole for too long, Duncan... I want to be yours. Completely."
You feel his thrust becoming a punishing rhythm. Right now under your touch he is a knight who has forgotten his vows, a man taking what he needs with single-minded intensity.
"Don't stop," a keening cry escapes your lips. "Stay... stay right there."
"I'm not going anywhere," he growls, pinning your hands above your head. "I've been waiting for this since the world began. God, you're so warm... I can't breathe"
"Breathe me," you beg, body arching off the bench. "Just breathe me."
The world dissolves into a blur of pleasure and the slap of skin against skin. The only sounds are the frantic rhythm of your breathing and his broken whispers.
"I'm a dead man... the things I want to do to you... the way I’m taking you—“
"You're not taking anything," you insist, hands struggling against his to touch him. "I'm giving it. All of it. Give me the truth, Duncan. Give me all that weight."
"I love you," he confesses, a vulnerable prayer. "I've loved you until it's a sickness. I'm burning up inside you."
He crashes into you with the clumsiness of a man falling off a cliff, his weight heavy and real. When he pushes inside you again, it is a jagged invasion, his breath coming in short hitches against your ear.
He buries his face in your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin as he fights for air. "Please, I can't... I’ve tried to be good. I tried to stay away."
You don’t care about "good." Your fingers are clawing at his shoulders until you draw blood. You want to hurt him as much as he is hurting you by leaving.
"Don't talk. Just... move. Don't let me think. Make me forget everything else. Just this."
His fingers wind into your hair. He grips the strands tight, wrenching your head back until you are forced to meet his gaze. His face is a ruin. Eyes bloodshot, jaw locked against a tide of physical pain. He begins to move: hard, bruising. With every impact, it feels as if he is trying to drive himself through you, seeking a sanctuary beneath your skin where the world can no longer reach him.
"You're so small," he wheezes, his voice splintering under the weight of his own desire. "I’m going to break you. I’m a brute, a dog, and I’m taking this from you... and I can't stop. I can't stop, my princess."
"I’m not a princess right now," you scream back, the sound jagged and unvarnished in the cramped space. You hook your legs around his waist, locking him in, hauling him down until your chests collide. "I’m just a woman. And you’re just a man. Do you hear me? Look at me, Duncan! Just a man!"
He chokes on a breath, his forehead crashing against yours. Sweat stings your eyes, and the atmosphere between you thickens.
He seizes your hands, pinning them into the wood of the bench with enough force to nearly crush your fingers.
"I’m yours," he pants, the confession stumbling over his tongue. "I’m a dead man walking. But I’m yours. Say it. Say I’m yours."
"You’re mine," you sob, the tears finally spilling over, hot and chaotic. "You’re mine and you’re staying. Stay. Stay. Please stay."
The burn of his thrusts is a sweet, exquisite agony—a delicious expansion that fills you, completing a part of you that you never knew was empty. He is so massive, so formidable, and you are so slight, yet the fit is perfect and impossible.
"Fill me up, Duncan," you gasp, hands rising to cradle his face, thumbs tracing the flushed heat of his cheeks. "Please... fill me with everything you are. With every craving, every stolen glance. I want to carry you always."
Your words are his undoing. He lets out a strangled sound, a gasp of total surrender, and begins moving with a fierce, powerful rhythm that is both a claim and a submission.
"Fuck me," you beg, your hands sliding from his face to grip the corded muscles of his arms. "Please, Duncan... fuck me like you mean it. Like you've always hungered to."
The vulgarity of your words hits him instantly. He makes a primal sound and hoists you with a shocking strength. He withdraws for a heartbeat only to re-enter deeper—a forceful, total thrust that sends your upper body off the bench, your spine arching.
He holds you there, suspended upon him, your lower body a willing offering. His hands dictate the depth and angle of every motion.
“I am nothing. A hedge knight, a sellsword, a man with nothing to his name but his blade and his honor. But you... you are everything. You are the love of my life. The very air I breathe."
He punctuates each admission with a thrust.
"More," you gasp, hands tangling in his hair, pulling him down for a kiss that is both tender and feral. "Harder, Duncan... please... I can take it. I want all of you."
He hesitates for a heartbeat. Then, with a harsh sound that is half-torment, he obeys. He drives into you harder, deeper, a primal cadence that leaves you breathless.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice thick with emotion.
You force your eyes open to meet his gaze, and the naked longing there is your ruin. You are teetering on a knife's edge, but the peak eludes you. The pleasure is a mounting, relentless pressure. A fire stoked higher with each motion, yet it refuses to break.
He is beautiful in his exertion. Sweat beads on his brow, making the strands of his hair shimmer in the dim moonlight. The muscles in his arms bunch and strain with the effort of supporting you. He smells of clean sweat and leather and something uniquely him; a scent that floods your lungs and makes your head spin.
Tears of frustration escape. You cry out against his mouth, a muffled, frantic sound.
"What is it, my love?" he whispers, his hips never ceasing their punishing, delicious rhythm. He sees your struggle, your unfulfilled hunger. "Tell me what you need."
"You," you gasp, hands gripping the hard swells of his biceps. "You, my knight. My love. My man."
The words are a catalyst. "Yours," he growls against your lips. "By all the gods, my Princess, I have always been yours."
"Then take me," you beg, your hips bucking to meet him. "All of me. Don't hold back. Don't be gentle, I am yours to break."
With a low groan, he lifts you completely. Your legs wrap around his waist, your arms around his neck, and you are suspended, impaled on him.
He carries you across the small room and presses you against the cool, solid wall. The change in angle is magnificent; a new, deeper penetration that makes you cry out.
"Shut up," he begs, his lips finding the sensitive skin behind your ear. "Please, my lady... you have to be quiet. Let me... let me fuck you the way you deserve. Let me make it good for you."
His words are both a command and a confession. He is trying to protect you, even now, in this moment of utter rebellion. But the sensation is too overwhelming. You cannot be quiet. You can only feel, and moan, and beg for more.
"Please," you cry, hands fisting in his hair, hips rolling against him. "Please, Duncan... I need..."
He answers with renewed urgency. He fucks you standing up, a primal, possessive rhythm. The only sounds are the slap of skin, your desperate moans, and his low groans.
"Gods," he rasps against your neck. "My lady... you feel... you feel like heaven."
The thought strikes you then; a cold, sudden fear. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he will be gone. And you will be left with nothing but ghosts. You cannot let him go without a piece of him, a tangible reminder of this one, impossible night.
You need his seed inside you. You need it as a promise, a bond, a secret legacy that no king or council can strip away.
A sob escapes your lips, a broken, hollow sound. He stills, sudden panic in his eyes. "What is it? Did I hurt you?"
"No," you gasp, hands tightening around his neck. "It's just... tomorrow. You're leaving. And I... I can't..."
The tears come hot and fast. You are shaking with the force of your sobs.
"I love you," you whisper, a final, desperate plea. "I love you, Duncan. More than my crown, more than my duty. I will waste away without you."
"No," he groans, pressing you harder against the wall. His thrusts become deeper, more powerful. "Don't ever say that. You will be a great queen, and you will forget the foolish hedge knight who loved you more than his own honor."
"I will never forget," you sob, hips bucking against him. "I will carry you with me, always. In my heart, in my soul... in my body."
He understands. He makes a sound that is both surrender and possession. "Is that what you want, my love?" he whispers, his breath hot and ragged against your ear. "A piece of me? A secret gift to carry always?"
You can only nod.
"Then you shall have it," he whispers.
He fucks you with a renewed, desperate urgency. You cling to him, nails digging into the sweat-slick skin of his back.
"I can't..." he groans against your lips. "My princess... I can't hold it..."
"Then don't," you whimper. "Please, Duncan... give it to me. All of it. My Dunk... mine..."
He makes a sound that is half-sob, half-roar, and then he is emptying himself inside you, a hot, overwhelming flood that fills you up and completes you.
But it is not enough. The pleasure is a mounting, relentless fire, and it still won't break. While he is still inside you, pulsing with the aftershocks of his release, you reach down between your bodies. Your fingers, slick with your combined essence, find the center of your heat.
He is taken aback, stunned by your boldness. He watches, transfixed, as you touch yourself, your body writhing against his. You are a princess, a woman of decorum, but here, in the night you are a desperate, aching creature and you are doing this for him.
His hands find your breasts, cupping their weight, his thumbs brushing against your peaked nipples. You can feel his release starting to trickle down your inner thigh. You are full of him, marked by him, claimed in the most primal way possible.
The arrival is a violent, overwhelming thing, a wave of pleasure that leaves you breathless. A cry escapes your lips. He reacts instantly, clamping a hand over your mouth to muffle your cries and protect you from the world outside. You ride out the waves, your body convulsing until the tremors finally subside.
You are limp in his arms, your ear pressed to the steady rhythm of his heart.
He carries you back to the cot and lays you down as if you are fragile and precious. He lies beside you, pulling you into his arms, your bodies tangled in a mess of limbs and torn fabric.
"You are loud," he whispers, a faint, wry smile touching his lips despite the pain in his eyes. "I would have you be quieter, Your Grace. Your ladies are not deaf."
You burrow closer to him, hand resting on the hard planes of his chest. "Let them hear," you murmur, your eyes drifting closed. "Let the whole world hear. I don't care."
The shack falls into a heavy, ringing silence, broken only by the settling of the wood ash and the rhythmic hitch of your shared breath. He does not pull away. Instead, he collapses into you, his massive weight a grounding, soul-crushing comfort that pins you to the cot.
"I won't let go," he whispers against the curve of your neck. The words aren't a comfort—they are a desperate, broken threat against the inevitable. "I can't."
But he will have to. The reality of it settles over the room like a shroud, cold and suffocating. You have secured this one night, a secret to be buried like a treasure in a shallow grave.
Tomorrow, the sun will rise, and the Seven Kingdoms will demand their Princess back. They will demand the Hedge Knight return to his post, a silent sentinel with a heart made of stone.
"Don't think about it," he says, as if he can feel the ghost of the morning light already chilling your skin. "Not yet. Just stay. Here. Now."
You nod against his chest, listening to the drum of his heart; the same steady, relentless beat you have followed since you were a girl. You close your eyes, trying to etch the scent of him into your very marrow.
"I love you," you whisper, the words a final plea.
"And I you," he replies, his arms tightening until it feels as if he might pull you through his own skin. "More than you will ever know. More than the life I've sworn to give."
The stars overhead glitter with an indifferent cruelty. The world has shrunk to this single, rough-hewn room, to a narrow cot and the truth that has finally been set free. He holds you in the gathering dark, and for a heartbeat, you allow yourself the lie—the belief that one night could sustain a person through a lifetime of lonely years.
But as the embers outside dwindle to grey ash, the terror of the future returns. You want to beg him to choose you, to break the honor that has defined him and shatter the world that keeps you apart. But you know the man you love. He is Ser Duncan the Tall; his word is his life. And you are a Queen in the making, and your life is never truly your own to live.
He shifts, pulling the remnants of your torn clothes and a rough blanket over you both.
"I will remember this," you whisper into the hollow of his collarbone. "I will hold the taste of you in my heart like a secret treasure that no one can touch. Not the Crown, not the laws of men... none of them were in this room tonight."
"And I will remember you," he replies, his voice a gentle vibrating rasp. "The way you looked in the firelight. The way you sounded when you..." He breaks off, the memory of your surrender too sharp to speak aloud. "I will carry you into battle, into exile, and into the grave. You are my true north, the only star I’ll ever need to find my way through the dark."
The silence returns, heavier now. The red glow of the embers paints the room in the shades of a fading sunset. You cling to him, your nails tracing the scars on his back, trying to memorize the topography of the only man you would ever truly belong to.
"You will be a great Queen," he whispers, though the words sound like they cost him everything. "And one day, you will look back and see only a foolish hedge knight who loved you more than his own soul."
"I will never forget," you say, your voice steady despite the tremor in your limbs. "I will never forget you. I will carry you with me, always. In my heart, in my soul..."
You take his hand, the heavy, calloused hand that has held a sword for you for years and press it firmly over your stomach, your voice dropping to a ghost of a whisper.
"...and perhaps, if the gods are kind and cruel all at once, in my body."
He doesn't speak. He can't. He only pulls you closer as the first grey fingers of dawn begin to touch the windowpane, signaling the end of the only world you ever wanted to live in.
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