Sworn sword Ser Duncan the Tall, who has dedicated his life to protecting you, the heir of your House. Pining for you, watching from the corners of your hall, following you everywhere, always three steps behind.
Your literal shadow.
Until the keep is raided and pillaged, burnt to the ground by Blackfyre men, and he barely gets you both out by the skin of your teeth. Your pretty gown tattered and singed, teary cheeks pressed against his armoured back as you both ride away; his stallion trots through the hidden paths in the deep woods, shielded by the cover of the stormy night.
Ser Duncan, dismayed by his proper lady, who strips down to nothing with him, ordered they huddle together for warmth during the night, since a fire was not an option, with the enemy still so close.
He still makes sure you’re taken care of whilst on the run, even if it means he goes without... Stopping by an inn for the night after a few days of travelling? Well, he’ll make sure he gets the innkeeper to run you a steaming bath with scented oils and soaps.
Ser Duncan always makes sure you have a glass of wine with your dinner, not ale or cider for his fine lady. He gives you the bigger portion of food even though it gets placed in front of him.
He pays kids he saw plaiting and braiding each other’s hair with some candies to restyle yours for you; your pretty locks have tangled without the maids to take care of it. Meanwhile, he trades a warmer cloak for you from the local market when you aren’t looking.
Gods forbid his lady feels discomfort; he just wants you to feel like yourself, even in the uncertainty.
Dunk who is so devoted to your well-being that he's blind to the way you take care of him. How you fix the broken straps of his armour, mend the gashes on his clothes, clean the dirt from his brow with your handkerchief.
He's oblivious.
When you cuddle up to him, your head is on his big, muscled arm, one hand on his chest, rising and falling along with his breathing; the times the hedge is your shelter for the night.
Warmth, however, is only an excuse.
You wait for the moment sleep has fully taken him, and your palm begins to slide south until you reach his groin, the tips of your fingers drawing circles on his cock as it starts to grow under your hand.
The moment his hips start to buck under your ministrations, you stop. hesitating for a few heartbeats until he settles again, cock hard as iron under his breeches. Slowly you slip the hand you used to arouse him to the heat between your thighs.
Moments later, as the pulsing of his groin becomes unbearable, Duncan wakes up to you shaking and panting against him, your body curled up and covered in a thin sheet of sweat.
And he feels so guilty, cockhead leaking and throbbing. Clearly, you had fallen ill during the night, while he was having a pleasure dream about you.
Sworn sword Ser Duncan the Tall, poor knight who has no idea his Lady wants to fuck him dumb.
okay but imagine a couple who are clearly enjoying their bedding ceremony and having an audience wayyyy too much so much so the lords watching you leave before youre done because they feel uncomfortable. this is about lyonel baratheon.
dreamt about a knight coming to you after a battle and getting on his knees in front of you and roaming his hands up your legs and smearing blood across your skin as he rests his cheek against your upper thigh. btw. additionally i would like to add taking his helmet off and hearing it rattle against the stone floor and running your hands through sweaty hair and praising him for protecting your kingdom. anyways.
you know that trope where it’s princess + knight, but they’ve both been captured by the bad guys and the princess is now gripped by the jaw by the villain, receiving a thin cut to her cheek while remaining completely still with a defiant look in her eyes even as a droplet of blood begins to trickle out of the wound, all while 3 people AT THE VERY LEAST need to have their hands locked on the knight because he’s thrashing around like a wild animal, trying so so so desperately, violently, to get to her?
During your stay at Summerhall, it became painfully obvious to everyone that neither you nor Daeron had formed any real attachment to one another. No warmth, no spark worthy of a marriage meant to bind kingdoms together.
Worried the union would collapse before it had even begun, Maekar quietly ordered the maester to prepare a love potion.
“Something subtle,” he had said. “Meant only to nurture affection between future husband and wife. Nothing dangerous.”
Obeying the Prince of Summerhall, the maester spent weeks preparing it, intending for you and Daeron to drink it together.
Subtle and nothing dangerous, huh. A foolish thing to believe.
Maekar should have known better than to place faith in a spellbound concoction. Love, whether born naturally or forged through unnatural means, had always been a dangerous force - one capable of unmaking reason, duty and entire kingdoms alike.
Unfortunately for all involved, fate had little regard for careful plans.
Then came the day of departure.
You were to return briefly to your homeland as the wedding preparations continued. By coincidence, Baelor announced that he too, would be returning to King’s Landing that same morning to resume his duties. And so, both parties departed together.
The roads were long and unbearably hot beneath the summer sun. By sunset, the travelling company stopped at a nearby inn to rest. You were exhausted from hours trapped inside the carriage, your body aching from the journey.
That was when the maester approached you. He presented a small vial of crimson liquid, assuring you it would ease the soreness in your limbs and help you sleep. Trusting him, you drank it without a question.
Later that same night, Baelor overheard mention of the tonic. Plagued by one of his relentless headaches and worn thin by the suffocating summer heat, he asked the maester for the same remedy. And by a terrible, terrible mistake, the maester handed him the love potion meant for Daeron.
At first, nothing seemed amiss. The night carried on as any other. Supper was served, conversations dwindled, and one by one, the weary travellers retired to their chambers.
But as the night deepened and the world fell quiet, fate had already begun weaving the first threads of ruin.
It all started during the hour of the wolf. When you were supposed to be asleep, an unsettling feeling stirred within you. Your heart beat strangely against your chest, restless and anxious. Something you could not put into words. Unable to bear the suffocating feeling any longer, you wandered quietly to the back of the inn, seeking a moment of solitude away.
And there, too, coming from another direction, was Prince Baelor himself. As though some invisible string had been tied between you, pulling the two of you toward the same place.
Surprised by the sight of you, he paused. “What are you doing here at this hour, my lady?” his eyes studying you carefully. He looked anxious too.
“I- I needed some air,” you said. You had never been this close to the prince before. Never close enough to notice how striking he truly was beneath the dim glow of night - all sharp features, tanned skin, and quiet intensity. Your heart began to beat even harder than before.
"and you... what are you doing at this hour, your Grace?," you asked softly, voice beginning to tremble as the two of you drew closer.
“I might ask you the same question,” he murmured, shaking his head faintly. “But truthfully… I needed air as well.” He let out a quiet breath, chewing at his bottom lip trying to steady himself for what he would say next.
Then Baelor glanced toward the old wooden bench under the lantern glow before looking back at you once more. "...w- would you sit with me... for a while?”
You should have said no. What would people say if they found the future wife of Daeron sitting at such an hour with his uncle - the prince of the realm - with no one else in sight?
But before your mind could form the refusal, your heart had already answered for you. “Yes, of course,” you had said.
And so there you sat beneath a sky strewn with stars - talking longer than either of you ever had before, lingering closer than you should have, a strange flutter rising in your chest every time your eyes met. Shoulders brushed unintentionally. Knees kept bumping every time he leaned closer to whisper something in your ears. His hands would grazed yours. Sounds of giggles filled the open space. Something unspoken had begun to bloom between you.
One thing lead to another and then another and then another. The slow, dangerous unraveling of restraint beneath the lantern glow and summer night air. You could not remember how the night ended. But you knew with certainty that Baelor’s face had been the last thing you saw before sleep finally claimed you. The result of a formidable potion.
When sunrise came, you opened your eyes to find yourself tucked under Baelor's arm, still in the same spot as last night. Hurried voices carried in from the distance.
"Where is she?!" A familiar voice, one of your ladies-in-waiting, wavered through the air.
"Prince Baelor is not in his room! Find him!" A rough command barked from one of the Kingsguard, and the neigh and thump of hooves began to fade toward the grounds.
When you lifted your head to look at Baelor, he had already been looking at you. He swallowed, eyes pleading for something - like he was screaming for something he did not dare say out loud. So you said it instead.
"I don't want to marry Daeron..." you whispered, begging him to see your pain. "Please, Baelor..." Tears began to pool behind your eyes.
He leaned forward and pressed your foreheads together, sending unspoken promises in a language only the two of you understood. "Then I will burn this kingdom," he said, eyes closing like a vow, "if it means making you mine instead."
That was when you realised everything had changed. Your life had shifted into a never-ending spiral, with nothing but chaos to follow....
