reading a historical romance novel and reflecting on the way these stories often present woke nobility for the contemporary reader. a big thing is servants. you can’t not have servants in those times but many modern readers think “but I would never have servants. it would be so weird to have servants” and in order to make the protagonists of the story more relatable they are actually friends with the servants. but flip your perspective and think of it from the side of the servants. wouldn’t it be so awful if your boss was always trying to be friends with you. a really common thing you’ll see is the woke baronet having tea in the kitchen with the servants bc he’s not like other baronets. but what if your boss wanted to hang out and talk during your lunch break every day. not so charming when you think about it that way
you have never argued with your knight until now, and your bond is about to be tested when danger befalls you
genre/warnings:
hurt/comfort, arguments, tw. manhandling and harassment (not by dunk), fluff, targaryen!reader (reader is egg's sister)
notes:
ser duncan is simply a gentle giant and i just have to put him through slight angst <3
“Oh, brave ser! Hope you have a good day!”
The first time you saw how she fluttered around Ser Duncan, you didn’t really notice it. An innkeeper’s wife was meant to be hospitable. It was her trade.
She was young too. Not much older than yourself, if older at all. Her smile was bright and easy, the sort that invited trust without effort.
But then, came the sudden knocks at night.
“Is everything all right, ser?” she would ask sweetly through the door. “I heard a sound.”
You had been in the very same room, were standing right there beside him all the time. There had never been any sound.
And—
“Ser, your sword seems to need polishing… I can help you with that!”
“You must be tired from your travels. Leave your clothes by the hearth, I’ll have them washed before supper!”
After the nth time, the pattern was impossible to ignore and you knew you weren’t imagining it. This woman wasn’t just trying to be hospitable— she keeps finding excuses to talk to Dunk.
But the more surreal thing was the way she stared down at you—quick, assessing, almost amused, and sometimes, her eyes focused on your drawstring bag too.
“I’m telling you, she is— of suspicious origins!”
You stood near the narrow window of your shared room, arms folded tightly across your chest. Below, the courtyard bustled in the late night light. You replayed the scene of the dinner in your mind, how the innkeeper lady leaned far too close as she handed Dunk a mug of ale.
Dunk, meanwhile, was unlacing his boots with slow patience.
“She is just kind,” he said, as if that settled the matter. “It’s her inn. She’s meant to be kind.”
“She doesn’t act like that with the other guests—” you shot back, before stopping yourself. Your frown deepened. “Wait. This place hardly has any other guests at all. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? I know something is wrong with this place.”
He sighed at that, rubbing a hand through his hair. “You’re imagining things where there are none, Princess.”
“And you,” you snapped, “see nothing even when it’s waving a flag in front of your face!”
It was this behavior that irked you really. You knew Dunk always looked for the good in people—it was one of the things that made him who he was. He believed in kindness because he carried so much of it himself. But this time, you were convinced that he just refused to see the bad parts because that woman had blinded him.
Egg gulped at how you didn’t seem like you would back down soon, and quickly slipped out of the room so he wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire.
Dunk looked up at your fiery response, brow furrowing, and you went on with your tirade.
“She takes her chances with you and you just stand there smiling like you haven’t the faintest idea. Always coming to our room. Always offering to wash your things, polish your swords—Seven save me, she might as well offer to sharpen them with her teeth!”
Dunk blinked, totally not getting where your animosity was from. “M’lady, that’s not nice. There is nothing to have an idea about—”
“That’s exactly the problem. You never notice these things. You never see when someone’s plotting under your nose. You just assume everyone means well!”
“And that’s a fault?” His voice was still soft, but something in it had changed. “I appreciate the thought, but you can’t make all women look bad just because they’re being nice to me.”
Something tightened in your chest. So that was what he thought of you?
Your fingers curled at your sides. “You’re so painfully oblivious it’s embarrassing.”
Your words flew before you could stop it, and it seemed to strike him a great deal. You saw it in the way his shoulders stilled and how his gaze, usually so open and earnest, hardened. He didn't speak for awhile, until he got up.
“If I’m that embarrassing, then you shouldn’t be with the likes of me, Your Grace.”
Your anger drained at once, replaced by a cold twist of regret, but you didn’t chase after him even as he went out of the room and refused to look at you.
And somehow, that hurt worst of all.
Dunk didn’t return.
At first, you told yourself he only needed air, but then three hours passed. As the lantern burner lower and the sounds of the inn quieted into uneasy stillness, dread began to coil in your stomach.
“He’s never gone this long,” Egg muttered. In the aftermath of your argument, he stayed quiet all the while, knowing how you most likely didn’t mean what you said at all.
For a second, you entertained the thought that he might have abandoned you and Egg. He wouldn’t do that, would he?
Your reverie was interrupted by a sudden loud chime of the bell from outside, and you snapped your head at it.
“Egg, listen to me. Something isn’t right here,” you said quietly to your brother, wary of your surroundings, “I think she’s no innkeeper’s wife at all.”
This was what you had been trying to tell Dunk too. For almost five days of your stay here, you had noticed how deserted the hallways were. This inn set price lower than the ones in its class, but you had a terrible feeling in your gut whenever the innkeeper lady looked at you.
It was as though she were weighing the worth of your cloak, the stitching of your boots, the quality of your speech.
Egg frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I think she’s a robber,” you said, lowering your voice further. “Or worse. This place feels staged—”
As if summoned by your suspicion, harsh knocks rattled the door. Egg and you exchanged a glance and you warned him with your eyes to take cover in the back.
However, not receiving any answer, the pounding stopped for a heartbeat. Until—
Crash! The door burst open as two men forced their way inside.
Rough hands seized you before you could even cry out. One grabbed your arms; the other lunged for Egg. The room erupted into chaos, furniture crashing aside.
“Egg—run!” you shouted. “Get Ser Duncan!”
To his credit, the boy twisted fiercely, ducking beneath a grasping arm. He tore free with surprising agility and bolted through the still-open doorway.
One of the men cursed but the other caught your hair in a brutal fist just as you tried to break away and pain exploded across your scalp.
“Let me go!” you cried, voice breaking. You gasped, clawing at his wrist, but he yanked your head back sharply—and then he stilled, squinting at the strands near your temple where new growth had come in silver-white against the darker dye you had so carefully maintained.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he breathed. “Look at this.”
The other man turned. “What?”
“She’s a Targaryen,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Look at the hair.”
Cold dread washed through you, regretting how you hadn’t reapplied the dye to your hair.
“Search it all. If she’s dragonspawn, there’s coin worth taking!”
You still trashed, but the second man had begun tearing through the chamber—overturning chests, ripping open packs, scattering your belongings across the floor. Then—
“There’s something here!”
He held up a ring. Your father’s signet ring caught in the light, its color unmistakable.
“That is mine!” You struggled again, kicking, clawing—but you were suddenly thrown to the floor.
For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. You scrambled back, hands shaking, vision blurring with tears. Your left wrist screamed in protest—you must have twisted it in some way.
The men loomed over you.
“Well, the innkeep did say we can do with her as we please afterwards, though?”
You let out a scream, fighting as their hands restrained you.
Dunk had always known, but that knowledge did little to dull the sting.
He had known that you stood far above a man like him. You were born to a place in the world he could scarcely dream of reaching. And he... he is only Dunk—a hedge knight, too low in birth, too poor in coin, too clumsy in speech.
What could he possibly offer you but calloused hands and a life spent wandering dusty roads?
Yet somewhere along the road—between the long rides, the shared fires, and the easy laughter you gave him so freely—he had allowed himself to forget. Just for a little while, he had pretended he could stand beside you without feeling the weight of all the ways he fell short.
And there was one thing he had sworn, and that vow had never wavered. He would protect you. It might be the only thing he could give, but it was out of love all the same.
“Ser Duncan!”
Dunk had only just turned back towards the inn, his thoughts still heavy, when the boy came barreling down the lane.
“Help— my sister!” Egg’s voice was hoarse, cracking with panic and tears. “They’ve got her!”
“Who—”
“The robbers! They’re hurting her!”
Suddenly, Dunk couldn’t think. Suddenly, the image of man twice your size looming over you made his stomach churn.
He broke into a full sprint then, shoulders shoving past anyone in his way as he tore through the inn doors hard enough to rattle the frame.
Your scream reached him the moment he stepped inside. He took the stairs two at a time, then three—his boots thundering against the wood as he raced towards your chamber.
The door was ajar. Inside, two men hovered over you.
Dunk did not see anything else at first. Not the overturned furniture. Not the scattered things. Just you, curled on the floor.
Your trembling form. Your busted lip, blood against your mouth. Lips wobbling, tears falling endlessly from your eyes.
The world went red that instant.
He seized the nearest attacker by the collar and flung him bodily across the room. The man crashed into the wall with a sickening crack.
The second barely had time to turn before Dunk’s fist connected with his jaw, his blow landed like a hammer.
Each blow landed with the force of a fury so absolute it made him unrecognizable. The man crumpled, but Dunk didn’t stop. He hauled him upright again only to slam him back down. His knuckles splitting, his breath coming hard and ragged.
When the first man tried to rise, Dunk kicked him back down. He beat him too until he was little more than groaning heaps on the floor.
Only when the room fell silent—save for your sobbing—did Dunk stop. His chest heaved, hands were bloodied. His face, still flushed with rage, slowly turned towards you.
And the fury drained as he had a one true look at you. At how you shook uncontrollably, making yourself smaller in that corner, looking as if you were thoroughly violated.
“Princess—” he croaked out, blue eyes widening, feeling numb all of a sudden. “Oh no…”
The sight of you hollowed him out.
My fault. The thought struck him like a blow. All my fault.
He had left you. He should have been here. I should have protected her. Guilt twisted so sharply in his chest that his own vision blurred.
Dunk dropped to his knees in front of you. His large hands hovered uncertainly in the air as his eyes searched you desperately for injuries. He was afraid to touch you or even to ask if you were okay—
“Ser Duncan…” you tearfully looked up at him, clutching your broken wrist. All you comprehended now was that you were so relieved that he was here, and that you were safe—
You suddenly threw yourself at him.
Your good arm wrapped around his back as you buried your face against his chest, a broken sob tearing free from your throat.
Dunk froze for the briefest heartbeat, before pressing his cheek against your hair. His large hand moved slowly over your back in clumsy, gentle strokes, trying to soothe you the only way he knew how.
“I’m sorry— oh Seven, I’m so, so sorry…” Dunk choked out, his voice breaking, tightening his arm around you. “Forgive me, m’lady... I should never have left you alone. I’ve failed you… I let this happen to you.”
You clung to him like a lifeline, and Dunk held you just as tightly.
The very same night, you left the inn.
Before the sun had even begun to rise, Dunk had already secured a carriage. It cost more coin than he could comfortably spare, but he did not hesitate. All that mattered was getting you away from that place—and making sure you were cared for properly.
“Does it hurt?” he asked sadly as he tended to your injured wrist tenderly. His eyes flicked to yours, filled with worry.
“I’m fine, Ser Duncan,” you assured.
Still, every time you winced, Dunk’s brow would crease again, his mouth tightening with guilt as though the hurt were his doing.
And as if to make up for his sins, from that night onwards, he hardly left your side.
If you stood, Dunk stood with you. If you walked, he walked just half a step behind, watchful and alert. In taverns or markets, his sharp blue eyes lingered on any man who stared too long, his gaze hard enough to send most looking quickly away.
“Y-you’re scary,” a little boy once blurted in a busy market, staring up at him with wide eyes.
Dunk, already on edge and half expecting danger around every corner, merely glared down at him, and it sent the poor boy running.
“Ser Duncan, he’s just a kid...”
“No one’s getting within three feet of you, m’lady.”
. . .
One evening, the two of you sat beside a small roadside fire while the sky deepened into twilight. Dunk knelt beside you, carefully unwinding the bandage around your wrist to change the dressing.
“I’m a lunk,” he muttered, eyes focusing solely on the healing bluish bruise on your skin. “Thick as a castle wall, me. Should’ve listened when you said something felt wrong about that inn.”
You knew he felt very apologetic for what happened, but it wasn’t the first time you caught him thinking that out loud about himself, and it squeezed your heart every time he did.
When he was done tending to you, you found his gaze.
“No,” you said firmly.
Dunk blinked, surprised. You reached out with your uninjured hand, grabbing his arm so he would not look away.
“No,” you repeated. “You are not a lunk.”
His brows knit together, confusion flickering across his broad face.
“You’re a knight of the Seven Kingdoms. My knight,” you continued, your voice soft but certain. “The bravest—also the kindest—one I know. So do not ever say that you’re a lunk.”
For a moment, he simply stared at you. The fire crackled softly in front of you, the warm glow dancing in his blue eyes.
Something in his expression shifted then. You could almost see the insecurity that clouded his eyes faded with your words.
Slowly, Dunk squeezed your hand back. Then, very carefully—as if afraid he might overstep—he leaned forward.
His large hand came up to cradle the back of your head for just a moment, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.
It was brief. Tender. And full of a warmth that made your chest flutter.
When he pulled away, his ears had gone a little red, but there was a new steadiness in the way he looked at you now.
“Thank you, m’lady,” he murmured.
There were many things he wanted to say, but his breath caught when he found your mesmerizing gaze. I love you, his heart whispered. He hoped you knew that.
For the first time in days, Dunk’s shoulders seemed to sit a little straighter.
And though the road ahead was long and uncertain, he felt—perhaps for the first time—that maybe he truly was the knight you believed him to be.
ೀ a domesticated ser dunk settles down in the countryside of the westerlands. he raises sheep for his lady’s wool, hunts for warm furs to adorn her quaint shoulders, labors veg from the ground to keep her belly full. there he can ravage his wife anywhere he may please on their vast plot. the floor of the field knows her body just as well as him. the woods no longer shutter at the sound of her pleasure.
i'm in the mood to speak on dunk’s sheer size….☘︎ ݁˖
the girth is really what truly astonishes, when he presses against your entrance, it is an immense pressure, a deep, stretching ache. both being virgins it really is an exploration and new experience for you both…
his gaze, darts between your face and your pussy stretching to take him, his concern for your comfort a contrast to the overwhelming power he holds. he halts at your sharp intake of breath, his large hand coming to rest gently on your lower belly, a soft sound from his lips drawing your eyes to his.
"do i pain you, my lady? should i stop?"
"n-no," you manage, a small nod accompanying the word. your hands once gripping his broad shoulders now tangling in the back of his hair.
"easy now," he murmurs as he resumes sinking you down on him.
"gods above!" you gasp, your eyes squeezing shut as your back arches from the intensity of his slow, deliberate entry.
"s’okay- s’okay i feel it, i’ll be gentle. i swear it."
he releases your hip to grasp the base of his shaft, a means to have a more focused pressure, sinking another inch.
"dunk!"
"there girl," he praises, his voice thick with a primal satisfaction as your slickness coats him, easing his path. "i would not see you hurt," with a final, gentle push, you feel him nudge impossibly deep, a presence you feel in your belly. instinctively, you try to widen your straddle, desperate for more room to accommodate his fat cock.
"be at ease, now," he urges, tapping the inside of your thigh. "i don’t think i can move if your muscles don’unclench."
you draw a ragged breath and release it slowly. duncan feels the subtle shift, the way your body softens around his intrusion. "aye, just so my love."
as you exhale, he presses forward, seating himself another measure deeper before slowly lifting you up and down experimentally.
"seven hells, you feel like heaven," he groans, his composure fraying at the edges. his eyes are fixed upon where you are joined. at the sound of your exhaled breath, he thrusts again burying his entire length within you. another sharp cry escapes your lips, and your hands grip or- tug his hair.
"breathe. just breathe," he commands, his own brows raised in encouragement as he demonstrates for you. you nod, mimicking him, the tightness in your chest easing with each cycle of air.
"good…keep breathing…" he asks. your nod is frantic as you comply. in, out, in, out...and with each exhale, sir duncan begins to move you up and down, impaling you on his veiny girth cock, in a slow, deep rhythm that fills you completely.
How would the AKTSK guys react to a screamer in bed? 😏
Headcanons for a reader who is vocal in bed
(including: Baelor, Maekar, Valarr, Daeron, Dunk and Lyonel)
Tags/Warnings: 18+, Smut, Implied Age Gap for the DILFs
Words: about 150-200 for each
BAELOR would tell you to be quiet, lest you be overheard. He'd shush you with a ringed hand covering your mouth, cooing in your ear as he continues thrusting, burying himself inside of you again and again, pummelling the spot that made you scream in the first place.
He wants desperately to make you come, but he does not want the whole castle to hear you. Not because of embarrassment, but because he does not wish others to know what you sound like. Baelor has to give so much to the realm. Your sounds are one of the only things that are his.
If you were on Dragonstone, on the other hand... he would encourage you to make whichever sounds you please. He loves knowing that he pleasures you so much that you become unable to regulate yourself, that he unmakes you so thoroughly. The only time he would muffle your sounds in the privacy his seat on Dragonstone affords him is when he kisses you, swallows your sounds into his own throat, consuming you as you consume him.
MAEKAR would be undeniably proud. He takes immense pride in his prowess, and he does not mind everyone knowing how much his lady wife enjoys him and his thick cock. In fact, he wants them to know. All those young, simpering knights that follow you with their eyes - they'll hear your pleased screams and know that your husband is the one making you feel this way. Not them. Never them.
If anything, he encourages you to be even louder, egging you on as he fucks you harder, faster, whatever you need. If you like your hair pulled, he'll do that, too. Maekar can get a little mean with it. This man has no shame, and he can be almost as vocal as you with his groaning and grunting.
The only thing that would dampen his ardour is if his children were staying close. When he needs to be mindful of his brood, Maekar has been known to put something into your mouth to keep you quiet. A gag, his fingers, his cock... it doesn't matter. He'll make you peak regardless. He knows your body well enough.
VALARR would be startled at first. He was raised on gentle courtesies, the politeness of court. He is used to refined speech, people concealing their wants and desires behind mild manners. But that does not mean that he dislikes how vocal you are.
In fact, he learns to treasure it, his longing for your screams in the sanctity of your chambers becoming quite ardent. It's a respite, a break from his burdens. In bed with you, his head bracketed by your thighs, he feels at home. He is finally not afraid of failing, not when you sing so prettily for him and there is no doubt to be had that you enjoy his touch.
With you he knows that he does not need to be perfect for you to love him, though he still always puts you first, wringing at least one peak from you before he even enters you. Valarr himself is quiet, rarely even sighing in pleasure, but you more than make up for it and he would have it no other way.
DAERON would barely notice initially. Other than you, he was used to whores, and they were always vocal in their performances. At first he assumes you are the same, acting to please him, pretending.
Once some time has passed and he realises that you actually like what he is doing, that you are being honest, he becomes more nervous. There's a pressure on him now. What if he cannot make you scream the next time? What if he drinks too much and cannot be good enough for you?
It fucks with his head a little. Daeron is used to being perceived as a failure. That you like him, like the way he makes you feel, is foreign and strange. But with time he learns that it is not bad. To be wanted. That your "expectations" are not hard to meet, that it's different than what he's used to. There's no punishment, no disappointment. Only love.
DUNK would stop immediately. He would freeze above you, scared to death, his broad, towering frame supported by his huge arms, needing to make sure that your scream was a good sound. He's not used to making people feel good.
When you encourage him to continue, when you reassure him, he becomes more confident, bolder. He'd start experimenting with what makes you scream the loudest - a kiss here, a squeeze there, his cock pushing into you in a maddeningly slow drag.
Eventually, he grows to love your squeals, your screams, your sighs. Everything that shows him that he's doing a good job. He knows he can be slow to understand, but he finds that your sounds make your reactions easier to interpret. He almost doesn't even mind the grins and salacious winks people shoot at him when he emerges from his rooms after a rigorous night of activity. But his blush betrays him.
LYONEL would chuckle and tease. All in good fun, of course. He loves a confident woman, a woman that knows what she likes and expresses that. If you are usually shy, he'll like it even more. Seeing a side of you that no else sees, coaxing it out of you with his mouth, hand, or his cock - it drives him crazy.
He's utterly unashamed - Lyonel likes fucking you where people will hear your sounds. If anyone mentions it to him, he'll boast, take it as a compliment. If he's feeling particularly naughty, he might make a comment doubting the other's sexual prowess if they cannot make their wives scream as he does his.
His favourite is when he crooks his fingers inside of you, seeing your face twist in pleasure at the same time. He loves watching that scream form in your throat, loves watching your eyes flutter as you peak. His name on your lips makes him unbearably smug.
I love how we're all going through akotsk withdrawals like, they're so missed 😩😩😩😩
How about Dunk being extremely touch starved and reader easing him into caresses and skin-to-skin contact that isn't violence? 👉👈👉👈🥺🥺
Thinking about loving and showing affection to touch!starved Dunk..
a/n: this is just fluffiness, i’m glad i’m not alone, i’ve especially missed our knight!!
Most people looking at him, would think he’s anything but. He’s a large, built, great giant of a man, and all people that pass him seem to stare. What would he need of love? Of someone’s touch?
But that was until you.
Unlike most. Because they wouldn’t stop for him, they wouldn’t talk or even care to give him a moment. Not like you have. He’s a hedge knight, dumber than a castle wall. That’s all he’d been told.
But not to you.
You seem to notice it all. All of the little things he barely picks up on himself. Like the way his hand flinches when someone draws near, or the way his shoulders sag in company, only to be corrected around that of royals or nobles. That every touch — a practical, brotherly clap on the shoulder, Egg tugging at his sleeve, or townsfolk shoving by.
It’s far from gentle.
Because it’s something he’s never known. Something he couldn’t even begin to wrap his head around.
So you ease him into it, with the small things, things less likely to frighten him off.
The first is when you began reaching for him more in crowds. Your shoulders brushing, arms touching, even holding on loosely to the corner of his cloak just to keep up with his long strides. He blushes at first, the tips of his ears turning pink at the sudden movement, but it was useful, nothing more, something to protect you.
And that he held onto.. that he reassured himself it’s all it was.
The time it happens again, is softer, quieter with you both lazing on the bank of the river. The night had been drawing in for some time, dusk crowding the countryside and a chill settling your bones. You had moved up to him a mere inch before he flinched away, nothing dramatic, but enough and by the slightest you had felt it. Dunk had thought had had taken up too much room, shifting sideways to give you more of it. But you stopped him.
“Stay put.” You wriggle backwards, easing into the side of his shoulder, and this time he doesn’t move a muscle, “It is far too cold.”
That he couldn’t argue with, and so he didn’t. Again he’s simply looking after you, providing, trying his best to ignore the ticking in his chest, the longing.
Then comes the hand holding, more intricate and more testing but you do it anyway. The market stalls are bustling, apple carts pulled by horses and sellers airing out their wears, he had slowed as much as he could so that you had kept up, but it was too much. Your hand reached as far as it could go in front of you until your fingers slipped through his. They stayed loose at first, large, calloused hands stuttering around ones smaller than his own.
A joke it must have looked like.
His hand stays there, closing around yours slowly, hesitantly just as you catch up, but neither of you pull away. Instead you take in the sights around you, striding beside him without a care in the world, like it’s normal, like it’s so simple. Like he isn’t darting his eyes back and forth every second to where you’re both connected.
And when you finally let go, his hand remains open, flexing his fingers around nothing, the foreign feeling of holding something so warm and soft.
And he’s already missing it.
Somewhat of a confession finally comes with a night under the stars. Spring had came and gone leaving summer in its way, the heat of it too and for once it wasn’t cold, the cloaks and ragged blankets were shrugged from you, and yet you found yourself cuddled up to Dunk, further by the hour.
The fire had burned low, the moon twinkling shadows from the branches overhead. A tiredness overwhelmes you, sleep clinging to your eyes as you lean back without another thought. A huff escapes his throat, chest jolting up behind you as you collide with it.
“Are you comfortable?” You call out through the dying light, hand splaying out onto his chest.
“Yes.” Dunk grits out carefully, so sharp you can feel the way he stares out into the treeline. You raise your head slightly to see him, blinking up at him as he looks wearily down at you.
“You look terrified..”
“I ain’t terrified, I just..” He pauses, stuttering before he can stop himself, and you urge him on, nodding your head carefully. “Nobody’s done this before.”
The words come out quietly, his body stiffening under you like the wound him even to say. Like it’s some shameful secret. And your chest tightens, heart breaking a little, because of course they haven’t. No one has given him this, even the time to, let alone to hold him, comfort him the way you have.
A hedge knight doesn’t get softness, he doesn’t get love. He gets a space on the ground surrounded by mud and stone, tourneys to compete in and duties to take care of. That’s it.
And so you made that difference. You made it your task to start teaching him. That it was alright, that he was deserving.. and most of all that you wanted to do it. But it wasn’t lessons or reprimanding that did it, it was patience.
Your hand brushing the hair from the sweat beading at his brow from practicing in the meadow. Or chopping wood on the bench.
A hand on his arm when he grows tense, stroking your fingers up and down the broad muscle, and feeling him ease in real time.
Your head resting against his shoulder as you both curl up on the far too small bed of an inn you had found from long days on the road. And he finally stops jolting, arms moving awkwardly to search for you, curling around you with a deliberate care. He starts reflecting you, searching for you as soon as you leave his side, hand pressing at the dip of your back as you stand in the tents.
And from then on, Dunk seeks it out. Some sort of seal is being broken and you realise further just how starved he’s been, because he wants that too. He wants to be relied on, to be touched by you, to be held and to hold you.
And he proves it, because he can no longer go without walking too far without you on his arm, or your hand placed in his larger one. Dunk finds himself shadowing you more than ever, because he may have been a hedge knight first, but he is your protector, and your warmth is something that he can’t go without.
thinking about dunk having a pretty woman on his arm, and no one can quite believe she’s actually his, nor that she is so in love with him and pursued him first
everyone’s confused at how a blubbering fool like dunk got a girl like her
Everyone always looked at the pair funny when they arrived into towns and villages seeking a room for the night, the owners offering them two rooms, only for Dunk to bashfully tell them that 'no, one will be fine'. They would look between the two curiously, taking in the look of adoration in her eyes.
It's worse at the tourney when all these well-respected, fine Knights see a pretty maiden trailing behind a hulking figure of a man with rope as a belt, a little bald boy at her side. It has them blinking, unsure if they've perhaps conjured up the image in their minds.
And then they see her tugging on his tunic, pulling him down for a kiss, and their jaws drop. Her... and him? Him... and her?
Even Raymun gathers the courage to ask Dunk about her, and Raymun's stunned when he tells him of how she pestered him on the road until she simply kissed him one day. He'd be a fool for her ever since, he tells Raymun.
yousharknotpass
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titsay
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