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𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 | ser duncan the tall

( gif credits to @wonderins)

—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 (coming soon!)

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.

You are golden and he is brown.

And yet you said ‘I’ll find you’.

The thought burns.