And while he sleeps, without a single thought of me, I writhe over the ground, holding a dagger to my throat, tears staining my face like if I was some sort of wretched babe. And he sleeps peacefully in the bed I watched over, and he sleeps without guilt or sin or sadness. And I am the one that burns away in despair. And I am the one that remembers him. And he sleeps, in his black furs, in his silk blankets, in his pale skin, fourteen days away from me. Vassalage, brotherhood, chivalry, alliance, lovers, slavedom. It was all lies. All lies.
𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ feels subpar to me but you guys be the judge; i know this is long awaited for yall
𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 5.51k
cw: doggy, lotta cursing, use of the name whore for aerion, little prep, no protection, brat taming, creampie, begging
The first time your eyes lingered on Prince Aerion for too long, you'd been caught. Relief did not fill you instantly when you turned your head to see it was your fellow King's Guard who clapped his hand onto your shoulder, but it did come when a wide smile spread across his face and he said, "He's pretty, isn't he?"
You scoff and try to keep your cool, rolling your shoulders to shrug his hand off. "What are you on about?"
"Don't worry, brother," The word brother sounds foreign to you. You only just joined the King's Guard. This man is not your brother, not yet. Still, Ser Roland remains speaking personally. "We've all thought it."
"We?"
He laughs, even, "In times of peace, knighthood gets boring. Especially King's Guard knighthood."
He claps on your shoulder one last time, too quick for you to shove off, "Be careful. The pretty ones are always temperamental."
He fucks off before you can tell him to.
Though, you suppose, Aerion is pretty, it's why your stare lingers; and he's hardly even doing anything, just sparring, albeit roughly, with his brothers. He is good with his sword, you'll admit. Even better with a flail… and his armor, and the way he rides his horse?
Fuck.
You were not sworn into the King's Guard to oggle. Get back to work, dickhead.
Aerion knows you're fresh meat. Perhaps it is because any knight sworn to him has been replaced within a couple weeks. You only know this because you heard it whispered betweem the King's Guard—gossips, they are—otherwise, you weren't even warned about it. Nor could you refuse. Aerion has a reputation about him, even amongst common folk or circles outside the Keep.
Regardless, Aerion torments anyone around him, man or woman, in spite of status; that meaning, for one, that such behavior is below his standing, and for two, he readily antagonizes his uncles or older cousins.
It is worse, of course, to those beneath him. Like you.
Except, actually, the silence he partakes in in your presence is unsettlingly consistent. He is trying a new strategy, you heard Ser Roland say once.
You cannot assume anything about Prince Aerion, and that is something you learned quickly. He does not hold any shame over his own body, even when you are stationed inside his chambers rather than outside.
Most nobles have the ability to blur out the servants around them as if they weren't real people; and of course, Aerion has this, except he doesn't use it for you. His eye holds yours in the mirror as he is fitted, mostly naked, for his next robe.
When the tailor pricks him with a pin, Aerion does not flinch, for his focus is on you. Instead, he raises one pale brow.
The brow snaps you out of your stupor, and you clear your throat, "I suggest you be more careful, tailor."
It is unfortunate that the tailor is subject to the tension in the room, for tension that would not be there if Aerion did not find a twisted pleasure in your gaze. He bows his head nervously, "Right, Ser. I apologize, your Grace."
Aerion gives but a small nod.
One day, he speaks to you, during a walk in the Keep Gardens. It is silly, to think Aerion would walk the gardens, but you have not mentioned it to anyone and so you don't know if it is unusual.
"Tell me, Ser," Aerion says, voice passive and yet powerful, and curious too, "how bears the heat on you?"
"It is manageable, your Grace." You reply; curt, polite, and apparently appeasing to him.
"That is good to hear." He nods his head, both the polite action and words are rather shocking. "I'd hate it if my habits inconvenienced you."
Hopefully there is no surprise in your voice as you speak, "It is my duty."
To which he laughs, more jovial than maniacal. "Ser," He begins, eyes creased with joy, "are you suggesting it is your duty to be inconvenienced by me?"
Panic must rise in your expression as you sputter for words. "Of course not, your Grace. Your actions are not inconvenient—I merely say that it is my duty to serve."
His teeth appear onto you dragonlike, ready to bite; but instead, they widen into the most pleasing smile you have ever been graced with. "Good. At my every whim, Ser?"
It is your duty to follow everywhere he goes, so, "Yes."
That is pleasing to hear too. Put at ease, Aerion turns his back to you and continues the walk.
Though the moment—and his looks—had vexed you, you're not stupid. He is building for you the visage of the Maiden: innocence and joyfulness; whilst trying to get you to admit your submission to further elevate his ego. Sooner or later he will torment you, and if, for the moment, the torment is but the small pain of thinking how best to word a sentence to your superior, then you should relish in it.
Aerion has done worse to his knights. You're sure he has disgraced at least one, and you are determined to not fall into his games.
"My squire is not here today." Aerion says it as a matter of fact, settling himself the seating area by his chamber window. He does not say why— why, you should never doubt him—only makes himself at home. "Will you pour my wine, Ser?"
It is not your job to do so, but you'd rather not get yourself punished for disobeying. "Of course."
After the wine, Aerion pleads for the grapes. For a moment you think the next task might be to take off his shoes and massage his feet whilst setting them upon your lap as you kneel, but what he actually orders from you is much less trivial.
"Feed me." It's simple.
You huff out breath from your nose at the task, one you hope is easily ignored. You pick up a grape cluster and hold it up for him.
Aerion smiles. His gaze finds yours once more, violet eyes looking like they want to bore into your chest and nestle deep into what remains of your ribcage—while you look him in the eye, Aerion uses the first semblance of violence he ever has with you to take your wrist and bring your hand closer.
You know what he means to portray then, when, gingerly, he brings his lips close to the particular grape by your finger. His long, reptilian-like tongue envelops the bottom of the grape before he takes it in his mouth.
Against your best wishes, your cock fights against the metal of your armor, no space to bulge up. The more you entertain his pretty eyes with yours, the more blood rushes down.
Aerion keeps up the behavior for the rest of the cluster.
In this late time of the night, your attention is scattered. Mirroring what Ser Roland has said before, knighthood gets boring; nights, especially so. There is no danger lurking around the corner. No one would kill Aerion over his pissy behavior, it reflects nothing of the political environment nor old grudges.
So when the door opens, of course you're surprised. Aerion barely peaks his head out of the crack and snatches your helmet from your hands, before disappearing back into his room.
He left the door ajar, he took your helmet… he's trying to play. Whatever his ulterior motive is—and you know he has one—you don't know it.
At least, not fully.
Aerion is in his night clothes, that is what first comes to your thoughts, as he holds your helmet upon his lap, sat on his chaise lounge.
"Your Grace." You call, voice passive. You're annoyed, of course, but you have in you enough restraint to hide it. "If the Lord Commander sees me without helm, I will be punished."
He'd like that, you think distantly in your mind.
"Oh? Then apologies, Ser." Aerion's smile is wide, all sharp, pearly teeth. He holds out the helmet, "Come and get it."
It's a game—you know it for a fact—but what else can you do?
When you just about reach the chaise, he holds the helmet to his chest and stands up. Your eyes meet for a pause before you reach out for it, and of course, he darts away.
You're tired enough as is. You heave a sigh, and follow after him.
To his credit, Aerion is as fair as can be. He lays no traps for you, no pillows or robes upon the floor; but you're in armor, and he's in his lightest of layers.
You chase not like a cat towards a mouse, but like a charging boar with no finesse. You run straight towards, heavy armor weighing you down so that you cannot make any precise movements, but Aerion ducks away from your arms and moves right before you can get him.
Aerion's laughs are loud, uncaring, as he prances around you in circles. Your helmet is in sight at all times, but most tauntingly, he holds it atop his head at times where he draws nearest.
You've all but lost your breath and woken the next door neighbors, with your clanking armor and his taunts, when you finally catch him.
Though, evidently, he wanted you to catch him.
With your hands preoccupied upon your helmet, atop his head, Aerion takes the opportunity to kiss you.
He tastes like an aged wine, one you're not allowed and could never afford after all your years of servitude; he tastes forbidden, because you'd have to steal such a wine to savor it.
Anger sprouts across your face as you part. You grab the helmet away from him so fiercely that it has him recoiling away out of pure instinct.
You'd like to say that all these games he's playing finally make sense, but truly, some part in you already knew. The stares he gives you are enough to start a fire in your groin, what else would they mean?
Aerion sits down at the foot of his bed with a triumphant smile. You wish to scrub it off his face.
All your restraint breaks at once. "You are a fool, Aerion, to think you can toy with me like this, to think that I am helpless to do anything. You think to make yourself innocent, to convince me that your mouth will stay shut if I take you. You pretend to favor me. Most of all, Aerion, you are truly stupid, if you think I would break my oath for you."
His smile does not wane. For a moment, you think him truly dense if the words do not frighten him, but then he says, "There are eyes and ears everywhere in the Keep, Ser. I have planted seeds of your indecent fancy of me already. Tomorrow, I will tell my father that you have fucked me anyway, and you shall be disgraced."
The color must drain from your cheeks, or it might even rise, as despair fills your chest but a thought in the back of your head tells you you could end his streak of torture once and for all—you've the sword, after all.
"You might as well take what I'm offering."
Your feelings change once more, this time for the better. He's right, of course he is. If he shall disgrace you, strip you of your titles and throw you into Flea Bottom, you might as well have your fun first.
"Fuck you."
Your belt and sheath come off before you lunge towards him and capture his lips. He reciprocates immediately, forcing his long tongue between your lips. You bite it. He doesn't seem to care.
His hands come upon your shoulders, groping and grabbing, intent on getting your pauldrons off. He must've squired once in his youth, you're sure, because they come off easily.
He knows how to serve, too, but nothing's stuck from his squiring years except how undress a knight. You wonder how handy the skill is.
You return the favor by taking the collar of his night clothes and pulling. With a screech, the gown falls apart, torn into two pieces.
Aerion does not mourn the loss of his gown, but he does part from your lips to gasp. He's shocked, an emotion you've never seen in him before. You keep it in him when you push him against the bed, making him scramble up onto his elbows.
He wasn't even wearing small clothes underneath his night clothes. "Dirty whore." You call as you crawl between his knees, forcing his legs open. His cock is open for your touch, as is his cunt, but you don't care for either yet.
You press yourself against him and slot your bodies together. The cold of the metal ambushes him and makes prickly chicken skin rise across his body, you discomfort him as well as arouse him. The heat will never leave his groin, that, you're sure about the little cuck.
"Who are you to degrade me?" Aerion fights against you; brave, for he is under the weight of a strong man and his armor.
While his mouth is still open, you shove the web of your thumb into it: an easy gag, he cannot bite your hand through your gauntlets. It's like putting a bit in a horse's mouth.
Panic rises in Aerion's eyes—satisfaction, in yours—when he pushes against your hand with both of his and finds it unyielding. Your other is quick to snatch both his wrists up and cage them above his head.
"And who are you to fight back? You've picked a fight with a King's Guard, Your Grace." The title is mocking now, as it rolls off your tongue. You push your groin against his and it makes him moan—revealing him an animalistic creature. "Look at you, silenced. You're nothing without your tongue."
Aerion has the audacity to shake his head no. You push your hand harder against his mouth, restricting the motion. He cannot even indicate a no or a yes anymore, not that you care.
"Undress me." You say, no conditions; none at all, because you hold both his pleasure and freedom in your hands. You let go of him.
Even with his hands, there's no escape. Even with his tongue. He opens his mouth to speak, and you know it will be nothing pleasant, with the furrow of his brow.
You spit on his tongue before he can get anything out. "Swallow." You say, pinching his mouth shut. "Swallow."
Aerion's eyebrows screw up with discomfort while his cock throbs against your fauld, as his adam's apple bobs up, then down, with the swallow, and your saliva slides down his throat.
Your hand moves to his neck, then his shoulder, which you use to toss him off the bed, "Now do as I said."
He's hard, but you don't say anything about it, only ponder upon it as his once violent hands turn obedient. As you expected, he knows his way around the King's Guard armor, and he undresses you quickly without a word.
When he's got the top half of you naked, you kick his calf and force him onto his knees.
Aerion doesn't groan out in pain, but he whimpers as knees meet the carpet. His eyes find yours, dark and intense, as he bares his teeth at you. "Fuck you." He says, your words repeated.
Your hand, now bare, strikes his cheek. "Get to work."
He whimpers again, while his cock twitches. He's a masochist. His head lowers as his hands return to work. As a reward, you step on his cock, not painfully, but enough to apply pressure.
"Fuck." He moans, not curses. When the fauld comes off, you slide your foot under his cock. Silently, yet gratefully, Aerion grinds himself against it.
He's preoccupied with the pleasure, though there isn't much friction from the smoothness of your armor. It's pathetic, really. You grab a handful of his hair, to which he gasps, and tilt his gaze back up. "My foot is a reward, princeling. Don't make me take it away."
If the cogs turn in his head, they go awfully fast. To keep his reward, he turns to debauchery, willingly it seems.
Aerion undoes your pants quickly, and then his lips wrap around the tip of your cock, not shy but not scheming. He doesn't bite, in fact, it feels like worship the more inches he slides in his mouth.
It feels like worship, but it looks like expertise and practice. You shove a hand in his hair and pull him down just to see him struggle, "Have you taken other King's Guard like this, princeling?"
He chokes, burning eyes—burning with tears—directed towards you with a certain recognizable hatred. He cannot answer, and that is precisely your design.
"Don't look at me like that, little thing," You chuckle, easing yourself into a rhythm of slow grinds into his wet mouth. He cannot do anything about it, but his humping against your foot enboldens. "I am showing you a mercy you'd never had shown me."
You don't know where to rest your eyes, not in lock with his gaze, surely. You much prefer watching your cock sink into his mouth; or should you rather prefer the sight of his dick, a concerningly bright red, grind furiously upon your foot? It is quite the dilemma.
The sight of his pitiful humping makes pride rise in your chest—but watching him take your cock, silencing him with it, feeling his saliva drape around your length and his long tongue work pliantly as you slide yourself in and out of him… yes, you suppose you do have a preference.
You suppose you've shown him too much mercy, too.
You give him no warning as to your next thrust into your mouth being much less restrained, and deeper. You prod his throat with the tip of your cock, and Aerion gags.
"Don't resist me, princeling." Your tone is gentle, but it's the only soft thing about you. Your words are harsh, as is the grip you have in his hair, and the next thrust.
You breach his throat with this one. Distantly, you see Aerion's cock twitch, but that's not your concern.
His mouth is wet, but his throat is something different. Much, much tighter. Gods above.
You pull his head down to further maneuver yourself into his throat until he's taken you whole. His nose hits the hairs at the base of your cock, and his expression is utterly dazed.
Mercy finds you again when you pull out of his mouth so he can regain his breath.
With his panting chest, Aerion looks pathetic, but then his gaze finds yours again. He looks like he might just bite.
"Got something to say?" You scoff.
He doesn't. Instead, voluntarily, he takes you back in his mouth and back down his throat. He gags again this time, but his determination pulls him through it, like he's learned a new party trick he wants to recreate.
"Fuck." You grumble, instinctively bucking up into his mouth and making him gag once more.
With two fistfuls of his hair, you push and pull his mouth over your cock—the right words are that you fuck his mouth and throat.
You'd think Aerion might hate him, but his tongue works to match pace and his humping does too.
If you get to fuck him like this, maybe it's worth sticking around… but this is your last night truly alive, isn't it? Besides, you only like him right now because he is not talking.
His gags dissipate into pleasurable moans, you think, that vibrate around your cock. As much pleasure as he brings you, that just won't do.
When he pull him off your cock, his tongue dives out of his lips to kitty lap at your tip. He's cockdrunk. It's hard to deny yourself of his mouth, but you do so anyway.
"Get up."
You snap Aerion out if his stupor with those words. He spits at the ground, likely to show his disdain for what you've done to him, but you both know he's just playing pretend. "You're stupid. You were just about to come."
"Shut up." You grab him by the back of his hair and tug up until his body goes up with it.
Aerion lands on his own bed on his back. One look and the click of your tongue, and he turns onto his stomach.
You know he won't obey you when you ask him to prop his hips up, or perhaps you want to manhandle him yourself. You force him onto his knees so his ass is up and all for your viewing.
His hole just looks like it's gaping for you, begging for you, but fuck it, you know you can't fit in there.
When you grasp his cheeks and pull them apart, he gasps. When you spit onto his hole, he yelps. Finally, when you stick a thick finger into him, he whimpers.
"Is this the night you were hoping for?" You ask, grabbing a handful of his hair so that he may not muffle his shameful words into the pillow.
"Fuck off." Is Aerion's first reply. He thinks you're mocking him.
"I mean it. What did you expect? That I might suck your cock? That I may take it?"
Silence follows unbearably until you prod a second finger into him and force his lips to open with a painful gasp. "No," He whimpers, then chokes out, "I wanted to see how big you were and–"
He moans beautifully when you reward him with gentler movements, gentler scissoring of his hole. He continues now less coerced, "I wanted to ride you."
But of course, he still wanted to be in control. "You're a dirty whore of a prince," You click your tongue, and the sharp insult makes him clench around your fingers. You force him to open up with a third, "is this all that you live for?"
"No–" Aerion chokes out. You believe he is saying the truth, because violence is of course his favorite hobby, but you'd love humiliating him more.
You stretch your fingers far apart, spreading his hole open roughly. It silences him. "You are lying. I know that it has been your motive since the moment I was sworn to you. Why else would you act like a saint, eating grapes off my hand?"
Whether he is to speak or not, you don't know, because you grope one of his cheeks, nails digging into his flesh. Aerion sucks in a sharp breath. His hole clenches around your fingers in preparation for your spit, but you don't give it to him.
"Look at you, clenching around my fingers like that." You mock, "Only a whore would do that."
"Just you!" Aerion gasps out before you can stop him from speaking with some other trick. When you don't do anything in retaliation, he grinds against your fingers a non-subtle tad. "I haven't fucked any of my other King's Guard. I swear it."
He's desperate, he wants you, you know he is telling the truth—but you don't care for it. "How can I trust your word?"
You wish you had him on his back, so you could see the utter desperation on his face; but then again, you get to see your fingers stretch his helples hole out, and later, your cock sinking into it.
Or now.
"You're stretched out enough for me, aren't you?"
Aerion must be confused, because he gasps out a "what?" and presses his cheek to the pillow to look at you. He's confused at your gentle tone and your fingers receding before he's even ready to take you, for his mouth spelled the size of you out for him earlier: big.
He doesn't have the time to even beg you with a please before you're pushing your length into him.
Aerion pushes his forehead into the pillow, muffling his groans and screams, a real shame. You spare him no concern, his tight hole squeezing around you brings you too much pleasure to care.
He's no common whore, you'll give him that. "Tighter than any brothel girl," You say as you fully sheathe yourself inside of him; even after that you give him no rest, as you start to shallowly fuck him, "though that may just be my fault, hm?"
Aerion's thighs tense so that he may take your ever-faster thrusts. Even when you are giving him his desires, he protests, "Asshole!"
The cruel Prince is not the bane of your existence. He has treated you with monotony and silence, politeness as best he can achieve. He has treated others, men you can now call your brothers, much, much worse—but he has just taken your job and honor from you, hasn't he?
You're taking payback for the anger that still boils your blood (your future, you have not yet pondered dreadfully) and for other King's Guard who have been disgraced by his doing.
"Say that again." You dare him, pushing his head into the pillow with your hand. He was hardly loud enough to hear in the first place, but now his words come out as unintelligble muffles.
His hole pleasures you well with its tightness, but its resistance hinders you. Your strength prevails and is evident in your thrusts, forcing themselves into him, forcing him to take.
You still have most of your lower-half armor on: your cuisse, greaves, boots… when you bottom out into him before rearing back, all of it presses into him, hard metals that don't give, sharp edges. Wails come from his mouth and silence him in turn, the armor is not sharp enough to pierce but harsh enough to hurt. Your cock does pierce him, though, and as much as it brings pain and a stretch, it brings him pleasure too, his desire.
You can tell by the way he his heavy dick, with its pretty slit, leaks pearly white onto his sheets.
You wonder…
Wails of pleasure escape his mouth into the air finally audible, when you slip his chin and mouth off the pillow and only press his nose into it. They simmer down into whimpers when you push your hole length into him and merely grind.
You're doing that to him—you've confirmed it now—you're making him lose control of his own voice.
"Please."
"What was that, prince?" You shift a little lower, grind elsewhere, and it makes his moans turn all the more high-pitched. That's the spot.
"Ugh," Aerion's back arches as if to entice you, though you know it is merely him wanting more of your cock. "keep going. Keep–just fuck me."
You tug his head back with his hair—he yelps—then let it fall onto the pillow. It's like you've taken control of his senses and his head is too heavy. "Who are you to make demands?"
You rear back a little, press back in, the shallowest of thrusts. Aerion whimpers because he knows there's better, that you can give him so much more. "Please." He begs again…
…much too quiet, much too little. You click your tongue and the way he shifts, the tension in his bare, pale shoulders, spells guilt that rises from your disappointment. "Louder," You beckon him with another taste of what you could give him, another shallow thrust, but this one harder, "since you do so love to speak."
"Please." Aerion speaks deliriously into the pillow. With thrembling thighs, he pushes himself off and on your cock. It should incite punishment, but it is pathetic and so pleasing to watch. "Please," He recites, "please, please, please, Ser."
For a moment you ignore his pleading and simply watch. It's almost riding, which is what his goal was at the beginning of the night, but he's doing so bad it's laughable. Would he have ridden you like this?
No matter. You fuck into him again, a longer thrust and much harder. It makes him yelp loudly with surprise.
"Awh, oh fuck." Aerion moans sweetly as you begin fucking him anew. His nose works hard to breathe and keep up, but you've got it pressed into the pillow.
If he passes out, you're not sure you'd care. You'd much rather chase your pleasure.
It's not just his hole squeezing around you that tightens your balls, it's having this untamable prince begging, it's his nose desperately begging for air, it's his ass meeting your thrusts.
None of your brothers are going to believe you.
But Aerion's father will.
"Gods damn you." You take hold of his sure-to-bruise hips and use them to fuck your cock into him harder as well as pull his ass against your pelvis with each thrust.
As far as you're concerned, this is your last night alive. Tomorrow you may be exiled, or worse, executed. You will have your way with him, if it's the last thing you do.
You're no longer pressing Aerion's head down, but he does not lift it. He shifts up, actually, to smother his mouth and sounds with the pillow.
That, you will not have.
"If you are so determined to take me, then speak it." You grab hold of his hair and tug his head up once more, to which he whimpers. "On your elbows, princeling."
Aerion obeys without complaint. His mouth continues to spew nonsense, pleasing nonsense of moans and breathy ah's, not muffled anymore.
If his father shall know, then let him hear it. Let Aerion's moans bounce throughout the Keep. If you are to be disgraced, then let him be disgraced too.
Even if you were having him without anyone's knowledge, his honor has already been disgraced by you. To be taking your cock as good as he is without complaint, but rather with begging, he has lost his dignity.
If it isn't evident already by his whimpers, Aerion enjoys you splitting him open. Honors aside, he wants you.
His cock leaks steadier, it throbs too. He's close, and so are you.
You grip his hips harder and his hole reacts by clenching around you. Still, it's looser now and way easier to fuck into, melded into the shape of your cock.
His hole is loose, he's not resisting you anymore.
"Fuck," The idea of it… your thrusts turn less quick, more meaningful, harder. When you spill, it'll be inside of him. "look at your little hole, sucking me right in."
"Sh-Shut it." Aerion barely manages to protest.
"Shut up, you whore." The name makes him whimper, and you don't back down, "Tell me you want to come."
You don't do anything—stop, grope, spank, nothing—to get him to admit it. With wet lips and tongue, Aerion says, "I do! I want to."
He's so easy.
"Attaboy. When you tell your daddy I've fucked you, tell him how needy you were for it."
You come inside of him, fill him up with everything you've got. The mere feeling of it makes Aerion come too. You ride your high out in his clenched hole, punching more cries from his used throat.
He positively leaks when you pull out of him, your claim of his hole steadily dripping away. It's quite the sight.
You give him no reprieve nor tender heart as you stand, nor yourself the time to look at his hole spill and gape wide.
"Help me put my armor back on."
The morning after, you are not dragged from the safety of your sheets and shoved into the mud. The morning after, you put your armor back on like it is any other day.
That mid-morning, you stand at your post outside of Aerion's chambers; the princeling does not come out, nor does he call for you. When his duties begin, you trail after him in silence. He does not mock you, you do not mock him. The memories of the night before don't resurface on either of your tongues, but your eyes do linger.
You survive until the day after. You awaken again in the safety of your bed and the morning goes on much the same: uneventful.
Aerion has not snitched on you.
Come mid-morning, you notice no servants attend him, in fact, they seem to avoid his hall. Regardless, dutifully, you are at his chamber door again when he calls for you with a sharp, "Ser?"
When you enter the room, Aerion's sitting pretty on his bed, the sheets pooled around his hips and the shape of his cock. He's naked, no night clothes—perhaps you'd torn his only pair, or perhaps he undressed on purpose.
"Care to wake me up?"
You chuckle and close the door behind you. It seems he is intent on keeping you, and if you can get a repeat of that night? You're intent on keeping him your cum rag too.
Neither of you are disgraced, if you keep your temperamental mouths shut.
daeron targaryen x wildlings(beyond the Wall), male reader, in which Daeron is drunk and sick. A chance encounter with a wildling from beyond the wall changes his life. Daeron will do anything for him, even make the wildling a prince.
note: This monster is 22 pages long in MS Word. The idea seemed too cool to make it into something short, you know. I didn't want it to be like they met and fell in love. Well, it was a bit like that, but not entirely. I also added a little comedy at the end. Because why not? It's fiction.
warnings: mentions of drugs, attempted drug administration, mentions of sex, slander, reader is from behind the wall so the servants treat him badly in one fragment, he is despised because of his origin
“My prince, raise your head.” A soft whisper pierces the fog in his head. His vision is blurry, unsure if the silhouette of the person he sees beside his bed is real or a figment of his nightmares.
“Prince, please… drink this.”
“Prince, the fever will break, rest easy.”
“My prince, My prince…”
If this is a dream, he never wants to wake up. Someone sitting on his bed smells of herbs, cold, and rain. Daeron has never smelled such a scent before. The smell of cold rain, wet leaves, snow, and frost.
Hands on the back of his neck, touching his forehead. Words, many words, spoken quietly, almost a whisper, in a soft voice. He feels like he's dying, but if this is a dream, he doesn't want to wake up.
If he'll be alone when he wakes, why wake up?
The prince tries to stand up, but you manage to stop him. You gently push him onto an uncomfortable wooden chair. The inn is loud, stuffy, and reeks of sweat and beer. Not the best place for a prince. Definitely. Luckily, you managed to spot him. The other two, the ones who got the prince drunk, had gone outside, probably to pee.
The prince is drowsy from being dosed with white powder—you know that drug. He shouldn't be here now, but he needs rest. You sit down at his table and place your hand on his forehead. It's hot. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are glassy. They're open, but staring into the void, as if empty.
"Prince?" You say gently, touching his cheek. He shivers under your touch.
You have to get him out of here. You look around and spot the woman behind the bar, the owner. You call her and explain what's going on. The woman – Molly – just nods and runs to fetch her husband and son. The two men help you take the prince upstairs to his room. You follow them upstairs.
“Bring me warm and cold water and a bowl.”
Keeping watch over the prince wasn't in your plans, but you couldn't leave him there. Your conscience wouldn't let you sleep. It wasn't even the fact that he was Prince Daeron, but the fact that he looked like he needed help. You'd heard rumors and gossip while you were traveling from the north.
The prince woke up many times. You gently pushed him back onto his pillows, whispering soothing words, reciting memorized poems and childhood stories.
The prince has a fever, a high fever. You search your bag full of small bottles and herbs for a few specific vials. Pouring the medication down his throat is quite difficult, but doable after a few tries. The sleeping medicine should help with the nightmares, if what people said is true.
If the palace maesters or the prince's father found out you were giving the prince strange medicines, potions from beyond the walls, they would probably order you to kill yourself. But in this situation…
You sigh quietly. You touch your forehead and cheeks with your fingers. The prince's neck is still sweaty; you wipe it gently.
"Who are you…" you tremble as the prince's hand weakly tightens around your wrist. His violet eyes sparkled like the most beautiful violets drenched in rain. You could kill for such beautiful eyes.
"I am…" You fell silent. What were you going to tell him? I'm from beyond the wall, my prince. A wildling? Someone they scare children with in the north to make them behave? Someone without a name, without meaning?
You don't answer. The prince moves his lips, tries to squeeze your wrist, but he has no strength; the fever still torments him. You give him something to help him sleep.
What difference will it make to know your name? None. Even if he had the most beautiful eyes you've ever seen, a gentle smile, and a few charming freckles on his cheeks.
He was a prince. You – a wildling from beyond the wall, a fugitive, someone without a name, someone most people in Westeros despised, and the lords considered more animal than man.
It didn't matter what the prince was like, no matter how beautiful his eyes were. It was better to suppress it and spare yourself the pain.
Daeron wakes with a heavy head. A dull pain throbs in his temples, his back aches, and his legs feel numb. His head is buzzing, and every little sound is an unbearable cacophony of sounds. He slowly opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling.
He has no idea where he is or what happened. He strains, trying to remember what happened, but the fog of pain and nausea makes everything difficult. He remembers only the inn. His younger brother and wine. Lots of wine.
And then pain, heat, and a headache. A restless sleep… but without nightmares. He slept. And he had no nightmares. He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling, pain roaring through his body. Daeron blinks slowly. He doesn't remember when he slept without nightmares.
Memory slowly returns, tiny fragments. He remembers feeling unwell. He vaguely remembers someone caring for him, remembers someone… someone's hand on his forehead and cheeks, someone's voice, a scent, a presence. Someone's voice and words, many words. Someone was in the room with him, but… why? It didn't look like he was having sex.
The door opens slowly. An elderly woman peeks through the crack. She's around fifty. She smiles broadly when Daeron looks at her in surprise.
"Oh, the noble lord is finally awake! I'll bring breakfast!" The woman disappears as suddenly as she appeared.
Daeron slowly sits up, tucking pillows behind his back. He has several, so they form a solid base. Only when he sits down does he see a bouquet of wildflowers on the bedside table. The wild mixture of plants and flowers smells delicate. He looks at it confused, carefully touching a petal.
The woman returns a few minutes later with a large wooden tray. It's filled with steaming food. It smells good, and his stomach involuntarily growls. He places the tray on the bedside table.
"What happened?" he asks quietly, hoping that at least the woman will explain what happened. "Where am I?"
The woman sighs. "The prince is at the inn, a short drive outside Ashford." She looks at him and carefully pushes the tray of food closer to him. She takes a piece of fresh bread and carefully nibbles.
"I was drunk, right?"
The woman nods cautiously. "The prince got… drunk. You came to my inn, soaking wet, and immediately started drinking. Then… others joined the prince with wine and… other things."
Daeron nods slowly. He remembers the white powder on the table and the men who sat down with him. He remembers vaguely feeling worse and worse.
"The prince finally fell headfirst onto the table, blood pouring from his nose like a slaughtered pig."
Daeron snorts. The woman shudders. "How did I get here? I remember… someone touching me, someone being here, gentle hands. Someone talking to me and stroking my cheek. Who was it?"
He bites his tongue. Instead, he looks at the woman. I think her name was Molly, if he remembers the sign above the door correctly. Molly's Inn. Something like that.
A small smile appears on the woman's lips. She nods vigorously. "He was there! He took care of Your Highness! A young boy, a young man actually. He chased those away, he took the prince here and stayed with him for two nights and a whole day!" she says excitedly, gesticulating wildly.
Daeron blinks. "A young man…?" he asks, surprised.
The woman nods. "Yes, some stranger, I've never seen him before, but he's clearly a scholar." She said with admiration. "He knew immediately how to take care of the prince. Perhaps a herbalist? In any case, he took the prince here; my husband and son helped… take the prince up."
Daeron eats carefully. The nausea is intense, but hunger gnaws at him. He pecks at pieces of bread like a bird. The room smells of herbs, tea leaf infusion, herbs, and something cold.
He didn't imagine it. Someone was really here. Someone… cared for him. They sacrificed… how much, Molly said? Two nights and a day. The night they arrived, the whole day, and this night. He hadn't imagined that whisper.
My prince.
His gaze wanders back to the bouquet. The flowers are there. He must have brought them. He assumed a woman had been taking care of him, but a man…
Molly returns to collect the dishes. She brings him the washed clothes and places them on the bed. When he looks surprised, the woman awkwardly tells him that the man asked for them to be washed.
She leaves him to dress. Daeron throws off the covers and stands on unsteady legs. His knees almost buckle under him. He's naked, he knew this before, but… the man wiped the sweat from his body, he remembers it dimly. The touch of fingers on his stomach, his ribs. He swallows. The memory of the touch burns.
He's about to leave when his gaze lands on the flowers. He thinks for a moment about what he wants to do. Finally, he reaches out and takes the bouquet. The flowers are tied with a ribbon. A plain, cheap, navy blue ribbon. She carefully descends the stairs, clutching her bouquet in her hand. The inn is deserted at this hour. Molly bustles about, sweeping the floor as if it owed her a fortune.
“How much should I pay you?” he asks. Molly, surprised, almost drops her broom.
“Ahem… that boy paid,” she says. “It was still dark when he left this morning.” She leaves the broom and goes to the back.
Daeron stands in the middle of the inn, feeling like a fool.
“He asked me to give you this.” She hands him a small bag. A pouch, really. Inside are several small bottles of a dark, almost black liquid. A small crystal set in silver on a chain, and a letter.
“A letter…” He mutters and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He can write; he can probably read too. It’s a bit rude, he knows, but outside of the nobility, he knows few people who can read and write. The person who wrote this has a steady hand; they must have written a lot; the letters are beautiful and elegant.
My prince, I hope you’re well. I knew you’d be sick the moment I saw you enter the inn. And then… I couldn’t leave you like that. I know you have nightmares; I can't cure them, but I can help. This dark liquid helps with sleep; drink one drop before bed. It's an elderberry infusion. The maester should be able to handle the preparation. The crystal is a gift. Where I come from, we believe that smoky quartz grounds, holds one to the earth, and protects against evil.
Be well, my prince.
Daeron stares at the letter as if seeing the letters for the first time. There's nothing, no information, no name, nothing… as if this man were a fleeting dream.
"Did he say his name?" he asks the woman. "Did he say anything about himself, where he's going, where he's from? Anything… What did he look like? Where did he go?"
His voice trembles. Molly looks at him and shakes her head in regret. "I don't know his name, my prince. He didn't say anything specific. He kept his distance from the others. In the morning, he mounted a gray mare and rode off. He looked like someone who had been on the road for a long time. His saddle and bridle were old and torn, as was his saddlebag. He wore a black cloak, a… long one, made of soft material, nice, with trim."
He doesn't get the details for a moment. A young man, relatively handsome, with rings on his fingers and earrings in his ears, a gray mare, and a black cloak. He looked to be around 20 or 25 years old, just like Daeron.
Daeron grits his teeth. He says goodbye to Molly, collects his
belongings, and heads to the stables. His horse is waiting there.
He saddles him slowly, every sudden movement still making him feel nauseous. He doesn't even know what's wrong with Egg. His younger brother is gone, but he's too tired to worry about it. He feels like shit without it.
He leads the horse out and mounts it with the grace of a potato sack. He still holds a bouquet of flowers in his hand, their delicate scent holding him together.
He carefully steers the horse onto the road and rides, step by step, to Ashford. His father will probably, almost certainly, be furious. But he can't be bothered to worry about that.
All he can think about is this man. Only his hands, his pleasant scent, and his voice. He wants to know who he is. If only to thank him. To see him, to hear him. He's seen him in poor condition, drunk, degraded. He's touched his sweaty body. It does… something to him. Something he doesn't pay much attention to. Something he consciously forgets, pushes from his mind.
Daeron has slept with men. Several times. Usually drunk, usually afterward, he did everything he could to avoid thinking about it. To avoid thinking that it gave him the same pleasure as with women. It had been a while since he'd had a… man in bed. Is that why he was so… thinking about that boy who helped him?
He shakes his head vigorously, and at the same moment, he feels sick. He barely manages to hold back the vomit.
Your horse enters the courtyard. There are so many people here that no one pays you any attention. That's good, otherwise you probably wouldn't have even gotten near the castle. You leave your horse at the watering trough, the mare drinking greedily, and you loosen the girth so the horse can rest.
You look around uncertainly. Now… how do I find Prince Maekar? Or anyone.
"You! Who are you and what are you doing here?!" The older man immediately stands beside you, eyes sizing you up, and frowns. "This is a tournament, not a tavern brawl!" Now he's frowning at the night, as if staring at something unpleasant.
You sigh quietly. "I need to see Prince Mae…"
The older man snorts. He must be the castle's steward. He doesn't look like a lord, but his clothes are much nicer than servants'. "Everyone wants to see the prince!" He laughs, and his laughter is laced with contempt.
"It's important." You press, your mare stamping her feet nervously. "It's about his son, Prince Daeron." You speak softly, not wanting to cause a sensation.
The man eyes you. He's probably assessing whether you're telling the truth. He sighs, too deep and too theatrical. "Tell me, I'll pass this on to the prince."
"I'd rather talk to him in person."
Laughter, the man's mocking laughter, cuts through the air. Anger boils inside you. You don't like such arrogant assholes.
"Don't joke. What could someone like you possibly know about the prince?" He glares at you again pointedly. "If you're trying to extort something, you've come to the wrong place! Unless the prince was spend night… with you last night…"
"You mentioned Daeron, right?" Someone suddenly stands next to you. Young, maybe not much older than you. He has dark hair, with white strands, and two-toned eyes. It made you feel dizzy. Prince Valarr.
You nodded. "Yes. I…"
The older man starts shouting. He accuses you of disrespect, betrayal, and everything worse. Because you're addressing the prince! Without using his title. You look at Valarr's face in horror, but his eyes only widen.
"Take care of his horse." He orders, taking you towards the castle.
Valarr walks beside you, silent, but he doesn't seem angry, even smiling. It's your first time in a castle. This kind of castle. The buildings beyond the wall are completely different. Everything is different. You glance around discreetly.
"I'd ask if this is your first time in Ashford, but I think it shows," he says with slight amusement.
You feel heat rise to your cheeks. "This is my first time in a castle. A real castle. This is my first time seeing a castle this close." You say awkwardly before you can think.
"Where are you from?" the prince asks. There's interest in his voice that he tries to hide but fails.
"From the north." You answer quickly.
"There are castles in the north." Valarr – the prince – states, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.
You hold your breath. "Not beyond the wall." You finally answer quietly.
Valarr suddenly falls silent; only your footsteps can be heard in the silence of the corridor, as if the prince were holding his breath. He's silent for the next few minutes, until you reach a solid wooden door.
"Wait here," he says quietly, and quickly disappears behind the door.
You stand stiffly, not even leaning against the wall. You feel the cold of the stone walls. It cuts into your body like a blade. This cold is different from the north. That cold is familiar, this cold is alien. Painful, but in a different way. It's the cold of the stares, the cold of people when they learn where you come from, who you are.
The door opens, and Valarr asks you to enter. There are only four people in the room: you, and the three princes. You realize these must be the rooms of one of them.
"You know something about Prince Daeron, don't you?" asks one of the older men. He looks like Valarr, probably his father, Prince Baelor. He's handsome, just like his son.
"Where is he?" A man with white hair and a beard looks at you reluctantly. You swallow nervously as his violet eyes stare at you with such intensity they could burn your soul. They're different from Daeron's. Like steel, laced with violet juice.
"He's at the inn… probably still asleep." You say quietly.
Maekar hisses angrily, his hand slamming on the table. "Did you sleep with him?!" he asks, raising his voice. His brother tells him to calm down.
"No!" you assure him immediately. "I swear I didn't!"
“Easy.” Baelor speaks up and stands next to his brother, placing a hand on his shoulder. You see him clench his hand. “So, what about Daeron?”
“He arrived at the inn, near Ashford, on the road from the north.” You start speaking quickly. Prince Maekar’s deadly gaze seems to burn. “He arrived a bit tipsy, and soaked from the rain. Then he got drunk, and two men joined him. They drank with him, gave him the white powder from Essos.”
Maekar hisses, and Baelor’s hand slips onto his arm again. You take an instinctive step back. Valarr stops you and pushes you forward. He stands behind you, as if holding back a potential escape.
“I suspect they wanted to get him drunk, drugged, and drunk. The prince was feverish; I guessed he had a fever. I took care of him. He should have been sleeping at the inn. I rented a room; I managed to bring his fever down.” You finish, your voice almost a whisper.
The room falls silent. The two older princes look at you appraisingly. Perhaps they're wondering if you're telling the truth. The younger prince stands beside you, seeming quite at ease.
"I'm not lying." You finally break the silence.
"I'm not accusing you of lying." Baelor sits down next to his brother. The chair creaks horribly as it scrapes against the stone floor. "Daeron lost many horses in the inns. We had to start branding them." He says it as if it were a completely normal thing for them.
Maekar sighs. "Come closer, boy."
You take a few hesitant steps. The prince's violet eyes study you carefully. "Did you take care of him?"
You nod. "He had a fever. Night, all day, and that night."
"And did you take care of him?"
"Yes…" you say again, but hesitantly. You don't know what they mean. "Nothing happened."
Baelor looks at you intently. "How did you know he was a prince?"
You hesitate for a moment. "His eyes. He had purple eyes…"
Baelor mutters something that sounds like it makes sense. You're starting to fear you'll lose your mind.
"You don't look like a maester, you don't even look like an adept, you look… how did you know how to help him?"
"I know a little about healing. Herbs.Many people know healing, some better than others. But without it…" You answer awkwardly.
Silence again. Even Valarr—still standing behind you—tenses.
"There wasn't even a maseter in your village?" Baelor asks, confused.
You hesitate, opening and closing your mouth. "There are no maesters beyond the wall," you finally say.
Silence. But completely different than before. Maekar and Baelor aren't as shocked as before. Prince Valarr told them. You realize. He certainly wouldn't withhold information like that.
"You're a wildling," Baelor finally says. "How is it possible that you're here?"
You swallow hard. "I escaped. I had to."
They don't ask for anything more. Though it seems they want ask for it. You see curiosity in their eyes.
"You want gold?" Maekar looks at you expectantly. "For my son? For care, healing? Gold, a good horse, anything?"
"I want nothing." You answer immediately. "I didn't do it for the gold. If that's all, I'd like to leave now." You add.
"Alright… Valarr, you'll go get Daeron. And we'll… see the guest off."
You leave the room. Baelor and Maekar walk ahead, you behind them, and Valarr last.
And good. Let it end this way. You don't need more. You… shouldn't stay. Don't hold out hope, or wait for a reunion. Maybe even Prince Daeron doesn't remember at all. Despite the chaos in your head, you know this is the best solution. Anything else could only cause pain. Because what would that look like?
A wildling near the prince?
The weather is fine, despite the rain aura. His horse has been dragging along slowly for almost two hours, calmly. Daeron himself turns the silver-set crystal over in his hand. It looked precious, valuable. And this man had simply left it to him. Daeron tried so desperately to recall anything, anything that might remain in his memory. Instead, it was empty. An echo of touch, scent, voice.
The horses neigh shrilly. Daeron stops his horse and listens. Several riders. After a moment, he sees them. His father and uncle's guards. And Valarr ahead. Kuzun has a worried expression, his brow furrowed, his body tense.
"Daeron!" Valarr urges his horse on.
He waits for his cousin to ride closer to him. The guards are riding slower, probably to give them some privacy.
"Quiet, please, my head is pounding." He tries to smile, but it seems to fail, because Valarr looks at him, even more worried.
"Uncle Maekar is frantic." The prince gets straight to the point. "They've been searching you for almost two days…"
"Where's Egg?" Daeron asks quietly. He couldn't bear it if anything happened to his younger brother.
"He's in Ashford. He's become a squire to a hedge knight. He's gloating like a fool and carries his sword behind Ser Duncan, staring at him like a puppy Aerion follows the knight around like an irritated cat. He seems to like him, but he but he won't admit it."
Daeron blinks slowly and looks at Valarr, frowning. At this point, he doesn't know if his cousin is joking or not. "Really?" He's gloating. He's very gloating, yet unsure what to think. He's sleeping through the day, and how much could happen.
Valarr nods. They slowly spur their horses and ride to the castle. Valarr briefly recounts what happened: the tourney, the new knight in his uncle's service, Egg becoming a squire. And Aerion probably in love.
"They told me to look for you," Valarr finally says, looking sideways at him.
“How did you know where?” Daeron asks indifferently. “You weren't riding blindly around. You dont look like that.”
“Actually… someone came to Ashford. A young man.”
Daeron feels his heart almost stop in his throat. “What?” he asks quietly, barely audible. Valarr doesn’t even seem to hear him, because he continues.
“He came this morning, early, there was still fog on the meadows. He was talking to his father and uncle. Then my father told me to go get you, told him where you might be, so…”
“Who was he?” Daeron asks in a hollow, quiet voice.
His cousin shrugs. “I don’t know. After they talked, my father told me to go get you and they went with him to the courtyard."
Daeron feels his heart flutter in his chest. “He didn’t say anything, you don’t know anything…? His name?”
Valarr looks at him in surprise. They stare at each other for a moment.
"Daeron, what is it?"
He tells him everything, and Valarr remains silent and listens the entire way to Ashford Castle.
Daeron and Valarr arrived at the castle grounds late in the afternoon. It's pleasantly warm, though rain clouds still hang in the sky. The courtyard is full of knights, servants, and lords. The tournament begins tomorrow. Daeron has had enough tournaments for the rest of his life. He's still nauseous from the alcohol.
The servants say that Prince Baelor and Maekar are out riding with Lodrd Ashford and they will back for about an hour. He has a moment to himself before he has to face his father. He sees Egg chasing the tall knight like a puppy, but he has no power to speak to anyone; he hides behind his horse and waits for his younger brother to disappear behind the gates.
Valarr escorts him to his chambers. A tub of warm water is already prepared. The servants are pouring the last bowls of falling water and linen soaps.
He asks for a vase of fresh water. He places the bouquet he brought in, the presence of which, thankfully, goes unnoticed. He sets the glass vase next to the full water and slowly undresses.
The water is pleasantly warm, his body tired. He lies down, leaning against the edge of the tub and closing his eyes. The echo of a touch, and then it returns. The feeling of a finger on his skin. Daeron can't remember ever feeling anything like this. When someone was in his head. When someone touched him like this. Tender, gentle, but not erotic. He immerses himself in these memories, drowns in them.
“Did he say his name?” he asks almost an hour later. The maester examines him, listening carefully, checking him over. His father is in the room with him. Baelor and Valarr are waiting outside the door. Both are worried, no more so than Maekar.
“No,” his father replies after a moment of silence. “He didn’t say anything about himself…”
He remains silent, but Daeron hears the hesitation in his head. He rises and sits up. He pushes the maester’s hands away.
“Do not lie,” he says sharply.
Before Maekar can say anything, the maester interrupts. “My prince, Prince Daeron doesn’t seem to require my help. His fever has broken. He should rest, eat, and take rest.”
“Good. You may go.”
Daeron waits tensely, watching the maester. He wants to shout at him to hurry up. As the old man leaves, Baelor and his son enter the room.
“What about him?” the heir to the throne asks immediately.
"Good. Now…"
"Who was he? He must have said something." Daeron interrupts his father, looking at all three men in turn. "He's not a ghost. He helped me, I want to thank him."
Valarrr looks at his father and uncle. Then he says calmly. "He didn't say his name, he said what happened and where you are."
Daeron frowns. "And you didn't ask who he was, what he was doing? You didn't ask anything."
"He comes from beyond the Wall," Maekar says sharply. "He's one of the wildlings."
The room falls silent. Daeron looks at his family members as if seeing them for the first time.
"What?" He repeats quietly.
"He's one of the wildlings. He said he escaped. That he had to escape."
Daeron clutches his silver necklace. The quartz glints in the light. "How is that possible?" he asked quietly. People from beyond the Wall. They practically never crossed the border. He'd never heard of it, never even seen the Wall. How could anyone have gotten this far?
"I have to find him," he said confidently. He got out of bed and sat on it again. His head was spinning.
"You're not going anywhere," Maekar said firmly. "I will. I'll take the guards and go. Maybe he hasn't gone far."
"You, father?" All three of them looked at Maekar with genuine surprise.
"Yes. If I have to speak with Lord Ashford again, I'll go to the Wall myself."
Baelor snorted.
The sun is behind the clouds and looks like it's about to rain. Your mare moves forward rather reluctantly, as if expecting rain. You're sleepy and sore. You managed to doze off in the forest, next to a fallen log, far enough from the road to feel safe.
You feel… strange. The last moments spent with Prince Daron were pleasant. Even though clouded by fever, his gaze was so soft. You know he wouldn't hurt you. The touch of his hand when he grabbed yours, when you gave him medicine, his scent when you held him close.
Despite you promise yourself to forget about it… you can't do it.
The mare pricks up her ears. Behind you, you hear a neighing. It's quiet, but the clatter of hooves is getting louder. Riders. You stop your horse and turn sideways. First appear two horses and knights dressed in white. Then a dark figure on a dark horse. You recognize the man immediately.
Your body tense up nervously. Has something happened to the prince? Will they accuse me of this? The two knights remain on the hill, and the prince himself approaches you.
"I hope the prince is alright?" you ask, your voice trembling.
"Daeron asked about you. He want… to see you."
"And why would the prince want to see a wildling?" you say quietly. "The prince should know… that this shouldn't happen." You say, avoiding the man's gaze.
"As a prince - I know. But as a father, I can't refuse my son." He simply says. "Return to the castle. If… no one tries to force you to stay."
You agree, because what else can you do? If Daeron just says thank you and dismisses you, it will still be worth it. You'll see his beautiful eyes.
You turn your horses around and ride across the steppe past the prince back to the castle.
The prince's chamber is quiet and dark. Outside, it's raining, falling so hard it feels like someone pouring it from a bucket. It hits the panes with force. Maekar leads you to the door and literally throws you inside.
Despite the shadows outside, the chamber is bright. The candles is burning, as is the fireplace. It's pleasantly warm. Daeron sits by the window and watches the rain. He holds a silver goblet in his hand, but it's not wine. It smells like herbs.
As soon as the door closes behind his father, Daeron stands. He turns to you, and finally his gaze lands on you. He studies you.
"So… it's you." You don't know if he sounds disappointed or simply stating a fact.
"It's me," you say. "My prince," you add hastily.
The prince sets down his goblet and approaches slowly. He shakes his head. "Titles are unnecessary."
"You were anxious to meet me, Daeron." You say his name. You have nothing to lose. What worse could happen to you than escaping beyond the wall?
You think so, but he trembles. "I wanted to thank you. You saved my life. And… I still don't know your name."
He looks at you expectantly. Waiting. You know why. And you hesitate. You can leave, tell him what his father promised. Accept his thanks, bow, and leave. Daeron won't bother you again, but…
"[Name]."
Daeron smiles slightly. "A strange name. I've never heard one like it."
"I come from beyond the wall. I'm a wildling." You say, looking him straight in the eyes. You expect anything but the gentleness in his eyes.
"I know. My father told me."
You're silent. The fire crackles in the fireplace, and the rain roars outside the window. You feel like you're in a dream.
"You know…" the prince begins. "…I've had many prophetic dreams, but I've never dreamed of you. About the wall, or anything to do with it."
He's silent again. "Stay with me," he whispers a few breaths later. He whispers. He doesn't even raise his voice. It doesn't even sound like an order. It's a request, a silent plea. You can't stand the sight of his dreamy eyes. The light flickers in those violet eyes like stars on the most beautiful night.
"Why, prince, would you need someone like me?" you say quietly.
Daeron inhales. His gaze lingers on something in the room, and he smiles. You turn to look at him. A bouquet of wildflowers. You picked him up near the inn. Before you entered, the wildflowers are on the dresser, a splash of color illuminating the room.
"I don't remember when, if ever, anyone touched me like you did. Talked to me like you did. I don't know if I'll be able to live without it now."
'So, my cousin said he loves you.' Valarr smiles. 'Again.'
You laugh. 'Yes. He did it again after drinking, and again he doesn't remember.' His sweet tea is hot and pleasantly warm on a cool spring morning. The gardens of the Red Keep are quiet; at this time of day, there's no one here, not even a living soul. You're here only with Valarr.
The Keep hasn't yet woken from yesterday's lavish party. Daeron is asleep, sprawled across the bed; Aerion should be sleeping somewhere next to him. They both got drunk last night. Valarr and you had to escort them to their room with the help of several knights, but it's a good thing Duncan offered to help. As punishment, you put them in the same bed.
"'Aerion will scream when he wakes up.' I can't wait," Matarys says, eagerly devouring the cookies. You're his new favorite "uncle-brother," the boy doesn't quite know what to call you yet. You're his cousin's boyfriend, and he likes you because you let him eat cookies and sweets."
"I can't wait either," Valarr says, almost conspiratorially. "And how was your sleep?"
You sigh. "Strange. This is the first night in weeks I've slept… alone." You finish carefully. Because of Mararys's presence, who is still practically a child, you're careful with your words.
"But at least you got some sleep." Valarr smirks.
You roll your eyes.
Daeron's body is warm, his arms wrap around you, and his face is buried in your neck. His hair tickles you. You haven't slept in about an hour. Outside the windows, you can hear the Red Keep coming to life. You have no desire to get up at all.
The door bursts open. Daeron sighs, the warm air tickling your neck. A shiver runs through your body, and Daeron tightens his grip on your stomach.
"Valarr, I'll kill you," the prince murmurs sleepily.
"Then you'd better hurry," Valarr says, amused, pulling back the curtains, and light floods the room. Daeron mutters something, still half asleep. He hugs you tighter. "Either I or your father could have woken you. He was already waiting with a bucket of ice water. You were supposed to be up an hour ago."
"Father would never do that." The prince says confidently.
Valarr snorts. "First, he'd tell [Name] to get up; he'd never throw him down with ice water. He's his favorite son-in-law."
You laugh softly. "We'll be up soon. Give us 30 minutes and we'll be ready to leave."
"I'll will back in 15 minutes. My cousin must have really tired you out last night." A wide smile spreads across the prince's face. You feel like throwing your boot at him.
"Get out, Valarr," Daeron says, the sleepy haze slowly leaving him. "I won't let you stare at [Name]'s ass."
"Hurry, remember your father is waiting with an ice-cold bucket of water." Valarr leaves the room. You sigh softly, but a smile spreads across your face.
"Have you been up long?" Daeron asks, hugging you.
You roll onto your back. The stickiness between your thighs reminds you of what you've been up to half the night. "About an hour. I was kind of looking forward to it."
Daeron sighs and hugs you. "I can't wait, a whole winter in Summerhall. We'll finally leave this stupid city."
Honestly, you can't wait. King's Landing is the first city of this size in your life, beautiful in its own way, but overwhelming. From the tourney in Ashford last fall to now, almost a year. A year with Daeron, his family. You can't live without him. You're to spend the next winter, your second togehter, in Summerhall. Almost everyone is going. Only Baelor is supposed to arrive later.
The door bursts open. All you see is an irritated Prince Maekar. Behind him, a servant with a bucket of water. "[Name], get up," the prince says immediately. You jump out of bed with a squeal. A few drops of cool water fall on you. Daeron curses and snorts.
"I can't believe father actually did this," Daeron mutters. He tries to act angry, but he's failing miserably. You know when he's angry, but definitely not this time.
And the square is in turmoil. Trunks and luggage are being packed. Horses whinny, servants rush back and forth, checking everything several times.
"I warned you." Valarr nudges him in the ribs. You stand beside them. A light rain falls on your hair. The fur on your cloak thankfully keeps the chill at bay. Your black and silver clothes make you stand out. Not black and red like the rest of family. Daeron said silver suits you better than red or gold. Like snow. Your jewelry and ornaments are mostly silver.
"Valarr, your father is calling you. You too, brother." Aerion appears beside him. Somewhere behind him, you can hear Egg and Matarys arguing heatedly about something. Dunk tries to calm them down.
Daeron leaves you alone for a moment. Aerion exchanges a few words with you, then leaves to see to the packing of his belongings.
You stand alone on the stone steps for a moment. It's getting colder, and you disappear inside the keep for a moment. Perhaps you'll go to the kitchen and ask for a few sips of mulled wine before you set off.
There's a lot of traffic near the kitchen. Many people pass by, treating you with respect, but their bows are stiff and they treat you rather coldly. You're about to enter the kitchen; the door isn't even closed when the voices of the kitchen staff stop you.
"It's good that this savage is leaving. Seriously, what was Prince Daeron thinking to bring him here… such an unholy creature!" Through the half-open door, you can see one of the cooks speaking loudly. Her face is flushed.
"Huh, I don't know how Prince Baelor could agree to this! Seriously… this savage doesn't even go to the Sept! He's a pagan!" another, younger woman says, shocked.
Voices of outrage echo. You stand at the door, paralyzed. You didn't think anyone would like you, tolerate you, or bear you. It would be a dream, but… even so, the words sting. The rumor that you were from beyond the walls spread shortly after your arrival. I'm sure the children were going to say it, not much, of course.
"He also led the Prince down this sinful path… truly, that even the king is doing it, and that's acceptable. He should be beheaded, the disgusting pagan."
"Prince Maekar should beheaded him for touching the Prince like that!
"The insolent one, he still has the nerve to call Prince Valarr by his name! I heard it myself! As if they were equals!"
The words pour from their mouths like a rain of hatred. You can't bear to listen. The good mood of the departure has vanished. You should leave. You take a step back and bump into someone. You turn sharply and see Daeron. His eyes are dark with anger.
"Aerion, take [Name] to the courtyard." You hadn't even noticed Daeron's brother's presence.
Daeron doesn't wait, but abruptly enters the castle kitchen. The entire hall falls silent. The door is wide open, so the servants can probably see you and Aerion perfectly. You see the fear in their eyes.
"I should have all of you cut out your tongues," the prince hisses. "Or kill you for treason."
"Daeron, stop, let's go." You speak softly.
It's so quiet you can hear the crackling of wood in the stove.
"My… savage, as you called him, stood up for you. Next time, there will be no mercy. Prince Baelor will know everything that's been said here."
You hear nothing more. Aerion grabs your elbow and leads you to the square. The carriages and horses are already waiting. Maekar and Baelor are chatting on the steps. Children run around, eager for the journey. When they see you and the furious Aerion, their expressions harden.
"Dunk, take care of the prince, take him to the carriage."
You blink rapidly. Aerion called you prince? Did he even know he'd said that? Several knights nearby look at each other in confusion.
Dunk helps you into the large carriage. You'd prefer to ride on horseback, but it's too cold. Maekar doesn't want anyone catching a cold. Again. Dunk is kind, making sure everything is alright. He doesn't ask any questions. Aerion will tell him everything anyway. Aerion is supposed to ride in the second pose with Dunk, Egg, Matarys, and the girls.
Through the window, you see Aerion discussing with the Princes and his cousin. Baelor nods, saying something, his expression firm. Soon Daeron joins them. He doesn't speak for long, going straight to the carriage.
"Are you alright?" he asks, sitting down next to you.
You nod. "Yes. I… I didn't expect them to like me here," you say calmly. "It would be foolish to expect them to treat me well. I'm a wildling, and I led the prince astray." You try to smile.
Daeron tightens his grip on your fingers. "They're not supposed to like you. They're supposed to respect you. You're mine. If I so wish, you will become a prince."
You'll like Summerhall Castle much more than the Red Keep. It's warm in the library, and you, Daeron, and the girls are all sitting there. Next, Dunk is teaching Egg how to hold a sword. They've moved some of the furniture to practice in the library, the largest room in the castle.
"Will Daeron marry you?" Rhae asks suddenly, with all the seriousness she carries in her childish face. "I hope so, you're… nice." She places the cards on the table, looking as if she's asked the most normal question in the world. She doesn't realize what a… serious question she's asked.
You and Daeron freeze. You look at each other. You realize the girl is asking seriously. Aerion snorts from somewhere inside the library.
"Where did you get that idea?" You ask the little girl.
Rhae blinks her wide eyes and looks at you as if you were too stupid. "You… live like a man and a woman. That's what the servants in the castle say."
"Yes, but…" Daeron coughs. Aerion is talking from the back of the library, having a great time. Daeron tells him to shut up, Aerion mutters something, and Egg admonishes him, telling him to be quiet, because he wants to hear it too.
"Me and [Name] aren't… like a man and a woman," she finally says carefully.
The girl shrugs. "I asked Uncle Aerys. According to him, the Valryrian vows, the blood vows, didn't distinguish between the sexes."
You look at each other again. Aerion chokes on laughter. Dunk has to slap him on the back of the head.
Rhae looks at you seriously. "So, are you going to get married?"
For the rest of the day, a strange feeling lingers. You sit in the library for a while longer, pretending the question never came. Finally, Daeron leaves and disappears. You can't find him. Prince Maekar tells you not to worry.
Evening comes quickly. In winter, the sun sets early. You stand on the balcony, and the cold air burns your skin. Winters are different here. Still dark and can kill, but… completely different. Warmer. It's warmer. Warmer from the fires in the fireplace, warmer from Daeron's body, from sex and kisses.
How is it possible that everything can change so much. How…
The door opens. Daeron carefully closes it behind him.
"You'll freeze," he says, but he doesn't pull you inside or close the door. He steps out onto the balcony and stands next to you.
You smile. "You're forgetting where I come from."
Daeron snorts. "True, sometimes I really do forget." He's silent for a moment. "I really do forget, because… I can't remember the last time I remembered who you are, you know where you come from. You're… like a prince. You have the manners of a prince. It comes so easily to you."
He looks at you. Snow begins to fall from the sky. Daeron looks at you with that twinkle in his eye. His eyes are dreamy; he must have had some wine. You bite your lip; did Rhae's question upset him that much?
"Daeron…"
"I thought you could become a prince officially." He cups your face in his hands. "Become a prince, through blood marriage to me."
You don't have time to answer. He kisses you, hard, fiercely. Snow falls on your eyelashes and cheeks. It runs down your cheeks like tears.
"Yes…" You murmur as he pulls away for a moment.
"Do you think this will work?" Baelor asks his brother.
"Rhae, did you do as we discussed?" Maekar looks at his youngest daughter. The girl nods.
Valarr enters the study. He looks at his father and uncle. "He agreed. I heard! I was on the balcony in the room below them."
"There will be cake!?" Rhae jumps off the couch.
This text was NOT created using AI.Therefore, the text may contain linguistic, grammatical and typographical errors. English is not my first language. If you notice anything in the text, please let me know :)
[oblivious to sexual dynamics] ohhh are you guys playing knights and princesses? can i be like a grizzled mercenary captain? i could teach the soldiers in matters of arms and project a gruff and unyielding yet ultimately kind and fatherly demeanour. if you guys are looking for a third. player
Once again staying up way past my sensible middle-aged bedtime in my dressing gown and slippers, pipe wedged in the corner of my mouth, enjoying that sweet rush of notifs that hits so good when the New World colonies come slamming into their peak online hours. Yes, validate me peasants. I deserve it.
Imagine Dunk accidentally being a peeping tom on Lyonel and Reader and getting invited along to play OUGH. Or Dunk refusing penetrative sex early on, focusing on hands and oral, because he doesn’t want to hurt you and won’t think it’ll fit so you push that big lunk on his back and ride him counting the inches and making it fit OUGH
To quote the other anon today, IM SO HORNY!!!! THIS BLOG IS AN OASIS OF SMUT FOR MY HORNY FEVERS!!! YOUR WRITING IS HORNY DAYQUIL!!!
what about both?
The Stag and His Doe
Ser Duncan The Tall x Lyonel'swife!reader x Lyonel Baratheon
✿ lyonel invites his loyal friend to join him and his wife in the sanctuary of the baratheon tent (or, you and your lord husband make dunk feel good)
✿ 18+
✿ wc: 4.9k
✿ cw: fem!reader (you are lyonel’s wife), no y/n, SMUT, literally all porn no plot, like seriously guys this is 4.9k of lyonel’s absolute dream, threesome, slight voyeurism at the start, sub!dunk/dom!lyonel/switch!reader, unprotected piv, oral (m!&f!receiving), slight fingering, finger sucking!!, riding, multiple orgasms, praise!!! like seriously dunk is having a great time, lyonel is possessive over both his wife and hedge knight, dunk and lyonel kiss >:), strong language
Dunk didn’t mean to stare. But how could he not?
You were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he watched with rapt attention as you draped yourself—covered only in a thin black nightgown, embellished in gold—across your husband’s lap. Your husband Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm, of all men. Your fingers worked the ties of his trousers, Lyonel’s large hand caressing the back of your neck as you kneel against the pillowed floor seating of the Baratheon tent. Dunk’s mouth has long gone dry, his tongue heavy in his mouth, watching, waiting as your fingers spin the knots free and dip beneath the fabric.
Lyonel groans loudly, head rolling back on his shoulders as you pull his hard cock from his trousers. Dunk watches you bite your lip to hide a smile as you pump him, eyes fixed on the flushed reddy-purple of the head. With a wiggle of your hips, you arch further forward, taking it into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you drop down.
Lyonel groans again, the hand on the back of your neck tightening.
Dunk stands rigid with his back pressed to the closed flap of the tent. He can feel his own cock, heavy and hard, pitching a tent in the front of his coarse cotton trousers. His hands ball into fists at his sides, the muscles in his forearms pulling tight as he listens to the wet sounds of your mouth and the characteristically unabashed moans of the Storm Lord himself.
Lyonel had summoned Dunk to his tent just moments ago. Lord Baratheon requests your presence in his tent, ser, the guard had said with a light nod of his head. And of course Dunk is a man to come when he is called upon.
Lyonel’s head hangs forward now, and he opens his eyes slowly, pupils wide. They lock on Dunk, who stares back with his mouth agape and a lurid flush across his cheeks. Lyonel just smiles, the points of his teeth flashing, before he was using his hold on the back of your neck and shifting your line of sight towards the tent flap, his cock still deep inside your mouth.
“Here’s our knight, little doe,” Lyonel breathes softly, petting the back of your head. You moan around his cock, watery eyes finding Dunk’s with a silent plea that has the giant man’s cock jerking within his breeches. Lyonel hums, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment before they open, and he was looking Dunk up and down. “He’s a big lad, isn’t he?”
You moan your agreement around his cock again, your fist gripping the base in short, jagged strokes. Dunk can’t maintain the heaviness of Lyonel’s eye contact, and his eyes drop to watch the stretch of your mouth and the shine of spittle coating the lord’s cock.
He can’t speak. An invisible hand has seized his throat.
“Must I extend a formal invitation?” Lyonel utters, leaning back against the floor-level chaise with one arm stretched across the back. That arm raises two fingers, crooking them in Dunk’s direction, while his other hand pets the back of your head.
Dunk takes one step forward, almost out of instinct, but then stops. He swallows thickly, eyes darting between your pretty face and Lyonel, who was staring at him with a predatory glint in his eyes. Less the preyed buck, more the hunting wolf.
“M-my lord…” Dunk finally manages to grind out, but it tapers off when you whimper around Lyonel’s cock, the tip nudging towards the back of your throat. Your hand is tugging your husband’s trousers too, fingers and palm shifting to cup his balls, earning a rumbling groan from Lyonel’s chest.
“You have won the attention of the buck and his doe,” Lyonel drawls, hand brushing across the back of your head as if he were petting a cat. “We would care for you to join us, if you so wish. If not, leave now so I can get my cock sucked by my pretty wife in peace.”
You moan something around Lyonel’s cock, brows furrowing just so, and that makes Lyonel chuckle. His hand returns to the nape of your neck and pushes, eliciting a gag from the back of your throat as his tip hit inwards.
Dunk gapes, flexing his fingers. Of course he wants this. Of course he wants Lyonel, but most of all, of course he wants you. Only a stupid man would let this opportunity slip through his grasp.
So he takes another step forward, and something mischievous flashes in Lyonel’s eyes.
“That’s a good lad,” the lord utters, watching as Dunk willfully crossed the tent. The hedge knight slowly drops to his knees, just on the edge of the cushions, his light eyes roaming along the arch of your back, following the dip of your spine and the curve of your arse. Lyonel smiles, nodding down at you. “You can touch her, Ser Duncan. As a matter of fact, I believe she would have my head if I did not allow you to.”
At your husband’s words, you hum around him, squeezing his balls just tightly enough for him to release a shuddered exhale.
Dunk’s arms tentatively extend, and reach across to trail his hands down your sides. Your eyes close in bliss as the warmth of his palms and fingers smooth down your waist, running hot against the threadbare material. Dunk watches closely as your body reacts, curiosity boiling-hot within him as your back arches further as his two large hands run across the curve of your arse. The material of your nightgown sits just where your arse meets your thigh, and Dunk drops his head to the side, finding you bare of any smallclothes.
His mouth drops open, your pussy slick between the fat of your thighs. “Oh, Seven above…”
Lyonel watches Dunk carefully, his tongue pressing to the corner of his mouth as he smiles. He notices the way the hedge knight’s hands still at your hips, as well as the thick imprint of his cock in his trousers.
“Take what you need,” Lyonel says, his hand leaving the nape of your neck. Palm coarse with sword-hilt callouses, he drags it along your spine slowly until he finds Dunk’s hand. He grasps it then, and Dunk’s breath hitches, as he allows the lord to shift his hand over the split of your arse and dip between your thighs. Lyonel presses Dunk’s hand onto your wet core, and you let out a loud moan around his cock.
“Gods,” Dunk whispers, the pads of two of his fingers finding your clit. You keen at the feeling as your husband’s hand pushes incessantly.
“Have you ever seen a pussy as pretty as this?” Lyonel asks, cocking his head and watching the heat that rises up Dunk’s neck. The larger man’s eyes don’t leave you, watching obediently as Lyonel’s hand begins to move, guiding Dunk’s fingers to grind circles into the bud of your clit.
“I—” Dunk breathes. “I—I haven’t, uh—”
Lyonel pauses, and so do you.
Slowly, you drag your mouth off of Lyonel’s cock, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth as you look over your shoulder at the blushing knight. Lyonel’s strong hand keeps Duncan’s pressed firmly to your core.
“Have you lay with a woman before?” Lyonel questions. There’s a subtle, mocking humour in his tone, but it is largely overwhelmed by genuine gentleness. You watch with watery eyes as Dunk’s ears flush a brilliant red, his eyes snapping away from the slick heat of your pussy to find both yours and Lyonel’s eyes on him.
He groans, attempting to draw his hand away, but Lyonel doesn’t let him. The lord’s mouth curves into a wolfish grin, eyes flitting between Dunk’s bashful expression and the large tent in the front of his trousers. Then, he bends, and presses a tender kiss to the top of your head.
“Our poor knight, little doe,” Lyonel mutters, hand finally releasing Dunk’s. It finds your hip as he guides you into a sitting position between his spread legs. “Has never been inside a cunt in all his life. Never tasted one, hm? Never had a pretty mouth wrap around that big cock.”
The lewdness of Lyonel’s words make Dunk moan, the sound strangled in his throat as the lord angles his leg and presses the ball of his foot against the knight’s covered cock. You watch the interaction with butterflies ravaging your stomach as Dunk’s head drops, lips parting in pants, strands of his shaggy hair brushing over his furrowed eyebrows.
“Our poor boy,” you whisper, and Dunk’s head shoots back up to look at you. His pupils are so wide in the bright candlelight that his irises appear black.
Slowly, you spread your legs, hooking them over Lyonel’s, exposing your core. You can feel the way your hole drools—courtesy of Lyonel’s tongue and fingers prior to Dunk’s arrival—and coats the soft curve of your arse. Dunk’s breath hitches.
Lyonel drags a hand down your front before wrapping his fingers around the hem of your nightgown. In one deft movement, he rips it over your head, your breasts spilling out into the warm air of the tent.
“Come on, Ser Duncan,” Lyonel says as his two large hands shift to pinch at your slowly hardening nipples. You whine, hips twitching, and the sound makes Dunk’s cock leak into his breeches. Lyonel kneads the flesh of your breasts as he speaks. “Put your mouth on my wife.”
Dunk pulls his tunic over his head, burning hot before he’s crawling between your spread legs. His muscles ripple as he drags himself onto the ground, chest raised slightly against the cushions as his hands find the flesh of your thighs. He lifts his eyes to watch your face as he massages you there, big hands strong and firm.
You moan softly, rolling your head back to capture your husband’s mouth. You moan again, louder this time, as your tongues meet, and Dunk feels something tighten in his gut as he watches the way your mouths move together, tongues meeting in flicks and curls. The sound of spit swapping has his ears burning hotter too, and he watches, transfixed, on the way Lyonel kisses you and cups your breasts simultaneously. Your body trembles in his hold, and Dunk marvels at the rapid rise and fall of your chest.
Then, a hand finds his head. Blindly, you thread your fingers into his hair and grip tight enough for Dunk to whimper. Smiling against Lyonel’s mouth, you push down on the knight’s head and guide him towards the heat of your pussy. Dunk whimpers again when he breathes in the smell of you, warmth washing over his lower face as he dips forward. He presses a chaste kiss to your bud, before he nuzzles it with his nose as he shifts his head downwards. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but this feels right.
Your head tips back, and Lyonel’s teeth nip along the line of your jaw. Your fingers tighten in Dunk’s soft hair, your hips twitching as you urge him closer.
“Just like that, Dunk, just like that,” you whisper, Lyonel sucking kisses down the curve of your neck now, rolling your nipples between his thumb and forefingers.
Dunk opens his mouth against you, the thick of his tongue pushing through your slick folds. He groans when he tastes you—heady, warm, a clean-water musk—on his tongue, and his stomach clenches tightly again at the way his vibrations make you quiver.
After licking a trail of wet kisses along your neck, Lyonel pitches his chin on your shoulder, beard tickling your skin, peering down at the large man nestled between his wife’s thighs. He watches the way Dunk’s hips jerk against the firm floor, the way his bare back, littered with small scars, tenses with restrained strength as his hands grip you. Lyonel listens to the way small, breathy moans fall from your lips as Dunk’s tongue works down, and down still, until finally, the lord knows when his tongue enters you, as your body tenses up and a high-pitch whine fills the tent.
“That’s a good lad,” Lyonel utters, sinking his teeth into your shoulder for a moment before licking over the shallow indents. “Make my wife come.”
Dunk moans into your heat, and you moan back. Lyonel’s wet cock twitches heavily against your back as one of his hands moves from your breasts and trails over your stomach. It travels over your mound, and then finds your pussy, middle and ring finger pressing tightly to your puffy clit. You whine, and Dunk’s eyes lift to find Lyonel’s hand inches from his face.
Lyonel draws circles across your clit, your stomach clenching tightly, pleasure quickly tingling up your spread legs. Dunk’s tongue is warm and thick and big inside you, your pussy stretching around the muscle as he curls and thrusts without a discernible rhythm. You dry to guide him, to settle his nerves, with your hand in your hair, and it works for the most part. He bobs his head, eyes falling closed as he whines through his panting as his tongue moves in and out. The sounds are wet and obscene, and it makes his ears burn even hotter than before.
“Dunk,” you whine out, hips bucking to meet his face. “Please, please, I’m—”
Lyonel kisses behind your ear as he works his fingers over your clit. “Good girl, little doe, tell our knight you’re going to come for him.”
You choke on a moan, body fiery hot. “Oh, gods, Dunk, I’m—ah, you’re going to make me—make me come.”
Your words force a groan from the deepest part of Dunk’s chest as he continues to work his tongue. He doesn’t dare change the pace, or the rhythm, or the pressure. He keeps steady, jaw practically unhinged as he laps up the ichor of your pussy. He’s never had anything like this before, and he’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to get enough.
You shake, body strung tight, before the pressure in the base of your belly is splitting into thousands of pieces and you come with a shaky moan into Dunk’s mouth. He moans into you as you gush, pussy drooling across his tongue and dribbling out the corners of his mouth. Lyonel’s fingers work you through it, tapping your swollen clit a couple more times before his hand is pushing Dunk’s head away.
Dunk whines, petulant, as Lyonel’s fingers dip into the slick that leaks from your hole. He shoves himself all the way to the knuckle, and you stutter around a surprised gasp as he pumps you once, twice, three times before retracting. Then, while your hand still grips Dunk’s hair, he presses his fingers to the knight’s lips.
“Suck,” Lyonel orders simply, and Dunk’s mouth opens instantly. A dog following the orders of his master. Lyonel pushes his fingers into Dunk’s mouth as you fizzle down from your high, the taller man’s tongue instinctively wrapping around the digits. His eyes are glossy, brow pinched as he looks up at Lyonel. The tears that well in his lashline have you moaning for him, hands shifting to cup his flushed face.
“Oh, gods, Dunk, you’re such a good boy,” you tell him, patting his cheeks.
He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch as he sucks on Lyonel’s fingers. You can hear Lyonel puffing against you, feel the deep rise and fall of his chest at your back, feel the heavy twitch of his cock behind you as well.
You run your thumb over Dunk’s cheekbone, directing your next sentence at your husband. “I need his cock inside me.”
Dunk’s eyes wrench open as Lyonel pulls his fingers away.
“You heard the lady, Duncan,” Lyonel says boldly. “Now take your fucking trousers off.”
Dunk scrambles to his feet, and you crane your neck to watch him untie his trousers and shuck them down his legs. His breeches follow, and both you and your husband moan softly at the knight’s cock, hard but drooping under the weight. The giant sinks back to his knees, one large hand clutching the base of his cock, the side of his hand lowered against the thatch of light hair at the base. Even swallowed by the size of his hand, Dunk’s cock is huge: thick and long, ridged with veins along the underside, head a painfully bruised red, slit wet with precum.
“Mm–uh,” Dunk breathes through a moan, clutching his heavy cock, eyes staring at your wet cunt. “S’not—It won’t… uh, m’too big.”
Lyonel laughs, the sound making Dunk shrink back a little. The storm lord tuts as his hands rub up and down your sides idly. “Oh, you’ll fit, sweet boy. Our little doe isn’t as fragile as you think—isn’t that right, my lady?”
You nod eagerly, eyes on Dunk’s cock. Despite your enthusiasm, the muscles of your stomach clench with nerves, your pussy tightening around nothing as you take in the sight of him. He’s bigger than Lyonel, bigger than the guard your husband practically spit-roasted you with three moons ago, and bigger than anyone you’d ever even seen.
But it’ll fit. You know it will.
“I’ll show you,” you utter softly, pulling yourself up and away from your husband, who lets you go with a smack to your arse.
You wrap your hand around Dunk’s wrist and guide him over to the chaise, clambering onto his lap and pushing him down against the pillows. His head finds Lyonel’s chest, and he looks up with round eyes and parted lips as Lyonel’s hands find the sides of his face. As that happens, you’re taking Dunk’s cock in your hand, fingers barely reaching all the way around his girth, and the foreign contact makes Dunk groan. It’s whiny and desperate, and mirrors the way his cock drools in your hand, leaping with each small squeeze of your fingers.
Lyonel holds Dunk’s face tenderly and leans down. His lips press a small kiss to the larger man’s cheek, then his cheekbone, then the corner of his mouth. Dunk whines, and it’s him that turns his head to push their lips together. It’s brief, but wet and deep, Lyonel’s tongue too dominant, too strong. Their teeth clack together, and Dunk’s pulling away with a whimper when the lord’s teeth find his bottom lip.
You huff, stroking Dunk’s cock. “Lyonel.”
Lyonel lifts his head, eyes sparkling. “What?”
“You have to be gentle,” you say pointedly, straddling Dunk’s hips and leaning forward with your other hand pressed to the warmth of his bare chest. “Need to take care of him.”
Dunk ducks his head to meet your movements, his mouth slotting to yours and the sound he makes has pleasure searing up your spine. It’s a breathy whimper of your name as your tongues meet, and you’re so much more gentle than your husband. So much sweeter, so much softer. There’s no teeth, just the languid stroke of your smaller tongue against his, your lips across his, as your hand idly strokes along the length of his cock.
A grumbling purr leaves Lyonel’s chest. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s a good girl, being so gentle with our poor knight.”
His hands stroke Dunk’s face as you pull away slowly, a string of saliva connecting your lips. Dunk pouts when it snaps and you sit straighter in his lap. Suddenly, you’re grinding your wet slit across the heat of his length, and his breath stutters against his ribs at the flush of pleasure that overtakes him.
“Now…” Lyonel leans down to whisper in Dunk’s ear, teeth skimming the shell of his ear. “Our pretty little doe is going to show you just how good she is, okay? And you’re going to be a good lad and count the inches. You can count, can’t you?”
Dunk nods dumbly.
“Good boy. Now hold her hips.”
He does. The hedge knight reaches up and places two massive paws on your hips as you angle his cock to your hole, the fat head hot against you. You whine out, chewing on your bottom lip as you lower yourself gently until the tip all but pops inside you with only a small amount of slick resistance. The pressure is heavenly, and Dunk feels his eyes threaten to roll to the back of his head as heat envelops him. His balls twitch, the muscles in his lower abdomen contracting harshly. His fingers grip against your hips.
“That’s it, now fucking count,” Lyonel utters darkly, tone heavy with lust.
Dunk blows out a breath as you begin sinking down, your brow furrowed as you take him an inch at a time. Dunk doesn’t quite know his exact measurements—or numerical measurements, really—but you help him. Each time you stop and tremble against him, a soft mutter of Duncan or so big leaving your mouth, he whispers out a number.
“One… two…” He grits out, and he watches as your pretty little pussy swallows more and more of him. He holds you firmly, scared of hurting you, eyes finding your face as it screws up. Not in pain, but in pleasure. He continues breathlessly. “Three… f-four…f-uh-five…”
Another inch, and then another.
One of Lyonel’s hands strokes Dunk’s chest, thumb brushing a scar beneath the curve of his pectoral muscle. Dunk’s counting becomes stuttered, more of him sucked into the tight, wet clutch of your cunt as Lyonel’s finger flicks over one of his nipples.
And he’s still whispering in his ear all the while. “You’re a proper knight now, huh? Got a pretty sheath for that big fucking sword, yeah? S’all yours, lad. What’s mine is yours.”
Another inch, and gods, then another.
He fits.
By the Seven, he fits, and he lets out the loudest fucking groan as you finally take all of him. You whimper his name so sweetly that he’s scared he’ll spill straight away, pleasure hot in his belly, balls painfully tight. He’s never felt anything like this. It’s euphoric.
“Tell her to move,” Lyonel orders. “She won’t move until you tell her. She’s a good girl like that.”
You sit so pretty on his lap, waiting patiently. Your hands are on Dunk’s stomach, your legs trembling either side of his wide hips.
Dunk whispers your name. “Please move. Please.”
You smile down at him, before raising yourself, dragging your cunt upwards and then slamming yourself down onto him. Dunk’s moan gets caught in his throat as you lift yourself again, then drop back down. The stretch knots pleasure tight above your womb, a dull pain lingering at the edges as the thick head of his cock rams against your gummy posterior wall, nudging towards the plug of your cervix. His hands are impossibly heavy on your hips, the muscles in his arms working as he helps lift your weight.
Your pussy is so slick that his ruts begin to glide, slick dripping down his balls as his hips start to lift. He meets you as you work yourself onto him.
“Uh, uh, fuck—” he moans as he watches the way you practically bounce in his lap.
Meanwhile, Lyonel’s hands feather across the larger man’s ribs, his mouth sucking harsh, bruising marks along the strong curve of his shoulder. He presses his nose to the thrumming pulse beneath Dunk’s ear, kissing it gently.
“Tell me how good she feels,” Lyonel whispers to his knight.
“S-so good, my lord,” Dunk replies, words strained, strung taut with pleasure. “Feels—uh, fuck—feels so fucking good.”
Lyonel lifts a hand from Dunk’s side and beckons you to him. With a huff, you lean forward, anchoring your hands against Dunk’s broad chest. Your husband’s hand wraps around the front of Dunk’s throat as he meets you at his shoulder. You kiss, and Dunk turns to watch your lips slot together, the two of you panting into each other’s mouth as Lyonel grinds his cock against Dunk’s lower back, and you continue the stuttering movements of your hips. Dunk slants his head up, his forehead pressing to the warm skin of your cheek as he whines for the both of you.
Lyonel smiles into your mouth, and you return it. The hand on Dunk’s throat tightens a fraction as it forces his chin up. You hum out from the back of your throat as you and Lyonel both press your mouths to Dunk’s, lips parting against his, tongues converging. Dunk groans into the kiss, his hips bucking faster to meet your lazy grinding, hands trailing downwards to knead at the fat of your arse. He’s drunk on the taste of you both; Lyonel’s tongue mellowed with the taste of arbor gold, yours sweet with honey.
The hedge knight is quivering beneath you, and you pull out of the kiss to drop your hips onto him faster. Skin-on-skin, hurried slapping. You pant, mewling his name as you chase the high that builds thick amongst the warmth of your womb, pleasure blurring the edges of your vision like a black-lined tunnel.
“Told you you’ll fit,” Lyonel utters, fingers swiping up and down the column of Dunk’s throat. He feels the bob of the knight’s nervous swallowing beneath his palm. “Gods, fits like a fucking glove, doesn’t it? Our little doe’s pussy’s just made for you—made to take that big fucking cock, huh? Just look at her, Duncan. Look at the way she takes all of you.”
Dunk moans. “Gods—”
His cock twitches inside you, and you whine, looking down at the knight below you with soft eyes. “Dunk, need you to spill inside me. Please.”
Dunk’s mouth drops open. When he doesn’t hear a response from the lord behind him, he peers up, finding Lyonel smiling, canines flashing as he watches his wife.
“Well?” Lyonel looks down at Dunk, still smiling. “You heard our lady. Be a good knight and do what you’re told.”
Dunk knew what it felt like to release, mainly over his knuckles in the privacy of a forest clearing, or a dilapidated room in a quiet inn. But he knew this was about to be a whole different experience as something hot burned through the base of his belly, zapped along his spine and bloomed through his chest.
The warm clutch of your cunt sucks his cock in with each thrust, the head rutting up against the base of your cervix, and he can’t help the moan of your name that falls from his lips as he comes. His balls tighten and his cock twitches, seeming to swell inside you as he releases—pump after pump, filling you as you continue to move.
You groan, thrusts quickening as your orgasm builds, spurred by the warmth flooding you. “Fuck, Dunk—that’s it, that’s a good boy.”
You come apart not long after. The knot in your belly springs apart again and you clamp down around him, fingers curling against the soft muscle of his abdomen. Your head rolls back and your wanton moans fill the tent, a mixture of curses, pleas, and whimpers of his name as you rock yourself in your lap, chasing the shadows of your retreating orgasm as it slips from you slowly, slowly, until you still. You pant above him, and he caresses your hips as you lean forward, collapsing onto his chest with a grunt.
Dunk presses a kiss to your forehead, arms wrapping around you. His cock remains wedged inside of you though, only half-soft.
Above you both, Lyonel chuckles. His hands pat along Dunk’s head, and down your back, soothing his wife and his knight, bathed beautifully in the candlelight of the tent.
After allowing a moment of respite, the lord grows slightly restless, cock still painfully hard against Dunk’s back. So, he takes his hands and grips the two of you on the backs of your necks, guiding your heads to one another until he’s all but forcing you to kiss.
It is welcomed, and you and Dunk drink in each other’s whimpers as your mouths meet, lips lax with pleasure. You barely move, just swapping air and spit with lazed tongues as Lyonel watches, rutting his hips against the strong, firm muscles of Dunk’s back.
“That’s it, that’s it,” Lyonel mutters, before he’s using all of his strength to push the two of you to the side. You squeak as Lyonel switches the position of you both until you’re splayed either side of his lap, still holding the napes of your necks. Then, with as much boldness as you would find usual of your husband, he guides your kissing mouths to the head of his hard cock, your lips meeting against the sensitive skin of the tip. Lyonel groans, “That’s it, doing so well for your lord, just fuckin—hngh—”
He spills against you and Dunk’s conjoined faces, seed splattering your lips and skin in warm spurts. He groans your name mainly, but Dunk’s is thrown in there too, as his hips rock against the cushions and his hands go limp on your neck. You and Dunk pull apart, staring at one another with glossy eyes and parted, kiss-swollen lips.
“Are you okay?” You ask Dunk gently, reaching a hand up to wipe some of Lyonel’s cum from Dunk’s cheek.
Dunk nods. “This… this was great.”
You can’t help but laugh.
Lyonel pats the knight on the top of the head like a puppy. “We told you, Ser Duncan, you’re our knight, and you’ve got our attention. I think you’ll look good in black and gold, wouldn’t you agree, little doe?”
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