“Val, help me decide,” Olive exhales, spoilt for choice while she takes in the sea of colored paper in front of her. “This one,” she asks, pointing to a heart shaped card with a horn playing cherub stuck on it, “or this?”
“‘To my solider sweetheart?’” The Brooklynite reads off, her face contorting in mild disgust. “Eugh. There is nothing less James Douglass than that. The heart one, it's cute,” she nods, eyes widening with excitement when she spots a white card with a pack of Lucky Strikes expertly drawn on the front, accompanied by the message “‘you're smokin’ hot!’”
“Eeee, perfect!” She giggles. “Watch how red his face goes, Ol. It'll be a picture!”
Olive sneakily pulls out her phone, making sure no eyes are on them. “And I'll be there to make that happen!”
The girls giggle as Olive returns the phone to her pocket, both looking up at the door as the bell jingles. “Come on, kiddos! We'll be late for our appointment!”
“Almost ready, Tat,” Val yells back, ignoring the woman tutting behind the counter as she murmurs something about “these loud mouth Americans.”
Olive side eyes the woman, grabbing Val’s arm to hold her back as she begins to stride over to the woman.
“Oh, don't worry, Brooklyn. I've got this one.”
“Sure. But you owe me one!”
She takes the card from her friend, making her way over to the counter and begins to speak in her very noticeably - not American - accent.
“Morning, madam,” she sing-songs. “Just these two, please!”
“Uh…yes, yes…” she stutters, unsure of how to respond to this plot twist. “S-sorry, I didn't know you were–”
“Mhm…” Olive begins. “I seem to remember being told it was the British way to welcome our guests. Maybe let's stick to that.” She places the money owed in the woman's hand, smiling at her. “Thanks ever so!”
“Oh, I'm like a proud mother hen watching her chickie grow and leave the coop!” Val gushes as Olive returns.
“You're teaching me well, Brooklyn.”
“Come on!” Helen and Tattie interject.
“I want my hair all pretty for Jack!”
“Tattie, it'll be all loose again come dinnertime.”
“Yeah…” she replies, eyes glazing over and sighing wistfully as the other girls shoot a glance at each other. “Anyway, let's go! Time's a-ticking!”
***
“So, Ol,” Helen begins as she ties a silk scarf on her new hair-do. “Are you going to treat Valentine's Day like you do your birthday?”
“What?” She guffaws in response. “Pretend it doesn't exist because I absolutely hate the idea of it?”
“Well, when you put it that way…”
Olive laughs, toying with her own scarf, careful not to smudge her nails. “You'll be happy to know I'm softening up.”
“And we know who to thank for that,” Valencia winks.
“Yes, yourselves. And I couldn't think of a more perfect way to spend Galentines.”
“Galentines?!” they all yell in unison, looks of confusion on all their faces.
“What in the world is that?!” Tattie asks.
“It's Valentine's Day, spent with your girls. Hence, gal…”
“Oh, that's sweet, English. Sounds like something Curt would say, though.”
“Galentines…” Olive repeats, trying her best to emulate Curt’s thick accent, sending Val into peals of laughter.
“Good try, English. It's like he's in the room! Now, are we all ready? The Jeep is here to take us back to base.”
A chorus of yeses is thrown in Valencia’s direction as she picks up her small handbag.
“Come on, chickens,” Olive instructs. “Before Chicky develops another stress hernia.”
***
True to her predictions, Chick Harding is pacing back and forth in the Officer's Club as the girls swing open the doors.
“Finally!” He booms. “I said three hours, not the whole dang day. You've got an event to organize!”
“Chicky, cool it. You'll do yourself a mischief, sir.”
“And don't we look pretty?”
“Yes, yes, very nice, DiRosano,” he brushes off. “These decorations–”
“What about them?” Tattie asks, lighting a cigarette and puffing on it.
“They're too frilly!”
“It's Valentine's Day, sir. It's a Valentine's Day dance!” Helen reminds him.
“It's too girly!”
“Ohhhhh!” The girls all chorus, realizing what he's implying. Tattie Spaatz simply turns on her heel to exit through the swing doors.
“And where the hell do you think you're going, Spaatz?!”
“Going to get Jack,” she replies, matter of factly. “Seeing as you're so hell bent on having more paper planes in nose dives…”
“You girls will be the death of me,” Chick says, lighting a cigar.
“Yeah, if that hernia doesn't get you first.”
In all the hilarious commotion, Olive almost doesn't notice Val sidle up to her, pulling from one of Ev's Lucky Strikes she took from him that morning.
“Do you think this is a bad time to ask if we can wear civvies?”
***
With the band in full swing, Olive and Val watch and laugh as they see Rosie Rosenthal throw and twirl Helen about the dance floor for the fourth time already that night. Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes glimmering in the low light of the room as she smiles, shrieking at being spun around by the strong pilot. Olive and Val find themselves exchanging an emotional glance with one another, clinging to each other's hands and squeezing as they confirm the same thought: this is the first glimpse of their Helen they've seen since the tragedy of Bremen, their girl coming back to herself.
“She looks happy,” Val sniffs, sipping slowly at her cocktail. She turns away to order another, Olive following close by. As she orders herself an Old Fashioned, she feels a hand upon hers.
“I've got that,” a gruff voice says. The man in front of her smoulders, eyebrow comically raised; Olive feels herself blushing, then giggling at this silly game her fella, James Douglass, is playing. “You come here often?”
She winks, playing along. “Oh, I sure do, Captain.”
He laughs, placing his hands on her cheeks and kissing her firmly. “Let me take you for a spin, dolly.” She lets him lead her to the dancefloor, clinging to his hand as she grins.
“Thought you'd never ask, lovey.”
***
It's a quiet moment away from the gang - they'd all been sitting outside of the Donut Dollies hut, sharing a bottle of whiskey and cigarettes, talking about disastrous past Valentine's Days - that Olive nervously hands Dougie the card she so carefully chose for him. He smiles as he opens it, the edge of his eyes sweetly crinkling with it as he reads:
‘I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.’
“Do you like it?” She asks, chewing at her lip in anxiety. “I didn't know what to pick, a-and–”
Her stuttered words trail away as he kisses her, gently silencing her as she melts into him.
“I love it,” he murmurs. “I love you.”
“And I love you,” she replies, rubbing her nose on his. Her hand reaches up to stroke his cheek, scrunching her nose at him. “Did you get me a card?”
“No, I–”
She pushes him away, pouting instantly. “You didn't get me a card?! That's…I don't even know. Sick!”
“You didn't let me finish,” he says, eyes glimmering cheekily. “You asked if I got you a card.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I couldn't decide. So, I ended up getting you ten.”
“Ten?” She shrieks, laughing loudly. He takes her hand, pulling her to the door of the hut and opens it, revealing some haphazardly designed decorations, pink streamers stuck to the paper thin ceiling. “What's all this?” Olive asks, hand over her mouth to cover her surprise.
“Me and the fellas, well…we wanted to do something nice. Guys, bring ‘em over!”
Olive is quickly distracted by the small ruckus of the group joining them, the nine of them piling through the small door of the hut. Rosie and Croz nod at one another, each producing a small gift from their pockets for Helen.
“We didn't want you to feel left out,” Rosie smiles. “So, we asked the girls what they thought you'd like.”
“Oh, you girlies didn't need to do that!” Helen says, turning to the girls in front of her.
“No, Helen,” Crosby replies. “Jo and Jean.”
“Seriously?” She asks, eyes filling with tears. “That's…that's so sweet. Thank you, boys.” She wraps her arms around both of them, tears falling down her cheeks as her eyes close. The emotion fills the room, everyone seemingly trying to keep their own tears at bay. Dougie clings to Olive’s hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckle. He presses a soft kiss to her temple, before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear to whisper into it.
“All ten cards are in here, honey girl.”
“A scavenger hunt?” She whispers back with a gasp.
“Start searching, sweet girl. We've got all night.”
So about three years ago or so I started reading all Poirot novels in order of publication. Then Tommy and Tuppence. Then Mr Quinn. Then I started reading all the Miss Marple novels, which I’m halfway through. After that I would start other little series AND THEN the one shots. I never once broke that order.
But now because of Antony Boyle, I broke my schedule just so I could watch him wear nothing but a police man hat to cover his shlong.
Also, Arthur Hughes played Jack Argyle in a radio adaptation as well and I really want to listen to it. But it’s not his fault, he’s a cute angel babygirl and can do no wrong.
TL;DR Anthony Boyle is ruining my extremely well organised reader life.
──── Aerion Targaryen┆Madness of Dragons
author’s note: I love my ‘Reluctant Bride’ but this idea can’t get out of my head This work contains: Nudity, targcest, smut, fingering, p in v, bathing in blood, canonical cruelty and madness, mention of past encounters, slight chocking, Aerion having a praise kink if you’ll squint an eye, male whimpering
Aerion Targaryen x twin sister!reader
mdni
He came by the evening. With breath ragged from the training, pupils dilated from excitement of the fight and hands tainted with crimson from blood of some poor squire he chose as his opponent. Aerion was buzzing with the energy of the passing day while climbing up the stone stairs to your bedchamber, desperate to see you, desperate to hear the soft sound of praise that would leave your lips the moment he tells you that he had won this pathetic, little sparring on the training yard.
The moment he turned into the hall leading to your bedchamber his eyes landed on the maids and his eyebrow raised only so slightly. Women’s faces paled and their fingers trembled around the pitchers, what only ensured him that by now you were bathing. But even that — at first — did not explain why the maids looked like they were on the brink of passing or they would want to flee away as fast as possible, like birds leaving to Dorne when the chill appeared in the air.
When he spotted the faint droplets on the floor hidden in the dim lightning of the Red Keep it became clear to him and his lips spread in a grin. He swept the blood off with his foot before moving to the doors of your chamber, lurking in the darkness of the hall. Sneaking — you would call it, spying at any sound he could hear from behind the doors. Any sinful sound you might make while laying in the bathtub.
Aerion entered the chamber with a disappointed pout caused by lack of entertainment he expected from you, like a child upset by the absence of their favorite jester.
Your crimson dress hung lazily on the doors of the wardrobe, the silver thread used for the embroidery glinting in the light caster from the fireplace and the rubies sewed into the fabric seemed to emanate the fire itself. The serpentine stitches form a dragon, its head curled around the fabric on the shoulder like it would rest upon it, while the wings spread over your corset. The refined pattern symbolized the symbol of your house, of its strength, of its heritage.
Of its fire.
His steps were slow and quiet as if not to startle you in — what he thought — such a vulnerable moment. His violet eyes illuminated by fire glowed when he trailed his gaze over you. You were indeed laying in the bath just like he anticipated, your silver hair tied into a loose braid to not fall into the bath and your skin basking in the glow of the fireplace.
His hands clenched into fists and his bloody knuckles turned white when he finally kneeled on the floor behind your bathtub. You said nothing, didn’t flinch, didn’t even acknowledge his presence in the room. You knew he was lurking in the shadows for long enough — the soft rustling outside your chamber, the quiet click of the wooden doors as he entered, the almost silent creaking of the floorboards when he approached — it all gave him away. But you couldn’t really blame him, he was a dragon after all and they were not known as the most discreet creatures.
“Are you taking after our dear Shiera?” You felt his breath on your shoulder as he muttered the words before pressing a kiss to your skin. “Was it her that taught you that?” With that his bloody hands dipped into the bathtub at both your sides.
His fingers grazed over your sides slowly as if he tried to wash the filth off of you with the crimson liquid. The stench was horrible but when his nose skimmed over your skin he couldn’t help but feel how sweet you smelled — sugary like honey cakes you were stealing from the kitchen as kids. It seemed that the aroma clung to you through your childhood.
“Perhaps” you said and rested your temple against his own closing your eyes. “And I read, dear brother.” you added before your gaze inspected him and his reaction. “Old Valyria has many dark secrets.”
“Blood didn’t scare our ancestors.” he said before closing his eyes. “Neither it scares us.” he mumbled as his head ducked into the crock of his neck and he just stayed still – inhaling your sweet scent and feeling the hot blood running through your veins.
His blood also.
"…you spend way too much time with this mad witch." his grumble echoed through the room, the slight impatience and irritation in his voice making you want to roll your eyes — even if only so slightly. “You should be with me” he urged before burying his face into the crock of your neck. “Watching me train, seeing how pathetic they all are compared to me… your eyes should be on me.” His hand squeezed on your waist — almost painfully — as if to highlight his words.
Aerion lifted his head from where it had been resting on your shoulder and he burned his piercing eyes into your profile expectantly. You saw this fiery want in his violet irises, the slight hint of yearning for your praise.
“Is that where you’ve been?” you asked finally and he was waiting for those words.
Your hand ran up through his silver-white strands as he groaned quietly against you before nipping on the skin behind your ear. His eyelashes grazed over your ear before he squeezed his hands tighter on your waist. “You ought to see me.” he whispered – his eyes burning determination and adrenaline that was oh so so similar to the fire he always had in his eyes. “He pleaded for my mercy – begged for it, young fool.” he hissed and held onto you more desperately than a dying man clinging to life.
“He shouldn’t have teased the dragon.” you said and your hand went down – nails skimmed over his vest before digging into the fabric of his loose shirt’s sleeve almost as if you tried to pull him into the basin like a siren pooling young men into the darkness of the sea.
“No… no he shouldn’t have.” he nodded – his voice tight as if he was reliving the fight again. “The fool was punished and dragons rose again.” he said and bit at your shoulders.
“You speak riddles again, brother.” you brushed a knuckle over his cheekbone as if to soothe him slightly. “You shouldn’t pay this green boy mind.” you said and turned leaving your chin over the edge of the bathtub and looked at him with half-lidded eyes and a small smile. “You should be celebrating instead.”
Yet he didn’t stop “Knocked him to the ground.” he added, his eyes glued to yours as he spoke with this sick passion that made your toes curl and a shiver run down your spine. “probably broke every finger in that pathetic boy’s hand.” he added and moved his blood-covered hands to cup your cheeks – staining the skin. “You should’ve heard the cries, my sister.” he said and let out a half-breath, half-gasp and his eyes darkened on the memory. “Like a cat meowling for its mother.” he added as your fingers sneaked to wrap around his wrists.
“Have you spared him?” you asked and your fingers moved to smooth the skin of his wrist.
“I had to.” he scoffed before his thumb ran over your bottom lip and smeared even more blood over it. It was weird – as if he was doing it with a deeper purpose than that, it was the custom of Valyrian weddings after all. “Father was watching.” Aerion added before rolling his eyes as he still held you so your gaze would not wander anywhere by him.
“Have you spoken to him?” you asked and inhaled slightly,
“Father? No.” he scoffed and shook his head. “He’s busy scolding Daeron.”
“Daeron? Whatever for? The old man doesn’t care where he fools around.” you mumbled and raised an eyebrow.
“He wants him to perform in the Ashford’s tournament.” he snickered mockingly. “Can you imagine? Daeron wielding the lance?”
“So he disagreed?” you were hungry for gossip – especially if they were about your pathetic excuse of the older brother.
“No.” the smirk that bloomed on his face was devilish – as if the Seven Hells opened and he was the one that crawled out of it, ready to cause chaos. “The drunk fool is already on his way.” he added.
“Oh Gods–” you said and wanted to chuckle but something in his expression assured you that he was not done yet.
“He took Aegon.” Aerion said and his hold on you tightened. “This pitiful pup.”
“...He’ll be lucky if he even gets through half of the journey.” you rolled your eyes. “or if Daeron doesn't sell him for a cup of ile.” you snickered and your eyes glimmered dangerously. “You should’ve made him a girl, brother.” your hands squeezed tighter on his wrists. “the Reach’s brothels would gain another pretty girl if Daeron would get bored of him.”
Aerion rolled his eyes yet you still could see the cruel glim in his eyes as the fireplace illuminated his violet irises and he still held you so your gaze would not wander anywhere by him
His face, his eyes, his lips, his nose slightly sprinkled with freckles that appeared on your nose too.
The white hair that was still slightly messed up from the training, the cheekbones that always turned rosy after every strenuous activity, his chest that was lifting with every ragged breath – and all this you saw not only saw after his practise but also late at night after he would come, filling you up so, so good that moans were spilling from between your lips on their own. Or when his tongue worked so diligently after that – cleaning you up from every drop he placed inside, all while this violet gaze never moved away from your face and the way it contoured in pleasure only he ever brought you.
“Father ruins everything indeed.” you said and pouted slightly before your hand lifted and brushed over his cheek. “All the fun.” you whispered as you eyes trailed over his face before you placed a kiss on his palm with your eyes closed.
Aerion tensed before letting go of your face as if your skin burned his fingertips. You set back on your back with a sly smirk blooming on your face already as you saw him setting his sword against the side of the bathtub and his hands working desperately to unbutton his vest and then practically tearing off his shirt. His pants joined the clothing on the stone floor and blood sloshed against the bathtub's wall and dripped out as he joined you in it. He leaned against the other side of it – his chin raising slightly as if he dared you to question you.
Your feet moved to lean against his chest and you painted his toned chest with the crimson that seemed to engulf you both but he only smirked, settling his arms against the edges of it and staring at you with unmistakable hunger. “Will you go too?” you asked, looking at him as his skin glimmered in the fire’s light.
“I plan to.” he said and ran his hand over his hair, messing the white strands and painting them red. “Will kill Valaar.” he said and your eyebrows raised as you looked at him.
“Whatever his fault is?” you asked as you hands clenched on the rims of the bathtub.
“He’s so full of himself.” he gritted out and looked into the fireplace as if it would tell what he should do next. Whisper to him and ignite the madness he kept sheathed within him like a blade. “And this Essosi peasant he calls his wife.” he shook his head slightly – deep in thought. “How dare she? Come to our land and taint our blood.” he said and his gaze fell to your knees, sticking out above the surface.
Or maybe he was staring right into the crimson depth.
“It’s almost unsettling how warm it is.” he muttered and flicked his fingers, making the droplets land on your face and neckline.
“Dragons don’t like coldness.” You said only and leaned your head back staring at him as his skin seemed to bask in the light of the fireplace just like yours did.
“No, they don’t” he nodded and gripped your ankle and squeezed it until it hurt – until you smiled wide enough for him to let go. “It’s fresh then?” he asked and his eyes traveled up your body and settled on your face.
Your eyes fell down on the blood too – the crimson almost glowing under the candle light and moving with every breath you both took.
“I told the maids to warm it up.” you said and sighed as if the thought of it not being freshly drained from some poor bastard’s throat upsetted you.
Aerion laughed – this dark laugh he always did when your doings went beyond the etiquette and were wicked enough to make the maids want to throw up in the nearest basin. And you did love to make them uncomfortable – you both did. You couldn’t count how many times a maid or two walked in when his head was between your thighs and you gripped on those silver strands. Or how many times they’ve seen you basking in the sunlight of the morrow – naked as like the they you were born and clinging to each other in sleep like babes in the crib.
‘There is something about twins… they’re always… closer to each other than other siblings. They share a special bond. It’s like Gods decided to split a spirit into two separate bodies with hearts beating in the same rhythm.’
Your mother was once told by a midwife when you were born – two screaming children that went silent as soon as you were placed next to each other. It was like neither of you fully belonged to themselves – there was always the other one too. It was scary sometimes, unsettling how fast you could read each other, how well you knew what the other was feeling and how you could feel when something is wrong.
“You returned to terrorizing the maids with your requests?” he asked and tilted his head to the side, glancing at you as you pulled you by the ankle – rough enough to make you slide down and dip your hair into the blood.
“You act as if you care.” you rolled your eyes before scoffing quietly – he was such a brat tonight.
“I would gladly hand you a dagger if you wanted their blood in your bath” he smirked looking at you “I would drain them all dry if that’s what you wanted, my sister.” he added before leaning his head back against the edge.
“That’s uncalled for.” you mumbled before your eyes glimmered and your hand went to the hilt of his sword to raise it and admire the light of the fireplace.
The steel glinted dangerously as your eyes trailed over the polished metal before your jaw clenched almost bitterly – as if you were swallowing down the medicine from a maester and not your own envy. “I should’ve been born a man.” you said trying to sound casual yet the fact that your brother sent you an annoyed side-glance proved you that it was nothing such as you intended.
“Do not start.” He mumbled, his hands squeezing on whatever within his reach to ground himself.
“I should wield one of those by your side, learn how to fight, master swordsmanship and kill all those who thinks us weak.” you gritted out and inhaled. “Burn them.”
Aerion sat up, looking at you as if he was seconds away from lounging and making sure that your blood joined the one in the bathtub. You lowered the sword to his chest and pressed the tip right where his heart was. A streak of red slid down the blade and dripped into the bath yet he only clenched his jaw.
“Yet you were born a woman.” he gritted out and inhaled sharply – as if your words offended him for some reason. “A woman that is mine, that shares my looks and my bed. That I marked outside and within.” he said and you swallowed looking at the fire burning in his eyes again. “A woman that will bleed as my wife, bore my children of beautiful silver-white hair and ensure that dragons never die.” he said and pushed the sword away until he could lean closer, studying for reactions. “Not again.”
You inhaled shakily, your eyes glued to him – mesmerized – as you dropped the steel onto the stone floor making the sound echo through the whole chamber.
“We are dragons, my sister.” he said and the way he said that – so sure, so confident, made your heart clench on the spot. “You and I… will make sure that the pure dragons will be born so we could be once reborn in our truest form.” he confessed before grabbing your arm and pulling you roughly towards him, making the blood spill out even more. “And no king nor father will stop me from breeding this cunt of yours so thoroughly you’ll swell with my heir within days to come.”
You gasped when he pulled you out – gripping on your flesh as if there was no tomorrow and throwing you on your bed. Blood tainting the sheets just like it did years ago when he took you for the first time and made sure you bled on his cock, that your maidenhead was his and his only instead of some Lord’s, father chose for you to marry.
His gaze – passionate and possessive – stayed on your when he blew the candles on your nightstand out. You watched as the blood dripped from the tips from his fingers and slid slowly down his chest when you laid there covered in it yourself like some kind of sick offering for him. He did not need light to know how to move – every curve, every little dip and sticking out rib was memorized by him as he touched you like a madman enough times to remember.
“May the darkness set us free.” you whispered, lifting your hand for him to take.
“Let us be reborn in fire.” he murmured and his fingers closed around yours as he pulled himself on the bed.
His hand pushed your knees open as he pushed his hips between them and sat back with a hungry look on his face – like a starving man that after days of being denied a meal finally
fed after days of torment. His hands slid up your thighs before rubbing at your clit with his fingertips — slightly calloused from wielding a sword but still somehow delicate. — they were the hands of a prince after all. Your back arched from the bed as if it burned you and he only let out a satisfied hum watching your throat with every little cry and mewl.
Tilting his head to the side, Aerion finally slid his fingers into your cunt as his thumb was still pressed against your pearl. They moved quickly, as if he was desperate to draw orgasm after orgasm from you. And he was diligent – as he always was when making you fall apart on his fingers.
No matter the place, he seemed to take some sick pleasure in feeling you clench and throb around his fingers. Under the table during the dinner when Daeron laid on the table across from you passed out and father paid little mind, too busy talking with Baelon. During your bath when he sneaked behind you and dipped his hand in the water – making you sweat when you were supposed to wash it off your body.
His fingers moved rougher inside your warm cunt and you involuntarily clenched on them letting out a long whine — you were sensitive, too hot and too wet. The smell of blood on the cotton reached your nose and the metallic scent overwhelmed your senses as you hands squeezed on them.
And Aerion only stared – as if you were the greatest piece of art his violet eyes ever laid on. So similar, so much like him – the pale, purple eyes, the white-silver hair that were now cascading over the sheets, the faint freckles he despised on himself yet loved on you. Your collarbones he nipped, the sternum he always laid a path of kisses on, your breasts that fit perfectly in his hands and nipples – now standing hard, exposed to the cold air – he was sucking on, just to spite and tease you.
He pressed his fingers deeper and watched your head tilt back – exposing the pulse point he’d mark so eagerly if only not the watchful gaze of your father.
“Aerion–” you whined, your breaths were deeper, more chaotic and eyes half-lidded as you stared up at him pleadingly. “Please.” you mumbled.
“Please what?” he prompted looking at you with one silver eyebrow raised gently yet his gaze was focused where you were connected. “Use your words, my sister.” he added before leaning down and biting gently at the soft flesh on the side of your breasts.
“Make me cum.” he said as your fingers trailed up and into his strands to tug on them and make him grunt quietly. “Make me fall apart from your fingers only.” you pleaded. “My beautiful brother…”
His gaze shot up to your face and when your eyes met he clenched his jaw and began to move his fingers quickly – eager to make you reach your peak the fastest you could.
You came suddenly – with a ragged breath, his name on your lips and pupils wide as if you drank milk of the poppy. The heat that coiled in your guts finally snapped as you came on his fingers, trembling and overwhelmed by the sensation.
Before you could properly catch your breath Aerion grabbed your hips lifting you up and making you gasp just to shove a pillow under them and send you a mocking smirk at the silent question in your eyes.
“Women love this.” he said, his hot breath hitting your ear and the side of your neck as he leaned down.
“And how would you know?” you scoffed tiredly as a spark of jealousy bloomed in your chest.
“Daeron told me so.” he said and wrapped his hand around your throat – not enough to cut the air away but firmly enough for you to feel it. “After all it is known that he prefers to mount a whore than a horse.” he added and pushed into you.
With one rough thrust he buried himself to the hilt making you almost lightheaded due to the feeling of his cock filling you once again. You moaned loudly – your fingers moving to dig your nails into the skin of his back before you straightened up and grabbed the undersite of your knee to move it up and rest your ankle against his shoulder. He was moving fast, rough and deeper than before thanks to the position and the new angle that made you see stars so fast.
He was long – thick enough to make you stretch on him slightly. With a pinkish head that was hitting this one perfect spot inside you that made your toes curl and tufts of white hair that reached up to his belly button.
“Sister… you look so beautiful… spread out for me like that.” he said and his hand gripped his thigh, fingers digging painfully into your flesh as the blood began to dry already. “I’m going to fill you up and you’ll bear my valyrian heirs.” he said as his grip on your throat tightened slightly.
You could only whimper and focus on the way his hips snapped against your with determination and desperation only your twin brother could have for you. No one else. Because after all you did, after all you experienced and all the sins that clinged to your souls you’d never, ever allow anyone to have you like that.
And neither would he.
Aerion moved – like a man in the mission, his hips buckling only so slightly when you clenched on his, your cunt trying to pull him deeper inside you relentlessly. You could see the fire in his eyes – the craziness and madness he carried inside – give away to the need that bloomed in his gaze every time his irises swept over your bouncing breasts and the bite he left of them – leaving him needful of you and you only.
He whimpered.
There was no other way to put it. The sound was so foreign, so unmasculine that he would have probably torn apart anyone who even tried to reveal the way you utterly destroyed his control. Cumming deep inside you as the sound tore from his throat and making the ropes of warmth seed shot into your womb.
And then so did you — falling apart in his arms, whiny, breathless and completely at Aerion’s mercy. You could feel him smirk against your hair, his quiet praises lost in the ringing in your ears before he pulled out, smearing your spend and his on the insides of your thighs — leaving you empty and dripping — completely satisfied.
“I shall take you to Ashford with me.” he pressed his lips to your temple roughly, closing his eyes and he let your leg fall from his shoulder down on the mattress by his hip. “Show everyone who you belong to, so no one of these cunts will even think about competing for your hand.”
Thank you for reading! Please interact with this post, it means the world to me! This idea have been in my head since November and I'm so happy that it's finally for you to read. I KNOW that I'm super late and that it was meant to be out few days ago but it's been a crazy week for me. Nonetheless I hope you'll wait for me!
Hear me out on Ser Duncan x Targ!fem!reader , who is Aerion’s twin. Her and Dunc are going completely at it (size kink prolly) and Aerion finds them and is pissed!
Ty
i'm obsessed with targ!reader with dunk, it's fueling my fire even more, especially with bitch aerion in the background, I'll see what I can do darling..
NFWMB
pairing: ser duncan the tall x targfem!reader
warning(s): SMUT, pinv, size kink, aerion, verbal abuse, getting walked in on, threats, arranged marriage (doesn't happen) good ending.
word count: 3.5k
a/n: i was listening to hozier with this.. you’re welcome ;)
The inner chamber of the Red Keep was a sanctuary of stolen moments, its heavy velvet drapes drawn tight against the prying eyes of the court, the air thick with the scent of beeswax candles and the faint, metallic tang of armor discarded in haste. Flickering light danced across the stone walls, casting long shadows that hid the world outside, leaving only you and the knight you had grown to spend any waking moment with in this fragile bubble of intimacy. He was a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and earnest, his callused hands gentle despite their size as they roamed your body with a reverence that made your heart ache. Betrothed as you were to your own brother, whose silver-haired temper loomed over every stolen glance and bound to a life you knew to hate, but here, in the quiet hours, you found solace in Duncan's arms— his love a steady flame against the storm of your obligations.
It began with time.
With Duncan lingering after drills, helmet tucked beneath his arm as if he’d forgotten where he was meant to go next. With you finding him in corridors meant for servants, where the torchlight was kinder and the walls listened less, shared bread torn in half because neither of you thought to fetch another plate or bother with anyone else around you.
King's Landing had a way of pressing people into their roles, daughter, knight, dragon,but somehow, around him, the air loosened. And you noticed it first in the small things. The way he always waited for you to walk ahead, pace adjusting unconsciously to yours, and the way he tracked your face and hands as you talked, as if what you did mattered as much as what you said. And from it you began to sit closer without remarking on it.
On stone benches in the training yard, your shoulder brushing the leather of his jerkin, you had started inviting yourself to sit beside him in the quiet alcoves during feasts, where the noise dulled enough for murmured words to feel like secrets. And the laughter that escaped you had been rawer, more genuine than it had been at the high table, and his mouth curved like he’d won something precious without meaning to.
But Dunk, never reached first. And that was the danger of it, even in those private moments where neither of you could could breathe right, faltering a little in your step, he couldn't help but look over his shoulder.
Under the shadowed archway of the tower, the cool evening breeze whispered through the stone corridors of the keep, carrying the distant clamor of the court below. Ser Duncan stood close— too close by an onlookers standards—his frame a shield against the world, yet his eyes darted nervously toward the flickering torchlight at the corridor's end. Your hand cradled his face, thumb tracing the rough stubble along his jaw, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles like a bowstring ready to snap. He was your knight, your secret flame in this web of alliances and duties, "But Princess," Dunk murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your palm, laced with that boyish hesitation he could never fully shed. "If someone were to see.." His large hand covered yours, squeezing gently, but he couldn't hide the way his body leaned into your touch, betraying the hunger beneath his caution.
You met his gaze, eyes boring into his with unyielding fire. "Then they can see," you had whispered, your words a defiant vow that hung heavy in the air between you, smile creeping on your lips. In that moment, the truth burned clear; no love like this could bloom from the cold beds of lords or the volatile arms of a prince. Aerion's passion was fire and fury, a dragon's claim that scorched without warming the soul. But Dunk, your Dunk, offered something deeper, a quiet strength that made your heart ache with belonging. You didn't want to share it, this raw connection forged in hidden corners. Your lips brushed his in a fleeting kiss, tasting salt and promise, before you pulled him deeper into the shadows, your fingers intertwining with his as you led him toward the hidden chamber above.
—
Time blurred in the haze of hurried steps and muffled breaths, the archway's tension carrying you both to the sanctuary of your private room. Hours had slipped away since that defiant exchange, the moon now high and casting silvery beams through the narrow windows, but the fire in your veins burned hotter than ever. You lay sprawled across the wide bed, linens tangled around your legs like lovers' knots, your gown long since pushed up to your waist and forgotten in the heat of the moment. The bedposts loomed, draped in silk and mesh that swayed gently with the draft, enclosing you in a cocoon of intimacy amid the ever-present danger of discovery.
Dunk hovered above you, his heavy hands braced at your thighs, spreading them wider with a grip that was equal parts tender and possessive. The air was thick with the scent of your arousal, mingling with the faint musk of his sweat-slicked skin. He was shirtless now, his broad chest heaving, muscles rippling under scarred skin from years of tourneys and trials. Those blue eyes, wide with that perpetual awe, locked onto yours as if you were the only star in his night sky. "My lady," he breathed, voice roughened by desire, the lilt that shook his voice. Even after all these stolen nights, he looked at you as if it were the first time— wanting and unhurried.
His mouth descended on you slowly, starting at your neck. Lips brushed soft kisses along the column of your throat, each one a spark that made your pulse thunder. He nipped gently at the sensitive skin just below your ear, teeth grazing enough to draw a shiver from deep in your core. You arched beneath him, fingers threading through his tousled hair, tugging him closer until his weight pinned you deliciously to the mattress. His breath was hot against your ear, a ragged whisper of your name that sent hairs raising across your arms.
He shifted lower, his callused hands sliding up your sides and wrapping you around his arm, thumbs circling the undersides of your breasts before cupping them fully. He trailed open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone, lingering at the hollow of your throat where your heartbeat fluttered wildly. When his lips closed over the swell of one breast, he sucked the nipple into his mouth with a hungry groan, tongue swirling around the hardened peak in slow, deliberate circles. The wet heat of him pulled a soft moan from your lips, your back bowing off the bed as pleasure coiled tight in your belly. He lavished attention on the sensitive bud, flicking his tongue tip against it gently soothing it with broad laps.
But he was patient, intending to take his time so long as he could have you, drawing out the build-up until you trembled with need. His free hand kneaded your other breast, pinching the nipple between rough fingers, rolling it until it pebbled further under his touch. He switched sides, sucking the neglected peak into his mouth while his thumb teased the first, the dual assault making your thighs clench around his hips. "Gods, Princess," he murmured against your skin, voice muffled and thick, his stubble scraping deliciously over your ribs as he kissed lower, tongue dipping into your navel, circling the soft skin there before nipping at your hip bone.
Your arousal throbbed insistently now, pussy slick and aching, folds swollen with the slow burn he'd ignited, every layer shed away. Dunk's hands gripped your thighs again, parting them with firm pressure, exposing you fully to his gaze. And he paused, drinking in the sight— your cunt glistening in the candlelight, clenching around nothing. "Gods, you are so beautiful," he rumbled, a small grin flashing with the hunger in his eyes. He leaned at last, pressing you deeper to the bed to place a kiss to your inner thigh, high and teasing, his breath ghosting over your core, so close it made you whimper. The anticipation stretched taut, your hips lifting in silent plea, but he held you down with one massive hand splayed across your lower belly, his strength unyielding.
"Slowly, love. Let me taste you first." His words vibrated against your skin as he started with feather-light kisses along the curves of your groin, moving to each side of your hips, the tension building inch by torturous inch. His head bowed to you, tongue flicked out and tracing the outer edge of your pussy lips without mercy, lapping at the slickness there, narrowly avoiding your clit and savouring you. You bucked against his hold, a frustrated whine escaping, and he chuckled low, the sound rumbling through you. Finally, he relented, his mouth sealing over your folds in a deep, possessive kiss.
The knight ate you out like a man possessed, tongue plunging into your entrance first, thrusting in short, insistent strokes that fucked your pussy with wet, obscene sounds. He groaned into you, the vibration humming straight to your core as he lapped upward, gathering your juices on broad, flat drags as you shifted in his hold chasing it. His lips closed around your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder, pulling the sensitive nub between them while his tongue lashed in quick flicks. "Fuck, my love.." his voice was muffled, voice gravelly and muffled as he buried his face deeper, nose nudging your clit while he devoured you.
And he stayed there, alternating angles with masterful skill even you hadn't known, not precision, but passion. Long, slow licks from hole to clit that made your toes curl, circling rapid around the bundle of nerves that had you gasping his name. You reached down, pulling at the hand grabbed at your thigh, aching for more you tugged it slightly, right to your core, and through the lines of your dampened hair your eyes found each other. I know. His hand slid up, two thick fingers pushing into your soaked pussy, stretching you with a burn that bordered on bliss and he curled them upward, stroking that spot inside with each pump, syncing the motion with the relentlessness of his mouth. Your free hand fisted the sheets, body trembling as the pressure built, coiling tighter with every swirl. Dunk's other arm banded across your hips, pinning you as you ground against his face, chasing the edge shamelessly. For you, but he couldn't help the rush that heated in his pants from seeing you like this alone.
He added a third finger, scissoring them to open you wider, his tongue never ceasing its carnal attack— dipping back to fuck your hole alongside his digits, then returning to suck your clit until you swore you could feel the whole room buzzing. The room filled with your moans echoing off the stone walls, the mesh drapes whispering like conspirators. "Come on my tongue, Princess," he whined out, as both command and promise, pulling back just enough to speak, lips shiny with your arousal, before diving in again with renewed fervor. His fingers pumped faster as you groaned, deep, tongue lashing without quarter, and it shattered you, your orgasm ripping through in crashing waves, your cunt clenching around his fingers as you cried out, flooding at his mouth with release.
Dunk lapped through it all, drawing out every tremor until you were boneless and oversensitive, his jaw already damp and glistening, pressing a soft kiss right to you as you twitched. Only then did he rise, licking at his mouth with the back of his hand, that boyish awe returning to his eyes amid the sated fire. He looked to you as you nodded through eyelashes, and he nodded back to himself, shedding his breeches in one swift motion, freeing his thick cock. It was large and veiny, slapping red and heavy against his abdomen as he crawled over to you, chest towering at your own. Positioning himself at your entrance, he teased your folds with the broad head, coating himself in your wetness. "Are you sure.." He flicked to you, finger reaching at your lulled expression, inching you to look up at him just a bit, and your chest swelled as you exhaled, wrapping your arms at his neck, "I'am sure.." Your voice wobbled, but not with uncertainty, with want, soft violets glazed over in his warmth.
He hummed, nose knocking to yours as his head tilted, cowering down into you as he pushed himself in slowly as he could, "I'll go slow.." and it was slow, inch by thick inch he was fearfully aware of and of hurting you, and the stretch of his fullness made you both groan. His hands framed your face as he kissed you deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue just as he bottomed out, sitting inside you and waiting for a response, meeting with your moan, he swallowed it. Then he began to thrust, deep and claiming, each snap of his hips sealing the forbidden bond that no prince or court could break.
He groaned low in his chest, burying his face further in the crook of your shoulder, his hips rocking forward in a measured rhythm that built like a gathering tide. "Gods, you feel like heaven," he whispered, one hand cupping gently at your hip again, thumb rubbing at the flesh, the wet slide of his cock filling you completely. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, nails reaching to dig into the muscles of his back as pleasure coiled tight in your core. He kissed you then, deep and unhurried, tongues tangling in a dance that spoke of whispered promises and forbidden dreams— his awkward charm melting into something fierce and protective, his body shielding yours even in this act of love.
Your lips and tongue wrapped at his own, connecting him and pulling him down to you, and his pace quickened, thrusts growing firmer, and hips snapping against yours with every slap that echoed softly in the chamber. You moaned into his mouth, your hole clenching around him, slick and hot, the friction sending sparks racing up your spine. Duncan's breath hitched, his free hand sliding between your bodies to rub at your clit in clumsy but earnest circles, drawing a whimper from your lips. "I love you," the words tumbled out haphazardly, his cheeks flushing even as he drove into you harder, chasing the edge together. Sweat beaded on his brow, his broad frame trembling with restraint, every movement a testament to the depth of his devotion— the way he held you like you were the only light in his world, ever clumsy in his tenderness but unyielding in his care.
"And I love you.."
The door burst open without warning just as you and he closed your eyes, foreheads clasped together in sweat and lust, the heavy oak slamming against the wall with a crack that shattered the intimacy like glass. Both of your heads snapped up, tugging at the sheets to cover yourselves, tracking the way to the door you groaned hiding behind, but the man above you saw it all.
Aerion.
Your very own brother, the Prince, stood in the threshold, his silhouette framed by the torchlight from the corridor, violet eyes narrowing into slits of fury as the scene before him registered. His silver hair was disheveled, as if he'd stormed through the halls in a rage, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the Valyrian steel dagger at his belt glinting ominously. The air turned to ice, the warmth of the chamber that was, fleeing under his gaze. Duncan reacted on instinct, pulling out of you with a startled curse and rolling to shield your body with his own. He scrambled up, his naked form towering protectively as he positioned himself between you and the intruder, one arm outstretched to keep you behind him while he snatched a sheet to drape haphazardly over your exposed skin. His face was a mask of awkward alarm— cheeks burning red, and eyes wide like a boy caught stealing— but there was steel in his stance, broad shoulders squared, fists clenching at his sides.
Aerion had stopped short there in the threshold, eyes wide at the man beside you, in your chambers.
He hadn’t meant to, and of that you’re certain, his pride carries him most places like a blade held high, though to you was somewhere he frequented, but whatever he sees when he looks at you now, standing too close to a hedge knight of all, it stills him. Only for a heartbeat, long enough for Dunk to turn. And he doesn't bow this time, he straightens instead, shoulders filling the space like a wall that’s decided it won’t move and his hand flexes at his side. Not reaching for a sword. Not yet, just… there, ready.
Aerion’s mouth curves, sharp and humorless.
“So this is what you’ve lowered yourself to,” he says, eyes cutting to you around the figure, wrapped in your sheets barely covering your breasts. And that’s the cruelty of it. “A hedge knight who smells of horse and sweat. Gods, sister— have you no shame?”
The words land as he means them to, ugly and deliberate. And without thinking himself, Dunk steps forward before you can speak.
“That’s enough,” his , voice low, steady, dangerous in its restraint, uncaring for insults thrown his, but not to you. “You don’t speak to her that way.”
Aerion laughs softly as looks at Dunk now, taking in the size of him, the way his shadow falls over you without swallowing you whole. “How gallant,” Aerion replies. “Be careful, knight. You’ll start to believe she’s yours to defend.”
Dunk doesn’t blink, but his lip startles, minding his words in ways even he doesn't want to.
“She doesn’t need owning to be defended,” he says. “And she.. certainly doesn’t need you.”
Aerion laughed, a low, chilling sound that filled the chamber, but he made no move to draw his weapon. Instead, he stopped at the foot of the bed, leaning in with a predatory grace, his eyes locking onto yours over Duncan's shoulder. "Oh, but I do own her, ser. The betrothal was sealed in blood and fire, your lowborn seed changes nothing. Touch her again, and I'll have your head on a spike, paraded through the streets for the smallfolk to pelt with filth." His voice dropped to a whisper, meant for you alone, laced with dark promise. "And you, my sweet betrothed... remember your place. Defy me, and watch your tall knight burn."
Duncan's jaw tightened, and your eyes grow wide as you go to step forward, but he stops you, his fighting with himself hardening into resolve as he shifted to block Aerion's view more fully, though his hands trembled slightly at his sides. "She's her own woman, Your Grace," he said, the words tumbling out in that haphazard rush, protective fire burning through the shield of his shyness. "Betrothal or no, you don't own her heart— or her choices." He stood taller, chest heaving, ready to throw himself between you and any harm, even if it meant facing a prince's blade.
And that does it.
Whatever Aerion had planned, whatever sharp little scene he’d rehearsed, dies right there on his tongue, that glare falling to defeat behind his eyes— for now. His jaw tightens and eyes flick to you once more, searching for something he doesn’t find. He scoffs, smooth as silk, wounded as pride ever is.
“Enjoy your playacting,” he says coldly. “I have no interest in watching you debase yourself.”
And then— he leaves.
No storm or other threat, just the door closing far more quietly than it should. And the silence left is thick and heavy, Duncan exhaled shakily, turning back to you with wide eyes, his protective stance softening as he gathered you into his arms once more. "Are you all right?" voice thick with worry, his large hands gentle as they stroked your hair, like he’s been holding his breath since Aerion arrived. He turns to you then, eyes searching your face, concerned and trying to blind himself of the way he'd done all of that naked. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have—”
You step closer instead, close enough to feel the heat still on him, hands coming up to the centre of his chest, resting right at the dip over the many scars that had been formed. Your feet padded across the cold stone, sheets falling away at your feet as you pushed you both back to the bed, he listened quietly, allowing heavy feet to be led to the mattress until his calves hit the wood. He sat then as you stood between his knees, bracing your legs either side to straddle him, both completely bare, his cock laid beneath your core as you cupped his face. "I do love you.. and I wouldn't let those things be done to you." He huffed, face falling into your hold, steady hands coming to rest at your middle. "Well, I don't think it be easy to go against a prince.." His voice faltered, a wall up not against you,but against the reality, the only he'd gladly take if it meant having you.
But your hands pulled him up again, shuffling closer into his grip, placing a deep kiss onto his lips it may as well have been burned, "I wont.." And you were serious, no matter the situation, how frowned upon or dangerous, you'd meant ever word. And from your look, your tone, the way you held him tighter, Dunk knew it, and he held onto it with a deep breathe, his head knocking at your temple once more with every bit of reverence.
aerion targaryen x fem!cousin!reader, ser duncan the tall x fem!targaryen!reader
summary: after the tournament, ser duncan the tall crowns the targaryen princess as queen of love and beauty, awakening a tender bond between them and the dangerous jealousy of prince aerion, leaving the princess caught between a kind knight who truly sees her and a possessive prince who believes she already belongs to him.
warnings: mentions of possession/incest (aerion himself is the warning.)
author’s notes: new hyperfixation and they barely have any fics rn everyone get to work
THE LISTS AT ASHFORD MEADOW gleamed beneath the high summer sun, banners snapping in the breeze like bright tongues of flame. Crimson and black dominated the field—three-headed dragons stitched in gold, the sigil of House Targaryen—hung beside the devices of visiting lords and hedge knights come to test their steel.
And in the shaded royal pavilion sat Y/N Targaryen.
She was dressed in pale silver silk, light as mist, her long hair braided with fine chains of rubies that caught the sun when she moved. The court whispered that she looked like a dragon in human form: beautiful, gentle, and dangerous only because men lost their sense in her presence.
Aerion Targaryen had already lost his.
He stood at the far end of the lists, helm beneath his arm, white hair bound at his nape. His armor was polished to a mirror shine, a red dragon picked out in rubies across his breast. He glanced toward the pavilion with open confidence, lips curved in a faint, smug knowing smile.
Ser Duncan the Tall did not smile.
He sat astride his great brown warhorse, armor plainer, dented in places from years of honest use. He looked enormous beside the other knights—broad-shouldered, long-limbed, awkward in his own strength. When he removed his helm, his brown hair was damp with sweat, his face earnest and flushed.
His eyes went, helplessly, to the princess.
He did not know how it had happened.
He had come to Ashford to joust, to earn coin, to prove himself worthy of the knighthood he wore. He had not meant to notice the princess with the pretty smile and the soft voice who had thanked him for rescuing her dropped glove the night before.
He had not meant to think of her every time he lowered his lance.
But now he did.
The herald’s voice rang across the field.
“Ser Aerion Targaryen, called Brightflame, against Ser Duncan the Tall!”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Y/N straightened in her seat.
She had watched Aerion since she was a child; his temper, his charm, his cruelty wrapped in silk. He had always treated her as something he would one day own, a jewel meant for his crown.
Bound by blood, my sweet dragon, he would tell her.
But Ser Duncan…
She found herself leaning forward, fingers tightening on the edge of her cushion.
Two knights rode to the center of the field.
Aerion’s horse danced, eager and high-strung, much like its rider. Aerion dipped his lance in a precise salute—first to the king, then deliberately, lingeringly, to Y/N.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between them.
She swallowed thickly.
His eyes promised victory.
Ser Duncan followed, awkwardly, bowing so deeply in his saddle he nearly overbalanced. When he raised his head, he did not dare meet her gaze for long but he inclined his lance to her as well, respectful, almost shy.
It was not a challenge.
It was a wish.
The trumpets sounded.
They charged.
The first pass shattered both lances in a storm of splinters, neither knight unhorsed. Aerion laughed aloud as he wheeled his horse, exhilarated.
“Well struck, hedge knight!”
Ser Duncan only nodded, breath heavy, hands steady as he took a second lance.
The second pass; Aerion struck true, his lance glancing off Duncan’s shield and into his shoulder. The blow rocked him, pain flaring, but he stayed in the saddle.
From the pavilion, Y/N gasped despite herself.
The third pass was brutal.
Ser Duncan leaned into it with all his strength.
His lance struck Aerion square in the chest.
Aerion flew from the saddle in a spill of silver and red.
For a moment, the field was silent.
Then the crowd erupted.
Ser Duncan reined in, stunned, staring at the empty saddle where a prince had sat seconds before.
In the pavilion, Y/N rose to her feet.
Not in triumph but in relief.
Aerion climbed to his feet, fury burning through the shock. His gaze went not to the king, not to the crowd—
But to Y/N.
And he saw it.
The way her eyes were fixed on Ser Duncan.
Something dark coiled in his chest.
The day wore on.
Ser Duncan advanced, round after round, each victory harder won than the last. By the final tilt, his armor was dented, his shoulder stiff, his breath ragged.
But he was still standing.
When the last opponent fell, the herald proclaimed him champion.
“The victor of Ashford—Ser Duncan the Tall!”
A roar went up.
Ser Duncan dismounted, dazed, scarcely believing it. Tradition demanded he choose a Queen of Love and Beauty.
He stood there, lance in hand, turning slowly.
Every noble lady leaned forward.
But there was only one face he saw.
Y/N Targaryen.
His feet moved before his mind could stop them.
He crossed the field, towering, awkward, suddenly terrified.
In the pavilion, Aerion went rigid.
Ser Duncan knelt before Y/N, removing his helm with trembling hands.
“My lady,” he said, voice low and rough, “I am no prince, and I have no pretty words. But every victory I won today, I won thinking of you.”
He lifted the crown of winter roses.
“If it pleases you… I would name you my Queen of Love and Beauty.”
For a moment, the world held its breath.
Y/N’s hands rose to her mouth. She glanced, just once, toward Aerion.
His face was pale with rage.
She shook her head then she looked back at Ser Duncan and smiled.
A soft, radiant smile that seemed to light the pavilion.
“It would please me very much, ser.”
He placed the crown upon her head.
The crowd thundered its approval.
And in that noise, Aerion Targaryen understood something dangerous.
He had lost.
Not the tourney.
Her.
To a hedge knight. It was almost a mockery.
Jealousy burned in him, hot and poisonous, as he watched the hedge knight kneel before a crowned princess while Y/N Targaryen, with roses in her hair, looked at Ser Duncan as if he were the bravest man in all the Seven Kingdoms.
The pavilion had emptied slowly, the afternoon light fading into gold and amber as servants carried away goblets and silks and scattered rose petals trampled into the grass.
Y/N remained.
She had dismissed her ladies under the pretense of needing air, though in truth her heart was still beating too fast, her thoughts tangled between pride and unease.
The crown of winter roses lay on the small table beside her.
She lifted it, turning it slowly in her hands.
It had been placed there by Ser Duncan himself, after he had escorted her back with such careful distance, such earnest reverence, that she had nearly laughed and cried at once.
She had not yet decided what the crown meant.
She was still deciding when the tent flap moved.
Y/N did not need to turn.
She felt him.
“Aerion,” she said quietly.
He stepped inside, closing the flap behind him.
His armor was gone, replaced by a dark red doublet embroidered with black dragons. His dangerously handsome face was calm.
Too calm.
“I thought you might wish for my company,” he said.
“I did not send for you.”
“No,” he agreed. “You did not need to.”
He walked closer, slow, deliberate, until he stood before her.
His eyes flicked to the crown.
“So,” he said softly, “you wear the flowers of a hedge knight now.”
She bristled despite herself. “He is no hedge knight. He won the tourney fairly.”
“I know,” Aerion said. “I watched him unhorse me.”
There was a sharpness beneath the words.
She met his gaze. “Then why are you here.”
His smile returned, like a sharp knife, thin and practiced.
“To remind you who you are.”
He reached out, not touching her, but lifting a strand of her hair between his fingers, looking bewitched.
“You are a Targaryen princess. Not a prize to be claimed by the first tall man who looks at you with honest eyes.”
Her voice cooled. “He did not claim me. He honored me.”
Aerion’s fingers stilled.
“Do you think honor is enough,” he asked, “to protect you in this world?”
She turned away from him, setting the crown down. “I do not need protecting from him.”
He studied her for a long moment, as if choosing which truths to reveal.
“I have known you since you were a child, sweet dragon,” he said. “I have watched every man who ever looked at you forget his vows, his sense, his place. And I have always known what would happen in the end.”
Her breath caught. “What?”
“That you would belong to me.”
The words were spoken gently.
Possessively.
Her spine went rigid. “I do not belong to anyone.”
His eyes darkened.
“Not yet,” he said.
She took a step back. “You speak as if my future is already decided.”
“In our family,” Aerion replied, “it usually is.”
Silence stretched between them.
She thought of Ser Duncan’s clumsy bow, his shaking hands as he held out the crown, the way he had looked at her as if she were something precious rather than something to be owned.
She said his name before she meant to.
“Duncan.”
Aerion’s jaw tightened. “You think of him already.”
“I think of his kindness,” she said. “Of his courage. Of the way he treated me today as if I were more than a prize.”
Aerion’s hand closed into a fist at his side.
“He will forget himself,” he said. “Men like him always do. He will reach too high, dream too boldly, and be crushed for it.”
Her eyes flashed. “You would see him crushed.”
“If he stands in my way,” Aerion said quietly, “yes.”
The honesty of it chilled her. “You frighten me when you speak so easily of destroying someone.”
He softened at once, stepping closer.
“I would never harm you,” he said. “Everything I do is for you, my sweet dragon.”
“That is what frightens me,” she whispered.
He reached for her wrist.
She pulled back.
For the first time, something like uncertainty crossed his face.
“You are letting a fantasy distract you,” he said. “A knight who will kneel, and smile, and then return to his place. He is not your future.”
She answered before fear could stop her. “Perhaps not. But he is my choice to think of.”
The words fell between them like a challenge and Aerion stared at her.
Slowly, his expression shifted into something colder, more resolved. “This is not finished,” he said. “You may play at admiration. You may indulge this foolishness.”
Y/N stiffened.
He stepped back, inclining his head with false courtesy. “But remember this, cousin.”
His eyes locked onto hers, heated and full of dark promises.
“No crown placed by another man can change what you are to me.”
When he was gone, the tent felt suddenly too quiet.
Y/N sank onto the cushioned seat, pressing her hands to her face.
She thought of Aerion’s certainty.
She thought of Ser Duncan’s humility.
And she realized, with a tremor of both fear and excitement, that this was no longer a simple tourney favor.
This was the beginning of something dangerous.
The night had settled gently over the encampment, the heat of the day giving way to a soft, fragrant stillness. Torches burned low between the tents, their light wavering across armor stacked neatly against poles and shields set out to dry. The sounds of celebration had retreated toward the center of the field, leaving the outer edge of the camp in a rare, almost sacred quiet.
Ser Duncan sat outside his tent with a cloth in one hand and his breastplate resting across his knees, though he had long since forgotten what he was meant to be polishing.
His thoughts refused to obey him.
He had ridden in a hundred lists, crossed swords with men far fiercer than he, and faced death more times than he could count. Yet never had his heart been so unsettled as it was now, simply from the memory of a girl’s face.
He saw her as she had been when he knelt before her that afternoon, sunlight in her hair, surprise and softness in her eyes as he placed the crown upon her head. He had not meant to look at her so openly then, but he had not known how to look away.
He told himself sternly that she was a princess.
That she was far beyond him.
That thinking of her was folly.
And yet.
He was still staring at the same small dent in his armor when he heard his name.
“Ser Duncan.”
The sound of her voice startled him so badly he rose at once, nearly upsetting the stool behind him.
“My lady—”
She stood a few paces from him, the lamplight catching her in gentle gold. She had left behind her jewels and heavy silks, wearing only a pale gown and a simple cloak drawn about her shoulders. Her hair fell loose down her back, unbound and unguarded.
For a moment, he could only look at her.
By the Faith of the Seven, he thought, he has never seen anyone else this beautiful.
In the bright cruelty of the lists, she had been radiant.
Here, in the quiet of the camp, she was something else entirely.
Not a dragon.
Not a princess.
Just a young woman who looked both uncertain and brave for having come here alone.
“I hope I am not intruding,” she said softly.
“You could never intrude,” he answered at once, then flushed so fiercely he feared she might laugh.
But she did not laugh.
She only smiled, and that smile struck him more deeply than any lance.
“I wished to thank you,” she said. “Properly. For today.”
He bowed, awkward and earnest. “You owe me nothing, my lady. I only did what I could.”
“You did more than that,” she replied. “You rode as if something mattered more to you than winning.”
He hesitated, then spoke honestly, because with her he found he could do nothing else. “I was thinking of you.”
The words were out before he could stop them.
Her eyes widened slightly.
“You looked at me before every charge,” she said. “I wondered why.”
“Because you were kind to me,” he said quietly. “And I did not wish to fail someone who had been kind.”
She studied him in silence, as if weighing something unseen.
“You are very brave,” she said at last.
The words were simple.
They undid him.
He had been called strong. He had been called slow. He had been called useful.
Never brave in that voice.
Never with that look.
“My lady,” he said, low and earnest, “you should not say such things to men like me.”
She inclined her head, face delicate and painfully beautiful. “Why not?”
“Because we might believe them,” he replied.
She laughed softly, a small, unguarded sound that made something twist painfully in his chest.
They stood together in a fragile stillness.
He became acutely aware of everything about her; the faint scent of roses clinging to her cloak and the way lamplight caught on her lashes.
The fact that she had come here without guards, without ceremony, trusting him simply because she believed him to be good.
And without meaning to, his thoughts turned to Aerion.
To the prince’s polished smile.
To the certainty in his eyes.
Not admiration. Not reverence.
Possession.
Duncan’s hands curled slowly at his sides.
He could not understand how a man could be born so close to her and yet fail to see what stood before him.
Not a prize.
Not a jewel.
But a rare and gentle thing that ought to be guarded more carefully than any crown.
“I fear I caused you trouble,” he said at last. “With the crown.”
“You did not,” she answered. “Others may think so. But I do not.”
He hesitated, then spoke the thought that had troubled him since dusk.
“Forgive me if I speak too boldly,” he said, “but Prince Aerion does not look at you as he should.”
Her breath caught. “How should he look at me?”
“As if he is afraid of losing you,” Duncan replied slowly. “Not as if he is certain of owning you.”
The words surprised even him.
For a moment, he feared he had gone too far.
But she did not grow angry.
She only looked thoughtful, as if he had named something she had long felt but never said aloud.
“He has known me all my life,” she murmured.
“That may be the trouble,” Duncan said. “Some men grow used to miracles.”
She was silent for a long time.
Then she smiled, not brightly, but with a quiet gratitude that made his chest ache.
“Ser Duncan,” she said, “do you know what I saw when you rode today.”
He shook his head.
“A man who was afraid,” she said, “and rode anyway.”
“I was afraid of failing you,” he admitted.
She stepped closer, close enough now that he could see the fine gold flecks in her eyes.
“No one has ever said that to me before,” she whispered.
“Then they were blind,” he said, without thinking.
The words hung between them, unguarded and dangerous.
In that moment, he understood something that frightened him with its certainty.
He would die for her.
Not for honor.
Not for glory.
Simply because she was good.
And men like Aerion, with all their blood and birth, did not deserve such goodness.
“I should go,” she said softly.
“Yes,” he agreed.
Neither of them moved.
She reached out at last and touched the edge of his gauntlet, barely a brush of fingers against steel.
“Good night, Ser Duncan.”
“My lady.”
When she turned away, he remained standing long after she had gone.
Thinking not of crowns, nor tourneys, nor princes.
Only of how cruel the world was, to give a woman like her to a man who did not know how to cherish her.
And how impossible it already seemed to imagine a life in which he did not love her.
Summary: The Princess was intrigued by the large man. Wondered if he held the same feelings towards her. Stealing him for a meal, he felt she gave so much more than he could ever give her, leaving him feeling guilty.
TW: The Reader has Targaryen features (Patch of Silver Hair/Violet eyes), Confident! Reader, Simp!Dunk, Insecure! Dunk, A bit of insecure!Reader, Changes to the Original Story! LMK if I missed anything!
WC: 2,839
Knight and the Princess (Pt.1)
Also, I am learning how to link it so it's easier to anyone that wants to read the first part so lmk if it doesn't work so I can fix it!
The Princess was elated after her father's approval to Ser Dunks participation in the tourney. Ser Dunk took his leave of the room but not before turning his attention down to her and bowing his head with a sweet smile plastered foolishly on his lips.
What she would give to be able to feel his lip on her skin again, but she knew better than to show so much interest in front of her father, much less her uncle's unwavering stare.
"May the Gods be with you, Ser Dunk" she said softly enough that only he'd hear it if the room wasn't so quiet. Her mouth might not have voiced her interest in him, but her eyes surely did.
The gullible man exited with haste before turning the wrong way and then turning towards the correct exit, sending her a smile on the way, making her hide her giggle with her hand.
Her stare stayed wavering at the entrance till her father's voice broke her daydream.
"Y/N" he said her name in a warning tone. He knew. Her eyes never lied. She could never lie to him as a child, choosing to be silent when her and Valaar would do something their father would disapprove of. But he always knew how to read her. Without a word.
The Princess ignored her father's soft warning, bouncing in her steps towards the exit, voicing behind her, "I'll be out!"
"Be back before night fall!" Was the last thing she heard him say.
She could hardly conceal her excitement as she practically leaped to the chambers she'd be staying in.
Quickly, she requested her maids help in changing into something more comfortable and warmer compared to her dark house colors. Deciding to hide her hair, she picked a light brown shawl, and the maid perfected it around the frame of her face.
Y/N chose her crossbody brown leather bag, putting in however much coin she felt she might need and a small handheld mirror, just in case.
A girl never knows.
Dunk walked aimlessly around the vendors set up. Needing a breather after the tugging war. He decided to get a drink and check out the vendors work.
Egg was somewhere wreaking havoc. The young lad having to let out some of his excitement from the tugging war with a game of rugby with some of the children.
But no matter how loud the outside world was, his mind was quietly thinking of her. She was an angel, helping him when no one else wanted. He was sure she would have commanded for him to be knighted right that second if her father hadn't remembered Ser Arland.
"Good day, Ser" The vendors voice cut his thoughts. He gave the woman a small nod in acknowledgement.
His eyes suddenly focusing on the various blades presented on the table. The shiny silver and precise decor of the handles making him hold his cup tighter. His eyes drifted towards a larger blade with a rich wooden handle.
The brown wood engraved with what looked to be tree branches. The blade having a finer tip than the rest. It was an odd combination of silver and wood but to him if was beautiful. It was perfect size for him too.
Without a second thought, he gave the vendor a small awkward finger wave and exited her booth. Moving to the next booth which held all types of herbs and spices.
Once Dunk was completely entranced with the spices, the Princess swooped into the booth he left. She was going to spook him while he was in there but decided otherwise once she saw his focus on the item on the table.
Her eyes were on him while his were on the blade. If it were something to captivate his gaze for that long, it had to be worth getting. No matter the cost.
"I'll take that blade that Knight was looking at, please" was all she said for the Lady to walk towards the wooden handled blade. It was only as the woman passed by that she caught a glimpse of branches carved into the handle. It was a perfect representation of him.
The woman added the blades cover that she loved at first glance. The brown leather was going to compliment him so well. Once the gift was wrapped to perfection in its box, the woman looked up and gave the price.
Digging into her leather bag, she took out a handful of coin and set it down gently on the woman's table. With a small nod and smile, she thanked the vendor and made her way out the booth.
As she turned the corner in with a huge smile on her face. Excited to surprise him, the sudden darkness of the sky, reminding her of her father's last words. Not wanting to push her luck, she made her way towards the castle.
The Princess could not wait to see him in the morrow. His eyes, his smile, his soft voice, just him. She loved how soft he was around her. Like if she'd break, a doll made of glass. He was the perfect gentleman.
Her mind already counting the minutes till tommorow.
The next morning, Duncan woke up with the best sleep he'd has in a while. He did not know if it was him poking at the grass with a stick or that the air was just a bit breezier. Instead of the muggy air that usually lingered in the air, the cold breeze blew through any open surface.
Egg was less fussy today as well, his tone joyous compared to his usual annoyance and complaints at everything. Dunk gave him some coin so the boy could get himself a proper meal to eat.
Dunk wandered about the festival, watching anything that was free and taking all drinks or pastries offered to him for free.
Today the people were holding a big celebration, the puppet shows and dances that were practiced for the entertainment, lightened the mood.
He hoped to catch a glimpse of her in the crowd. His head turning at any announcements of the royals. But to his disappointment, her beautiful face was nowhere to be seen. Suppose Prince Baelor was right in hiding her. Shed make all men in the realm fall to their knees with just one look.
Seven hells, he'd wanted to fall to his knees for her at first glance.
His mind occupied, he paid no mind to his surrounding as he turned the corner. His body not moving one bit as a body smashed into his. Quick to react, he reached out and caught the persons waist before they fell.
Once his eyes focused, and realization hit that it was her.
He made sure she was stable before letting her go. The thought that he touched her made his hands burn. The feeling making him curl his hands into fists.
Her violet eyes met his blue ones, making her smile instantly. He almost looked behind him, making sure she was looking at him. Even though they were the only ones in the empty corridor.
"I've been looking for you, Silly" Her voice cut through the air comfortably. Like it she belonged here. Which made him shake his head at the thought. If anything, he was certain he'd be punished just for looking at her, he did not want to find out what they would do to him when she says he touched her.
But he did not mean to, but he could not let her fall either.
"Sorry, My Princess" he quickly made sure to look down.
"Come on, I told you about the formalities already" She complained lightly. He flinched a bit as she reached out swiftly towards him. But instead of hitting him, she took his hand in hers.
Trying to pull him with her, but he did not give her the option. Did not give himself the satisfaction of relishing the feeling of her skin touching his. He pulled away from the Princess as he looked around them. Afraid of who might have thought he touched her hand first.
Taking step back, he said, "You should not be seen with me, My Princess" his eyes casted back down towards the ground.
"Nonsense, I would rather be seen with you than the likes of anyone else here" she stepped closer to him, testing the air between them before deeming it safe to reach out to touch his hand again.
Once he seemed to relax his shoulders, she gently tugged him forward. Pulling him along with her towards a certain area he'd never been to before. The color Red and Black signifying that the tent they were going towards was of House Targaryen.
"Erm-Princess, I-I don't think-" He started, but before he could finish, she was already pulling him into the tent. The only people around were the servant ladies and the two knights that guarded the entrance.
While the Baratheon tent was one of the nicest he'd ever been to. This one was decorated with beautiful chairs, and the scent was fresh, with what he guessed was flower petals and lavender.
This was a woman's tent for sure, there were no signs that a man would inhabit the tent.
The Princess pulled him to sit next to her. His body covering the entire back of his chair. She saw his eyes lingered on the food presented on fancy trays, at the center of the table.
There was a little of everything, chicken, turkey, rice, and various pastries.
"Get as much as you like, it's just for us" She made the first move, reaching for a lemon tart. She wanted him to feel comfortable. She imagined a man like him was always hungry. Which is why she asked specifically for large amounts of various foods to be made.
There being more food on the table than there was space to sit.
Once they were both settled, eating at a comfortable pace, she looked up to see him enjoying the sweet pastry he just bit into. She found it hard to look away, he seemed so at peace. If food was what made him happy, she would make sure he'd never miss a meal the rest of his life.
She planned everything the day before, not going to bed till the servants had every detail right. Her family wasn’t one for walking around the festival and shops, so she had full reigns on what went on in the tent.
It came with advantage, being the only daughter of her father, Baelor, he held a certain love for her that was different from his sons. She was the apple of his eye, in his world, she could do no wrong. Which she never did, she always did as she was asked and finished her Princess duties on time.
Remembering the gift, she bought him. She reached to the seat at her side and put the gift box on the table.
"I have something for you, Ser Dunk" Y/N said softly, not wanting to startle him. He turned to face her, his eyes catching the box she set between them on the table.
"My Princess, it's too much" He shook his head while looking at the ground. Standing abruptly, his legs moving before he could think. The legs of his chair scratching on the wood underneath them. Hitting his head with an elegant chandelier hanging from the ceiling, rubbing the sore spot immediately.
"You have not even opened it yet" she reached for his hand for the third time that day. His hand involuntarily closing in the space between. "Please"
And gods she looked at him with those eyes.
How could he refuse her. He'd give her all he had, if he had anything worth giving. But she was a Princess, without a doubt, she had everything she'd ever wanted. And that made him happy, knowing she was taken care of.
He carefully sat down, making sure his knees did not bump with the table. Dunk made sure his hands did not touch hers as he took the box, she had stretched out towards him.
The Princess kept her violet eyes settled on his face. Not wanting to miss a fraction of his reaction. As he opened the box, a huge smile made its way across his lips. Realization hitting him that the blade he was admiring yesterday, was now in front of him. Dunks excitement at seeing the blade, warming her tummy.
He’d never received an actually gift before, not even knowing when his name day was, his life never called for a celebration.
Suddenly, his smile faltered and he turned to look at her. Finally noticing how close she was. He could see the hint of brown and blue in her eyes. Certainly, a trait she inherited from her father.
There was no arguing, she was a beautiful woman, but up close, oh it was heaven in itself. She was breathtaking.
"I cannot accept this" he muttered softly, not pulling away from the comfort it was to be near her. He suddenly noted she was what smelled like flower petals and lavender. Of course she would.
Her eyes moved down to his lips before moving back up to his eyes. Tempting him like crazy.
"It is a gift from me, Ser. As your Princess, as you say, I will not let you refuse it" She gave the order with no strictness in her tone. The small jest going right over his head.
His eyes moved back down to the gift in his lap, brown furrowed. Not knowing how to thank her. Suddenly feeling guilty, he knew he'd never have enough to get her something a penny as decent.
"I could never repay you" He felt what he'd always felt. That same sinking feeling.
Her hand reached up to touch his chin, delicately turning his head to look down at her. "And you never have to."
Everything seemed to blur around him, only her sweet face staring back at him. Her lashes delicately curled in an angel like perfection. Everything about her screamed at him to stay away. But every fibber in him wanted to touch her. To feel her closer and never let her go.
But he knew he could never be her keeper. The fact weighting heavy in his mind.
His insecurities sinking in, he moved away from her with haste. Starting both her and him.
But she was a Princess, the likes of him aren't one to be in the same room as someone like her. She was like a breath of fresh air. And she was sweet to him, something he'd never been accustomed to.
Catching sight of her eyes drifting down to her hands, he stuttered out, "I-I do apologize, My Princess. I-I mean n-no disrespect-"
Her body cowering a bit in fear she might have read the signs wrong. "Do no apologize, Ser. I have all the faults. I should have not been so forward with you" Her smile returned, but only to comfort him. Inside she was hurt, but she understood. Still, she'd let no harm come to the Knight.
"N-No, I find you very b-beautiful." He then tried to catch her eyes with his. He wanted her to know that it was a fact that she was beautiful. Her smile, her hair, her eyes, just her. "But I fear I might be punished just for speaking to you"
She took in his words. Of course he'd be afraid. Yet the idea of that never crossed her mind. Cursing herself mentally for thinking with her heart, instead of her brain.
Gathering herself together, she said "Well, Ser Dunk. It's a good think I am my father's favorite" She stood from her seat; he stood right after her. Hitting himself again, with the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He held back a swear. Rubbing his head as he stumbled a bit in his steps to follow her lead to the exit of the tent.
Without giving him a moment to react, she turned to look up at him.
Her body so close he could feel the heat radiating from her skin. She was the blood of a dragon after all. "Call me, Y/N" Her lovely smile once again forming on her face, a pink flush appearing on her cheeks.
Reaching for his hand that was open to hers, she pulled him behind her as she had before.
Hesitantly, leaning down close to her ear, he said to her "M-My names Dunk, D-Duncan"
Looking up to see his adorable smile, she pulled him close. Too close for anyone to think they were just a Knight and a Princess.
Giggling she said to him, "Come on, Duncan. Let go shopping!"
"O-Okay" He nodded at down at her.
He willingly let her pull him wherever they were headed, but she did not need to pull him along. He would have followed her no matter what. But he was not about to deny her touch.
Hey GUYYSSS!! I hope ya'll like this little filler! I for sure want to write a little more with them. I love the forbidden love type stuff. Girrll does not care! She just wants Dunk! He's such a cutie pooty. He's just a big ol' sweety who just needs some Lovin'. Anywaysss, let me know what you guys think! I was so tempted to make them kiss but something told me not yet hehe ;)
Counting the minutes till the next episode ;(
Thank you @solitary-serendipity again :) I literally LOOvvEE your dividers!
i'm not even gonna lie. i cried a lil writing this. its soft and sweet and turned out so well. and now i need dunk or my bf to bend me over and crack me like a glowstick. i hope you enjoy, i do think this will become a fan favorite. based on this ask by @realmofsolitaire. if anyone complains about length, you will find the wrath of ten thousand dragons upon you. love you!
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Summary: Removed from court and expectation, two people find a gentler kind of closeness. In what follows, certainty proves more powerful than desire alone.
WC: 9.6k
Warnings: 18+, Sex (p in v), fingering, soft dom dunk, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, virginity loss (presumably), no use of y/n, smuff
Ser Duncan the Tall x Curvy!Highborn(Tyrell)!Reader
The solar sat apart from the rest of the keep, tucked above a narrow stair that few bothered to climb unless sent. Its windows were tall and thin, cut deep into stone, and the glass had been colored long ago with a pale wash of green and amber that softened whatever light dared enter. By candlelight, the room seemed smaller than it was. Closer. The shadows gathered gently in the corners, as if they had learned not to intrude.
You had been told to wait.
Not long, they said. Just until the hall quieted. Just until the press of bodies and voices thinned enough that you might return to your chambers without drawing notice or comment or the careful looks that had begun to linger too long of late.
You stood near the hearth, hands folded, spine straight out of habit more than necessity. The chair beside the table remained empty. You did not sit. Sitting felt like settling, and you were not meant to stay.
The door closed behind you with a soft, final sound.
Ser Duncan the Tall remained near it, as if unsure whether he was meant to cross the room or guard the threshold. He had been assigned to you as an escort, the word delivered with a politeness that suggested it was also a favor. Someone owed someone else something. Your name had been used to smooth the exchange.
He was very tall.
That was the first thing you noticed, though you had known it already. Stories had a way of exaggerating, yet even so, the reality of him filled the small solar in a way few men ever did. Broad shoulders, long arms, a presence that drew the eye whether he wished it or not. His cloak had been brushed and mended, but it still carried the memory of roads and weather, of open sky and miles walked honestly.
You were accustomed to men watching you. As a Tyrell, it was expected. A woman’s worth was measured and discussed as openly as harvest yields and tourney odds. Most gazes slid over you with practiced ease, noting your clothes, your bearing, your suitability.
Dunk’s did not slide.
His eyes caught and held, then flicked away, then returned again, as if pulled by something he had not meant to touch. There was no appraisal in it, no calculation. Only awareness. Immediate and unmistakable.
You felt it like warmth.
It unsettled you, though you told yourself it should not. You assumed it was accidental, the way one might look too long at a flame or a moving shadow. He was not a court knight. He would not know how to manage his attention.
Still, when you shifted your weight, his gaze followed. When you turned slightly toward the window, he adjusted without thinking, angling his body so you remained in his line of sight. You became aware of the way your skirts brushed the floor, of the way the candlelight softened the curve of your arms, your throat, the line of your jaw.
He had to look down to meet you.
You had to look up.
The difference in height created a strange gravity between you. It pulled at the air itself, bending it. When your eyes met his, the world seemed to narrow, as if the rest of the keep had been quietly locked away.
“They said you would see me safely returned,” you said at last, because silence left too much room for thought. “I did not realize safely involved waiting in solitude.”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “I was told to remain,” he said. “Only for a short while. Until things settled.”
Things were always settling at court. Never settled.
You nodded, accepting the explanation because it was easier than questioning it. “Then we will wait,” you said. “It seems we are both practiced at that.”
He shifted, clearing his throat. “You may sit, my lady.”
“So may you,” you replied gently. “Unless you have been instructed otherwise.”
He hesitated, then moved to the chair by the hearth, lowering himself with care, as though the furniture might protest his weight. He set his helm on the floor beside him, fingers lingering on the metal for a moment before letting go.
You remained standing.
From here, you could see him clearly. The rough honesty of his face. The way his hands rested on his knees, large and unadorned, bearing old scars. He was looking at you again, openly now, and the awareness in his eyes had sharpened into something almost uncomfortable in its intensity.
You felt suddenly, acutely present. The softness of your body within the stiff lines of your gown. The warmth beneath your skin. The space you occupied.
It had been some time since anyone had made you feel as though you filled a room rather than merely adorned it.
“You asked for someone you trusted,” he said, carefully. “I was told that was the reason.”
“I asked not to walk alone,” you corrected. “Trust was their addition.”
His brow furrowed. “You do not trust me?”
“I do not know you,” you said. “That is not the same thing.”
He considered that, then nodded once. “Fair enough.”
Silence returned, heavier now, weighted with things unsaid. You found your gaze drifting to the window, to the faint outline of leaves pressed against the glass. Outside, life went on. Music would be starting. Laughter. Conversations that led nowhere and everywhere all at once.
Here, the quiet pressed in.
You had never been particularly clever at speaking your mind. You could manage the currency of polite court talk, the gentle deflections and practiced self-abnegation, but the language of want was not one you had ever been permitted to learn. Still, the words rose up and pressed against your teeth, restless as wind at a shutter. You let them out.
“I do not think,” you said, your voice higher and clearer than you meant it to be, as if it belonged to a younger, softer girl, “that any man truly wants a woman like me.”
The words echoed, foreign and familiar all at once, and settled between you like a challenge thrown down and left unanswered. Beyond the windows, someone had begun to play a lute, the notes drifting along the corridor, but in here the sound barely reached.
Dunk blinked. His hands, still resting on his knees, flexed as if uncertain whether to clench or fold themselves in prayer. He looked at you as though he were seeing you for the first time, and perhaps he was, not like this, not with your guard so plainly lowered.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked.
You considered letting the question die. Instead, honesty, sharp and unaccustomed, took hold of you.
“I mean that I am… soft,” you said, and forced yourself not to look away. “That I am broad where other women are narrow. That I take up space in a way that is remarked upon.” You swallowed. “I am agreeable. Presentable. I am told I have a face that is not displeasing.” The words gathered speed, tumbling now. “I have learned how to listen. How to stand still. How not to draw the eye to what cannot be made smaller.”
You were aware of your own voice, how it wanted to tremble but did not.
“I am suitable,” you went on. “That is the word they use. Suitable for alliance. Suitable for duty. Never spoken of as something to be desired.” Your mouth tightened. “I am told I would do. Like a seat in the hall. Or a cushion. Something meant to be useful. Comfortable. Easily overlooked.”
You fell silent, startled by the taste the words left behind. It was not relief. It was not shame. It was something new and raw, unnamed.
Dunk rose so abruptly that the chair scraped across the flagstones. He crossed the room before you could think to step back. There was something startling in the movement, the restrained violence of a man who had spent his life refusing his own strength, a carefulness so ingrained it shaped every step. He did not touch you. He did not even reach for you. But he stopped close enough that you caught the faint sharpness of sweat, the worn leather of his belt, the clean soap from the keep’s washroom.
“Do not say that,” Dunk said.
His voice was not loud, but it carried. The words hung in the air, vibrating. For the first time since he had entered the solar, he was not merely present within it.
He owned it.
You straightened, more from instinct than defiance. You had not meant to bare yourself so completely. “I only meant—”
“I know what you meant.” He drew a deep breath, steadying himself, and you saw then how tightly he had been holding something in check. “But it is not true.”
You almost laughed, the urge hot and absurd. “You do not know what men want,” you said, gently.
“That is true,” he said. “I do not know what all men want.” His jaw set. Then he hesitated, and you saw the moment he crossed something internal, released a restraint he had never planned to surrender. “I only know what I see.”
His gaze did not waver.
“I see you.”
The words were plain. Unadorned. Offered not as comfort, not as flattery, but as fact.
You opened your mouth to argue, then stopped. A part of you wanted to ask what he saw. You did not. No one ever did.
Dunk lifted his hand, stopping short of your shoulder. The space between you felt charged, delicate. If you leaned forward even slightly, your bodies would meet. He held still, waiting, as if the next moment depended entirely on you.
“Look at me,” he said.
You hesitated.
“Please,” he added, and the word landed with unexpected weight.
You lifted your eyes to his.
They were not remarkable eyes. Not the green sung of in Reach ballads, nor storm-blue or Dornish dark. They were hazel, ordinary. But the focus in them was absolute. He had the look of a man for whom seeing had always mattered more than speaking.
“You are not a piece of furniture, my lady,” he said. “You are not a tapestry to be hung and dusted. You are not meant to be endured.”
You could not speak. The words struck something deep and long buried, swelling inside your chest until it pressed against your ribs.
“You fill this room,” he continued, voice low and steady. “You do not fade into it. Any man who tells you otherwise is either a liar or a fool.”
You stood very still, afraid of what might happen if you moved. The old lessons in your head recited themselves: Do not draw attention. Do not contradict. Do not let your face give you away. But they scattered, disorganized, before the truth of Dunk’s gaze. You searched for something to say that would return them to a safe distance.
“You are a knight,” you managed, after a long moment. “You have taken vows. You must say things like this.”
He shook his head once, so firmly that the candlelight danced on his cheekbones. “My vows are to protect. Not to flatter.” He smiled, unexpectedly. It was a small, private thing, as if he were amused by his own ineptitude at persuasion. “And I am not clever with words, as you must know by now.”
You blinked. You did not know whether to be pleased or abashed. “You are clever enough,” you said, and heard the note of gratitude that slipped in.
He was very close now. For a moment, the air between them shimmered with possibility. You saw the pulse at the base of his throat, strong and steady. You saw the way his hands, so large and battered, curled at his sides as if fighting the urge to reach for her.
“You are wanted,” he said. It was almost an accusation. “You do not know it, because they have taught you otherwise. But you are.”
You felt as if she had been struck, not physically, but with the force of certainty.
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
“No one has ever spoken to me that way,” you admitted.
“Then they should have,” he said. “And you should not speak against yourself as though it were truth.”
The silence that followed was different from before. It trembled. You were suddenly aware of how close he stood, of how easily he could have reached out, of how carefully he chose not to.
He did not touch you.
That, more than anything, told you this was different.
Dunk took a breath, deep and steady, as if setting his feet on solid ground before crossing a river. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, not rough but certain, the sound of a man who knew exactly what was required of him.
“Come here,” he said.
Not sharply. Not unkindly. Just sure.
You moved without thinking, the command settling into you as naturally as breath. The space between you closed until you stood within arm’s reach, aware all at once of your body in a way you had been trained not to be. The weight of your skirts. The softness at your waist and hips. The way you filled the narrow space between you and him without apology or concealment.
You were close enough now to see the faint scar near his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows across his cheek when he blinked.
“Turn a little,” he said, guiding with words alone. “So the light hits you.”
You obeyed, angling toward the nearest candle. Warmth brushed your skin, catching on the curve of your shoulder and throat, lingering where flesh was fuller, softer. You felt suddenly, acutely present. Not arranged. Not diminished.
His gaze followed the movement, unhurried, reverent, as if he were taking in what others had taught you to disguise.
“There,” he murmured. “That is better.”
The approval in his tone loosened something deep inside you, as though a knot you had carried for years had been quietly cut.
He stepped closer, near enough that you could feel the heat of him at your back, the solid presence of his body like a wall behind you. Still, he did not crowd you. He left space, though you were aware that your body filled it easily, naturally.
You did not wish to move away.
“Stand still,” he said.
You did, hands resting at your sides, heart beating hard enough that you wondered if he could feel it too. The quiet of the solar seemed to bend around you both, candle flames steady, shadows held in place.
Dunk lifted his hand slowly, giving you time to follow the motion with your eyes. He paused just short of your arm, just shy of where flesh softened beneath silk.
Waiting.
The choice was yours. That, too, you understood.
You nodded once.
Only then did he touch you.
His fingers closed gently around your wrist, warm and sure, thumb resting against your pulse. The contact was simple, almost chaste, yet it sent a shiver through you all the same. Not from fear.
From relief.
“You feel that?” he asked.
“Yes,” you whispered.
“Good,” he said. “That means you are here. With me.”
He guided your hand upward, careful and deliberate, then placed it flat against his chest. The solid truth of him met your palm, the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath worn fabric. You were suddenly aware of the contrast between you. His strength. Your softness. How easily your hand fit there.
“Leave it there,” he told you.
You did.
The certainty in his voice wrapped around you, easing the doubt that had lived beneath your skin for so long. You did not feel examined or judged. You felt held, even without his arms around you.
His other hand came to rest at your back, just between your shoulders, not pressing, only present. A point of grounding. You found yourself leaning into it without realizing you had done so.
“That is it,” he said quietly. “You do not need to disappear. You do not need to make yourself smaller.”
The words sank deep, settling somewhere behind your ribs.
You swallowed. “I do not know how to be anything else.”
“You are already enough,” he replied. “You have just been taught not to trust it.”
His thumb brushed once, a subtle stroke meant more to reassure than to claim. The touch sent a low ache through you, unfamiliar and welcome.
“Look at me again,” he said.
You lifted your eyes, meeting his without hesitation this time. Something passed between you then, unspoken but clear. Want, yes, but also trust. The rare kind built not on promises but on presence.
He searched your face as though committing it to memory, then nodded to himself.
“You are safe here,” he said. “I will not take what you do not offer.”
“I know,” you said.
The certainty of it surprised you, but it rang true all the same.
Dunk exhaled slowly, as if he had been holding his breath longer than he realized. His hand at your back slid down just enough to rest at your waist, fingers spread, grounding you there.
“Stay,” he said.
Not forever. Not beyond this room. Just here. Just now.
You stayed.
Outside, the keep continued on, unaware of the quiet shift taking place in a candlelit solar. Inside, you stood with a man who asked nothing of you except that you be present, who led not by force but by faith in his own steadiness.
For the first time, you did not feel like something waiting to be chosen. You felt yourself drawn to him like a moth to flame. Candlelight painted shadows beneath his jaw, highlighted the curve of his cheek. You had been taught your whole life to keep your distance, to maintain proper space, especially from men who were not family. Yet with each breath, you found yourself leaning closer.
His hand at your waist steadied you, neither pulling nor pushing. Just holding. Grounding.
“I should not be here with you like this,” you whispered, though there was no conviction in your voice.
“Do you wish to leave?” he asked.
You shook your head, a small movement that felt enormous.
Dunk’s eyes softened. “Then stay.”
A clock somewhere in the keep struck the hour, the sound distant and muffled by stone walls and tapestries, as if it belonged to another world entirely. Perhaps it did.
He did not rush the moment.
That, too, felt deliberate.
Dunk remained where he was, hand firm at your waist, your palm still resting over his heart as though it belonged there. His breathing stayed even, deep in his chest, a steady rhythm you found yourself unconsciously matching. He let the silence stretch, not empty but full, like a held note that had not yet resolved.
“Good,” he said quietly, as if you had done something right simply by staying. The word was not praise as court offered it. It carried no expectation of performance. Only acknowledgment.
His thumb pressed again at your side, slow and grounding. Not a caress meant to take, but a reminder.
Here. Now.
“You listen well,” he said.
You laughed softly, breathless. “I have been taught to.”
“I do not mean obedience,” he replied at once, gentle but firm. “I mean that you hear what is being asked of you. And you choose.”
The distinction settled over you like a mantle. You had been obeyed all your life by servants and deferential knights, yet rarely offered true choice without consequence.
Dunk’s hand shifted, not lower, not claiming. Instead, he guided you half a step, angling your back toward the hearth. Warmth met your spine at once, comforting, as if he were arranging the world to better hold you.
“Here,” he said. “You look steadier like this.”
You did not question him. You trusted the way he saw space, the way he understood where you belonged within it. His certainty was not sharp. It did not cut.
It held.
He lifted your hand from his chest only long enough to reposition it, fingers closing briefly over yours to turn your palm upward. He set it again, slower this time, higher, just beneath his collarbone.
“Feel,” he said.
You did. The strong beat beneath your hand. The way his body responded to your nearness, not with urgency but with awareness. You swallowed, throat tight.
“You are not too much,” he continued, voice low, steady as iron sunk deep into earth. “And you are not something to be managed carefully lest you break. You stand where you are told because you believe it is safer for others.” His gaze lifted to yours. “But you do not need to protect me from yourself.”
Something inside you loosened. A long-held tension you had never learned to name.
“I am afraid,” you admitted.
“I know,” he said simply. “Stay anyway.”
It was not a demand. It was an invitation shaped like trust.
His other hand rose, slow enough that you could have stopped it. He brushed his knuckles along your forearm, testing, waiting. When you did not pull away, his hand settled there, warm and solid.
“Breathe,” he said.
You did.
“That is it,” he murmured. “Let me set the pace. You do not need to decide anything else tonight.”
The relief was almost dizzying. To be led without being erased. To be held in a moment without being consumed by it.
You leaned into him, just slightly, your forehead near his chest, close enough that the world narrowed to the quiet crackle of the hearth and the steady certainty of his presence. His arm came around you, not enclosing, but bracing, like a wall built not to trap but to shelter.
“Dunk,” you said, the name leaving you before you could stop it.
His breath shifted. “Say it again.”
You did.
The response was subtle. A tightening of his hold. A deeper breath drawn deliberately. His chin dipped, not touching your hair, but close enough that you felt the promise of it.
“You are doing well,” he said, and this time the words carried weight. Not approval given lightly, but assurance meant to anchor you. “I will tell you when to move. I will tell you when to stop.”
“And if I wish to?” you asked quietly.
“Then you will tell me,” he answered without hesitation. “And I will listen.”
Outside the solar, the keep breathed on, unaware. Time passed. Bells rang. Somewhere, laughter rose and fell.
Inside, Dunk adjusted his stance, drawing you closer by degrees, his guidance so gentle you barely noticed until you were there. The shift was unmistakable now, the promise clear without a single explicit word spoken.
You rested your hand against him. He steadied you. The balance between you felt natural, earned, as if it had been waiting all along.
Dunk did not hurry what followed.
He guided you back slowly, not in a single step but by degrees, his hand steady at your waist as he steered you toward the low chair set near the hearth. There was no pressure in it, no urgency. Just direction, offered with quiet certainty, certain you would follow.
When the backs of your knees met the edge of the seat, he paused, checking your balance before easing his grip.
“Sit,” he said. The word carried weight. Not command sharpened into cruelty, but certainty shaped by care. You obeyed without hesitation, skirts whispering against the stone as you settled into the seat. Dunk remained standing between your knees, close enough now that the heat of him felt undeniable. He did not touch you at once. He moved forward, not to crowd but to inhabit the space around you. His knees nearly touched yours, a presence both intimidating and reassuring in its solidity. You watched as he knelt, a slow, deliberate movement that brought his eyes level with yours.
"Are you comfortable?" he asked.
The question was simple, but it carried layers. You nodded, unable to find your voice for a moment. The height difference had shifted; now you looked slightly down at him, and the change altered something in the air between you.
"Good," he said, and the approval in his voice sent warmth blooming beneath your skin. "I am going to touch you now. Your hands first. Is that acceptable?"
The formality of the question made it easier somehow, as if he were offering a dance at court rather than this intimate moment in a candlelit solar. You nodded again, then found your voice.
“You are doing well,” he said again, lower this time. “I know this is new.”
You nodded, fingers curling into the fabric of your gown. “I trust you.”
Something darkened gently in his eyes at that. Not hunger alone. Responsibility. “I will be worthy of it,” he said. His mouth brushed your temple first, a restrained, grounding gesture, as if he were reminding himself to stay steady. Then his lips traced slowly along your cheek, not claiming, only testing. When he reached the corner of your mouth, he paused.
“May I?” he asked.
“Yes,” you whispered. He kissed you then. Not rushed. Not consuming. His mouth was warm and careful, his hand returning to your waist to keep you from tipping forward as your body responded instinctively. The kiss deepened only slightly, enough to make your breath catch, enough to make your hands rise to his chest without conscious thought. Dunk broke the kiss before it could tip into something sharper. He rested his forehead against yours, breathing evenly.
“Easy,” he murmured. “We have time.” The promise in the words sent a slow, aching warmth through you.The words unfurled something tight within you. Time. The concept seemed foreign in this small room where candlelight and shadow merged, where the outside world had receded to nothing more than distant echoes. Your fingers curled against the fabric of his tunic, feeling the solidity beneath.
"I have never—" you began, then stopped, uncertain how to shape the admission.
"I know," he said, and there was no judgment in it. His thumb traced a circle at your waist, a gentle, grounding motion. "That is why we go slowly."
His other hand came up to brush a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness that made your chest ache. The touch lingered, his calloused fingertips grazing your cheek before sliding to the nape of your neck.
"May I continue?" he asked.
"Yes," you whispered, the word barely audible even in the quiet room.
His hand tightened slightly at your nape, not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor you as his mouth returned to yours. This kiss was deeper, more deliberate. His lips parted yours with gentle insistence, and you felt yourself yield to it, opening beneath the careful pressure. The taste of him was clean, faintly sweet, like rain-washed stone.
When his tongue touched yours, you gasped against his mouth. The sound seemed to affect him; his breathing roughened, and his hand at your waist flexed once before steadying again. He did not rush, though. Each movement remained measured, each touch controlled.
He drew back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark in the candlelight. "Tell me if it becomes too much," he said.
You nodded, not trusting your voice. His fingers moved to the lacing at the back of your gown, hovering there, a question in the touch.
"I can stop whenever you wish," he said.
The words shivered through you. Not because they promised safety—though they did—but because they acknowledged desire. Your desire. As if it were a living thing that deserved care and attention.
"Don't stop," you said.
His hands were surprisingly gentle for their size, working the laces with careful precision. Each loosened tie sent a whisper of cooler air against your warming skin. You felt yourself trembling slightly, not from fear but from the newness of it all—the deliberate way he undressed you, as if unwrapping something precious.
When the gown loosened enough to slip from your shoulders, he paused again, his breath warm against your neck.
"May I?" he asked, his voice low and roughened at the edges. When you nodded, his fingers slid beneath the fabric, easing it down with careful reverence.
You had been undressed before—by handmaidens, by attendants, by women who saw your body as something to be wrapped and contained. Never like this. Never with eyes that lingered on each new inch of skin revealed, as though memorizing it. Never with hands that trembled slightly despite their strength.
"Beautiful," he murmured, and there was nothing practiced in the word. It fell from his lips like a truth long held, not a courtesy offered.
You felt heat rise to your face, but you did not look away. His gaze held yours, steady and certain, as his hands continued their careful work. The gown loosened further, slipping to pool around your waist, leaving only the thin barrier of your shift between his calloused hands and your skin.
"Still with me?" he asked, voice low.
"Yes," you answered, surprised by the steadiness in your own voice. His hands found your shoulders, thumbs brushing over the curve where neck met collarbone. The touch was reverent, exploring rather than claiming. You shivered beneath it, unable to hide your response as his fingers traced patterns on your skin.
"Cold?" he asked, though his eyes suggested he knew better.
"No," you admitted. The single word felt like confession.
Dunk smiled then, a brief flash that transformed his face. You hadn't realized how tightly he'd been holding himself in check until that moment of release. His palm slid down to rest just above your heart, not quite touching your breast, but close enough that you felt the promise of it like heat.
"Your heart is racing," he observed.
You swallowed. "Yes."
"Mine too," he said simply. He guided your hand back to his chest, letting you feel the strong, steady rhythm there.
His hands slid up your arms, a grounding touch that lingered at your shoulders before moving to frame your face. His palms were warm against your cheeks, thumbs brushing softly over your skin.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
The question caught you off guard. No one had ever asked before. You had been taught to anticipate needs, to fulfill expectations, to shape yourself around others' desires. To be asked directly for your own felt almost like a transgression.
"I don't know how to answer that," you admitted.
His expression softened. "Then I will show you possibilities," he said, "and you will tell me when something feels right."
He leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead, then your temple, then the curve of your cheek. Each kiss was brief, gentle, a question rather than a demand.
When his mouth found yours again, it was deeper than before, his tongue slipping past your lips with deliberate intent. His hands moved to your waist, fingers spreading wide to span the softness there. He didn't shy away from the fullness of your body; he sought it out, his palms curving to fit the shape of you as if it were made precisely for his touch.
"Tell me if I go too far," he murmured against your lips, and you nodded, unable to form words as his mouth trailed down your neck.
His breath was hot against your skin, his kisses leaving a path of warmth that made you shiver. When he reached the curve where neck met shoulder, he paused, inhaling deeply as if committing your scent to memory. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin, and you gasped, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders. The sound seemed to affect him; you felt a subtle tension ripple through his body, like a man holding himself carefully in check.
The tension in his body was a revelation—that this man, so powerful and controlled, could be affected by you. His restraint was evident in every careful movement, in the deliberate way he held himself back. It made something warm unfurl inside you, a strange new confidence blooming where doubt had always lived.
"May I?" he asked again, his voice rougher now, though no less gentle.
You nodded, not trusting your voice. His fingers caught the thin fabric, easing it down just enough to expose the swell of your breast. The air felt cool against your heated skin, but his breath was warm as he lowered his head.
The first touch of his lips against the soft curve made you gasp.His mouth was gentle but purposeful, pressing a series of slow kisses along the curve before his tongue traced a path that made you arch slightly against him. Your fingers tightened on his shoulders, feeling the solid strength beneath the worn fabric. He hummed against your skin, a low sound of approval that vibrated through you.
"That's it," he murmured. "Don't hold back."
His hand slid up to cup your breast fully, thumb brushing across the nipple with deliberate pressure. The sensation sent a jolt through you, sharper and more immediate than you had expected. A small sound escaped you, something between a gasp and a moan, and you felt him smile against your skin.
"Good," he said, the word warm with approval. "I want to hear you."
His hand continued to move, mapping the contours of your body with reverent attention. When his mouth closed around your nipple, warm and wet, a moan escaped you—louder than you'd intended, honest in a way you'd never allowed yourself to be. Your back arched involuntarily, pressing more of yourself into his touch.
He shifted, adjusting his position without breaking contact. His other hand slid up your thigh, bunching the fabric of your skirts, but stopping respectfully at your knee. Even in this moment of passion, he maintained boundaries, waiting for permission before proceeding further.
"May I touch you here?" he asked, his voice husky with restraint.
You nodded, then remembering his earlier guidance, found your voice. "Yes," you whispered. "Please."
His hand moved higher, fingers skimming along your inner thigh with deliberate patience. The fabric of your skirts bunched further, exposing more of your legs to the warm air of the solar. Your breath caught as his touch traced patterns on your skin, each circle drawing closer to where heat pooled between your thighs.
"Tell me what you feel," he murmured against your breast, his lips still pressed to the sensitive skin.
"Warmth," you whispered, the word catching in your throat.
His eyes darkened at your response. The candlelight caught the planes of his face, highlighting the intensity of his focus. His fingers continued their slow ascent, tracing patterns that made your breath quicken. His fingers found the edge of your smallclothes, pausing there with a gentleness that made your heart clench. The deliberate patience in his touch spoke volumes—this was a man who understood the value of restraint, who knew that power lay not in taking but in waiting.
"Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice a low rumble against your skin.
"Yes," you breathed, surprised by your own certainty.
His touch was feather-light as he slipped beneath the fabric, finding the slick heat that had been building since he first looked at you with those honest eyes. You gasped at the contact, your body arching instinctively toward his hand. Dunk made a sound—half groan, half approval—when he discovered how ready you were for him.
"You're so wet," he murmured, the words reverent rather than crude. His fingers moved with deliberate skill, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves that made your thighs tremble. The sensation was unlike anything you'd experienced before—not the fumbling, hurried touches you'd imagined in the privacy of your own thoughts, but something measured and attentive. Each stroke was purposeful, his eyes never leaving your face as he gauged your reactions.
"That's it," he encouraged when you couldn't hold back another soft moan. "Don't hide from me."
Your head fell back, exposing the column of your throat to the cool air. Dunk leaned forward immediately, his mouth hot against your pulse point as his fingers continued their slow, maddening circles. The dual sensations—his lips on your neck, his hand between your thighs—overwhelmed you, pleasure building in waves you couldn't control.
Your nails dug into his shoulders, anchoring yourself as the pleasure intensified. His fingers moved with precision, finding a rhythm that made your thighs quiver. When he slipped one finger inside you, the stretch was unfamiliar but welcome, your body yielding to his touch as if it had been waiting for this moment.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
You forced your heavy eyelids open, meeting his gaze. The connection intensified everything—the pressure of his hand, the heat of his breath, the way he watched your every reaction with unwavering attention.
"Beautiful," he murmured again, adding a second finger with careful deliberation. The fullness made you gasp, your hips rising instinctively to meet his hand. "That's it. Take what you need."
His thumb circled that sensitive bundle of nerves as his fingers curled inside you, finding a spot deep within that sent lightning through your veins. You cried out, unable to hold back the sound as pleasure built within you like a wave gathering force. Your hips moved of their own accord, seeking more of his touch, more of that delicious pressure that threatened to unravel you completely.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Let go for me."
His fingers moved with greater purpose now, curling and stroking in a rhythm that seemed perfectly attuned to your body's needs. Your breath came in short gasps, your chest rising and falling rapidly as tension coiled tighter in your core.
"Dunk," you gasped, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.
"I'm here," he answered, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the narrow space between. "I've got you." The pressure built within you like a gathering storm, your thighs trembling as his skilled fingers worked their magic. His touch was deliberate, purposeful—each stroke and curl precisely calibrated to your responses. You felt yourself climbing higher, closer to some precipice you'd only imagined in the privacy of your most secret thoughts.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "Don't fight it."
Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, seeking purchase as the pleasure intensified. The heat of his palm against your core, the stretch of his fingers inside you—it was overwhelming in its intimacy. No one had ever touched you this way, with such focused attention to your pleasure.
When it finally broke over you, the sensation was shattering. Your back arched, your body tensing as waves of pleasure radiated outward from your core. A sound escaped your throat—something between a cry and a moan—as your inner walls clenched around his fingers. Dunk's mouth covered yours, swallowing the sound as his hand worked you through the waves of pleasure, never stopping but gentling his touch as the sensations crested and began to ebb.
"Breathe," he murmured against your lips, his fingers slowing but not withdrawing completely. "Just breathe."
You obeyed, drawing in shuddering breaths as aftershocks of pleasure rippled through your body. His forehead pressed against yours, his eyes half-closed as if he were experiencing his own kind of release simply by witnessing yours.
When your breathing steadied, he carefully withdrew his hand, the loss of contact making you whimper softly. He pressed his lips to your temple, a gesture so tender it made your chest ache with something beyond physical desire.
"You are magnificent," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "Do you understand that now?"
You couldn't answer, your body still trembling with aftershocks as reality slowly reassembled itself around you. His arms encircled you, pulling you against his chest where you could feel his heartbeat thundering beneath your cheek. The rapid rhythm was oddly comforting—proof that he was affected as deeply as you were.
"I didn't know," you murmured against the worn fabric of his tunic. "I didn't know it could feel like that."
His large hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. "That is only the beginning," he said, the promise in his words sending another shiver down your spine.
You became aware of the hardness pressed against your thigh, the evidence of his desire contained but not hidden. Yet he made no move to seek his own pleasure. He held you, patient and steady, as your breathing gradually returned to normal.
"What about you?" you asked softly, your hand hesitantly moving to his thigh.
His larger hand covered yours, neither pressing it closer nor pushing it away. "This was for you," he said simply. "To show you what desire truly feels like when it's focused on your pleasure."
The words settled over you like a blanket, warm and unexpected. You shifted in his arms, turning your face up to his. His expression was open, unguarded—a rare sight in a world where men were taught to hide vulnerability as skillfully as women were taught to cultivate it.
"I want..." you began, then faltered, still unaccustomed to stating your own desires so plainly.
"Tell me," he encouraged, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.
You swallowed, "I want to touch you too," you finished, gathering courage from the tenderness in his eyes. "I want to learn what pleases you."
His breath caught, a subtle hitch that revealed more than words could. "Are you certain? You don't need to—"
"I know," you interrupted, the boldness surprising even you. "That's why I want to."
Something shifted in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a vulnerability that transformed his features. His hand rose to cup your cheek, thumb brushing across your lower lip in a gesture that sent renewed heat spiraling through you.
"Then I will guide you," he said, his voice low and steady despite the desire evident in his eyes.
He adjusted his position, moving to sit on the edge of the chair and drawing you gently onto his lap. The new arrangement brought your bodies closer, your skirts spreading across his thighs as he settled you against him. His hardness pressed more insistently against your thigh now, impossible to ignore in this new position. A flush spread across your cheeks as you realized how intimately you were connected, how the thin layers of fabric seemed suddenly inadequate barriers between your bodies.
"Don't be nervous," he murmured, his hands steady at your waist. "We'll go as slowly as you need."
You nodded, gathering courage from the gentleness in his voice. Your hand moved hesitantly to his chest, feeling the strong, rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm. The rhythm matched your own, quick with anticipation and desire.
"May I?" you asked, your fingers drifting lower, tracing the line of his stomach through his tunic.
His eyes darkened, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of color remained. "Yes," he answered, the single word rough with restraint. Your hand moved with more confidence now, trailing down to the laces of his breeches. His breath caught as your fingers fumbled with the knots, inexperienced but eager. When you looked up at him, questioning, he covered your hand with his own.
"Let me," he said, guiding your movements with gentle pressure.
Together, you loosened the ties until the fabric parted. Your heart hammered against your ribs as he guided your hand beneath the rough cloth, your fingers encountering hot, velvet-smooth skin stretched taut over hardness. He was larger than you had imagined, thick and heavy in your palm.
"Like this," he murmured, adjusting your grip with careful patience. His hand enveloped yours completely, showing you how to stroke, how much pressure to apply, when to twist slightly at the top. The sound he made when you followed his guidance—a low,broken, half-swallowed groan—sent a renewed surge of heat through your body.
"Is this good?" you whispered, watching his face for signs of pleasure.
"Yes," he managed, his voice strained. "Very good."
His eyes held yours as your hand moved more confidently now, learning the rhythm that made his breath catch and his muscles tense. There was something powerfully intimate about watching his control slowly fracture, knowing you were the cause. His hand eventually fell away, letting you set the pace, trusting you to learn what pleased him.
The candlelight caught the sheen of sweat on his brow, highlighting the tension in his jaw as he fought to maintain his composure. His hips lifted slightly into your touch, a subtle movement that spoke of carefully restrained desire. You were fascinated by the contradiction of him—so powerful yet so vulnerable beneath your inexperienced touch. His eyes closed briefly when your thumb traced over the sensitive head, a bead of moisture making the glide easier. His vulnerability in this moment struck you deeply—that this strong, careful man would allow you to see him like this, would trust you with his pleasure.
"You're trembling," you observed softly, surprised by your own boldness.
"Yes," he admitted, his voice rough-edged. "It has been... some time. And never like this."
The confession made your heart swell. Your movements grew more confident, your grip firmer as you found the rhythm that made his breathing ragged. His hands had settled at your waist, fingers flexing against the fabric of your gown with each stroke of your hand.
When his eyes opened again, the intensity in them nearly stole your breath. Gone was the careful restraint, replaced by raw, unfiltered need. His hands tightened on your waist, a subtle shift that betrayed his growing need. You continued your strokes, emboldened by the way his breathing hitched when you twisted your wrist just so. The hardness in your palm throbbed, hot and insistent.
"I won't last much longer if you continue like that," he warned, voice strained. The admission thrilled you—that you, who had been taught your body was something to minimize, could reduce this powerful man to such vulnerability.
"Is that bad?" you asked, genuinely curious.
His laugh was brief, breathless. "No. But I would rather—" He hesitated, then cupped your face with one large hand. "I would rather be inside you, if you'll allow it."
The words sent liquid heat pooling between your thighs. You nodded, then remembering his earlier guidance, found your voice. "Yes," you whispered, the word carrying more certainty than you'd felt about anything in a long time. "I want that."
His eyes darkened further, but his movements remained controlled as he shifted you in his lap. With gentle hands, he guided you to straddle him, your knees settling on either side of his powerful thighs. The position brought your bodies flush together, the heat of him evident even through the remaining layers of your clothing.
"We'll go slowly," he promised, his hands steady at your waist. "Tell me if anything feels uncomfortable."
You nodded, suddenly aware of your inexperience. But there was no judgment in his gaze, only patience and a desire that matched your own. His fingers found the hem of your shift, drawing it upward with careful deliberation. You raised your arms, allowing him to pull the garment over your head. The air left your lungs in a rush as you sat exposed before him, your shift gone, nothing but the bunched fabric of your skirts at your waist preserving any modesty. You expected to feel vulnerable, perhaps even ashamed, but the way Dunk looked at you—as if witnessing something precious and rare—banished any thought of covering yourself.
"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. His hands, so large they nearly spanned your waist, steadied you as you balanced above him. "Are you certain?"
"Yes," you answered, surprising yourself with the steadiness in your voice.
His thumbs traced small circles on your hipbones, grounding you as he guided you forward. You felt the blunt pressure of him against your entrance, hot and insistent. Your breath caught as he positioned himself, the anticipation nearly unbearable. "Easy," he breathed against your neck as he began to enter you with exquisite slowness. "Breathe through it."
You gasped at the unfamiliar stretch, your body tensing instinctively at the intrusion. His hands tightened on your hips, not forcing but steadying, as he paused to let you adjust.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Take your time."
You focused on your breathing, on the warmth of his skin against yours, on the way his thumbs traced soothing circles on your hipbones. The initial discomfort began to fade, replaced by a fullness that bordered on pleasure. When you shifted slightly, testing the sensation, a groan escaped him.
"Gods," he whispered, his forehead pressing against your collarbone. "You feel incredible." The sensation of him filling you completely made your breath catch in your throat. Your hands found his shoulders, gripping tight as you slowly lowered yourself further onto him. The stretch was uncomfortable at first, a burning fullness that made you bite your lip to keep from crying out.
"There," he whispered, his voice strained with the effort of remaining still. "That's enough for now. Just breathe."
You did as he instructed, drawing in deep breaths as your body adjusted to his size. His thumbs continued their soothing circles on your hips, his patience unwavering despite the tension evident in every line of his body. When the discomfort began to fade, replaced by a curious warmth that spread from your core, you shifted slightly, testing the sensation.
Dunk's head fell back, a low groan escaping him. "Gods be good," he muttered, his fingers flexing against your skin. "Move when you're ready. But slowly."
You lifted your hips experimentally, feeling him slide partially out before lowering yourself again. The sensation sent sparks of pleasure radiating through your body, different from what his fingers had done but no less intense. A small sound escaped your throat, something between a gasp and a moan.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough with restraint. "Find your rhythm."
Your movements were hesitant at first, uncertain. But as your body adjusted to his size, you found a slow, rolling pace that made your breath catch and his hands tighten on your hips. Each downward motion seated him deeper within you, the slight discomfort giving way to a building pleasure that made your thighs tremble.
Dunk watched your face with unwavering attention, reading every flicker of expression. When you winced slightly at a particular angle, he shifted immediately, his hands guiding you to a slightly different position that eased the pressure. His consideration—even now, when his own desire was evident in the tension of his body—touched something deep within you.
"Better?" he asked, his voice a low rumble against your skin.
"Yes," you whispered, finding the confidence to move more purposefully now. The drag of him inside you created a friction that built the pleasure higher with each movement. Your hands braced against his shoulders, feeling the coiled strength beneath as he fought to maintain control.
When his mouth found yours again, the kiss was deeper than before, hungrier. His tongue slid past your lips in rhythm with the movement of your bodies, a dual claiming that made you moan against him. One of his hands moved from your hip to cup your breast, thumb circling the sensitive peak in a way that made your inner muscles clench around him. The sensation overwhelmed you—his hardness stretching you, his thumb circling your nipple, his mouth devouring yours. Your hips moved with greater confidence now, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spiral through your core. Each time you sank down on him, he filled you completely, touching places inside you that sent sparks dancing behind your eyelids.
"That's it," he groaned against your mouth. "You're doing so well."
His praise washed over you, warm and intoxicating. You had never felt so powerful, so desired. The fullness of your body, which you had been taught to minimize and hide, now moved with purpose, taking and giving pleasure in equal measure. Dunk's eyes never left your face, watching every flicker of sensation with reverent attention.
When his hand slipped between your bodies, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves above where you were joined, your rhythm faltered for a moment. Your head fell back as dual sensations overwhelmed you—the fullness of him inside you and the precise circles of his thumb against that sensitive point. He steadied you with his other hand, ensuring you didn't lose your balance as pleasure threatened to unmake you.
"I can't—" you gasped, your thighs trembling with the effort of maintaining your position.
"You can," he assured you, his voice rough with desire. "I've got you."
His arm wrapped more securely around your waist, supporting your weight as your movements became less coordinated. The pressure of his thumb increased slightly, perfectly calibrated to the rhythm you had established. Your inner walls clenched around him, drawing a groan from deep in his chest.
"That's it," he encouraged, his breath hot against your throat. "Let go."
The release, when it came, was more powerful than before—a wave that crashed through your entire body, leaving you gasping and shaking in his arms. Your inner walls pulsed around him, the contractions drawing a strangled groan from his throat. His hips jerked upward, meeting your downward motion with a force that sent another shock of pleasure through you.
"Duncan," you cried out, no longer caring about propriety or restraint.
His control finally broke. His arms tightened around you, holding you firmly against his chest as his hips drove upward in short, powerful thrusts. The change in position seated him even deeper within you, touching places that made stars burst behind your eyelids. You clung to his shoulders, face pressed against his neck as he chased his own release.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough with need. "I want to see your eyes when I—"
You lifted your head, meeting his gaze as his movements grew more urgent. The intensity in his eyes stole your breath—desire mixed with something deeper, a connection that transcended the physical joining of your bodies.
"You're perfect," he groaned, his rhythm faltering as his release approached. His fingers dug into your hips, not painfully but with enough pressure to ground you both in this moment.
When he finally shuddered beneath you, his face transformed with pleasure, you felt an unexpected sense of power. That you—with your soft curves and untutored movements—could bring this strong, controlled man to such abandon seemed like a revelation. His forehead pressed against yours as he pulsed inside you, his breathing ragged against your lips.
For several heartbeats, neither of you moved. The only sounds in the solar were your mingled breaths and the soft crackle of the dying fire. His arms encircled you completely, one hand stroking gently along your spine as you both trembled with aftershocks. His lips brushed your temple, a gesture so tender it made your throat tighten with emotion.
"Are you all right?" he murmured, his voice rough-edged but gentle.
You nodded against his shoulder, unable to find words for the tangle of sensations coursing through you. Your body felt both weightless and impossibly heavy, satisfied in ways you had never imagined possible. The fullness of you, the softness he had touched with such reverence, no longer felt like something to apologize for or conceal.
"Yes," you finally managed, the word barely more than a whisper against his skin.
His hand continued its soothing path along your back, neither demanding nor retreating. Just present. The quiet intimacy of the moment felt almost more significant than what had preceded it—this gentle aftermath where your bodies remained joined, your breathing gradually synchronizing.
"I did not expect this," you whispered against his neck, inhaling the scent of him—clean sweat and leather and something uniquely his own.
His chest rumbled with a soft laugh. "Nor did I." His fingers traced idle patterns on your skin, mapping the contours of your back as if committing them to memory. "Though I cannot claim I did not hope."
The confession surprised you. "You hoped for this? With me?"
He drew back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. The intensity of his gaze hadn't diminished, though it had softened into something warmer, more intimate. His hand shifted to your face, cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache. "Yes. With you." His thumb traced your lower lip, still swollen from his kisses. "Not like this—I would never presume. But I noticed you. How could I not?"
The simple honesty in his voice undid something in you. There was no artifice in his words, no courtly flattery designed to achieve an end. Just truth, offered plainly.
"What did you notice?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it.
He smiled, the expression transforming his face into something boyish and open. "The way you move. Like you're trying not to disturb the air around you." His hand slid to your shoulder, then down your arm, fingers tracing the curve with reverence. "The kindness in your eyes when you speak to the serving girls. How you listen more than you speak." His thumb brushed your cheekbone. "The softness of you—not just your body, but your manner. Your patience."
You lowered your eyes, overwhelmed by the unexpected praise. His finger tipped your chin back up, gentle but insistent.
"I noticed," he continued, "how others look past you, and I could not understand it." His voice deepened, roughened at the edges. "I wanted to know what thoughts you kept behind that careful mask. What desires."
Heat bloomed in your cheeks again, but you did not look away. The intimacy of the moment—your bodies still joined, his heartbeat steady against yours—gave you courage you hadn't known you possessed.
"And now?" you asked softly.
"Now I know," he answered, his eyes darkening slightly, "that you are even more than I imagined."
theartofmadeline
gracieabrams
vaporwave
2087
romaincrisis
