Sir Duncan was a tall, strappin' lad when Baelor first met him. It is, after all, his defining feature to the casual observer. And that was as a hedge knight, who went hungry more often than not, and had little opportunity to train with those that could truly push him. But after a year of three square meals a day, each one larger than what three men could put away, and solid training with the Targaryen guards, and even Kingsgaurds, Baelor's swore sword was larger than ever.
Where before most men only came up to his chin, the last growth spurt had Duncan towering over even Baelor and Maekar with their Martell inherited height, neither of them coming up to the top of his chest.
And the breadth of him. He hadn't just put on a healthy weight since coming to the Redkeep, but also muscle. He was broader than most doorways in the keep now, having to turn sideways to walk into the Hand's solar when called.
The Hand's Half-Giant, many called him, and Baelor couldn't disagree. It really was extraordinary. Imagine, he thought to himself as he watched Duncan heft his sparing partner over his shoulder like he weighed little more than a feather, how large he would have grown if he could have eaten well from childhood.
Maekar is twitching next to him, and it's been ages since they'd fought together. (It's been well over a year since Ashford, and Maekar had avoided sparing with him since, and that was against eachother, not with, so even longer than that. Far too long). And he's been itching to face off against the mountain of muscle that is his sworn sword for some time himself.
It doesn't take as much effort as he thought it would to get Maekar into the ring. Baelor has just a moment to worry about Maekar's desire to fight Duncan over ruling his desire to avoid fighting with Baelor, before Dunk and Maekar in on eachother with a crash of steel that has him swearing and jumping in to join the spar.
Perhaps the 2-on-1 was a bad idea.
Duncan holds up very well against the two princes, and the spar is pretty evenly matched between Duncan's youth and strength and the princes experience and raw talent. Right until Duncan seems to decide that if they're going to play with unfair odds, then he should get to fight dirty.
Sir Duncan is a fine knight. But Dunk from Flea Bottom is a force of fucking nature.
(Baelor is slightly disappointed, as he watches Dunk punt Maekar half across the training yard with a single kick, that he doesn't remember much of the trial at Ashford. He would have enjoyed seeing Aerion getting the shit kicked out of him like a street rat).
And then all thoughts vanish from his mind, as Dunk fully picks him up, all but one handed from the lack of effort he's showing, and he has just enough time to realise he's looking down at Duncan for a change, who looks beautiful with his head between Baelor's legs with a mischievous smile on his face. Enough time to realise he's suddenly so hard it hurts, 0 to 100 in no time at all, with a simple lift of Duncan's arms.
And before he can feel any way about that, he's suddenly left all his organs behind as his body goes flying away from Dunk (did he just throw me??) and is crashing into Maekar, who had got back to his feel but was now on the floor with Bealor in a pile of limbs and broken dreams.
And Bealor can't help but laugh from pure joy. My man is so strong, he thinks to himself, as he fails to separate himself from his swearing brother and stand.
And if he's thinking about Dunk throwing him around in a more pleasurable setting, well, that's his business.
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