the inn room was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic breathing of the little one sleeping on his chest. ser duncan lay back against the wooden chair, his massive frame making the furniture creak under the weight, but he didn't mind. he had one arm draped lazily over his daughter, his hand resting protectively on the small of her back, patting softly.
the baby was curled into a ball, the smallest, most precious thing he had ever held.
"shhhh," he cooed, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest. he felt the warmth radiating from the baby’s skin, a living, breathing bundle of life that made his heart ache in a way he didn't quite understand but felt deeply.
she wraps her tiny, chubby fist around the very tip of his finger and that’s all she can manage because he is enormous, and she squeezes. dunk smiled, a genuine expression that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
“she’s strong,” he murmurs, awed. he lifted the hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
“she’s only a few days old, dunk” you laugh.
he closed his eyes, letting the silence wrap around them. for the first time in weeks, he didn't have to worry about the next challenge, the next village, or the politics of the court. he just had this.
she likes the sound of him.
his heartbeat is slow. steady. deep.
she’ll fuss and wiggle in anyone else’s arms, but the second she’s laid against him, cheek smushed against his chest, she sighs. tiny fingers spread over his skin. sometimes she even drools.
dunk doesn’t move.
not when his arm goes numb.
not even when egg walks in and stops short at the sight of it. he blinks once. twice. then snorts.
“you look like a very large pillow, ser…”
dunk doesn’t even open his eyes. just huffs softly, careful not to jostle the little bundle tucked beneath his chin.
“keep yer voice down,” he mutters. “she’s comfortable.”
the baby makes a tiny sound, fists curling into the fabric of his tunic, cheek pressed right over his heart.
egg rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth.
“a very large,” he adds, lowering his voice, “very grumpy pillow.”
“shhh,” dunk hisses, eyes wide. “you’ll wake her.”
egg folds his arms. “she’s drooling on you, ser.”
dunk looks down. “is she?”
and then, inevitably, he falls asleep too.
his chin tips forward. his huge hand spreads protectively over her back- so big it covers her entirely. even in sleep, his fingers twitch if she stirs. even in sleep, he adjusts so she never rolls.
if she squeaks, his eyes snap open immediately. he never sleeps deeply when she’s on him. never.
the baby cries at night. of course she does.
dunk insists on taking the worst of it.
you’ll wake to the low rumble of his voice before you even open your eyes. he doesn’t sing, he doesn’t think he can…but he hums. tuneless. deep. like distant thunder softened by rain.
he walks the floorboards carefully so they don’t creak too much. one massive hand supports her head like it’s the most precious crown jewel in existence.
“easy, little mouse,” he whispers. “easy now.”
sometimes she’ll grab his nose. sometimes she’ll hiccup mid-cry and stare at him like she’s shocked by her own noise, and he’ll laugh quietly.
sometimes you wake before them when the fire has burned low. dawn light spills gold across the floor. dunk is slouched awkwardly in the chair, head tipped back against the wall. the baby is sprawled starfish-style across his chest, one little fist pressed under his chin. his big hand is cupped around her like a shield. they are both snoring softly, like father, like daughter.
he looks so different like this. not the towering knight, not the clumsy, earnest warrior...just a man who loves with his whole heart.
Ive seen a couple of single dad Dunk with Egg being the kid
But what if Dunk is the birthing parent & had a one night stand with Maekar but never caught the guys name
So Egg is just his.
This could be modern AU or main akotsk AU
For modern Egg is not impressed that all these frankly undeserving dudes r all over his father. Also Aerion in the moderm version would also be at least trying (wrong) to get with Dunk & this instantly becomes war with Egg. Baelor is the first one to notice cos Egg scowls at him when his hand lingers too long on Dunk's arm & he looks for all the world like Baelor's little brother. Then Daeron ends up roped into helping Dunk redye Egg's hair (in a modern AU he shaved it off when he was 7, mix of sensory issues & blonde being boring, so they compromised on hair dye) & he notices the white blonde roots & the eyes & it clicks (he faints) (tho worth it cos it's into Dunk's arms). So one by one Dunk's paramours realise while Dunk is non the wiser. Made worse if this version of Dunk got blackout drunk enough that he doesnt even remember the man's face. All of the Targaryens are freaking out & individually either trying to hide it or trying to reveal it in the smoothest way possible.
For a non modern version of this Dunk would be CONVINCED he accidentally fucked a Blackfyre & now has a particularly politically dangerous bastard² baby. So Egg is an Egg all his life, until the rare occasions Dunk gets his hands on Tyroshi dyes (Egg desperately misses the hideous shade of green he had for 2 months) (he has a blank canvas for dye!). So Ser Arlan dies, Egg is even more of a mouthy little shit to the lords than in canon. Lyonel's assumption about Egg's parentage is actually correct. Dunk actively tries to hide his baby from the Targaryens, but he cant help but mention, when it's brought up that Maekar's eldest is missing, that Dunk understands for he wouldn't be able to imagine anything happening to his own child. This piques the princes interest. So they (quite pathetically) follow Dunk around, falling for how cute he is with his son. & after a while Maekar is like waiiit i recognise that tall knight!!! OMG THAT WAS A DECADE AGO & HIS PALE HAIRED BRAT IS 10.
Big Hearts, pt. 1 (wife!reader, platonic and romantic relationships, mentions of childbirth and tearing, unnamed children)
"Ow, ow, ow!"
His wife groans as the wet nurse treated what was under her skirts. Dunk holds her hand, shushing her gently and kissing her temple. "Breathe, woman. Breathe-" "Don't tell me to breathe, husband." She snaps, sobbing in pain. Fair. That was fair.
She hiccups, reaching for the man, who immediately held her as close as she wanted him to. "You're doing beautifully, darling. I'm so sorry," This made her giggle into his skin, hands digging into his forearms. He always apologized for giving her children, then thanked her.
From behind them, their sons held their breath as they hold onto their new sister. Their eldest stares with wide eyes, swallowing thickly. "... she's small," His mother snorts. "No, she is not. You all are just giants." Their youngest son pouts and stomps at his brother.
"I want to hold her, too, brother!" "No. You're too small, and your hands aren't steady." "How will they ever be steady if none of you let me practice!?" "Hey, enough. Both of you," Dunk glares at his children. Both boys freeze, having enough sense to look sheepish.
"Your mother and sister have had enough excitement for the day. Be respectful." They nod in apology as the wet nurse stood. "There is no tearing, you are blessed." His wife leans fully on him, relieved that she was no longer prodded or tugged at.
Woman or not, any hands down there that weren't her husband's were uncomfortable. But, King Baelor and Egg insisted, wanting them to have nothing but the best care. The tall knight sighs in relief, kissing at his woman's head. She never seemed to tear, miraculously, blessedly.
"That is good. Thank you-" "But, she almost is. She's stretched, quite so. It will take her a while to heal. No lifting, no strenuous activity that isn't necessary." The weak woman frowns. "So how am I to work? My husband has his rounds and my boys-" "We'll do the work, mama."
The oldest nodded, serious. The youngest boy pitches in. "Yeah! We'll take care of the gardens, and run your stall, and-" "You also forget that the King is giving me opportunity to take off if needed. You are not to move if it isn't an emergency." Dunk glares, getting one back.
He ignores it, turning to the wetnurse. "Anything else?" The wetnurse nods. "Yes: make sure she drinks plenty of water. Her breastmilk seems to be thick-" "Milk can do that?" His eldest blinks, getting shushed by his baby brother. "I'm trying to hear-!" The boy's start bickering again.
"Well, we have big babies. Seems to fit, the boys are fine." Dunk tried to joke, the only one snickering or cracking a smile being his wife. He clears his throat awkwardly. "I- yes. Yes ma'am." "And you-" "Quiet!" He glares at the boys, them growing quiet again.
He nods in apology to the nurse. "Sorry. Continue," Minutes later, she was forced to sit down while she watched her husband fret around their home and her sons holding their sister. The oldest gently handed her over to his brother. "Support her head, don't hold too tight."
The boy nods, nervous but excited. She chuckles, cupping her eldest's head as he pouted anxiously. "Have more faith. He is learning. We must give him opportunity to do so." He nodded slowly, stepping back and letting his brother hold their sister.
"... I don't want him to drop her like I dropped him." He admitted. "... oh, love." She holds the boy close, smoothing down his hair. "You didn't drop him-" "If pa wasn't there, I would've." "Look at me," She cups his round cheeks, having more soft features from her than Dunk's sharper ones.
He does, bottom lip red from him biting it so often. "You could've dropped him, that is true. But you didn't... that's what we're here for. To catch you when either of you fall, and vice versa when you get old enough." The boy nods, still overthinking it. She smiles and kisses his head.
"We're all alright, love-" "Look! Look!" The eldest turns, panicked, but relaxes at seeing his brother's grin. "She likes me! She really does!" The round baby holds on tightly to his nose, her other hand gripping and latching onto his fingers, hungry. Of course she was.
Their mother chuckles. "Give her here, sweet boy. It is time for her first meal." The boy hands her over carefully, blinking. Dunk comes back in, wincing as he almost bumped his head against the doorway. "You two, come help me prepare supper and leave your mother be."
They complain, not wanting to part from their mother, getting dragged off despite their complaints. Chuckling, she calls out to them. "You boys be good to each other!" Dunk and his minis simply grin at her sheepishly before running off. "And try not to get hurt!" She sighs, adjusting her babe.
-18+, m masterbation, shy!dunk, pervy thoughts, he's literally just in love with you. set before ya'll officially meet (could be separate from the farmer!dunk universe but anyways...)
the wind was always the worst part. it whipped the sheets on the clothesline, making the laundry snap against the wooden poles like a flag in a storm.
dunk was hiding behind the old oak tree at the edge of the pasture, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. he didn’t have a name for you yet, just a silhouette that haunted his dreams, a woman who walked past his fence every morning with her head high, her hair glowing when the sun hit it just right, a smile he longed to have directed toward him.
he’d been watching you for weeks. he saw you watering the flowers, saw you reading on your porch, saw you laughing with your friends. but every time he tried to summon the courage to walk over and say hello, his throat would close up. you looked like you belonged in a painting. he felt like an intruder just looking at you.
but tonight, the moon was bright, and the air was heavy with the scent of rain coming. he saw you hang the laundry out. that was his chance. that was his only chance to get close to you without speaking.
he crept out from the shadows, his boots silent on the grass. he moved with the stealth of a predator, though his intention was anything but violent.
he saw them first: the panties.
they were white cotton, delicate, hanging on the line next to a pair of shorts. he reached out, his fingers trembling, and hooked them. then he saw the dress, a pale blue thing that looked like it would float away if the wind caught it.
he grabbed that too.
his hands shook with the effort of holding them all. he tucked them under his arm and scurried back to the tree, his heart racing.
back at his home, the silence was heavy, broken only by the hum of the fridge and the ticking of the clock on the wall. dunk sat on the edge of his mattress, the stolen items spread out around him like a strange collection of trophies. the panties were balled up in his fist, and the cotton shorts lay flat against his thigh. he looked at the little blue dress, imagining it draped over the curve of your hips, the way the fabric would cling to your breasts…
he felt like a schoolboy. it was a petty theft, a simple transgression, but the guilt gnawed at him. he knew he should feel ashamed. he knew he was invading your privacy, prying into a world he didn't belong to. but as he looked at the dress, a wave of lust washed over him, stronger than any guilt.
the way his cock twitched at the thought of you made him feel like a liar.
the next day, the market was bustling. the smell of roasted chestnuts and damp earth filled the air. dunk stood by a stall selling vegetables, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, trying to look casual. he scanned the crowd, his eyes searching for that familiar silhouette.
he found you near the butcher's tent.
wearing the sunday dress.
the soft fabric fit you perfectly, stretching around your body as you reached for a basket of lamb chops. the sight of you made his breath hitch. you looked so out of place in this dusty, gritty market, like a flower growing in a crack in the pavement.
you turned, heading back toward the produce stand, and in your haste dropped your coin purse. it clattered against the cobblestones, spilling coins everywhere.
dunk moved before he could think. he dropped to his knees, scooping up the coins, his fingers brushing against yours as he handed them over. he looked up at you, his dark eyes intense and serious, and offered a tentative smile. you looked down at him, eyes wide, and for a second, the world seemed to stop. then you smiled back, a soft, genuine smile that made his heart hammer against his ribs.
he stood up, dusting off his knees.
the smile you gave him was like the sun breaking through a thick cloud bank after a week of rain. it hit him in the chest, right in the gut, and made his knees weak. he stood there, clutching the coins in his palm, his mouth hanging open slightly.
"here," he rasped, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. he held out the coins, his hand shaking slightly. "you dropped these."
you took them, fingers brushing against his.
your skin was soft, warm, and impossibly smooth compared to his rough, calloused hands.
the contact sent a jolt of electricity through him that made his breath hitch. he stared at you, unable to look away. he was practically vibrating with the effort of holding himself back.
"i'm sorry," he blurted out, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "i... i saw them. i mean, i saw you drop them. i just... i didn't want you to lose them, of course..."
you laughed, a bright, tinkling sound that made his head spin. "right, of course. thank you." you introduced yourself then.
"i’m dunk," he said. "just dunk."
he wanted to say more.
he wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked in that dress, how the fabric clung to your curves like a second skin, how the thought of you made him dizzy. he wanted to tell you that he’d been watching you, that he knew what kind of shoes you wore, what color your eyes were, that he knew exactly what you looked like when you laughed.
but he couldn't. he was a simple farmer, a man who worked the fields. he wasn't a poet, and he wasn't a man who could just walk up to a woman and say, i love you, and i've been stealing your underwear because i can't get you out of my head.
instead, he just stood there, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, and watched you walk away.
when he returned home, he decided he couldn’t take it anymore and, against all better judgment, he held the panties up to his nose, inhaling deeply.
they smelled like sunshine and soap. it was intoxicating.
he’d never felt this way about a woman before. his cock twitched in his jeans, a heavy, aching throb that demanded attention.
he thought about you in that dress. he imagined how soft your breasts would feel in his palms. he imagined the sun on your face, looking like an angel. he imagined the way you’d say his name while he kissed you all over.
it made him dizzy, a hot, suffocating wave of lust that washed over him.
he pulled his throbbing, pink-flushed cock out, wrapping his hand around the thick shaft, and began to stroke.
he closed his eyes, picturing you in that sunday dress, your legs bare, your skin covered in his glossy cum, looking so gorgeous.
he groaned, his hand moving faster, his hips bucking off the mattress as he came, painting his fist and tummy with his hot seed.
he lay there for a long time, the scent of your soap lingering in the air. the shame of the theft gnawed at him again, sharper now that the haze of lust had cleared slightly.
he got up, cleaned himself with a rag, and put the panties back in his pocket.
he folded the shorts and the dress carefully, placing them on the nightstand, as if he could pretend you were coming home to him, that your clothes would be waiting there for you, that you’d put on the dress while he made you a nice dinner…
he lay back down, staring at the ceiling.
he couldn't just keep watching you from the shadows.
he needed to speak to you.
he needed to know if you felt even a fraction of the pull he felt.
tomorrow, he would go to the market again. and when he saw you, he would find a way to speak with you without fear.
ooooh, i have so many thoughts about pervy!farmer!dunk.
he's a watcher. always has been. it started before you were even his, when he'd see you in town on market days, his gaze lingering a little too long on the way your skirt swayed around your knees. now that you're his, his watching has become an art form.
he loves it when you're barefoot and pregnant. there's something about seeing you carrying his child, your body soft and swollen, that drives him absolutely mad with a primal pride.
he'll "accidentally" walk in on you nursing the baby, not to interrupt, but just to stand in the doorway for a moment, his jaw tight, watching the way your body provides for his baby.
it's not sexual in a clinical way, it's the raw, natural proof of your connection, and it makes him want to press you against the wall and knock you up all over again.
his favorite perversion is your lack of underwear. in the summer, he gets a quiet, smug satisfaction out of knowing you're wearing one of his old t-shirts and nothing else underneath. when you bend over to pick something up in the garden, he'll be right there. a hand "casually" sliding up the back of your thigh to cup your bare ass, his thumb stroking the skin, telling you to go inside and cool down, he made lunch.
he has a thing for your scent. not just when you're clean and fresh from the bath, but you. the smell of your skin after a long day, the unique smell of your arousal….he'll bury his face in the crook of your neck and just breathe you in, a low groan rumbling in his chest or pick up the panties you put in the hamper and press them up against his face, quick enough so you don't catch him!!!
Ive mostly seen Dunk the Tall fathering like huge babies but what about him (and everyone else) being shocked when the baby comes out teenie tiny. Hed be terrified but also so so gentle
ABSOLUTELY!!! the sweetest ever!
dunk and your teenie little baby ⋆✴︎˚
the room went unnaturally quiet. "she’s... well," the midwife muttered, shaking her head as she wiped the child’s face with a warm cloth. "she’s not much bigger than a loaf of bread, is she?"
dunk stood frozen by the bed, his massive frame seeming to shrink slightly under the weight of the moment, the midwife gently placed the tiny creature into his waiting arms.
the shock was instantaneous and physical. dunk’s eyes went wide, his jaw dropping just enough to let a ragged exhale escape. he stared down at his hands, which were the size of dinner platters, and then down at the bundle in his arms.
"she’s... she’s a feather," he breathed, his voice cracking. he looked at the midwife, then at you, his expression a mixture of utter terror and awe.
he didn’t dare move. he stood there like a statue, his arms held stiffly away from his body, afraid that even the slightest flex of his muscle might crush her. he looked down at the baby, his eyes searching for any sign of damage, any flaw. her head barely the size of his palm, her chubby fingers barely wrapping around his thumb.
"look at you," he whispered, his voice trembling with an emotion he hadn’t felt before—pure, unadulterated fear. the tenderness that followed was heartbreaking. dunk slowly, agonizingly carefully, brought his hands closer together.
"you’re so small," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "precious girl…"
he glanced at you, and for the first time, you saw the softness of him, he looked exhausted, terrified, and completely, utterly in love.
“she’s perfect dunk.” you smile tiredly, he looked back down at the baby, his expression softening into something incredibly sweet. he tucked the blanket tighter around her as she started to fuss. his giant hand covering her back, his thumb rubbing a soothing circle on her tiny shoulder.
"hey now," he whispered, his voice a gentle rumble. "it’s okay. you’re safe. i’ve got you. i’ve got you."
watching him, holding that tiny, fragile life against his massive chest, you felt your heart swell. he was a man who could cleave a man in two with a sword, yet he was terrified of dropping a baby. it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.
dunk is painfully aware of his size. he knows he doesn't have a handsome, princely figure. he's a big, clumsy oaf.
dad!dunk would be so shy about his body at first, especially in a romantic context. he might try to cover himself with a blanket or turn away from you, muttering about how he's "not much to look at."
you would absolutely adore his body. you'd be obsessed with it. you'd bury your face in the soft hair on his chest, you'd kiss the soft curve of his belly, you'd squeeze his thick thighs and praise his strength. you'd make it your mission to show him that his size isn't a flaw…it's your greatest comfort and desire, just like yours is his no matter how many of his children you bear.
he would be utterly floored by your worship. no one has ever looked at him with such pure, unadulterated want. he'd be shy at first, then baffled, and finally, he'd start to believe it. your love would be the thing that makes him stand a little taller, that makes him see himself not as a clumsy hedge knight, but as the strong, beautiful man you see, even after all your babies insist on feeding him breads and sweet cakes after every supper.
and during sex? it's a whole other world. he's a big, heavy weight, and when he's on top of you, it's the most delicious, all-encompassing pressure in the world. you're completely covered, completely possessed by him. he has to be mindful of his size, which makes every movement deliberate, powerful, and incredibly intimate. he'd manhandle you in a way that makes your brain go fuzzy, his hips rolling into you with a deep, grinding rhythm that fills you up completely and leaves you breathless.
I DO WANNA MAKE A LONG ONE SHOT ON THIS SOON!! sprinkled in some of dunk wanting another baby...so...
bathing w farmer!dunk ♡︎⋆.
the bathroom window is cracked just enough to let in the smell of rain.
it’s been pouring over the fields all morning.
soft, steady rain that turns the hills silver, and dunk had come in an hour ago, boots caked in mud, hair damp and curling at the ends, shoulders stiff from mending fences.
now the huge tub is full. steam curls against the ceiling.
he sits on the edge first, testing the water with a big, careful hand like he’s afraid he might break it. he’s always gentle with things inside the house. outside, he can wrestle gates and haul feed sacks like they’re nothing. in here, he moves like the walls are made of glass.
"you made it too hot, didn’t you?" he murmurs, glancing at you over his shoulder.
"s’the perfect temperature!"
he huffs a quiet laugh, low and warm, and carefully he sinks in.
the water laps around his waist, then up to his tummy. when you both finally maneuver your way into fitting into your family tub, he exhales long and tired like he’s finally allowed to stop holding himself together.
you slide in in front of him.
there’s barely room. his knees bump the far end. your legs tangle with his. the heat wraps around both of you, and for a minute neither of you speaks.
it’s quiet.
no tractors humming. no kids arguing over homework. no wind rattling the barn doors.
just breathing.
you turn to face him and reach for the washcloth and drag it slowly down his hairy chest. there’s a faint scrape across his shoulder blade from barbed wire, a new bruise blooming along his ribs.
"you should’ve waited for someone t’help you with that fence," you murmur.
he grunts softly. "i can do it myself."
you lean forward and press your lips to his shoulder, right over the scrape. "stubborn man."
"mm." his voice drops, softer now. "only about the important things."
"like fences?" you smile, rinsing the cloth and working in slow circles. soap gathers where the line of water meets his stomach. he relaxes more with every pass, muscles easing under your touch, head dipping slightly as if he might fall asleep sitting up. he trusts you like this. completely.
after a while, he turns you carefully in the cramped space, knees knocking yours. water sloshes over the edge and onto the tile.
"sorry," he mutters automatically.
you laugh. "it’s only water, dunk."
his hands are big and calloused when he takes the cloth from you. he doesn’t rush. he washes your shoulders first. then your arms. his thumb traces absent-minded lines over your skin like he’s mapping something he’s already memorized.
"you’re tired too," he says quietly.
"i’m fine."
he gives you that look, the one that says he knows better. "you’ve been up since five to feed the little ones."
"and you since four."
he smiles faintly. "that’s different." it’s said so simply it nearly steals your breath. the steam makes everything hazy, soft around the edges. his lashes are wet. there’s a faint crease between his brows that only shows when he’s thinking too hard.
he doesn’t say anything for a long time. the water keeps running, a steady hiss against the tiles. he’s washing your neck now, his thumbs pressing into the base of your skull, kneading out the tension. he’s so focused, so gentle, that you almost forget he’s a man who can split a log in half with his bare hands.
"i like the noise," he murmurs suddenly, his voice barely audible over the spray. "i like having them around. i like coming home and knowing someone needs me."
you lean into his touch, your eyes closing. "i know you do. and i love them."
he nods, his jaw tightening slightly. "i know. and i want more. i really do." he pauses, his hand faltering on your shoulder. "but i look at you sometimes, and i see how tired you are. i see you trying to hold it all together, and i just... i don't want to add trouble if you're not ready. i don't want to be the reason you never get a full night's sleep."
he turns you around fully, so you’re facing his chest. he wraps his arms around you, his wet skin pressing against yours, the smell of soap and him enveloping you.
"i want another baby," he whispers against your hair, his voice cracking just a little. "but i want it because i want us to have one, not because i want to pressure you. if you say no, it’s no. i’m happy with what we’ve got, darling girl."
it’s the most honest thing he’s ever said. he’s terrified of being selfish. he’s terrified of losing the peace between you by forcing his desires onto your tired body. and for a second, you see the vulnerability in his eyes, the fear that he’s already done too much.
"you’re not selfish, dunk," you say softly, your thumbs wiping away the water from the corner of his eye. "you’re a good father. you work yourself to the bone. i see it."
he looks down at you, his jaw working, his throat bobbing. you reach up and kiss the line of his jaw, right where the scruff is softest. "i’m not tired of us."
he goes very still. "what?"
"i said i’m not tired of us," you repeat, your voice steady. "i do want another baby, dunk. i want one with you. but... i want it when we’re ready. when we have a little more time."
his eyes widen, the fear draining out of them and replaced by a dawning, desperate hope. he lets out a breathless laugh, a sound that’s half-sob, half-relief.
