He is lying back on his bedroll, his body taking up almost all the space, looking up at you with wide eyes, his large hands hovering over your waist as if he’s afraid to break the moment. When you sink down onto him, taking all of his impressive length, his hips buck reflexively, and a strangled noise leaves his throat.
"Seven hells” he gasps, his voice rough "You fit... you take all of me so perfectly, i didn't think- i didn't think it was possible”.
As you begin to move, finding a rhythm that works for his size, his hands finally settle on your hips, his thumbs rubbing circles into your skin. He watches your face, mesmerized by your expressions.
"You’re so beautiful up there” he whispers, voice full with adoration "I don't... i don't deserve a view like this, m’lady. You’re doing so good,you feel incredible, just like that... gods, please, just like that."
➥ Aerion Targaryen -
Aerion is vain, cruel, and obsessed with his own self, but he is fiercely possessive of you. He likes you on top because it gives him a show, he lounges back on his bed, wearing nothing but his rings, he watches you with smirk, enjoying the power play of you working for his pleasure.
He runs his fingers up your spine, his nails dragging lightly over your skin to make you shiver "go on then," he purrs, watching you struggle to take his length "Show me you can handle a dragon."
When you finally start bouncing on him He grips your hips hard enough to bruise. "That’s right” he hisses. "Look at you,my perfect little whore. You like that, don't you? You like knowing you’re the only one who gets to do this. You look divine when you’re desperate. Ride me harder, make me feel it. Yes... fuck.. burn for me."
➥ Rhaenyra Targaryen-
She lays back on her sheets, her hands are possessive, resting on your thighs or gripping your waist, she watches you with a heavy-lidded eyes enjoying the sight of you working for your pleasure and hers.
"That’s it” she purrs, her thumbs rubbing circles into your skin as you grind down against her, “Ride it, sweetling, take what you need."
She loves the view of you on top of her , she reaches up to trace the line of your throat as your breath hitches."look at you” she whispers, a smirk playing on her lips,”so eager,so wet for me, i love watching you lose control,you look Beautiful. Grind harder my love ,ruin yourself for me. Yes... just like that."
➥ Baelor Targaryen -
He lies against the pillows, his dark hair spread out, watching you with hungry gaze while his hands are firm on your thighs, guiding you, helping you find the angle that pleases you both the most. his eyes crinkling at the corners when you gasp. "that’s it” he praises, his voice smooth, "Set the pace, my love. You are magnificent."
When you pick up speed, his composure slips just enough to show how hungry he is for you ,he reaches up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing the hardened nipple.
"you are my queen” he groans, his hips snapping up to meet your thrusts” look at how you ride me, perfect... there is no one else, do you hear me? You feel incredible ,good girl... take what you need from me."
➥ Valarr Targaryen -
Young prince is gentle and very romantic and he loves the face-to-face connection, the ability to kiss you while you move. He lies flat on his back breathless as you start moving on top of him your hands interlaced with his.
As you slide up and down, he keeps pulling you down for quick, desperate kisses. "I have you” he whispers against your lips, his different colored eyes shining “I have you right here, you feel... oh gods, you feel so good."
He loves watching you lose control, when your head falls back, he squeezes your hands tight."So lovely”he pants, his voice cracking,” you’re the loveliest thing in the Seven kingdoms , don’t stop... please don't stop. I love watching you... i love how you feel around me. you’re perfect, my love,absolutely perfect."
➥ Daeron Targaryen -
He is lying back against a pile of velvet cushions in his tent ,the candlelight flickering over his sandy brown hair. He loves having you on top because it allows him to admire you fully.His hands are never still,they are constantly touching your body,your waist, your hips, your thighs.
He looks at you with wide eyes"my love” he breathes out, his hands gripping your hips to help guide you down onto him. "you look... gods, you look like a dream. slowly... yes, take all of me”
He arches his back off the mattress, his head falling back before snapping forward to watch you again, he’s is mesmerized by the way your body connects with his “so beautiful” he gasps, reaching up to cup your face "you feel perfect, you’re so warm, so tight... i could stay inside you forever,you’re doing so good for me. Just like that... please, don't stop. i’m yours, i’m all yours”.
Author’s Note: Feedback is very much appreciated! This is my first time posting my work onto any type of site for other people to see so please be kind! Please excuse any spelling and/or grammatical errors. Sorry if the characters seem ooc, I’ve only seen the show and am just going off of my own interpretations ! Credit to @cursed-carmine for the dividers used & to the user @/meowoosi on pinterest for the header image.
Baelor Targaryen
Baelor loves to spoon.
It starts the same way every time, he’ll lay back in the covers, mismatched eyes tracking you around the room as you prepare for sleep. A soft smile always makes its way to his lips as he watches you dress, arms opening up to accommodate you as you climb onto the mattress. You both start pressed against the headboard, talking quietly while he peppers your temple with the occasional kiss before tiredness overcomes you both. Soon, he’s pressed against you, arms wrapped around your waist and dragging you back to meet his chest. It makes him feel like he can protect you from anything, and it’s only a plus that it makes it even easier to kiss along your shoulders as your words start to slur together from the drowsiness. He always waits until you fall asleep first, unless he’s beyond exhausted, that’s when he lets his shoulders relax and noses along your hair, letting the familiar scent of his beloved carry him into sleep. It’s almost impossible to escape his hold during the night’s darkest hours, the smallest shift of your body only makes his arms ensnare you tighter.
Maekar Targaryen
Maekar does not do vulnerability. At least not with just anyone.
The younger brother is practical. When the two of you lie down to sleep, it usually is not within one another’s arms. Maekar will insist on lying on his back, he’ll let you put your head on his chest, and he will wrap an arm around you, but you’re the one making the first move. It’s when he’s already asleep that he subconsciously lets these walls down, lets himself relax. He’ll awake to find himself rolled over onto his stomach, an arm thrown over your middle, his face pressed between your shoulder blades, breathing you in like an aphrodisiac. He seeks your touch without knowing it, breathes you in like you’re the reason he’s getting his daily supply of oxygen, keeps you close like you might not be there when he wakes up. Perhaps he is scared of the pure amount of feeling he harbors for you, or maybe he just does not wish to come off as weak, but it’s obvious when the two of you blink away the blur behind your eyes in the morning that he’s constantly seeking you out, even when consciousness leaves his mind.
Ser Duncan The Tall
Dunk is a lover and there is nothing in this world he loves more than holding you.
Knowing this it should not be a surprise that his favorite way to sleep with you is with you fully on top of him. You can try to spoon, you can try to rest your head on his shoulder, but sooner than later those big hands will be grasping your waist and tugging you to lay on top of him. Why would our darling hedge knight need a blanket when he has you? He doesn’t care if he gets hot in the middle of the night, or if you roll on top of him in such a way it makes it a little harder to breathe, he isn’t letting you go anywhere else. He loves the feeling of your body on top of his, loves the small sounds of your breathing evening out, loves to run his hands up and down your spine until your body gives way to sleep. He’ll usually lie there for a while, eyes trained up above him as he caresses you, thanking the Gods for blessing him with such a prize. When sleep begins to take him, his arms will wrap around your middle, pulling you ever closer, delighting in the puffs of your breath hitting his neck, matching his breathing to yours until you both are warm and resting.
Daeron Targaryen
Daeron finds the utmost comfort when your hands can touch him.
This being said, his favorite way to fall asleep next to or near you would be with his head in your lap and your fingers in his hair. He’ll find you when you’re reading, sitting in the Godswood of the Red Keep, pretty and content on a bench when he joins you. He’ll mumble his greetings before his body folds in half, legs kicking up on the bench as his head lands in your lap. Your free hand will instantly run through his hair, pushing the blonde strands from his forehead, fingernails scratching at his scalp. He swears this is the best remedy for the turmoil his mind and dreams put him through so who are you to tell him no? It takes a few minutes depending on how much wine he had indulged in earlier during the day but he never fails to close his eyes as you begin to work your way through his hair, fingers gentle as they pull apart the fairy knots that have begun to form in his waves. Soon enough, his lips are parted as his breathing slows and he’s fully using your thighs as a pillow. When he wakes, it comes as a surprise every time that his sleep was boring. No dreams were to be had, no hidden riddles to repeat, just the feeling of being unwearied and refreshed under the softness of your hands.
Aerion Targaryen
Aerion sleeps like a dragon protecting his horde.
There is no escaping the Brightflame while the two of you rest together. His arms are always on you, both in sleep and in lucidity. Aerion treats you as a treasure. A prize he has won and claimed for himself. This shows constantly, but even more when he’s pressed into your neck, a leg thrown over your waist, an arm wrapped over your shoulders. His body is almost crushing yours as he dozes off, fingers twitching to hold onto you tighter. Good luck trying to worm your way out from underneath him, it’s downright impossible. He’ll groan deep within his throat, mumble something along the lines of ‘stop moving, you’re disturbing your prince,’ and pull you in closer. He likes to be as close to you as possible, forgoing blankets and furs in the name of dragon blood running hot, and while that might be true, he just doesn’t want the fabric getting in between him and your body. He’d much rather act as your cover, fully draping himself over top of you. You are his to protect, his to cherish, his to own.
Valarr Targaryen
Our Young Prince does not indulge in many luxuries for himself, that is, unless that luxury is you.
Valarr is constantly under the stress of being second in line for the throne. He is supposed to act a certain way, hold himself a certain way, and always, always, be levelheaded. He lets that all go whenever he gets the chance to capture you in his arms. Valarr loves your hair, the softness of it in his hands, so it is no surprise that he takes any opportunity he can to play with it. This follows in the way he chooses to fall asleep with you. Call him traditional or whatever you must but he loves when you have a leg swung over his hip and your head against his chest. You can feel the vibrations of his voice while he talks to you in the candlelight, bearing his frustrations and stories to his most trusted advisor, rattling off all the things that happened during the day that you weren’t around to see. His hand is stroking your head, fingers weaving through the texture of your hair, fingers pausing to twirl a strand around his finger as he talks. His breathing evens out only after he knows you’re already asleep, lips pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before he lets himself enter sleep alongside you.
Lyonel Baratheon
Our resident wildcard could not possibly pick a favorite position to sleep next to you.
Lyonel is lucky enough as is if he’s able to make it into the bed after a night, usually drinking his fill of wine and dancing until his feet hurt. The man loves to party, sue him. Most nights, he’ll crawl in after you, lips moving a mile a second as he rattles off all the thoughts inside his head. More often than not, you wake up with his face smushed against your chest, some mornings you wake up to find him laid the opposite way of you, with his feet near your head and his arms wrapped around your shins. Others, when he’s attentive enough to choose, he’ll pull you atop of him and wake up with your body partially entwined with his and the other half spread across the sheets. This isn’t to say he isn’t attentive, especially when it comes to you, but if he had to actually choose, his preferred way would be a half-spoon, with your legs intertwined with his and your head pressed against his chest. It lets him hold you to him, arms wrapped around you in a loose hug. It also helps when he awakes in the morning he can look down and see your peaceful sleeping face drooling onto his chest. The sight never fails to make a smile spread across his face as he hugs you tighter.
the attractive things ser duncan the tall does (18+)
protectively cages you against the joust's railing, his hands resting on either side of you. as a way to avoid other people touching you, duncan places himself between you and the rest of the crowd (rip the person's view behind him lol). his knuckles stay on the railing, his warmth radiating off his chest as he stands behind you. he also gets the perk of enjoying the pleasant scent of your hair that clouds his senses when he's this close.
he's always manhandling you. even innocently, dunk is absentmindedly moving you around. whether it's helping you off your horse, swiftly pulling you out of the way of a bustling wagon passing by, or tugging and lifting your hips closer to his face while he eats you out, he's always displaying his strength through affection. dunk adores the way your eyes go a bit wide with astonishment every time he treats you as if you weigh nothing (because to him, you do). he also might have caught you ogling his muscles once and now enjoys showing off every once in awhile ;)
constantly watches over you (and egg). he has to know where you and his squire are at all times. it eases his conscience to have eyes on you both, to know that you're merely an arms length away should something pop up. also prefers to watch over you so he knows when he needs to make his presence recognized if a man decides to approach you—he can be quite a jealous man, though he would never admit it aloud. moreover, when back at camp, a lot of his time is spent admiring you. he thinks you make the most mundane things look attractive.
is incredibly protective and possessive. as mentioned before, he gets jealous sometimes, though he does his best to subdue it (he knows it's insecurity-based emotions). however, sometimes it does slip into his actions. one minute you're alone, a man trying to encourage you give him one dance, and the next dunk is at your shoulder, quiet but aware that his riveting presence will scare the lesser man away. he hates when other men even glance your way, their greedy desires reflecting in their eyes.
what's his is yours. dunk does not mind sharing. he considers it a privilege to even have people to share with, therefore he will give you whatever you're eyeing that's 'his.' plus he loves the way you look in his clothes (it spurs his size kink mhm). and although you might not wear them outside of camp, it still gives dunk that satisfaction of should someone approach, they'll know you're his.
makes you finish at least twice before he even thinks about his own release. first of all, he's one hell of a giver. second, he understands that you need to be wet when you take his length in order for you to not feel as though you're completely splitting in two. this man can literally just finish by watching his partner come i don't make the rules
praises and talks you through it. and this goes for anything and everything. easing you through multiple orgasms? "one more, pretty girl, jus' give me one more." teaching you how to wield a weapon or basic self-defense? "good girl. again." now he may be dense, but not so dense that he misses the way your gaze shies from his at the praise, cheeks growing warm or the way your cunt clenches around his fingers/cock the second the sweet words leave his mouth.
note please take this while i procrastinate writing a critical analysis on frankenstein for my lit criticism & analysis class sighhhh
Title: Blue on Black
Pairing: Ser Duncan the Tall x Princess!Reader
Rating: T + usual Westeros shenanigans
Word count: 6k+
Summary: No one else ever had eyes so blue and kind as his…and only the seven can help a fool who falls in love. Or in which a Targaryen Princess and Dunk keep meeting under a series of unfortunate events.
...sometimes a spark that's in the dark, it catches fire and burns you up...
THE WHITE CLOAKS of the Kingsguard flutter as they move through the streets of King’s Landing, leading and trailing the funeral procession from the Red Keep to the Great Sept of Baelor. The smallfolk gather along the way and in the terraces above, watching solemnly as Dyanna Dayne passes by in a shroud of lavender and scarlet on a bier of summer blooms carried by pale horses—their harness bells ring softly.
It is a sad day for the Seven Kingdoms and a sadder day still for the House of the Dragon.
Prince Maekar Targaryen holds little Rhae close against his chest, her small face pressed into his shoulder. He envies the small princess in the moment, ignorant of the cruelty of the world—the aching pain and sadness of losing someone so dear. The rest of his children ride in an open carriage. Their eyes downcast, with only sniffles and dry heaves exchanged, and every so often, Daeron wipes Aegon’s tears with quiet patience.
But Prince Baelor keeps his own—a boy and a girl—at the rear. This is a day reserved for his youngest brother, not one to be overshadowed by the Prince of Dragonstone.
Valarr catches sight of you, feet dragging, your fingers twisting a small ring around and around—a silver band set with rubies, a nervous habit to drown out the tolling bells. He drops back a step, and his hand finds yours in the slow-moving procession, fingers curling around your own. You look at him—then up at your father—eyes shining with tears under the thin dark veil of a mourning dress.
And then the slim silver and ruby ring slips from your finger and skitters toward the edge of the crowd, near the holey shoes of a Flea Bottom boy. The boy stoops down and picks it up—he’s never held something worth so much in all his short years. Part of him thinks he might be able to make a run for it, that it’s enough to book passage to the Free Cities or have supper for a year without begging or thieving, but the thought fades, and he steps forward.
“Get back, boy!” One of the men of the City Watch grits out, brandishing his iron cudgel as a warning. But the boy doesn’t move.
Dirt streaks his face, and his clothes hang loose and worn. He looks younger than your brother, but bigger, much bigger, when he lumbers closer, hesitant. “Pri– Princess,” the Flea Bottom boy mutters, holding out his open hand—broad palm, scraped knuckles—refusing to meet the gaze of royalty. But sitting in his palm is the ring.
Baelor’s hand settles on your back, a quiet urging. You step to the boy and reach for the ring, fingers brushing his. “Thank you,” you say, your voice just loud enough for him to hear over the hush of the crowd and the sept bells. His head lifts then, just a little, and for a heartbeat you’re struck by his eyes. Blue eyes. The likes of which you’ll never forget.
LITTLE PRINCE AEGON closes the door behind him, tears streaking his face as he slips from Maekar’s chamber, leaving his brothers still in heated counsel with their father. Aerion is wroth—of course he is—and Daeron’s piss-poor accusations do not bode well for Egg’s new friend. A fine fellow, from the way the little prince spoke of him. Maybe it’s foolish, careless even, but you decide to see just how true Egg’s words about this Hedge Knight are.
Ser Duncan the Tall looks up from the wet floor at the sound of iron hinges creaking, and his broad shoulders stiffen at the appearance of another royal. Will the parade never end? He lowers his head—he’s already struck one prince today, and he has no wish to insult another of royal blood. “Princess.” It’s not so much a greeting as it is an acknowledgment.
You set one of the stools aright and gather your skirts close in hand to keep them out of the muck as you sit. Fingers instinctively finding the familiar comfort of your silver-and-ruby ring, turning it slowly around and around.
“You’ll hear no thanks from my uncle or my father,” you begin, the words measured but sincere, “but I thank you for keeping Egg from harm.” The boy means a great deal to you. He’s earnest and too gentle for the cruelties of the world. Fear had settled over you like a stormcloud when Daeron finally found the courage to show his face after three days lost to drink in some tavern, spinning tales that a brutish knight had stolen away his little brother.
Your gaze lifts to Ser Duncan then, studying him in the quiet that follows. And while he certainly is large, brute does not seem the right word for him. “And I am sorry,” you add, softer, the ring still turning beneath your thumb and forefinger, “that this misfortune has befallen you.”
Dunk wishes he could regret his actions, but with Tanselle’s agonizing scream still echoing in his ears, he thinks he might’ve broken Aerion’s face had it not been for the royal guards stopping him. “Was only defending the innocent,” he says. “As any knight should.”
A faint breath leaves you—half a laugh and half something sorrowful. If only all knights and princes thought the same. “It is a rare thing for a knight to remember his vows these days.” Your eyes flick to the darkening bruise along his strong jaw. He’s at least three heads taller than Aerion and several stones heavier. The true shame is that he only loosened a tooth and did not knock it clean out. “Though I do wish you’d gotten in a few more blows,” you admit, looking down at the creases in your palm, almost ashamed to admit it.
The corner of Dunk’s mouth twitches at that. He still won’t look at you, but he steals a longer glimpse, long enough to see the same dread and hatred in your expression that Egg had after the day’s joust. Long enough to recall you were there too in that tent. “I don’t understand.” Dunk shakes his head, brow knitting together. “Is Aerion not your betrothed?” Nigh all of Westeros knew of the recent engagement between Baelor’s daughter and Maekar’s son—an odd match for politics and prosperity, but not a queer one among the Targaryens.
“Unfortunately.” You need not say anything more on the matter. Dunk understands. “If it eases your mind and heart, I sent Lord Ashford’s maester to tend to the girl’s hand,” you tell him.
He nods, solemn. It does soothe his heart to know Tanselle’s injuries would be looked after in a proper fashion. “A decent thing to do,” Dunk replies. It was the right thing to do, you think. Silence creeps in, and having thought of nothing more to say, you move to leave, knowing your father will wish to speak with him before he must face Aerion.
A flash of silver and red—a ring now too small for any finger but a pinky—catches his eye. Dunk rises. “Your Grace!” He calls, moving toward you with measured steps so as not to startle. “We...we’ve met before,” he stumbles over the words. “Do you remember?” There’s hope in his voice, even if it's a fool’s hope. A princess would hardly have a cause to remember a poor boy from Flea Bottom and a chance meeting in the streets years ago. “As children.”
After another step, the firelight of a nearby sconce shines fully upon his face, and your throat tightens. You know those blue eyes. In all the time that’s passed, you’ve yet to see a pair of eyes bluer, clearer, kinder than his. Baelor remembered Ser Arlan of Pennytree. And you—you remember him, just a boy from Flea Bottom. “You returned my ring,” you muse, remembering the day well.
“Daeron gave it to me on my fifth nameday,” you add, fondness and grief tangled in your voice—always your favorite cousin, no matter how many casks of wine he tries to drown himself in. Slipping the silver band free, you turn it over in hand, the dim light paints the rubies like drops of wet blood, an ill omen, you think. You’ve rarely gone without it, finding comfort in such a little thing.
“Wearing it has always brought me good fortune.” You step toward Dunk then and offer it to him—a courtly favour of sorts. He doesn’t move. So you take his hand—large and calloused—and place the small ring into his palm. “I pray it does the same for you, Ser Duncan.”
He shakes his head. “Your Grace, I can’t...”
“You can,” you interrupt, slipping your hand under his and forcing his fingers to close around the ring—the very same one he thought about making off with as a boy. It is a gift, if nothing else. A small fortune for a hedge knight should he survive what comes next. He finally does not shy from your gaze, and finds a mix of emotions he can’t quite make out.
Small footsteps patter down the hall—Egg. “Dunk.” His brows knit together, surprised to hear you speak his true and given name. “Be gentle with him,” you murmur, hand falling away from his as you turn toward the door. “He’s only a boy.”
“HELP HIM, PLEASE!” Egg’s voice cracks, and his eyes—deep and dark and purple—shine bright with panic and tears. His hands are clenched tight at his sides, knuckles almost white. You’ve always listened, always helped. To Egg, you’re the daughter of the crowned prince, the realm’s darling, and you should be able to thwart his brother’s distorted view of justice before it’s carried out.
But you feel just as helpless as he. “What can I do, Egg?” you answer, crouching so you are level with him. “I am no knight nor prince.” Even if you were more than a princess, it would not be likely to help Ser Duncan.
“But Baelor–” Egg starts. You cut him off, gently, “–is heir to the Iron Throne and Hand of the King.” Your fingers graze his sleeve. “He cannot risk himself so lightly.”
The boy shakes his head, his jaw set in a stubborn way that reminds you of his father. “Tell Aerion to stop, then,” Egg demands. An impossible task. He knows it is. Mayhap any other husband-to-be would consider his betrothed’s gentle requests, a marriage favor even, but Aerion is neither kind nor noble.
As if summoned by thought alone, Aerion Brightflame enters the room. Your heart drops seeing him. There is no warmth in his gaze as it drifts between you and his younger brother—no affection, no fondness. Only the cold, sharp look that always sets you on edge. “Run along, Egg.” Aerion’s command is lazy, almost bored.
“No.” Aegon answers, lifting his chin just a little. “I won’t,” he says, his voice wavering.
“I said run along,” Aerion repeats, sharper this time. “Go pray for your fool knight, if it please you. He’ll need all the gods he can muster.”
You nod to Egg, almost imperceptibly. “Go find Daeron,” you tell the boy. Egg swallows hard, then gives Aerion one last look of pure, burning hatred before he turns from the room.
In Egg’s wake, there’s an uneasy silence. Neither Lord Tyrell nor Lord Ashford thinks to say anything from their seats at the long table, both waiting for Baelor and Maekar to join and decide what is to be done.
Aerion’s attention turns fully to you, and his gaze hardens, the amusement he finds from tormenting his brother draining away. He steps closer, looking down his nose at you. “You would do well to remember your place, cousin.” His voice is a hiss, having heard you and Egg talking and knowing you’d gone to see the guilty hedge knight.
It feels like he has struck you without raising a hand. He’s forgotten I, too, am a dragon. “My place,” you say with a false smile, back straightening to make yourself taller, “is wherever I choose to stand.”
“Your place,” Aerion corrects coolly, “is at my side.” His hand lifts, as though to cup your cheek—claiming, possessive. You flinch before his fingers can brush flesh. The movement is small, but he notices it. Anger and wounded pride flash across Aerion’s face, a dangerous combination. Approaching footsteps stills his hand in the air between you, and he lets it fall back to his side when he sees his father and uncle coming to join the council. Your gaze flits from his dark eyes to your father, but Aerion lingers just long enough to give you an unreadable look before he takes his seat at the end of the table.
Ser Duncan the Tall requested a trial by combat, as all ordained knights have the right to, but he left the solar needing six more knights to defend his cause by the morning—a Trial of Seven, Aerion demanded. Lord Tyrell and Ashford disperse thereafter. Baelor expects you to follow, as the others do. But you remain seated, hands folded in your lap, staring at nothing. Egg is right. You go to twist the ring on your pinky. It’s gone. Of course, it’s gone, you remind yourself.
Your father watches you with his mismatched eyes. Had you looked up then, you might have seen something akin to shame flicker across the noble face of Baelor Breakspear.
“Is there nothing else you can do, father?” you ask at last. The question surprises him. It is not often you press him so. “He did only what any knight should do,” you continue. “Protect the weak and innocent. The puppeteer. Egg.” Me, but you do not say as much. Nor do you show him the scrapes on your palms, the bruises hidden beneath your sleeves, the ache in your knees from where Aerion’s fury had thrown you aside. A Fossoway squire had been the one to help you from the ground. You feel your throat tighten. “I...I’m tired of the good and decent folk of the realm being trodden on by people like Aerion.”
Baelor’s gaze softens—always a gentle heart. “Have I not been a good daughter?” The words come before you can stop them. “Have I not done your bidding?” You squeeze your eyes shut. Have I not agreed to marry my monstrous cousin—for the good of the realm?
He comes to you then and reaches for you, taking your face into his hands. “You have,” he says quietly, proudly. “You have been dutiful. More than many in your place would be.” No one in the Seven Kingdoms could say Baelor Targaryen did not love and take pride in his children.
And then he takes the empty chair beside you and he speaks as a prince. “Aerion is…as he is,” Baelor says, carefully. “But he is still the blood of the dragon. And the blood of our house must not sit idle where honor is concerned.”
You know he speaks true in some fashion, especially with the recent history of rebellions, but without dragons, House Targaryen cannot rule through fear and absolute power alone. The smallfolk’s love is where true power lies, and they have little love for the likes of Aerion, especially after he dishonored himself in the tourney by killing Humfrey Hardyng’s mount. “What is it you are asking of me?” Your father finally inquires.
To stop this madness. To choose what is right over what is easy. To save him. “I ask and want for nothing,” you whisper, though your lips tremble as you say it.
The morning comes, but you have not slept. No one has, by the looks of it. Walking to the tourney grounds is a solemn affair. The joy has been sapped from Ashford Meadow in just a few hours. Poor young Gwin Ashford, instead of being crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty, must preside over a bloody and needless trial. Aegon runs past you, small and swift, his face set with fierce determination. He will squire for Ser Duncan.
Turning from the stands, you pace the pavilions, looking for your brother and father. The wind stirs the flaps of Valarr’s pavilion. You pause. A shadow moves within, clad in your brother’s armor. Has Valarr taken up Ser Duncan’s cause? Surely, not. He hadn’t even sat in the council the prior evening. “Valarr?” You call. Your brother does not answer.
The armor does not sit as it should. The dark steel breastplate pulls a touch too tight across the back; the studded leather tassels fall shorter than you remember. And his hair, where your brother’s would show a single bright streak of silver, is salted with grey. Your breath catches.
Father. The man who held your hand when you were little. Who taught you right from wrong. Who kissed your brow and told you stories of brave knights and just kings. Your eyes burn, and suddenly, you feel small again.
“Papa?” Baelor turns. It’s been years since you last called him that. The Prince of Dragonstone dismisses the young Reach lords helping him fasten the last of the straps with a quiet nod. He had not thought to bring his own armor, so he wears his son’s. It fits him well enough. “Why?” It’s a meek, breathless question.
“Ser Duncan upheld his vows, as every true knight should.” There is no doubt, no hesitation. The soul of chivalry. Baelor adjusts his gloves. “And, if by nothing else, I make my daughter proud, then this is worth it.” You don’t realize you’re crying until his hand comes up to wipe the tears from your cheeks, his thumb brushing them away as he has done a hundred times before. He smiles at you—fond and unafraid. “Go,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your brow. “Go with Aegon, and I will do my best to protect your hedge knight.”
Your hedge knight. You want to protest the phrasing, but your father has already turned away. There is nothing to lose, fighting against men sworn to do him no harm, but everything to gain. Outside the pavilion, a groom brings his horse. Baelor Targaryen mounts his dark stallion, gathering the reins in his hands, and glances back toward you, just once, before setting Valarr’s helm on his head. Then he snaps the reins as the doors to the list field groan and open.
VALARR BECKONS YOU away—he’s distraught, angry, and cannot understand why you do not share the same sentiments toward the man he sees as responsible for your father’s death. A Prince of the Realm for a hedge knight. It hardly seems a fair trade. And even now, you cannot say if the man Baelor Targaryen gave his life for will live.
So much blood. You look down at your hands and can still see the mix of it and mud there from the days prior, and hear the maesters yelling for boiled wine and forceps. No place for a princess, they told you, letting a common armorer escort you from the tent in a harrowed daze.
Dunk tries to move—groans—and that is when he realizes he is not on the ground, nor in a cell, nor on the hard-packed earth of the list field. He is in a bed. A real bed. One with a feather mattress, linen sheets, and soft blankets. And everything hurts.
“Easy,” a soft voice says. He turns his head and sees you sitting beside him with his good eye, and feels the gentle weight and warmth of your hand on his bicep. For a moment, Dunk can only stare, trying to make sense of it. A Targaryen princess—daughter of Baelor Breakspear—wearing dark mourning silks, sitting at his bedside. Eyes still red-rimmed and shadowed with grief. It should have been me. The guilt gnaws at him; it will for the rest of his days.
“Princess,” he rasps. There’s a shred of panic in his voice and a new tightness in his chest. Dunk dips his head down, struggling to keep your gaze.
You rise, reaching for a cup on the table nearest the bed. “Here”—one hand slips behind Dunk’s broad shoulders to help him sit, careful of the bandages that wrap his chest and the bruises that turn his body into a canvas of black and blue— “slowly,” you tell him, bringing the water to his lips. He drinks, then coughs, and drinks again.
When he can speak, the first thing he says is: “Your father, Pri-prince Baelor.” Memory comes rushing back in a cacophony of blood and steel—his ears ringing, the crash of lance on shield, the terrible moment when Baelor’s helm was struck…Aerion had already yielded. But Maekar hadn’t heard, nor had Baelor. Dunk flinches as if the mace strikes his own head.
“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. The same words he repeated over and over as he held the prince in his arms. Tears well up in his clear, blue eye, clouded with pain. How could he ever face you—or Valarr—after what happened? It’s not right for a great prince to die so a hedge knight might live. “I never meant–” His cracked lips tremble. “I never wanted–”
“Hush.” Your voice is gentle, firm, as though Baelor himself speaks through you. Dunk looks at you again and sees the weight of such loss written plainly on your face—that lovely face. And still, you’re not angry...only sad. “My father made his choice,” you tell him, quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed, hand loosely curled around one of his. It’s heavily bandaged—from Aerion’s dagger—and there are blood splotches on the pale wrap. “He chose to stand with Ser Duncan the Tall.”
“He…he told me he needed good men.” The Realm needs good men. “Let me serve you, Your Grace,” Dunk says, nigh begging—seeking atonement for ripping Baelor Breakspear from this world too soon. Then his voice softens, and he reaches out, boldly taking your hand into both of his. “I can be your man,” he chokes. Your man.
You cradle Dunk’s bruised cheek with your free hand, knowing your father would have taken him on in the service of House Targaryen without hesitation. A true knight and a good man. The House of the Dragon could use more of those.
“If that is so” —the corners of your lips quirk upward, a sad, fleeting smile— “then I command you to rest, ser.” Rising from the bed, you bend, only just, and place a chaste kiss on Ser Duncan the Tall’s forehead. He almost reaches for you, but thinks better of it. “Rest while I can still keep Egg from under your feet.”
THE MAESTER UNBINDS the bandage around Dunk’s hand as you enter the pavilion. It is a nasty wound—already debrided to clean the muck out—but still angry and raw, the flesh tender and swollen. Dunk can scarcely bend his fingers, let alone grasp a sword or lance.
You sit opposite Maester Mykal, and Dunk watches you the whole while, his brow furrowed—you’re a puzzle he cannot seem to set to rights. A princess who comes to sit with a lowly hedge knight. A noble lady who does not shy away from blood. A daughter who shows kindness to the man who all but killed her father.
“Hold his hand, if you please, Princess,” Mykal says. You take Dunk’s hand—warm and rough with callus and old scars—in both of yours without complaint. The maester spreads a fresh poultice over the wound. His jaw clenches, but he makes no sound. And when Maester Mykal finishes and ties off the bandage with a neat little knot, he pats Dunk’s wrist. “Try not to be a fool with it, ser. It will mend if you let it.” His eyes flick between the two of you before he gathers his things. He’ll return on the morrow at your bidding. “I’ll leave you to your rest,” he tells Dunk. “Princess.” Mykal inclines his head and slips from the pavilion, leaving you still loosely holding Dunk’s hand.
“Why…?” Dunk begins, then stops, swallowing hard, thinking over his words so as not to offend. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be–” his voice trails, rough with uncertainty “–with your kin?” He asks, not unkindly, just confused. You had lost a father. So had Valarr and Matarys. And Maekar had lost his brother. Dunk cannot understand why you would choose to be here with him over family.
“I have been,” you reply. All the night and all the morning, until it was suffocating to remain. “But grief does not keep to one place.” Your eyes lift to meet his. He can almost open his other eye now, though it is still swollen and painted with bruises—but it is his good eye, the clear blue one, that finds yours. “And neither does duty.” Your thumb brushes mindlessly over his knuckles, careful of the bandage.
“My father once told me,” you continue, finally sitting in your bedside chair, “the measure of a ruler is not how they treat the highborn, but how they tend to the low, the wounded, and the forgotten.” A faint, sad smile touches your lips, there and gone again in a blink. “And you are wounded, Ser Duncan.”
But he is not the only one wounded after the trial: the Kingsguard, Humfrey Hardyng, Daeron, and even Aerion. “Is Prince Aerion...” He hadn’t wanted to kill the prince...not really. But he’s not heard anyone really mention what became of him after the trial. Dunk watches your expression falter and your hand fall away from his, and then he regrets having said anything at all. You daft fool. He curses himself.
You’d gone to Aerion after the funeral pyre had turned to ash—he was family, after all. He lay abed in one of Lord Ashford’s guest rooms. A livid bruise darkened one side of his face, the other gnarled by deep cuts, and his lip split where Dunk’s fist had found it. Aerion had no kind words to say, but there had been a flicker of something when you told him you wanted to see if he survived the night.
“Bruised,” you say, after a moment. “And stitched up.” In some ways, he fared better than Duncan. “My uncle is sending him to Lys.” Time in the Free Cities may yet do him some good. The way Maekar said it in the days after the funeral, it all but absolved your betrothal to his son and loosened the noose of duty around your neck. But you’ve not seen Aerion since Maekar decided on his son’s exile.
Dunk shifts on the bed, wincing as his ribs protest, and feels a streak of boldness overcome him. He reaches to take your hand again, his thumb moves against your fingers, as though testing whether you will pull away. You don’t. Instead, your fingers tighten around his, just slightly.
You find yourself going to sit with Dunk nigh every day. Most of the time, Egg comes too, but today he’s off to pack his things to return to Summerhall. Egg hopes he will not have to go and that he will be able to squire for Ser Duncan the Tall. When you enter the pavilion, Maester Mykal is leaving, having replaced the dressings around his torso, and notes Dunk’s wounds are healing well, if a little slow, and he suggests a bit of fresh air might do the hedge knight some good.
Dunk pushes himself off the bed, steadying himself with a crutch, but once he’s upright, you sidle closer to him, offering yourself as a second crutch. “Never thought I’d have a dragon steadying me on my feet,” he says—you wear the colors of your house today, it’s hard for him not to see you as such.
A small smile touches your lips when you look up at him. “We’re not all fire and fury.”
“No,” he agrees, voice low. “Some of you are kinder than you ought to be.” Dunk takes another step and winces when his weight settles wrong, even with the crutch under one arm and you under the other. It’s too much. Aerion’s sword bit deep.
The crutch slips, clattering to the floor, and his balance with it. All of him—nigh twenty stone of him—presses down on you. Dunk catches himself against the edge of the bed, enough to keep from crushing you entirely, but not enough to spare you the fall. You go down with him, letting out a small, startled grunt as the two of you land in an awkward tangle of limbs.
“Princess,” he chokes, scrambling at once, half-dragging you across his lap in his haste to set you upright, more afraid for you than any wound of his own. “M’sorry.” Dunk holds onto your arms. “Didn’t hurt you, did I?”
Your hands brace against his chest, fingers splaying over the coarse fabric of his stained tunic, and beneath it, you feel the steady, stubborn thrum of his heart. His breath catches beneath you, and you both realize then how close you are. “No harm done,” you assure him, not looking away from those big, bright, blue eyes of his.
“Shouldn’t be the one falling for me, Princess,” Dunk says quietly, a poor attempt at humor. But his voice is a little breathless from the closeness and the ache of the returning pain in his ribs. A faint huff of laughter escapes you, and even though it fades quickly, the warmth lingers in your flushed cheeks. His gaze flicks to your mouth, then up again.
“Princess…” he begins, voice low and uncertain, and then even softer is your name. No titles or formality, just a whisper. You like her, Egg told him the night prior; he could see it easily enough with his own young eyes. And she likes you too. That’s not a bad thing, ser.
You lean in—just enough he could pull back if he wishes, just enough that it feels more like a choice rather than boldness or impropriety. One of your hands lifts from his chest, moving to his face, cradling the fading bruises. Your thumb traces the rough line of his cheek with the first rasp of red-blond stubble. He leans into the touch. The breath he draws is sharp, unsteady, and those blue eyes search your face—asking the same silent question you are.
“Dunk,” you breathe, whether aloud or only in your thoughts, you aren’t certain.
He moves then, and his kiss, when it comes, is tentative and clumsy with care. But you do not shy away, and something in him loosens—breaks, even. His arm, thick and strong, comes up around your shoulders, drawing you closer, further into him. Dunk’s lips press firmer then, lingering just a heartbeat longer before he draws back, his nose brushing yours, and breath unsteady against your cheek.
You tilt your head to the side and catch his lips with yours before he can speak or think to doubt it, as you know he’s wont to do. The second kiss is warmer, no less gentle, and all the deeper for the wanting of it. Your fingers curl lightly at his jaw, holding him there. When you part this time, your foreheads rest together. Dunk swallows hard, his large hand shifting as if he might reach for you again, and he does.
The flap of the tent jerks open. “Ser, I —oh!” Egg stands in the entrance, frozen mid-step, eyes wide as saucers as they dart between you. Your hand on Dunk’s cheek. Dunk’s hand splayed at your waist. The two of you are far closer than propriety would ever allow.
For one drawn-out second, no one moves.
Your gaze flits away from your cousin, back to Dunk, and by the look of him—with his reddened ears—he would rather face another trial than his princeling squire. Resigned, your hand falls from his cheek, back to his chest, and your head drops, resting against his shoulder.
Egg’s face is redder than his scarlet sash, and you cannot help but let out a small, helpless laugh. The first since the lists fell silent—a lovely sound to Dunk’s ears.
“I knew it,” the boy manages, a grin splitting through his initial surprise. “Shall I come back later, ser?” Egg asks, rising on his toes to seem taller. “Or perhaps stand guard?” He adds, trying his utmost to sound serious but nigh on the verge of giddy laughter—how could he not be giddy? His favorite cousin and new friend.
Dunk groans softly and lets his head fall back against the bedframe, dragging a hand down over his face. “Seven save me,” he mutters.
Egg’s smile widens at hearing it. The boy is far too pleased with himself, but he takes a step back out of the tent, not leaving entirely yet—fingers still hooked into the dyed canvas. “Can’t have anyone else interrupting.”
“Egg,” Dunk warns. There’s no real heat in it, more so just the embarrassment of being caught.
A few more heartbeats pass. He looks down at you, still resting your head on his shoulder, smiling. But Ser Duncan the Tall feels a fool. You’re a princess, he reminds himself, he should not have done what he did, no matter how much he—and you—enjoyed it.
“I’m sorry,” he says at last, low and rough, his hand falling away from your waist. “For,” he falters, unsure which part to name exactly. The kiss? Egg? The silly way his heart starts to race when you hold his hand or smile? He squeezes his eyes shut and, for a quick second, sees Baelor Targaryen standing in his son’s armor, an almost sad smile on his lips.
You lift your head, still close enough to him that your noses nearly brush. “Don’t be,” you answer. “It’s not something I regret.” Dunk’s expression eases, leaving that earnest, open look that first struck you all those years ago on the streets of King’s Landing.
His hand lifts to your cheek, fingers just ghosting along the curve of your jaw, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, before his hand slips away again, slow and reluctant. “I shouldn’t have,” he begins again, stubborn in his sense of what is proper. “Yes, you should have,” you interrupt, just as gently as before. Tilting your chin up, you kiss Dunk again, a quick kiss to show you really mean the words you speak.
You want him, by the old gods and the new, you want him. Dunk’s breath catches. “I…have nothing to give you,” he admits, the words are honest and rough, much like him. “I’ve no castle. No lands. Not even a proper suit of armor of my own.” His mouth twitches, self-conscious. “All I’ve got is my sword, and what vows I can keep.” But you know this already, he knows you know, and you still look at him like that.
“And a good heart,” you add.
Dunk huffs a breath at that. His gaze drops again, then returns to yours, steadier—braver, with a new look twinkling in his blue eyes. “If,” he starts, then pauses, gathering his courage. “If you’d have me…I’ll be your man.” The words are quiet, even if he’s already spoken them to you what feels like weeks ago now. “Your man, to serve and stand beside you. For as long as you’ll have me.”
Your gaze drops to his hand, and you reach for it once more, fingers slipping lightly into his palm. Lifting your entwined hands, you—a princess of House Targaryen—kiss one of his scarred knuckles. “I would have you,” you answer, soft and sure.
For a heartbeat, he looks like the boy who once stood in the street with a ring in his palm again. You rest your forehead against his, hands still joined, his thumb brushing once over your knuckles in that same tentative, hopeful way.
Ser Duncan the Tall may have nothing, he thinks—but with you in his arms and your breath warm against his lips, he feels he has been given everything he’s ever dared to dream of and hope for.
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cw. brat taming, fingering, manhandling, cunnilingus, size kink, noble! reader
synopsis. in which dunk cannot stand his lady.
you've been getting on his last nerve lately. and that is something, for dunk is a very, very patient man. or so he's been told. praised for, even.
since finding work and looking for a strong lord or noble to tend to hadn't been going smoothly lately, he accepted one of his only offers; guarding a wealthy merchant and his household as they traveled between holds and trade routes. it would be easy enough, dunk had thought. all he had to do was stand tall, look fearsome, and keep blades away from the soft, perfumed throats of the family.
he had not accounted for you.
you, with your fine silks and sharp mouth. you, with your jeweled fingers and that chin always tilted up at him as though he is something you've scraped off the bottom of your slipper. your father warned him about you on his first day of hire. "my daughter is... spirited." he'd told dunk. you'd chased off all your last knights with your foul behavior. the money hadn't been worth it.
however, dunk had nodded earnest as ever, hands clasped behind his back, as he towered over the polished floors and high ceilings. spirited he could handle. he grew up in slums. he knows sharp tongues and hot tempers and wild children with no reins.
he's fearsome and domineering. servants scatter when he passes. guards keep respectful distance. stable boys stare at him as though he is some giant carved from oak and iron.
but upon his first interaction with you where he'd tried to introduce himself to you, you cut him off entirely as you stand dangerously close to him in the hall of your manor. "i do not care. you'll be just like all the rest. now move."
ah.
he moves.
at first, he thought your horrible attitude was just a part of being raised wealthy and as the only daughter of your household. of course you were used to getting your way and treating the people around you like trash. you are young, surely. it was nothing but a poor first interaction; he has no wish to bully a nobleman's daughter.
but you test him.
you slip away from the convoy just to see if he'll notice, wander toward dark tree lines where bandits could lurk. you lean over bridge rails too far, and you talk to strange men in markets just to get a reaction out of dunk. every time he steps in, large form looming behind you as he catches your wrist just as you're about to touch a stranger and tells you, "that is enough, my lady," you laugh in his face.
"you don't command me, hedge knight."
the first time you spit on him is when he pulls you away from a man who's mouthing at your neck roguishly during a ball while you're too drunk to function. it landed on his cheek, dripping down slowly. he did not wipe it away immediately. he just looked down at you in disbelief.
you held his gaze, daring him. you are smaller than him by half, but you dare to challenge him either way. he'd never received training for a matter like this. "i told you, you do not command me. if you put your hands on me again, i will tell father to have one of your meaty fingers cut off."
he let you go. that was weeks ago. but you've made a sport of it since then, calling him an oaf, dog, brute, low-born. you toss orders at him in front of others. you complain about how he walks too close, is too big and clumsy, breathes too loud. you tell your fellow ladies that he smells of the stables and sweat, though he washes twice as often as any man in your company.
he's come to wonder if you do it for the fun of it or if you are simply seeking a reaction from him. because he notices the way your gaze turns expectant after you humiliate him. you do watch him quite a lot. when he removes his armor back in your manor after a long day, how you like to frequent the servant's quarters after dark, using the excuse of wanting a night snack from the kitchens... it's so suspicious. sometimes he wonders if he should take his cock out of his breeches and fist it while calling your name to see if you come running. but he doesn't.
dunk is not a clever man, but he is not blind.
still, he says nothing, because he is paid to guard your family, and you. and he doesn't want to sacrifice the pretty penny your father pays him to keep you in order.
so he endures.
until today. today, you slip away again. the road cuts through sparse woods, the afternoon light thin and golden. the caravan slows to navigate a narrow pass, and in that moment of distraction, you are gone. he can tell before he knows for sure. it's been too quiet. he rushes to scan the wagons and seek your fluffy head of hair, but nothing. "fuck." he curses roughly under his breath, stopping everything to search the area for you.
he finds you a quarter mile back, skirts gathered in your fists as you climb a moss-slick rock that juts above a shallow ravine. "what are you doing?" his voice carries. "did you jump out of your seat for me to chase you?"
you don't even look at him. "i'm admiring the view, dunk. go away."
he grits his teeth and steps forward slowly, trying not to startle you or have you run away. "get down this instant. this isn't funny."
"no."
the rock shifts under your slipper, and dunk's heart lurches up into his throat. he reaches forward, hissing; "get. down."
you finally glance back at him, your lip curled in a sneer. "no. you are not my father. leave me be."
"no," he says tightly, "but i am the one who will have to tell him if you break your foolish neck."
you roll your eyes and turn away again, just as your foot skids on the slick rock and you slip forward, letting out a startled little yelp. dunk moves before your other foot even leaves the surface of the rock, massive hands clamping around your body as he drags you back against him forcefully, your soft body pressed up against his with his arm locked around your middle like a band of iron.
for a second, neither of you move. your heart is racing. he can feel it through the layers of silk and linen. "are you mad?" he growls directly in your ear.
once you gather your bearings, you start twisting around in his grip, being a little hellion once more as if he didn't just save your life. "unhand me!"
his patience, that endless, gentle well everyone praises, is dry. he is sick of you. "i do not trust you not to run off again! you could have fallen," he emphasizes.
"but i did not."
"because i caught you. i am paid to guard you," he says angrily, holding you firm against him. "not to chase you like a stray hound every time you decide to prove you have no sense."
"well, i didn't call you a dog for no reason-"
"enough."
you've never heard that tone from him. and for a heartbeat, you falter.
then your pride surges back, and you reach back and elbow at his chest. it's like pushing a wall. "do not speak to me so," you snap. "you are nothing but hired steel. you forget your place."
dunk clenches his jaw tightly and squeezes you a little tighter, trying to will you to shut your smart mouth. "and where's my place?" he demands.
"beneath me," you say sickeningly sweet, before aiming another rough blow to his chest, trying to get him to let you go. you wriggle around, trying again to throw him off you -
his arm bands around you tighter, and he lifts you clean off your feet as though you weigh nothing at all. "put me down!" you shriek, kicking uselessly. he ignores your babbling and in one smooth motion, tosses you over his shoulder. suddenly, you're staring at his broad back and the ground swinging beneath you, your hair falling down his spine, your quickly begin to pound your fists against his back.
"dunk!" you scream, scandalized. "how dare you! i will have you-"
"you will do nothing," he snaps, big hand clamping firmly against the back of your thighs to keep you steady as he strides toward the road, each step long and unyielding. "i am taking you back home. you do not deserve to be out galivanting today."
you twist, but he adjusts easily, unbothered by your struggle. "and then, you will apologize," he says, not looking back. "and you will stay exactly where i put you until you remember how to behave like a lady."
dunk's grip tightens just enough to remind you how completely at his mercy you are.and for the first time since he took this cursed job, he does not yield. you punch his back hard, wondering if you can sink your teeth into his back somehow, when his broad hand comes down hard against the curve of your backside. you jolt, a sharp, shocked squeal tearing from you as your whole body tenses and rocks forward.
dunk's heart beats a tad too fast. he did not plan to smack you, but it was instinct. a correction, like a farmer swatting a mule that won't stop kicking. but the way you reacted... indignation faltering into pure surprise, has heat spreading through his body. he centers his brain long enough to hear your shrill cries. "y-you brute!"
you start wriggling again even more frantically now, trying to twist around and hit him. so he does it again. another rough smack delivered to your ass. he watches the motion of your soft flesh rippling back into place after he spanks you, and that strange feeling of arousal fills him once more.
this time your hips jerk involuntarily, your hands clutching at his back for balance instead of striking him. he's quite satisfied by that. your arrogance has started cracking around the edges. as he walks, he spanks you periodically, each hit measured and deliberate, his large palm landing square and sure through layers of silk, the impact more than enough to sting. to humble.
your protests dissolve into breathless little mumbles of outrage, and your hands, which had been clawing and striking him, slide instead to grip the back of his tunic. your legs stop kicking. you are now limp over his shoulder as he returns you not by carriage, but on his steed with him to your manor.
-
dunk does not waste any time in carrying you through the grand doors, up the staircase, down the long hall toward your chambers where he can make his corrections. lucky for him, your father is nowhere in sight to be questioning why his trusted knight is practically dragging his daughter you her room.
dunk stops outside your room and shifts you carefully before opening the door with one hand. he steps inside and shuts it behind him with his heel. then he walks swiftly to your bed, picks you up, and drops you onto it on your hands and knees, taking off your shoes and tossing them to the ground. "i do not need help to disrobe-!" you complain, trying to weave around and pushing his big hands away, but his temper spikes once more.
"you are the most unruly creature i have ever met." he hisses, pushing your face into the bed. "you run off into the woods," he continues, jaw tight. "you taunt strange men. you climb rocks over ravines just to see if i will come after you."
"do not call me that! i only wish to have some fun, but i cannot with you breathing down my-"
he cuts you off sternly. "and i am not sure if it is because you have been raised too spoiled and pampered to have any manners, or if you act out because you're frustrated that i haven't stuffed your little cunt."
you let out an undignified little sound as he calls out your poorly hidden desires so bluntly, your body shuddering under his. dunk’s huge hand starts to trail to the hem of your dress, and he begins to bunch it up at your hips.
“you’ve made a mess,” his voice comes out as a scoff, and he slowly traces a thick finger along the damp seam of your clothed cunt. “did my brutish behaviour excite you, my lady?”
hearing your own words, your past mockery of him repeated back to you so snidely somehow excites you further. you wonder why he’s taken so long to put you in your place, but the day has finally come for him to put an end to your behaviour and set you straight. breathy moans leave your lips as he rubs you through your drawers, the stickiness collected on the crotch part pushing against you and making a bigger mess. he grabs the back suddenly, tugging it up and pulling it between your ass cheeks so he can rub the fabric against your clit.
his other hand reaches up to fist in your soft hair, tugging and forcing your body to curve towards him with no means of escape. his grip inflicts the perfect amount of pleasure-pain. you feel hot and achy everywhere.
“ser duncan!”
"now you want to address me by my title?" he shakes his head, continuously rubbing your underwear against your sticky cunt, slick now drooling down your thighs. "tch. i can smell your mess. is all this for me?"
you cry out a pathetic "yes!" and push your hips back against his hand, seeking more friction. his face gives an involuntary twitch at your answer, his expression shifting into something you wouldn't be able to read if you were looking at him right now. his hand stills against you momentarily, and you grind your pussy against the heel of his hand with a whine, seeking more.
“seven hells,” he mutters under his breath. that was the last thing he expected from you. he was ready to get off you and pretend he hadn't touched you at all, but you wanted it. the proud little lady who's been tormenting him for weeks is suddenly pliant under his hands, warm and trembling.
dunk lets out a slow breath through his nose, and grabs a fistful of your drawers, tugging them down to your ankles. he watches the sticky strings web between the fabric and your cunt, and groans at how filthy you are for him
“so that’s it,” he says quietly, lowering his face to your cunt and pushing the tip of his finger into your puffy hole. “all this trouble… just because you wanted my attention.” he blows softly on your clit, and you whimper, trying to jut your hips back into his face. he pushes you down a little harder, sliding his finger inside you to the knuckle without warning.
a whimper escapes you at the sudden, unfamiliar intrusion, and as he begins to pump the invading digit slowly, your slick walls cling greedily to his finger as it sinks deep inside of you.
transfixed, he watches as your swollen lips part and cling to his finger with each thrust, a wet squelching sound filling the room. your arousal gushes out around his finger and coats it, making it easy to slip inside you, despite how tight your walls cling to him once he's inside.
with how close his face is to your cunt, he can't resist only looking anymore, and pushes his finger down inside you to make space for his mouth to cover your pussy. he lets out a highly pleased noise at the honeyed taste of you, and eagerly laps at your wetness while curling and twisting his finger inside of you.
he gets caught up in your taste, running his tongue through your falls and dragging upwards, flicking over the tight bud of your ass. you squeal and snap back to attention, having gotten dumb and drooly from when he'd been munching your cunt, but the new sensation has you on high alert once more. he spreads your cheeks with his free hand. "don't move."
you whimper at his tone and gasp as his tongue runs up and down, all the way from the base of your sloppy folds to your ass, all while easing a second finger inside of you.
"s-ser duncan, i-" your voice breaks off into a gasp when his tongue probes inside of you, his fingers spreading you open far enough for him to stuff his tongue in as well. he moans inside of you, sending vibrations through your hole and making your stomach tighten up. your lips part to form weak pants as you bury your face in the pillow.
dunk can see how much your body is responding to him as well. the way your cunt molds to fit his fingers and tongue, how your wetness flows freely to keep your hole lubricated and messy for him. and he could swear the longer he feasts upon you, the better you taste. he's never tasted a cunt as ripe as yours. but he won't tell you that.
his tongue working diligently to taste every drop of your essence. he loses himself in the act of pleasuring you, consumed by the desire to feel you come undone beneath him.
he keeps his fingers stuffed inside you but pulls back for a moment to watch how your cunt swallows them up, and he takes in the sight of your puffy, swollen lips, and the glistening, dusky flesh within. "of course you have the prettiest little pussy." he mumbles, tugging his fingers back and twisting them back in with a turn of his wrist.
before you can respond, he seals his mouth over your cunt once more his tongue delving deep to lap at your dripping slit. your body arches into the sheets. "i cannot take any more," you hiccup. " 'm about to... g-about to-"
dunk ignores your babbles and suckles on your swollen folds, his tongue trailing up to trace circles your clit, flicking over the sensitive bud teasingly before diving back down. his fingers pump faster, stroking your h-spot with each thrust, pushing you ruthlessly towards your impending orgasm. "beg for it," he growls against your sex, his fingers pausing their movement, leaving you teetering on the edge.
"please," you whimper, your voice high and breathy, desperate for release. you cry his name as your orgasm crashes through you, your pussy clamping down on his fingers, as your release gushes onto his hand, your body lifting off the bed. dunk groans, lapping up your essence as it pours out of you, swallowing every drop greedily. your pussy flutters around the invading digits and on his mouth, greedily seeking more. dunk devours every drop until you're licked clean, then runs his tongue over his lips with a satisfied hum.
you have never argued with your knight until now, and your bond is about to be tested when danger befalls you
genre/warnings:
hurt/comfort, arguments, tw. manhandling and harassment (not by dunk), fluff, targaryen!reader (reader is egg's sister)
notes:
ser duncan is simply a gentle giant and i just have to put him through slight angst <3
“Oh, brave ser! Hope you have a good day!”
The first time you saw how she fluttered around Ser Duncan, you didn’t really notice it. An innkeeper’s wife was meant to be hospitable. It was her trade.
She was young too. Not much older than yourself, if older at all. Her smile was bright and easy, the sort that invited trust without effort.
But then, came the sudden knocks at night.
“Is everything all right, ser?” she would ask sweetly through the door. “I heard a sound.”
You had been in the very same room, were standing right there beside him all the time. There had never been any sound.
And—
“Ser, your sword seems to need polishing… I can help you with that!”
“You must be tired from your travels. Leave your clothes by the hearth, I’ll have them washed before supper!”
After the nth time, the pattern was impossible to ignore and you knew you weren’t imagining it. This woman wasn’t just trying to be hospitable— she keeps finding excuses to talk to Dunk.
But the more surreal thing was the way she stared down at you—quick, assessing, almost amused, and sometimes, her eyes focused on your drawstring bag too.
“I’m telling you, she is— of suspicious origins!”
You stood near the narrow window of your shared room, arms folded tightly across your chest. Below, the courtyard bustled in the late night light. You replayed the scene of the dinner in your mind, how the innkeeper lady leaned far too close as she handed Dunk a mug of ale.
Dunk, meanwhile, was unlacing his boots with slow patience.
“She is just kind,” he said, as if that settled the matter. “It’s her inn. She’s meant to be kind.”
“She doesn’t act like that with the other guests—” you shot back, before stopping yourself. Your frown deepened. “Wait. This place hardly has any other guests at all. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? I know something is wrong with this place.”
He sighed at that, rubbing a hand through his hair. “You’re imagining things where there are none, Princess.”
“And you,” you snapped, “see nothing even when it’s waving a flag in front of your face!”
It was this behavior that irked you really. You knew Dunk always looked for the good in people—it was one of the things that made him who he was. He believed in kindness because he carried so much of it himself. But this time, you were convinced that he just refused to see the bad parts because that woman had blinded him.
Egg gulped at how you didn’t seem like you would back down soon, and quickly slipped out of the room so he wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire.
Dunk looked up at your fiery response, brow furrowing, and you went on with your tirade.
“She takes her chances with you and you just stand there smiling like you haven’t the faintest idea. Always coming to our room. Always offering to wash your things, polish your swords—Seven save me, she might as well offer to sharpen them with her teeth!”
Dunk blinked, totally not getting where your animosity was from. “M’lady, that’s not nice. There is nothing to have an idea about—”
“That’s exactly the problem. You never notice these things. You never see when someone’s plotting under your nose. You just assume everyone means well!”
“And that’s a fault?” His voice was still soft, but something in it had changed. “I appreciate the thought, but you can’t make all women look bad just because they’re being nice to me.”
Something tightened in your chest. So that was what he thought of you?
Your fingers curled at your sides. “You’re so painfully oblivious it’s embarrassing.”
Your words flew before you could stop it, and it seemed to strike him a great deal. You saw it in the way his shoulders stilled and how his gaze, usually so open and earnest, hardened. He didn't speak for awhile, until he got up.
“If I’m that embarrassing, then you shouldn’t be with the likes of me, Your Grace.”
Your anger drained at once, replaced by a cold twist of regret, but you didn’t chase after him even as he went out of the room and refused to look at you.
And somehow, that hurt worst of all.
Dunk didn’t return.
At first, you told yourself he only needed air, but then three hours passed. As the lantern burner lower and the sounds of the inn quieted into uneasy stillness, dread began to coil in your stomach.
“He’s never gone this long,” Egg muttered. In the aftermath of your argument, he stayed quiet all the while, knowing how you most likely didn’t mean what you said at all.
For a second, you entertained the thought that he might have abandoned you and Egg. He wouldn’t do that, would he?
Your reverie was interrupted by a sudden loud chime of the bell from outside, and you snapped your head at it.
“Egg, listen to me. Something isn’t right here,” you said quietly to your brother, wary of your surroundings, “I think she’s no innkeeper’s wife at all.”
This was what you had been trying to tell Dunk too. For almost five days of your stay here, you had noticed how deserted the hallways were. This inn set price lower than the ones in its class, but you had a terrible feeling in your gut whenever the innkeeper lady looked at you.
It was as though she were weighing the worth of your cloak, the stitching of your boots, the quality of your speech.
Egg frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I think she’s a robber,” you said, lowering your voice further. “Or worse. This place feels staged—”
As if summoned by your suspicion, harsh knocks rattled the door. Egg and you exchanged a glance and you warned him with your eyes to take cover in the back.
However, not receiving any answer, the pounding stopped for a heartbeat. Until—
Crash! The door burst open as two men forced their way inside.
Rough hands seized you before you could even cry out. One grabbed your arms; the other lunged for Egg. The room erupted into chaos, furniture crashing aside.
“Egg—run!” you shouted. “Get Ser Duncan!”
To his credit, the boy twisted fiercely, ducking beneath a grasping arm. He tore free with surprising agility and bolted through the still-open doorway.
One of the men cursed but the other caught your hair in a brutal fist just as you tried to break away and pain exploded across your scalp.
“Let me go!” you cried, voice breaking. You gasped, clawing at his wrist, but he yanked your head back sharply—and then he stilled, squinting at the strands near your temple where new growth had come in silver-white against the darker dye you had so carefully maintained.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he breathed. “Look at this.”
The other man turned. “What?”
“She’s a Targaryen,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Look at the hair.”
Cold dread washed through you, regretting how you hadn’t reapplied the dye to your hair.
“Search it all. If she’s dragonspawn, there’s coin worth taking!”
You still trashed, but the second man had begun tearing through the chamber—overturning chests, ripping open packs, scattering your belongings across the floor. Then—
“There’s something here!”
He held up a ring. Your father’s signet ring caught in the light, its color unmistakable.
“That is mine!” You struggled again, kicking, clawing—but you were suddenly thrown to the floor.
For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. You scrambled back, hands shaking, vision blurring with tears. Your left wrist screamed in protest—you must have twisted it in some way.
The men loomed over you.
“Well, the innkeep did say we can do with her as we please afterwards, though?”
You let out a scream, fighting as their hands restrained you.
Dunk had always known, but that knowledge did little to dull the sting.
He had known that you stood far above a man like him. You were born to a place in the world he could scarcely dream of reaching. And he... he is only Dunk—a hedge knight, too low in birth, too poor in coin, too clumsy in speech.
What could he possibly offer you but calloused hands and a life spent wandering dusty roads?
Yet somewhere along the road—between the long rides, the shared fires, and the easy laughter you gave him so freely—he had allowed himself to forget. Just for a little while, he had pretended he could stand beside you without feeling the weight of all the ways he fell short.
And there was one thing he had sworn, and that vow had never wavered. He would protect you. It might be the only thing he could give, but it was out of love all the same.
“Ser Duncan!”
Dunk had only just turned back towards the inn, his thoughts still heavy, when the boy came barreling down the lane.
“Help— my sister!” Egg’s voice was hoarse, cracking with panic and tears. “They’ve got her!”
“Who—”
“The robbers! They’re hurting her!”
Suddenly, Dunk couldn’t think. Suddenly, the image of man twice your size looming over you made his stomach churn.
He broke into a full sprint then, shoulders shoving past anyone in his way as he tore through the inn doors hard enough to rattle the frame.
Your scream reached him the moment he stepped inside. He took the stairs two at a time, then three—his boots thundering against the wood as he raced towards your chamber.
The door was ajar. Inside, two men hovered over you.
Dunk did not see anything else at first. Not the overturned furniture. Not the scattered things. Just you, curled on the floor.
Your trembling form. Your busted lip, blood against your mouth. Lips wobbling, tears falling endlessly from your eyes.
The world went red that instant.
He seized the nearest attacker by the collar and flung him bodily across the room. The man crashed into the wall with a sickening crack.
The second barely had time to turn before Dunk’s fist connected with his jaw, his blow landed like a hammer.
Each blow landed with the force of a fury so absolute it made him unrecognizable. The man crumpled, but Dunk didn’t stop. He hauled him upright again only to slam him back down. His knuckles splitting, his breath coming hard and ragged.
When the first man tried to rise, Dunk kicked him back down. He beat him too until he was little more than groaning heaps on the floor.
Only when the room fell silent—save for your sobbing—did Dunk stop. His chest heaved, hands were bloodied. His face, still flushed with rage, slowly turned towards you.
And the fury drained as he had a one true look at you. At how you shook uncontrollably, making yourself smaller in that corner, looking as if you were thoroughly violated.
“Princess—” he croaked out, blue eyes widening, feeling numb all of a sudden. “Oh no…”
The sight of you hollowed him out.
My fault. The thought struck him like a blow. All my fault.
He had left you. He should have been here. I should have protected her. Guilt twisted so sharply in his chest that his own vision blurred.
Dunk dropped to his knees in front of you. His large hands hovered uncertainly in the air as his eyes searched you desperately for injuries. He was afraid to touch you or even to ask if you were okay—
“Ser Duncan…” you tearfully looked up at him, clutching your broken wrist. All you comprehended now was that you were so relieved that he was here, and that you were safe—
You suddenly threw yourself at him.
Your good arm wrapped around his back as you buried your face against his chest, a broken sob tearing free from your throat.
Dunk froze for the briefest heartbeat, before pressing his cheek against your hair. His large hand moved slowly over your back in clumsy, gentle strokes, trying to soothe you the only way he knew how.
“I’m sorry— oh Seven, I’m so, so sorry…” Dunk choked out, his voice breaking, tightening his arm around you. “Forgive me, m’lady... I should never have left you alone. I’ve failed you… I let this happen to you.”
You clung to him like a lifeline, and Dunk held you just as tightly.
The very same night, you left the inn.
Before the sun had even begun to rise, Dunk had already secured a carriage. It cost more coin than he could comfortably spare, but he did not hesitate. All that mattered was getting you away from that place—and making sure you were cared for properly.
“Does it hurt?” he asked sadly as he tended to your injured wrist tenderly. His eyes flicked to yours, filled with worry.
“I’m fine, Ser Duncan,” you assured.
Still, every time you winced, Dunk’s brow would crease again, his mouth tightening with guilt as though the hurt were his doing.
And as if to make up for his sins, from that night onwards, he hardly left your side.
If you stood, Dunk stood with you. If you walked, he walked just half a step behind, watchful and alert. In taverns or markets, his sharp blue eyes lingered on any man who stared too long, his gaze hard enough to send most looking quickly away.
“Y-you’re scary,” a little boy once blurted in a busy market, staring up at him with wide eyes.
Dunk, already on edge and half expecting danger around every corner, merely glared down at him, and it sent the poor boy running.
“Ser Duncan, he’s just a kid...”
“No one’s getting within three feet of you, m’lady.”
. . .
One evening, the two of you sat beside a small roadside fire while the sky deepened into twilight. Dunk knelt beside you, carefully unwinding the bandage around your wrist to change the dressing.
“I’m a lunk,” he muttered, eyes focusing solely on the healing bluish bruise on your skin. “Thick as a castle wall, me. Should’ve listened when you said something felt wrong about that inn.”
You knew he felt very apologetic for what happened, but it wasn’t the first time you caught him thinking that out loud about himself, and it squeezed your heart every time he did.
When he was done tending to you, you found his gaze.
“No,” you said firmly.
Dunk blinked, surprised. You reached out with your uninjured hand, grabbing his arm so he would not look away.
“No,” you repeated. “You are not a lunk.”
His brows knit together, confusion flickering across his broad face.
“You’re a knight of the Seven Kingdoms. My knight,” you continued, your voice soft but certain. “The bravest—also the kindest—one I know. So do not ever say that you’re a lunk.”
For a moment, he simply stared at you. The fire crackled softly in front of you, the warm glow dancing in his blue eyes.
Something in his expression shifted then. You could almost see the insecurity that clouded his eyes faded with your words.
Slowly, Dunk squeezed your hand back. Then, very carefully—as if afraid he might overstep—he leaned forward.
His large hand came up to cradle the back of your head for just a moment, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.
It was brief. Tender. And full of a warmth that made your chest flutter.
When he pulled away, his ears had gone a little red, but there was a new steadiness in the way he looked at you now.
“Thank you, m’lady,” he murmured.
There were many things he wanted to say, but his breath caught when he found your mesmerizing gaze. I love you, his heart whispered. He hoped you knew that.
For the first time in days, Dunk’s shoulders seemed to sit a little straighter.
And though the road ahead was long and uncertain, he felt—perhaps for the first time—that maybe he truly was the knight you believed him to be.
— Duncan the Tall | Lyonel Baratheon | Baelor Targaryen | Maekar Targaryen | Aerion Targaryen | “good girl” used once
Word count: above 900, about 100 for every character
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— Dunk | comfort
He’s still trembling. Even after the air had lessened, the echoes of breaths and moans had melted away — he's still shaking. You feel it right against you, gentle tumours within his arms surrounding you in his grasp. His heartbeat still calls for you, beating hard with waves of pleasure even now carving within his body.
Dunk’s face buries in your hair, flushed, his eyes closed. His hands hold you close, filling your curves perfectly as if they were sculpted for his touch. His fingers slowly caress the hollows he had left upon your skin — on your hips, your waist, the arch of your ribs. “Are you alright?” his voice rumbles against your head. You feel the care in his words within your bones more than hear it. “I got… a bit carried away, possibly,” he smiles sheepishly, hides it in your locks.
He draws you deeper against him, into his chest. into his heart. “Tell me if something hurts,” he softly whispers. And if you do, his loyal hands are at your command. He strokes at any place you complain about, sweeps the ache away with broad palms. “I’ll be more careful next time,” he sighs into your temple as he kisses it.
— Lyonel | praise
“You’re absolutely fabulous, you know that?” his drawl rumbles against your lips when he speaks into their petals. With dark eyelashes draping low, his gaze is tender as much as it is idle. His body, limp in contentment, sprawls next to yours on his side, his arms lightly closed around your waist. The warmth between you still burns alive. Sweat latches to his cluttered curls with the aftermath, and ease shades his blooming face because he lies here with you. “My lovely,” Lyonel mutters in a sweet purr, his lips seeping into yours with a passing kiss, “You’ve turned me into a greedier man than I already was.” A tease pulls at his mouth, a grin following it.
Sly hands of his stream down your back, taking a grip of your arse that he can't neglect. Your flesh tickles beneath his thumbs rubbing it, spilling through his fingers as he squeezes. A rumble close to a groan scratches in his throat, and he pushes his face into the softness of your skin where the neck moulds into a shoulder. “You take such good care of me… Fuck me so good. My good girl exhausts even a stag.”
— Baelor | peace
The chamber has fallen quiet, and even the fire has faded to rest. But you are awake, and so is Baelor. His arm cages you against his side, his chest bare for your hand to feel his flesh. Only for you. You feel the pulse within him, steady and calming down. His breath whispers warmly against your head. His lips are at rest on your hair. His hand fills your side, fingers gently dancing at its arc in a loose caress. “If you wish to sleep, you can do so,” his voice sweetens the air, soaks into your skin with affection, “I’ll keep you safe, my love.”
The quiet strength of his arms keeps you sound and loved, assures your comfort is secure. As you drift to honeyed slumber, his presence persists. His care sinks into your form — the kisses he leaves on your crown, his fingertips upon the blushes he left not so long ago on your body in heights of thrill. “I adore you, sweetling. You make every waking moment beautiful,” Baelor utters when he thinks sleep drowned you.
— Maekar | distance
He faintly kisses your cheek and then pulls away. A shadow of tension dims his pale eyes, something almost close to shame. The gap between you he inflicted feels cold, yet it shouldn't. Moments ago, your bodies laced together so close, so unabashedly. But now, he hesitates, as if all of that wasn't a display of feelings true. “Would you like me to leave? Give you some space?” he asks with a scrape in his voice that sounds unfit for his loud mouth. He asks only because he doesn't know what to do, only because he feels mildly startled being so bare.
You gently lure him back, and Maekar isn't strong enough to refuse. Carefully, he lies beside you, a sudden vulnerability present in his movements. He doesn't conquer, he doesn't dominate now, as he lets you hold him. The prince recoils to a man, and a lonely one at that. In your arms, the void within his heart feels lesser. He softens, as much as he allows himself to. His eyes close, his hands slowly return to your body. “Thank you,” he whispers, trailing his fingers over your back.
— Aerion | silence
His eyes are closed, his breathing is even. He is calm. Eerily so, after devouring you whole and leaving you breathless. There's a blotch of a flush on his pallid, porcelain cheek, a rare flush of emotion.
Aerion doesn't speak, doesn't hold you. But his proximity lingers, quietly so, with his hand upon the curve of your hip. His fingers mould into your flesh, a hint of a claw curling in his grasp. He expects you to care for him, to make him feel good even now. He deserves it, after all. And you do, because it is hard not to worship the majesty beside you — bare and beautiful.
The dragon lets out a low purr under your kisses and caresses — contented for once. His head leans in, a mute command for more. Aerion’s fingers dig faintly into your hip when he's particularly pleased, the burning marks he leaves behind a gesture of affection of his own making.
⟡
I lack a bit of inspiration as of late for more, and would love to do any of your ideas — feel free to request ♡
