https://www.tumblr.com/creganed/823694475078582272?source=share
The way I have concepts for both 👀👀
For dunk: Baelor's daughter hating him bc she thinks he is responsible for his death bc he decided to help him in the trial and starts to act out and one night Dunk catches her and brings her back to her room and she yells at him but also now understands he isn't at fault "I am so angry all the time. I am so tired of being angry all the time: angry at the world, myself, my father...you" leading them to their first time!!!!
ORRRRR
Gwyane: princess reader not wanting to be married off to ormund (or Cregan 👀) and she tries to get detear him by sleeping with someone before the wedding and having it get back to him and who does she choose? Gwyane. She pulls a 1x04 rhaenyra and sneaks out and she runs into him but they have to sleep in a tent or something bc its too late and guards are all over!!! "I will never love him. I already hate him. Maybe if he thinks I'm a whore he will not want to marry me. You can say no and I will walk away and I will never bring it up again and we will resume things normally"
And it's just a night of sex for solace/comfort and tender love making and UGHHHH I need a loyal knight for myself 😮💨
hurt/comfort sex will always always alwayssss heal something in me. idk what it is. the tenderness the bittersweet taste the underlying tension of trying to decide what’s better left unspoken UGHHHHH
cw: piv & virginity loss for both, themes of grief and depression for dunk’s section, canon typical misogyny for gwayne’s
dunk:
for dunk, i imagine he tries to pledge himself to valarr at baelor’s funeral, to attempt to repay something he will never be able to. valarr tries to tell him to hit the road, and for some reason, despite agreeing with valarr in his anger, you convince him otherwise.
“my sister has insisted on taking you in, ser,” valarr grumbles, “you will be her protector. i wish nothing to do with you.”
and maybe it’s because the loss is so fresh, or you have to rehash the entire tale to the king or to matarys with valarr once you arrive back at king’s landing, or it’s that baelor’s absence from the red keep makes the castle feel that much different, but it doesn’t sink in that your father is well and truly gone until about two days after you arrive back in king’s landing.
dunk, who has begun to finish his training with the master-at-arms so that he can be your sworn sword, notices the little warmth you’d offered him disappears immediately. you’re ice cold, suddenly, scowling at him in the halls and offering few words the times you do speak. not necessarily buyer’s remorse—you do admire him for everything he stands for, egg appears to be happy that he’s here, and anyone who can humble aerion is a champion in your eyes.
but accident or no, had it not been for what he’d done, your father would still be here. ser duncan did not strike the blow, but he may as well have handed your uncle the mace.
i don’t know the grief would necessarily result in lashing out or altered behavior. baelor instilled in all three of you the importance of image, of high comport. you wouldn’t want to betray his memory now. not when it’s all you have left. so, you turn the ache inward, let it stew inside of you and start to consume you whole.
over the next few months, you lose sleep. you lose your appetite. social engagements now feel tedious and meaningless. matarys or valarr take turns coming to your quarters begging you to get out of bed, but you don’t know how to bring yourself to face the outside world. whispers soon start at court as you begin to withdraw from court life. she dismisses her ladies in waiting every time they come to her, they say, and stays in her room until her brothers force her out. a shame. the princess was full of life until that giant brute struck the bright prince. why would she bring him back here?
by now, the master-at-arms has deemed dunk’s training to be complete, and he now serves as your sworn protector. he follows you everywhere when you do leave your room, but most often is stationed outside your room. he’s kind. that’s the worst thing. it would be so easy to hate him if he weren’t so gentle to everyone around him, especially you.
some nights, he can hear you weeping from behind the door to your chambers, and he has to hold back tears himself. there is so much guilt inside of him, so much of it inside of you.
and one night, after almost a year of this, of wanting to hate dunk, searching for some evil or darkness inside of him every time you speak yet finding none every time, you snap at him. you’re tired, you’re angry. tired of being whispered at every time you walk through the gardens, angry at the world for continuing to spin while your father’s ashes scatter to the wind, tired of conversations at tea that amount to nothing because what is the point if we all die in the end anyway my father was a great man and he is dead and he will never be king and he is dead because of this stupid kind beautiful knight in front of me and if i do what i really want to do is it a betrayal of his memory will valarr and matarys hate me because of it i’m so tired please make it stop—
he lets you. lets you cry and scream and punch weakly at his armor, and you’re no longer a princess, you’re a girl who misses her father and the grief is a bottomless hole and you don’t know what to do with it spilling out of every pore on your skin. you slump against him eventually, and he holds you up, sniffling against him as he tries to shush you.
“i just want the pain to stop, ser duncan,” you whisper brokenly, “there is so much of it and so little of me left.”
he swallows the lump in his throat, and looks you in the eyes, grabbing you by the shoulder. “give it to me, princess,” he insists, “is that not why you brought me here? to shield you from the worst of it all?”
you kiss him. he freezes, unsure of what to do. he can’t. he’s already ruined you once, he can’t do it again. so why are his hands moving against his own volition, why is he pulling you closer when he should push you away, why are you leaning into his touch, why do you taste so sweet—
“my princess,” he says against your lips, unable to pull away, “we can’t.”
and yet you do. and it’s tender and heartbreaking and beautiful, and you start crying because it feels so good halfway through, and dunk freezes, thinking it’s because you’re hurting again, wonders if you’ve changed your mind, but then you shake your head and pull him in closer. “again, duncan, please.”
there’s no rocking of the bed or loud moaning. he engulfs you, drives in slow, drives in deep. the gentleness extends to every inch of him, you find, and there are a lot of inches. you’re breathless, and he kisses along your throat, breasts, and the top of your head, and whispers, “i’ve got you, princess, let it go, give it all to me, let me carry it for you, wee thing.”
worshipful. soft. ever so kind. and there is something building slowly but intensely inside of you, and you arch your back into him, wrap your legs around him, your head falls against the soft pillows, and dunk thinks you’re the most beautiful creature he’s ever laid his eyes upon when you cum, squeezing so tightly around him. you whine when he pulls out to cum on your stomach. “i won’t do that to you, princess,” he murmurs against your skin, “i’ve already taken too much.”
and in the candlelight, vision still blurry, the weight of his body on top of you, feeling his spend on your skin, you finally, finally feel human again.
gwayne:
i imagine gwayne would be a little less forgiving than dunk, by virtue of being highborn and the fact that he’s not indirectly responsible for any of your grief or existential dread. he can push a little more with you, and it also doesn’t help that you’re being a bit of a brat. can he blame you? no, not really. he’d also be angry if he were ordered to marry his cousin. he’s been tasked to escort you from the seat of your house to oldtown (i feel like this makes more sense. besides, if im told to marry cregan stark i WILL be marrying cregan stark!!! why would i be upset about that!!!)
you ride in a wheelhouse—it’s a two week ride from your family’s home to oldtown, and in the beginning you’re so quiet you might as well be a silent sister. when you finally begin to speak, it’s in snippy tones, dismissive and borderline rude. gwayne takes it like a champ, smiling graciously whenever you sneer at him. “whatever you wish, my lady.”
his brothers in arms whisper about your behavior when you’re away, calling it unbecoming and uncouth, but gwayne defends you every time. “anyone bound to my cousin deserves to unleash some of their rage before he snuffs out her light entirely. if he is to stifle her as soon as she is delivered to him, then i say let the lady blaze while she still can.”
and then you arrive at the inn. you’re not that far from oldtown, now, about two days time. you’ve grown more and more restless with every mile. he’s finally getting to sleep in an actual bed and is getting ready to settle in for a night when someone knocks anxiously on his door. “her ladyship is gone,” the guard says, breathless, “she climbed out her window.”
gwayne takes a deep breath, tired bones gearing up to once again move. “make no fuss, draw no attention to it. i will seek her out. if she does not appear in a few hours, we send out more men.”
he finds you an hour later. you’ve hidden in the woods, and he finds you weeping against a tree trunk, in a cloak and your nightgown. he’s both relieved and furious, and his composure finally snaps. “you could have been set upon by any manner of ruffian or lecher. i understand the anger of a reluctant bride, but this is far too much.”
“if a lecher stops your cousin from marrying me, let him,” you shout, angry tears streaming down your face. “do you think i haven’t heard the rumors? even in the westerlands we all know—ormund hightower wants a bride he can break like a horse. i am no horse, ser gwayne. i am no dog. i am no broodmare. though he certainly intends to make these of me.”
he says nothing, unable to disagree. in the dark, tears glinting under what little moonlight passed through the canopy of trees, he can’t help but notice your striking beauty.
“my mother wed my father and came to love him in time,” you continue. “i know this will never happen to me. i will never love your cousin.”
“love is an outlier in most marriages.” he sounds solemn.
“i know. but it is nice to think about. someone kind. someone tender. someone like…” you press your lips together, and then they start to wobble as you look him up and down.
“i’ve been horrible to you, ser gwayne.” you take a step forward, shivering from the chill of the wind, or perhaps something else. you take another step forward, painfully close, and gwayne takes a shaky inhale.
“can you forgive me?” you peer up at him through teary lashes, with an undercurrent in your eyes that makes him flex his fingers wantingly. he is only a man, after all. gods be good.
“there is nothing to forgive, lady y/n,” he replies quickly, genuinely. he needs to get you back to the inn before he loses control or before you do. “you are afraid and unsure, and ormund is many things, but gentle is not one of them. you have my sympathy. now come, let us return before—”
“wait.”
he closes his eyes, both eager and afraid for his life. whatever is about to happen, if ormund ever finds out, he will have gwayne gelded, skinned alive, and dipped in tar.
“if i am no maid, will he still have me?”
when his eyes open, you’re unbelievably closer now. you smell like flowers and bath oils, sweet and tempting.
“i… no. no, i don’t think he would.”
“you are a man,” you say, pressing a hand to his chest. where you touch, the skin sears beneath his doublet. “alone with a teary maiden girl all but ready to fall into your arms. say your… carnal desires got the better of you. what then, ser gwayne?”
“i don’t know, my lady. this is madness. i would never dare to dishonor—“
“please, gwayne.” you lean in, and he realizes you’re not the one trembling. he is. “grant me this boon, i beg you.”
he stares at you sadly, and your face falls. “o-or if i have misunderstood your gaze… forgive me. we can go back, and forget this ever happened—“
you go to withdraw. one look at the fresh tears brimming in your eyes and he crumbles. he crushes his lips against yours, tasting the salt of your tears, peppermint from your tea before bed.
“you are a cruel woman,” he says against your skin, trailing his lips from your mouth to your neck as you cling to him, mewling at his lips against your collarbone. “cold one moment and then pressing yourself up against me before i can refuse you.”
“gwayne.”
“i try to be a pious man,” he insists, pulling you to the ground. you plant your feet against the dirt, nightgown riding up, revealing your calves and thighs. gwayne groans. “but i am only mortal. seven forgive me.”
he has your maidenhead there. under any other circumstances, he would be remorseful of taking you here in the dirt, where any vagrant could come across you both. however he can do little but think of anything else but how sweet the dew from between your legs taste as he prepares you for him, the keening spilling from your lips sweeter than any song he’s ever heard.
and then he pushes himself into you, and you cling to him the entire time, reduced to soft tears and whimpers of “thank you, gwayne, thank you.”
whether you’re thanking him for saving you from his cousin’s grasp or how deep he’s fucking you, he can’t say. all he knows is this is a covenant he can never break now—one signed in your blood and the seed he’s about to spill in you. he kisses you when he finally does, and the way your walls clench around his twitching cock makes it all worth it.
when he returns, he will ask his men to send a raven to oldtown. for now, though, he is happy to hold you a little longer, feeling himself soften inside of you. fuck ormund.
