Claiming the Wildfire!? KNIGHT READER? pls do share more 👀👀👀
ok ok so this is almost 1k words. i had no idea which part to share and i’m always extra sooo🫠🩷
here it is:
Claiming the Wildfire
ser duncan x lady!knight reader
(fragment)
[…] You burst through the door with the rabbits slung over your shoulder, Duncan close enough behind you that you could feel the heat of him at your back.
The hearth was cold. Egg’s bedroll was tied neat and tight against the wall. Too neat. Too quiet.
And on the table, a scrap of parchment.
You crossed the room in two quick strides and snatched it up. The writing was careful, almost fussy in its precision.
“Dunk, love, it’s from the boy,” you murmured, your Northern burr softening as your eyes moved across the page. “He’s ridden for Summerhall. His father’s called him back.”
You kept reading, slower now.
“Says he’ll be gone two days. Maybe more.”
When you looked up, Duncan was already watching you. He filled the doorway, broad shoulders catching the low light, blue eyes fixed and unreadable for a beat too long.
“Gods be good,” you went on, your mouth starting to curl despite yourself. ‘I shall miss your terrible singing, ser, and my lady’s northern curses. Please take care of her for me, Ser Duncan. If she is anything less than delighted when I return, I shall set the hounds on you.’
A laugh slipped out of you, warm and surprised.
“The little bastard,” you said, shaking your head. “He’s threatening you with dogs, Dunk.”
But Duncan wasn’t looking at you anymore.
He leaned in, slow and intent, trying to follow the lines of the letter. His brow pulled tight with concentration, lips parting slightly as he traced the shapes with his eyes.
“That there…” he muttered, pointing with a finger. “That’s S… E… R. That’s me, innit?”
“Aye,” you said, softer now, stepping aside to make room for him. “That’s you, you daft lunk.”
He bent closer, knocking the edge of the table with his hip hard enough to rattle it. The parchment fluttered in your hand. He didn’t even seem to notice.
The smell of him, sweat and pine and steel. The warmth rolling off his body. The way all that strength sat in him like it didn’t quite know where to go.
“Your… humble…” he tried, voice slow and careful, like each word had weight.
Then he huffed out a breath and gave up, a laugh breaking loose from his chest, bright and boyish and so unguarded it made something in you give way. It was a sound you loved, a sound that made the hard, scarred parts of you soften into butter.
He looked at you, and the rest of the world, the hut, the rabbits, the whole of Westeros, just... melted away. The hunger was back in his eyes, but it was different now. It was a lazy, confident fire. It burned low and steady now, slow and knowing, like something he meant to take his time with.
He straightened, rising to his full height, and the small room seemed to close in around him.
“A couple of days,” he said, almost thoughtful.
His hands came to you without hurry. He took the rabbits from your shoulder, set them aside with a dull thud, never breaking eye contact.
Then his hand found your waist.
You felt it before he moved, that shift in him, the moment his restraint gave way. He pulled you in, one arm firm around you, the other sliding up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair as if he’d done it a hundred times in his mind already.
And then he lifted you. Effortless.
Your boots left the ground, your breath catching as your body pressed flush to his, every inch of you meeting heat and muscle. You felt the strength of him, the way he held you like you belonged exactly there.
His mouth found yours a heartbeat later. Hungry, but not wild. Not careless. He took his time with it.
His lips were warm and insistent, parting yours slow before deepening the kiss, like he meant to learn you all over again. There was a roughness to him, a lack of polish. The way his grip tightened just a fraction too much at your waist, the way his breath hitched once before he settled into it…
You answered him just as hard. Your arms slid around his neck, fingers tangling into his hair, pulling him closer, closer still, until there was no space left between.
Weeks of tension, of “almosts” and “not quites”, burned through you in one long breath.
When he set you down again, it felt like the ground came back too slowly. Your lips tingled, your chest rising too fast, your head a little light.
“Bloody hell, Dunk,” you breathed.
His hand lingered at your waist, thumb brushing once, absent and deliberate all at once.
“We’ll eat,” he said quietly.
His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes, steady and intent.
“And then we’ll go to bed.”
Something in your stomach tightened at the way he said it.
