Chapter Text
“S - Supper…” Dunk stutters, the word tumbling from quavering lips.
Fire flickers across the shadows of the dancing crowd. The white of Lyonel Baratheon’s teeth and the gold of his earring flash as he throws his head back and laughs. Dunk’s stomach drops in relief, a tentative smile flitting across his face. The lord has a long smooth tan column of neck, the top of a dark furred chest peaking from beneath a loosened collar.
“Actually makes sense…” Lyonel seems to say as an aside to himself and his attendant knights, who all laugh good-naturedly. He leans forward again, and levels the full force of that animal magnetism at Dunk.
“Do you like to dance?” His grin is handsome and generous.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
—
The tourney’s first melee, Dunk thinks to himself nonsensically as his foot is solidly stomped upon. Ser Lyonel prances away with a clap and a spin — a riotous storm of movement black and gold. Ladies and lordlings flit about him in circles, but Duncan knows the name of the game now. He sees clear over the heads of the whirling masses, and moves with the current as he was trained to do. Keep your paces boy, Dunk thinks in Ser Arlan’s voice. The ground shakes beneath his wide feet and for all the world he feels invincible. His opponent circles him hawkishly, while the hedge knight focuses on keeping his footing about him. Until, with the suddenness of lightning, the lord dashes in again.
The crowned stag slides warm ringed palms about his shoulders and spins him round and round again. Dunk indulgently lets himself be spun til the moment is right. Parry, and strike! Then he rears his foot back and trods down upon the lord’s polished leather. Dunk knows his strength and it is only a tourney afterall so he makes an effort not to stomp— but then again the wine makes his limbs loose.
Oh fuck, he thinks with a cold start, as Ser Lyonel crumples against his front. Dunk rushes to catch him.
Gold ringed hands grasp his waist, palms fitting neatly against the muscle of Dunk’s hip. He shivers. So used to dwarfing the world, the thought that someone might man-handle him had not yet made itself known. He slides an arm supportively along the lord’s back and waits wide-eyed for the beating he surely deserves this time. They are scant inches apart.
Ser Lyonel tosses dark curls from his brow, winks, and sticks his tongue out at him.
Duncan’s stomach drops. With relief.
With relief, and some other hot curling new feeling deep in his gut.
And so the melee spins on.
—
It is some dances and cups of summerwine later that finds Duncan seated at the hightable, with an antlered crown atop his head, and the blue-grey eyes of the heir to Storm’s End atop his face. Ser Lyonel has regaled him with tales of his many exploits — daring heroism and courage, adventures on the high seas, things that make maidens blush.
Now, his grin is lazy and low-lidded as he sprawls atop his throne, hands gesturing wildly. Dunk watches, gaze wide-eyed and enraptured.
Most of the party’s attendees are unconscious in various states of disarray, or paired off in each other's arms. They have a private corner of the world all to themselves.
“It’s best not to agonize,” the lord finishes, gesturing for more wine. Dunk looses a self-deprecating chuckle.
“I agonize a lot,” he admits. “Sometimes I think I agonize too much, then I just end up agonizing over that.” He gives a weak chuckle and opens his mouth to continue—
“There you are!” A feminine voice rings out.
Nearby, the slim long-limbed form of the performer girl, Tanselle, rushes to a woman’s side. The woman is half-asleep on the ground, some cousin or sister by the look of it. Dunk sits straight up in his chair and stutters, watching Tanselle tuck a loose curl behind the delicate point of an ear and haul the woman upward. She slings the woman’s arm over her shoulder, helping her to her feet and speaking lowly, ‘- worried sick! We’ve a show in the morning’, is all Dunk catches over the distance and music.
“Um,” he manages.
Her bright doe-like eyes finally glance his way, and then to the lord beside him.
“Oh,” she intones gently, “begging your pardon milord, we’ll be out of your way.”
Lyonel barely spares her a glance, waving his hand as a vague dismissal. Gaze never faltering on Duncan’s face.
Dunk manages a nod before the women begin to shuffle away. He looses a sigh and slumps back down into his seat, turning back to the man beside him.
He is met with a raised brow and an amused look.
“Well?” Ser Lyonel chuckles.
“Well ser?” Dunk parrots, confused. The lord barks another laugh.
“Go on then, after her,” he smirks with a shooing motion. Dunk blushes a hearty red.
“Oh- uh no, no milord I should not,” he stutters out.
“Why ever the hell not?”
Duncan has no response beside more blushing and stuttering. Which it seems is response enough.
Ser Lyonel leans forward again, catching Dunk’s gaze from where he’d lowered it— a wild and delighted smile slowly dawning across his face. Dunk feels his blush reach his ears. I’ve been kissed before, he means to protest, but it sounds childish even in his mind.
Finally, the lord peals another hollering laugh and lays a hand roughly atop his shoulder. He can’t help but giggle slightly at his own patheticness.
“Ridiculous,” Ser Lyonel repeats, “absolutely ridiculous!"
The hand atop Dunk’s shoulder begins to massage the corded muscle there with firm strong fingers. His stormy gaze seems equal parts astonished and delighted by Duncan’s entire existence. The lord stares, silent for a moment, the air between them alight with something Dunk does not understand but for the curling tightness behind his navel. Finally, the Laughing Storm abruptly stands, sending his throne crashing down behind him.
“Up,” he demands of Dunk, hands now pulling at his arm. “Up up up!”
Like the good-natured beast of burden Duncan is always accused of being, the hedge knight lets himself be shepherded past the party. His mind goes blissfully blank with wine and the familiar comfort of being bossed about. The lord keeps a firm grasp on him at all times, pulling him through a doorway there, pushing him through a throng here, holding him still by the shirt as he banishes a host of guards and servingwomen.
Milord does seem to enjoy telling me what to do, Dunk thinks cheerfully. A deeper part of his mind might also whisper that he enjoys it just as well.
He is released. And realizes with a start that he stands in a lavish bedchamber, bedecked in cloth of gold and black velvet.
And he is completely, blisteringly, gut-wrenchingly, alone with the heir to Storm’s End. In his bedchamber. Alone.
Ser Lyonel has poured himself another cup of wine from somewhere and watches Dunk over its rim, eyes glittering with amusement and something savage.
“M- My my lord?” Dunk manages. The addressed sets the wine down and stalks over, a predatory tilt to the walk.
Dunk attempts to stammer out something else, but before any words can make themselves known, he is unceremoniously shoved to sitting on a fine feather bed and a mouth sealed atop his.
Like lightning has struck, his mind short circuits. Oh.
Lord Lyonel Baratheon has one hand wrapped tight around the hair at the base of Dunk’s neck, pulling his head back so he can lick obscenely into his mouth.
Oh.
Dunk has kissed before, he’s certain of it.
But it might as well have been something entirely different, because it certainly didn't feel like this.
The Laughing Storm kisses hungrily, wildly, biting and liking and trying to devour Dunk whole. His beard scratches at Dunk’s chin and cheeks and their teeth clack together once, twice, and the calloused hand at the base of his neck is gripping his hair so tightly. It is hot and wet and rough and it is all Dunk can do but brace his hands on the lord’s hips and take it.
Some passing notion about rocks and storms flicks past his mind.
Dunk gets kissed thoroughly. Within an inch of his life.
When he is allowed to break for air, Lyonel only permits him a sliver of space so they are gasping raggedly into each other's mouths. As the breath makes its way back to his brain, Dunk slowly becomes achingly aware of the hole his cock is burning into his pants.
There must be something lost in his wide-eyed gaze because the lord snorts and shoves at his chest.
“I said,” he goads, tossing his curls back from his sweaty brow and raising an arched look, “stop your cowering…” He throws a leg over Dunk’s, straddling him. “And..” he seats himself snugly atop Duncan’s lap.. “Be… tall,” he growls, the curl of his mouth somehow making the words obscene.
And then, he waits. Something sharp and heady and challenging about the smug turn of his face. Like this, they are of a height.
Ah, Dunk realizies, another melee.
He tentatively raises his massive hand from where it rested on the lord’s hip. He goes to gently palm Lyonel’s neck, but the lord bats his arm away decisively. A tweak at the corner of his smug lips. Parry, strike.
Dunk tries again to touch the lord’s face, and is again quickly rebuffed. Lyonel’s grin begins to break against his taunting expression.
“Cmon then lad!” he shoves at Dunk’s chest again, and the movement provides some friction over his clothed aching cock. Dunk can't help but loose a punched-out groan like some kind of wounded animal. Lyonel’s slashing grin regains all its wild savagery, and the shreds of Duncan’s control snap.
This is not some serving girl, or Tanselle the puppeteer. This is a strong broad courageous knight of the seven kingdoms. I’ll not break him.
Dunk grabs two fistfuls of Ser Lyonel’s tunic and flips them over, pressing his mouth to the other’s imploringly. This way, he is pressing the lord into the mattress and the lengths of their bodies align. He can feel Lyonel's biting smile against his mouth, and Dunk swallows it down before he can laugh. The lord is squirming and shifting beneath him, delicious heat and friction making him groan again.
The sound of fabric tearing makes Dunk pause and lift himself up with one arm. He looks down and finds that he has torn the golden tunic in two.
What a sight.
The Laughing Storm lays beneath him, bare chest heaving and fully revealed between the shreds of fabric remaining. The smattering of dark hair atop his chest trails down below his navel and disappears beneath his pants. His curls are askew and his mouth is kiss-bitten and his blue-grey eyes are hazy and impossibly self-satisfied. It's a rakish and obscene sight. Dunk stares. Lyonel laughs.
“I beg your pardons my-” Dunk starts, but is swiftly cut off with a knee to the ribcage.
“Don’t you dare,” he rebuffs, shrugging out of the remains of the tunic. Dunk continues to stare. Surprisingly, something soft turns on the lord’s face. He reaches forward and almost gently pulls at Dunk’s shirt to get it over his head. Now, both barechested, something vulnerable thumps in Duncan’s chest.
“I don’t know what to do ser,” he admits, gaze searching. In most things, he thinks, in all things. Lyonel rests a hand atop his broad chest, over where his heart lies.
“It’s all right lad,” he croons. “I’ll show you.”
Somehow, Duncan knows that the heir to Storm's End takes his meaning.
The kiss this time is slower, some new tension alight between them. A simmering heated kiss that makes something burn in his gut and stars glitter behind his eyes. Not softer, exactly, but more aching. The eye of the storm. The press of hot bare skin against his chest is revelatory, something between a gasp and a whimper forced past his lips. Lyonel shushes him, not unkindly, muttering ‘it’s all right’ again and again as his kisses slip past Duncan’s mouth over his chin and down to his neck.
Duncan finds himself flat on his back when deft ringed fingers begin to undo the laces of his breeches. The first slide of sword-calloused palm against his weeping cock makes Dunk groan loudly— loud enough to be embarrassed even in this state. The lord’s laugh is muffled against the juncture between his neck and shoulder. Dunk feels aflame.
All too quickly, with only a few quick twists of the wrist, Dunk realizes he won’t last. He attempts to move but his legs have forgotten their proper function.
“S- Ser,” he starts, hands sliding up to Lyonel’s chest and weakly attempting to push. The lord laughs again with a muttered ‘ser’ beneath his breath. He nips at Dunk’s shoulder.
“I- I- I’ll not make it much-,” Dunk falteringly continues.
“Yes, yes allright,” he responds, the movement of his hand coming to an abrupt stop— grip tight at the base. Duncan whimpers. Lyonel brushes a kiss against the corner of his mouth and pushes himself to stand, yanking at Dunk’s breeches as he goes.
He is left, naked as his nameday, spread-eagle atop the bed alone. He feels bereft.
“Seven save me,” Lyonel says— eyes fixed unblinkingly on Dunk’s cock. He finds his discarded wine glass from somewhere and takes a hearty sip still staring.
“My lord?” Duncan asks, unable to help the vulnerable tenor of the question. Lyonels just smiles and shakes his head muttering something to himself about ‘should have known’. He sets the wine down with a decisive thunk and raises a proud chin.
“It is no matter. I have faced down many a great sword, large as yours,” the Laughing Storm jests, smug and self-assured like he awaits applause for the ribald jape. His quick ringed fingers start to pull at the laces of his own breeches. Dunk gulps. Any longer and I may be like to combust into flame, he thinks.
Ser Lyonel steps out of his last remaining clothing, elegant, despite the wine and the wild furtive way he moves. His cock juts with a proud arch out of dark curls. He moves to straddle Duncan again, and the returned heat and weight is a relief.
This time, however, the lord stays raised aloft on his knees, looking down at Dunk low-lidded, fingers tangling in his hair to angle his head back.
Dunk finds he quite likes looking up at someone like this. There is something worshipful in the gesture.
The Laughing Storm tangles their hands together and pulls two of Duncan’s large fingers into his mouth.
Fucking hell, he thought— or might have said aloud by the vicious triumphant slant to the lord’s grinning eyes. He laves and licks and sucks on the fingers until they are good and wet. Then, eyes never leaving Duncan’s, pulls the hand down and around him onto the crest of his ass.
Oh.
His fear must show on his face because Ser Lyonel giggles madly. Dunk keeps his lost, searching gaze locked on the older man’s as together they push two fingers past the ring of muscle and inside.
“Theres a good lad,” the lord croons soothingly, lips brushing Duncan's nose as he speaks.
It takes a moment to learn the rhythm, push in and pull out, the lord’s hand guiding his.
But he’s always been a quick study in the melee.
So when he curls the fingers experimentally, and the lord shoots straight up, spine arching with a surprised ‘Ah!’, Dunk thinks he must’ve done something right.
A powerful heady feeling runs through his veins, that he was the one to make Ser Lyonel do that. He feels the strength in his hands, holding the lord to his chest and making him quake slightly. The feeling is as intoxicating as the wine on their tongues.
He speeds up, curling his fingers on every stroke now, and the lord— my lord he— begins to fuck himself in earnest on Dunk’s large fingers. Guidance forgotten, both arms round Duncan's broad shoulders, head thrown back and curls bouncing obscenely. Fucking hell. Fucking hell, he thinks over and over.
The wildness is back now, the untamed storm, as Ser Lyonel crashes their mouths and bodies together— sending them careening backwards flat on the bed. He is groaning and growling and digging his fingers into Dunk’s shoulders hard. Dunk thinks he might be groaning as well.
Then, as suddenly as he does everything, Ser Lyonel yanks Dunk’s hands away, placing them on his chest, lines them up, and sits promptly down— sheathing himself onto Dunk’s cock in one fell swoop.
Another lightning strike. Duncan’s mind and vision whites out. Nothing, in all the seven kingdoms, has ever felt like this.
He comes to and must have been crying because Ser Lyonel has his hands on his cheeks brushing away tears and shushing him softly as he rocks them together. I must be dead, he thinks, I must’ve died on that hillside as well and gone to heaven.
Their bodies are sealed together, pressed from head to toe, so that he is not sure where he ends and the lord begins. It's the closest he’s ever been to another human being and it is equal parts ecstasy and agony.
He never wants it to end and yet he knows, again, he won’t last long, already the precipice in reach.
“I- I’m,” he tries to warn, but is shushed with a nip to the lips and a soothing kiss. And he comes apart.
Distantly, dimly, he is aware of Ser Lyonel groaning and falling against him, something hot and wet splashing across his stomach— but that is all a world away behind the rushing in his ears and the bright white hot pleasure coursing through his core.
I’m dead, he thinks again. Surely.
When he returns to himself, some time later, he finds the heir to Storm’s End soundly asleep on his chest— their bodies adhered together with their combined cooling seed. It should be disgusting but, mortifyingly, Dunk’s cock twitches at the notion. Get yourself together man, he admonishes himself.
It takes another long while for Dunk to realize he has no idea what to do. Ser Lyonel is heavy as a rock atop him, snoring softly, and completely dead to the waking. What do I do now, he begins to panic. Is it rude to leave or rude to stay uninvited? Or was… what we just done an invitation? Amidst the whirling of his mind Dunk eventually realizes he still has yet to tend to his horses tonight— if he wants to preserve whatever slim chance he has in the tourney. Well shit.
Whispering a thousand apologies and begging-your-pardons-ser, Dunk slowly extricates himself from the snoring heir to Storm’s End. He takes the care to find a washcloth and clean them both as best he can, feeling incredibly foolish as he tucks Ser Lyonel beneath his velveteen covers.
Then, carefully, under the hour of the owl and the dark of night, Ser Duncan the Tall creeps away from the glorious shining world of the Laughing Storm and back into his waiting hedges.