Chapter Text
Your stall may be small, but it’s by far one of the most frequented in all of the marketplace.
Settled next to a grumpy man selling spices, your setup consists of a single table covered by a rugged grey cloth. Atop it lies an arrangement of soaps and oils, nice-smelling little bars and bottles you sell to the public. You make them yourself, grinding flowers, herbs, salts, ashes and various ingredients you experiment with to create your hygienic products.
You learned the craft when you were little, and it had become a passion of yours. It’s an absolute necessity at the Tourney, where dirty knights and sweaty crowd members gather into one big stink fest. That’s the one thing you can’t stand about the Tourney: the smell. You’ve grown so used to pleasant scents, being in the presence of a foul smelling man is no longer something you can tolerate.
Today isn’t as busy as usual, the early craze from the arrival of knights and lively festivities has begun to die down as the final days before the Tourney approach. Still, there is a small flow of people and the occasional horse-rider trotting through. The morning air is dewy and fresh as the sun tries to reach past the grey clouds.
You turn around and reach into your pack, pulling out the few bars of soap you had finished setting the night before. You bring one to your nose and inhale. Rosemary. You smile.
You turn back around and nearly jump out of your skin at the sight of a very big man towering over your stall.
You place a hand over your heart and huff, and the giant immediately apologises.
"Oh-- sorry, I didn't mean to startle you!" His eyebrows are furrowed upward and his clear blue eyes stare into yours apologetically. He's strikingly handsome-- and for a moment you forget you run the stall.
You shake your head dismissively, "Oh, don't worry, I'm just skittish is all. Are you looking for anything in particular, Ser?" The man visibly shuffles as you call him 'Ser', chest inflating slightly to match the title. You know he's not a true knight, with his ragged clothes and rope for a belt. But flattery works wonders on customers.
Your neck is craned up as the man finds his words, and you want to laugh at the size difference of you two.
"Do you have anything that smells--well nice? Just a regular bar of soap?" You give him a humored look. Anything that smells nice at a soap stall? Hm. You'll need to check.
He seems to catch onto his obvious statement and quickly attempts to correct himself, "It's just I've been--y'know I've been told I smell bad--Well not bad just not incredible-and I was looking for--" A laugh bubbles out of you, the large man's personality was very much the opposite of what you'd expect a tall, intimidating appearance to be like.
"Aye, I know what you mean, it's not a problem." You reassure him, smiling cheekily.
He offers an embarrassed smirk and nods his head slowly, and you lean over your table to look at what scent would suit him best. Mint, Basil, Thyme, Marjoram--Sage. Your eyes flit back up to the handsome man and you observe his face. Big, blue eyes, a strong jaw, but a gentle looking man. Sage will do perfectly.
"I think this sage soap would fix your problem, Ser." He had been staring back at you, and he snaps out of his trance as your sweet voice reaches his ears. His eyes don't meet yours as he speaks, fidgeting with the handle of his simple sword.
"Yes, that'll do just fine. How much for the soap?"
"10 silver coins, Ser."
He deflates. His mouth opens and closes again, and he seems embarrassed. You feel a pang in your chest.
"I--uh, never mind then. Have a good day--"
"Wait." Your mouth moves before you know what you are saying. You look at the tall man, covered in a light layer of grime, wearing worn clothes. He stares back at you, listening attentively to every word you utter. The eyes are the window to the soul, and you can tell he has a kind soul. A gentle giant.
An idea springs into your head.
"I.. I'll give you a deal on the soap." His eyebrows raise slightly, and his shoulders stand taller.
"I've been meaning to expand my business to services, not just goods." You explain. "Massages. I've yet to master the skill, I need practice and to be truthful, I don't trust too many men with whom I can be alone in a tent. I'll give you the soap for 3 stags if you let me practice on you." His mouth stays open as you speak, in disbelief of the proposal. A reduced cost on the soap and a free massage? A faint flush rushes to his face and he shuffles his weight from one foot to another. He's never touched a woman--or been touched by a woman before. The idea felt very intimate.
You watch his reaction and you can see the cogs turning in his head. His breath hitches nervously, "That would be- uhm-- great, thank you-- but I mean are you sure?-- Not that- not that you can't trust me to be alone in a tent with you--but about the deal?" He cringes at his words, and you feel like this man has put you under a spell. He's so awkwardly charming and pleasant to watch.
"I'm sure. You'll give me some free advertisement, too." You try to act unbothered, like the deal was only put in place to benefit you, and this time you have trouble meeting his eyes.
"Well--thank you. I'll buy the soap. And I-- I shall come back here once I've cleaned myself, around nightfall?" He suggests, swallowing thickly.
You feel a growing excitement in your chest, and you push it down as you nod to the oblivious man.
"What's your name, Ser?" You lean forward, palms pressed into the table.
His eyes flick down to your cleavage before immediately fleeing back to your face. He presses his eyes shut as he stutters, reddening again. His shyness is awfully endearing.
"It's-- It's Dunc- Ser Duncan. The tall. Ser Duncan the Tall."
You offer him your name and he stares at you like a child before a storyteller. A small smile grows on his face as he repeats your name, feeling it on his tongue.
"I'm set up 4 tents to the right of Lyonel Baratheon. I'll see you tonight, Ser Duncan the Tall." He half bows, offering you a nervous smile before shuffling off.
Tonight is going to be a good night.
----------
The tent is warm and filled with pleasant fumes from the burning candles, and is aglow in a soft light. The space isn't enormous, but there's plenty of room for the two of you.
You flatten the make-shift bed that consists of your furs piled over a wooden table, and a few of your cushions. You suck in a deep breath. You're a little nervous, the memory of Duncan's sweet face has been replaying in your mind since this morning, and you've been waiting for this all day.
A sound interrupts your thoughts, a muffled shout-whisper coming from outside the tent.
"You'll stay outside, understand? I'll be an hour, no longer. You run off I'll give you a clout in the ear." Duncan's voice is distinctly his; a low hum you recognize from this morning.
The flap of the tent opens, revealing the tall man. You catch a glimpse of a little boy behind him staring inside curiously before the fabric closes on him.
He's clean, now. His hair holds more volume, and shows a lighter reddish-blonde, and his skin glows. He mumbles a quick greeting, accompanied by a shy, toothy smile. His hands have found the hilt of his sword again, a nervous habit his body takes in stressful situations.
Your feet carry you closer to his form, until you are directly beneath him. Even hunched and attempting to look nonintimidating, he towers over you, broad shoulders blocking your vision behind him. He looks tense, right hand now balled into a fist next to his thigh, his clear blue eyes avoiding yours.
He looks even more handsome than he did this morning.
You reach and grab his hand, soft fingers wrapping around his rough ones, and his breath catches in his throat. His hand envelops yours completely, and he looks at you like a lost puppy, unsure of what to do. It's difficult to see in this lighting, but you can tell he's gone pink.
You smile at him. "Hello, Ser Duncan." Your eyes flit back down to your entangled hands, and you think the image is forever engrained in your memory.
"Come this way, settle down."
You pull him to the bed, sneakily placing your other hand on his forearm as he clumsily sits.
"You'll need to remove your top, Ser, and lay on your stomach."
The poor man already looks overwhelmed, eyes caught between the soft touch of your feminine hand on his forearm and your enchanting face staring at his. The warm light of the candles expose your soft features, and highlight the curves of your body, visible through your thin satin dress. He remembers himself and nods, a sentence caught on his lips.
"Of course."
You turn to your table of oils, and pretend to ignore the sound of rustling cloth behind you. You bite your lip, fingers dancing over bottles until you find the one you are looking for: sage oil.
You turn back around to a flushed Duncan, with his hands locked firmly to the side of the table, staring at the floor. He looks even larger now, muscles visibly flexing under the skin of his arms as he shuffles. He has a beefy build, athletic but well fed-- you struggle not to ogle at the wonderful sight.
You clear your throat, "Who was that boy outside?"
He looks up at you, "Oh, Egg--that's my Egg--m-my squire." He stutters, and you laugh at the slip up.
"Your Egg." You repeat with a small smile and he shakes his head, huffing.
You gesture to the table, and Duncan clears his throat, moving to settle his body on the bed. As he lowers his front to the furs, you nearly drool at the sight of his back muscles flexing, his beefy arms holding his weight while he lies down. At first, his neck is twisted to the left, head facing your direction. He catches a glimpse of your figure all up close and immediately picks it up again, settling it to the right.
You rub the oil in your hands, chuckling softly. What a gentleman.
"You can lay in whatever way feels most comfortable, Duncan." You mutter softly, voice catching through your whisper.
You see him visibly tense, and you move your hands forward, to his scalp. Your fingers smell of sage: minty and earthy, with top notes of lavender. They introduce themselves into his dark blonde hair, weaving over his head. A small sound comes from, so quiet that you could have missed it. His reaction tells you he's never been taken care of before.
Your movements are slow and calculated, rubbing large circles through his hair and over his scalp, from bottom to top. You've never seen a man melt so fast, he deflates at your touch, shoulders dropping forward. His eyes flutter closed, eyelids relaxing fully and pretty long lashes casting a small shadow over his cheeks. The ecstasy of your soft fingers playing with his hair and brushing his scalp seems to trump his embarrassment, he no longer has it in him to be tense. Duncan didn't grow up with a maternal figure, and has never been comforted this way before. The unique gentleness and care of a woman is lulling him into a state of bliss.
Your fingers find his neck, and the oil allows your thumbs to glide firmly up his nape, pressing into the tough muscle. This time, the noise he makes is louder, and he's wretched away from his dream-like state, eyes flickering open.
"I'm --I'm so sorry that's-" He panics, stuttering. He tries to get up, face red and scrunched in distress.
"Shhh.. Duncan, look at me please." Your voice is soft and you plant a hand over his back. He halts and faces you, his breathing uneven and head lowered in guilt. Your heart aches for this man.
"I'm here to massage you, Duncan. Massages are supposed to be relaxing. How you react doesn't bother me in the slightest." You say gently, like you are afraid to scare him off. You don't realize your thumb is caressing the skin on his back slowly.
"In fact, it's more like a compliment, hm? That I'm making you feel that nice?" He stares at you like you strung up the stars, lips parted.
Your free hand comes up from your side and finds his hair again, this time you hold his gaze. They caress his dusty blonde strands over the front of his forehead, weaving over and around the side of his scalp. Duncan doesn't know if he's still breathing.
"So you lay back down and let me take care of you, love." Duncan can't remember how to speak, and nods his head, spellbound by your soft touch. The look in his eyes are almost glossy, greedily consuming the sight of the angel in front of him--hypnotized by your heavenly touch.
He lies back down shakily.
Pouring more sage oil into your hands, you waste no time in finding his body again. His back is warm, and comically large under your fingers, muscles tight with years of struggle. With four fingers, and a fair amount of upper-body strength, you slide over him, pressing down firmly. You hear a trembly exhale.
Your hands find a routine, spread wide as they rub over his back, warming the slick oil over his body before kneading him strongly. You work through clicks and knots, squeezing muscle and coaxing small whines from him. Your arms burn, it requires a tremendous amount of energy to properly get into the man's shoulders and relieve him of his stiffness. You work tirelessly over his lower back, stomach fluttering as you follow the arch of his body, imagining ashamedly what the rest of him looks like nude.
He lays perfectly still, as if any sort of movement will wake him from this wonderful dream. The sensation of your soft hands over his back, pressing into muscle he didn't know needed to be pressed makes it difficult not to shed a tear of pure pleasure. It feels so caring and maternal, which makes the warmth pooling to his lower half all the more upsetting to him.
But he can't help it, the unfamiliar touch feels so right, like something he's been missing his entire life without realizing. It makes his heart flutter and his head spin, and he's powerless to the delicious ache that presses into the bed.
You continue massaging, relishing in the sight of the big man so compliant and vulnerable under you.
You don't know how long passes, maybe an hour or two; you only stop when your fingers threaten to snap, drained of any energy left.
Only a few candles still burn, the light in the tent is low and the soft breathing of Duncan is the only sound that fills the silence. You stand for a second, swaying in place. You had given it your all, all your strength and attentive care to comfort this man, to make him feel good.
You lean forward to see his face. His eyelids are relaxed, every muscle in his face uncontracted and soft, free of any worry. His mouth is open slightly and his breathing is regular.
You smile softly, eyes low-lidded.
"Excuse me?" A high-pitched voice comes from outside the tent.
You quickly remember the boy outside, Egg, and recall what Duncan had told him. You gasp softly and hurry over to open the flap of the tent. The poor thing had been waiting outside all this time.
The small bald boy looks up at you, a tired look on his face. You feel a pang of sadness in your chest.
"Come in, Egg." You offer in a low voice, as not to wake Duncan. "Ser Duncan is sleeping here tonight. I have a few extra furs and cushions I can put together for you."
His eyes light up, and he gives you a grateful smile.
"Thank you, milady."
You creep past the large, sleeping figure, and set up a little bed for Egg, on the floor to the right of Duncan. You two work in a playful silence, Egg almost making you laugh by mocking Duncan's sleeping face, imitating him with his mouth open.
You realize you don't have much to sleep on, but you don't care. Getting into your bed, you stare at the two boys. Egg is still smiling to himself, and you wonder how long it's been since the poor boy has slept inside.
What a wonderful day. You hope that he will be okay waking up here tomorrow. Was leaving him to sleep here the right choice? Your eyes find his face, sunken and lulled into a peaceful, deep sleep. You dismiss your anxiety. The man needed this.
As fatigue pulls your eyes closed and you fall into a deep slumber, your mind presents to you images of a beautiful man with clear blue eyes and a gentle, sweet smile, and you happily dream of a tall hedge knight.