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Baelor did not fight for his man. Instead, he sat upon a plush chair in the intricately carved wood viewing box, and watched helplessly as his man bloodied the field and was bloodied in turn.
When his pathetic nephew was finally begging for his life with what teeth he had left, sputtering blood into the mud at Ser Duncan’s merciful feet, Baelor could finally exhale the breath he didn’t know he had been holding. The Gods had spared them all a long fight, though his familial cowardice could be to blame. The shame of his inaction suddenly gripped Baelor by the throat, the loss of this charming and good knight choking him up unexpectedly.
His knight, who now drooped forward like a daffodil in the summer heat, except it cold and foggy and starting to rain softly. The chaos of the trial grounds was strangely muted, his focus on the knight strong enough for Baelor to hear the rain patter against his steel armor, dented and torn bloody in some places.
Ser Duncan was leagues less bloody than his opponent but it was clear even he was struggling to stand, swaying under the weight of the rain and his ruined armor. The weight of the losses of the men who had fought for him. Ser Duncan glances up once, a flash of aquamarine through the steel window, locking onto the prince with intensity before being ripped away.
Baelor murmurs instructions to his attendants before sweeping away from the pitiful excuse for a trial. Aerion was lucky to keep the teeth he did, as well as his foolish head. Ser Duncan was more honorable than even Lord Baelor had credited him, seeming to contain more restraint than most would have for his nephew’s vicious tongue. More patience than Baelor had ever had at least. He wasn’t a patient man but more of a coward, overly familiar with wanting things he couldn’t bring himself to ask for. He saw what could happen to people with his blood when they were never told “no”. He must exercise restraint in all aspects.
Baelor agonized over his words to his attending earlier, for a bath and a girl to be brought to his good knight. Something to relax him after such a showing, in hopes to convey how much appreciation Baelor possessed for his knight, his man, as Duncan had so earnestly put himself, before he was being whisked away by servants. Ser Duncan’s words left a lump in his throat that wine would not wash away.
Baelor had arranged whatever he could think of to repay the boy, the man, Baelor righted himself. The biggest bathtub the castle could manage and bed to match, a warm hearth. A woman, if he would have it. Baelor had a strange twinge in his gut at the thought he would refuse, and an even stronger twist of his gut at the thought that he would accept her. He must not spend time on such foolish thoughts. His family had already created a big enough mess for him to clean up without involving his good hedge knight any further.
Baelor had no choice to be further involved, however, when a soft apologetic knock came at his chambers later, after he had been sitting at his desk long enough for his neck to ache and for the candle lighting his papers to burn down to almost nothing. The servant looked white in the face and terrified as they bowed.
“Apologies my lord, I hope not to disturb you. Ser Duncan insisted on a meeting with Your Grace whenever it would please. The Ser was quite insistent on it, after sending away the wine and maiden.” The last sentence was almost whispered, like he was unsure if it should be said, and Baelor took pity on the boy. He simply nodded, stretching his back after sitting in the chair for so long and getting so little done.
His mind wandered back to the trial incessantly, Ser Duncan’s face as he held the snake by his foot. His blue eyes piercing him afterward in the castle, while the maester checked him over and the attendants removed his steel armor pieces. The bruises, purple already, along his hips and shoulders, no doubt work of his nephew’s spiked flail, dark against his lightly freckled skin.
Before they had whisked Ser Duncan away, he had grasped Baelor’s smaller hands within his own, warm against his cold skin. “I’m your man.” He had said it once and then over again, like he was telling himself too. Duncan had a wild look in his eyes, the blue of his eye shining out like a sapphire in the mud that covered his handsome face. Baelor felt frozen to the spot, not shocked at the impropriety of Duncan holding his hands so tightly between his own but with the sincerity of his tone, his pleading expression.
Baelor finds it difficult to trust anyone outside of his own son, his late wife. His brother, sometimes. No one else, though Egg was growing on him. Yet still, he believed Ser Duncan’s heart with the same ferocity he saw reflected back at him in the man’s light eyes. There was no doubt about how his knight felt about the prince, the future king of the realm, now stood before each other as the subject of his thoughts ducks under the doorway.
Ser Duncan was kneeling, well before the servant could get the door closed and he had to stand again, head bowed, until he could shuffle to the left enough to drop back down to his knees, heavily. Baelor winces before he can help it, walks over to place his hand on his large shoulder like a needle spinning on a compass, finally pointed north.
They were almost the same height as he knelt, Ser Duncan just a few inches shorter than him for the first time in the short while they’ve known the other. It suits him, makes him look less worried from this angle, more peaceful. Baelor resists the strange urge to pet his straw blonde hair down, still dark and wet from his bath. He squeezes his shoulder instead, feels the muscle under his slightly damp tunic. His hair smells of peaches and rosemary, almost equally pleasant as the scent of grass that Duncan usually bore. He smelled exactly like sunshine, sometimes. Baelor shakes his head to clear it, wondering if he stared at that candle on his desk long enough to damage his brain.
“I heard some of the gifts I arranged were not up to your likings, Ser.” Baelor just manages not to smile, falsely stern until, to his surprise, Duncan wilts beneath him, sputtering immediately.
“Oh no, Ser, I mean Your Lord, My Lord, I-” He looks panicked and Baelor can’t stop the laugh that escapes, puts his other hand on Duncan’s free shoulder. He calms immediately, like a well behaved animal. Baelor does not dwell on that.
“I know, Ser Duncan. I jest. I just wanted to thank you for what you did today.”
“For you, Ser.” Duncan covers his eyes in frustration with one large hand. “My Grace.” He corrects himself, sounding strained, tired even. “I did it for you, of course.”
Duncan says the last part to the floor beneath them, and Baelor feels devastated at that, for some odd reason. Another person who can’t even look him in the eye. Another person indebted to him. He hesitates, then madness overtakes him as he sits down upon Duncan’s legs, perched on his large thighs. Baelor’s hands move from his shoulders to his strong neck, pulling Ser Duncan's face up gently to look at him, closer than they’ve ever been. Closer than Baelor has been to another person in months. Years.
“Ser Duncan?” He asks, voice soft, not waiting for a reply. “I am just Baelor, Ser. In here. I am too tired to be anything but Baelor at the moment. I hope you will understand me.” Duncan nods before he can finish, hands that were frozen in shock as Baelor sat were now moving, resting on his sides hesitantly.
“As you wish.” His knight whispers, big hands tightening around him, eyes wide and earnest. Baelor decides to pretend this is a normal thing for him to do, let alone for a prince to do. He couldn’t be bothered to care too much about appearances with just the two of them in the room. With Duncan smelling so good, his body so warm and solid beneath him.
“So, not your type?” Duncan’s hands press into Baelor’s hips sharply without thought, panic then confusion passing over his broad face. “Ser? Er, Baelor?” The name sounded new in his mouth, words not quite sliding together right, and it sent a sharp thrill down his spine for some stupid reason.
“The girl I sent?” He clears his throat, suddenly not as interested in his knight’s answer as he thought he would be, standing with a heavy hand on Duncan’s shoulder to pour them both some wine. To hide his face, depending on Duncan’s reply. He is silent as long as it takes to fill the two ornate glasses, room quiet save for the crackling fire and their breathing.
”No. I-” Duncan’s eyes search his face, and he wonders, a little desperately, if the knight likes what he sees. If he sees the same tired old prince that Baelor does in the mirror. Dunk’s bright eyes seem to decide something as Baelor pushes the glass into his hand, sitting next to him on the plush couch, a respectable distance apart.
“I could not. I would not.” Duncan says this forcefully into his wine glass before taking a long drink. He sounds as tired as Baelor feels, the feather bed behind Duncan’s large frame looking almost as inviting as the man in front of it.
“And why is that, Duncan?” His head whips over to Baelor at the lack of formality between them, the lack of space. Duncan slowly sets his glass on the polished wood floor, eyes not leaving his face. Baelor can feel heat rise on the back of his neck, his stuffy princely garb feeling suffocating against his neck, his warm chest.
‘I do not wish to embarrass myself.” Duncan whispers, hand clutched around the couch cushion like it’s anchoring him to the earth. His muscular neck was as red as the velvet pillows.
“You have not. You could not.” Baelor matches his whispered tone, traitorous hand reaching out to grip his own, still clawed between their bodies, relaxing at his touch.
This seems to break something within Duncan, the first touch passed between them since Duncan held him briefly after the trial, blood and mud and rain mixing on his face. His insistence at whom he belonged to.
Baelor leans in close, mouth just about to brush the skin of his ear, his golden blonde hair tickling at his beard. He realizes his hand has crept up to hold his neck, his cold metal rings pressing into the warm skin there. He can feel him swallow.
“Are you mine, Duncan? Is that why?” Duncan nods as the words leave his slick mouth. He knows his own eyes are dark, save for their matching blues, his face betraying his want in ways his mouth will apparently now allow.
Duncan seems frozen in stone, tenser than he looked upon his tall horse in the jousting field, tenser than he even had in the castle dungeons. His jaw is clenched so tightly Baelor worries he will break his beautiful teeth, his own hand coming up to soothe the tight muscles of his handsome face to prevent this.
It seems to strike him like lightning in a storm, roaring up within him until Baelor is suddenly flipped under his giant frame, Duncan’s calloused hands cradling the back of his head from hitting the arm of the couch, his own legs wrapping around Duncan’s hips without thought.
The knight looked even larger like this, his face hovering above Baelor’s own, an unsure expression crawling back on his face until Baelor tightens his legs around his middle, winding his hands around his broad shoulders, brushing up and down skin on his arms to soothe the wild expression in his eyes.
Baelor realizes Duncan will not make a move further until he allows it, he might not even know how to proceed in his innocence and naivety. The thought does not thrill him but flares up a feeling of possessiveness so strong it nearly knocks him down, the desire to protect this perfect beautiful thing. The goodness of the man above him was not found easily in their treacherous world.
He surges up to meet their lips at last, finding Duncan waiting for him with bated breath and still lips until Baelor bites him gently, just on the edge of his fat bottom lip. Duncan tightens his grip on his robes until they are pinning Baelor in place, his mouth alive with his kisses, his powerful mouth working along his jaw, his neck.
Baelor realizes Duncan is sucking a bruise into his skin just a few seconds too late, his elegant hands tightening in his golden hair hard enough for Duncan to whine and for his hips to kick against Baelor’s body, sending sparks through them both. “Baelor, Baelor.” His name had never sounded better than around Duncan’s lips, almost a plea, the newness of the syllables replaced with want.
“Duncan.” He emphasizes the name with a tug of his hair, almost fully dry now, silky between his fingers. Duncan moans loudly like he can’t help it and Baelor pulls even tighter like he can’t help it either. “Bed.” Before he has the chance to pull again, Duncan is lifting them both up, hands gripping his ass through the absurd amount of layers he was wearing, depositing him on the bed as if he were a sack of flour and not the future ruler of the realm. Baelor’s heart hurt with how much he wanted the man staring down at him, with eyes as dark as he had ever seen them.
Duncan just stares, standing still like he’s afraid Baelor will stop undressing if he moves. When he reaches the part of his disrobing that usually involves one of his attendants, he feels like blush creep up his neck, a brand new feeling of embarrassment clouding his face. This spurs Dunk into action, dropping down to his knees once more to unbuckle the prince’s boots and trousers, unwind his robes carefully and methodically, like he is something precious. The lump is back in his throat, finally indulging in his earlier want of threading his fingers through Duncan’s golden hair, scratching his fingertips up and down his scalp, then around in circles.
Duncan has stopped his assistance in undressing the prince in favor of pressing his forehead against his now bare hip, the hands in his hair pausing briefly before continuing in their ministrations. He feels like he’s going to combust out of his body already, just by pressing his face into Baelor’s lap, kneeling at his feet. He had dreams like this ever since he met the man, ones you couldn’t torture out of him. Ones he had to sit in the cold creek for a long after, hard in the cold morning air. Until he could control himself again, push the images of the bearded prince out of his mind.
He realizes he has started to mouth against the prince’s hip, pressing his cheek against the steadily growing hardness in the man’s smallclothes. It sent a thrill down his stomach so intense he had to moan, muffled into his lap. His hands are crawling up the back of his shorts, big fingers massaging the tense muscles, running his fingertips over the hair on his surprisingly muscular thighs.
Baelor has his head tipped back onto his neck above Duncan, long muscles in his throat working as he swallows heavily. He hasn’t looked down yet and that annoys Duncan for some petulant reason, the same reason that makes him pull down the drawstring of his shorts and close his big hand around the base of his prince’s cock, desire shooting up his stomach as Baelor groans above him. His hands move from Duncan’s hair to the back of his neck, the side of his face. Just holding him pressed there against his hardness. It was easily the hottest thing that had ever happened to Dunk, not that there was much to beat.
In fact, this was the only interaction he had ever had of the nature, the closest other being the whore he had turned down with his heart in his mouth not an hour before. He was almost angry at Baelor when he realized what she was getting at, staring at him with bored eyes in his fragrant and ridiculous bath, naked and vulnerable from the beating he had taken in his Lord’s honor. And now, this “gift”. Was he the kind of knight that Lord Baelor believed to behave in such a way? Maybe he was, Dunk thinks, mouthing down the same Lord’s cock.
Baelor is gripping his hair again and ripping him away far too soon, right as Duncan had begun to get the hang of it, slipping his lips down the head of his cock without his teeth, breath coming fast through his nose. He could easily finish in his own smallclothes like this, hips moving against the side of the bed, almost against his will. If he thought about it for another second he certainly would, and the thought of disappointing his prince stops him just barely.
Duncan crawls back up the bed into Baelor’s bare arms, his chest as hairy and neatly trimmed as his beard. He smells of cinnamon. Duncan could fall asleep like this, he thinks, head against his soft chest. If he didn’t want to come so badly, he could die like this and be happy. Baelor seems to echo the sentiment, rubbing against Duncan’s hard member pressed between them. He felt big, big in a way that dried the mouth of the prince. He had never desired someone like this, not since his beautiful late wife. It felt like it was going to consume him. It was hard to look at him.
Duncan solved this problem by crawling down his body, mouthing at the head of Baelor’s cock again as he dragged his own against the bed. That wouldn’t do, Baelor thought, dragging the man's hips closer to his face. Baelor hesitantly rubs against his overly large member and Duncan groans like he’s been shot with an arrow, hips stuttering. “Behave.” Dunk grunts out, sounding distracted, hot wet mouth closing back over Baelor’s cockhead. He can barely think, just grips Duncan through his ill-fitting smallclothes until he can’t take it anymore and his hips buck up to fuck down his knight’s throat.
Baelor comes like that, hand fisted in Duncan’s hair, sure that he would pass out if Duncan didn’t have such a tight grip on his ass, fingers just brushing over his hole. His hips jerk so hard it actually hurts, tipping himself away as Duncan jerks in his grip, pulsing. Baelor just manages to fit his lips over the tip of his large cock before Duncan is exploding in his mouth, whining so pathetically Baelor has to reach out and soothe him, put his fingers in his big mouth. Duncan sucks on them gratefully, hips still jerking against Baelor’s face, covering him in what he didn't manage to swallow. Baelor has never felt more triumphant in his life, never felt more peaceful and normal and whole, until he sees the expression on Dunk’s face.
He looks crestfallen, big blue eyes filled with tears threatening to fall, staring down at his hands. At their bodies, still wrapped around each other. “I-” He starts, and Baelor cuts him off immediately. “If you are about to apologize, Duncan, I will be displeased with you. You have made me very happy, but please, if I have done anything to make you feel differently, you must tell me.” Baelor says the last part softly, hand brushing against Dunk's high cheekbone, eyes still unmet.
“I am very pleased, of course, I just don’t believe a prince should be with someone like-”
“You are mine, my Duncan. Unless you did not mean what you vowed.” Duncan looks at him gravely, mouth a flat line. Shakes his head dismissively, as if the idea of lying to Baelor was ridiculous in itself.
“If you are mine as you say, you should leave what is decided that princes should do up to me. You are mine, as much as I am yours, Dunk.” Baelor’s voice cracks on the nickname a bit, not very princely at all, and it finally makes Duncan’s face break, grin splitting him wide open. Baelor wants to kiss him, and so he does. His knight, and his prince. He could die here too, happily.