Archive of Our Own

Raymun Fossoway seemed like a good man from what little Dunk knew about him. His jokes, while poking fun at Dunk, did make him feel a bit more at home. It had been a long time since he’d had a friend his own age. So when he suggested getting supper, he had thought he would have no complaints to raise; that was until Raymun moved towards the Baratheon tent.

Supper was supper, though, so he entered despite his hesitation.

By the time he had sat down at a table, he already felt out of his depth. While he had been to many tourneys in his time as a squire, he had never ventured into a tent like this before. He thought that any moment someone would turn to him and cry, “Why, you’re just a hedge knight! What are you doing here?” It seemed, to him at least, that everything about him, from his clothes to his hands, practically screamed to everyone who saw him that he was just a man from Fleabottom, nothing more. It caused him to shrink into himself, trying to avoid any lingering gazes.

He heard a man laughing and turned towards the front of the room. There, behind a long table filled with the most extravagant food Dunk had ever seen, was a man in a Stag’s crown.

“Lyonel Baratheon.” Raymun started, pouring him a drink. “The laughing storm they call him.”

“I thought he’d be bigger.”

It sounded like a joke, and he heard Raymun laugh, but it was true. Not only were Baratheons said to be large men, fighters, but Dunk had never been this close to someone so important. This was a Baratheon, a literal lord, and he was just sitting across the room from him, eating and drinking the same way he would. It gave him the smallest glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, these men of legend were made of the same flesh and bone that he was.

As the minutes passed, the party grew to a fever pitch of dancing. Dunk circled the pavilion, trying to stay at the edge of the crowd and avoid being noticed. Of course, it was a fruitless effort when his head was a good foot above everyone else around him. 

He looked up, food in hand, to see Ser Lyonel staring him down. He realized that he hadn’t brought anything to offer to the lord, and even worse, he hadn’t gone to introduce himself when he had arrived. So when a man next to Ser Lyonel waved him over, he felt his heart sink a little in his chest. 

Ser Lyonel did not look at him as he approached. Dunk shifted nervously in front of him and his men, fidgeting with the pastry in his hand. He kept his gaze shifting around the room, unsure where to rest his eyes.

“You’ve ever been punched in the face before?”

He suddenly looked up at the man in front of him, confused, “I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?” The other knight met his eyes head-on, challenging and bored at the same time. The gray of his beard was the first thing that Dunk noticed. It twisted like vines of history itself around the blackened cobblestone of his hair. It didn’t make him look old though, rather more lived in than most. He thought it looked rather becoming on him.

“Big men get punched in the face more than little men. Did you know that?” 

Dunk had forgotten that they were having a conversation at all. The man was rather enthralling. The way he held himself, the knife still moving gently in his hands. Despite what looked like boredom in the very arch of his brow, Dunk could feel the weight of his gaze, the way he sized him up and shrunk him down in the same dip of his lashes. He laughed nervously, “No, but I believe it.”

“That why you slouch? So you don’t get punched?”

“I don’t slouch.”

“Oh…” the lord practically purred. He smiled like a cat with a mouse between its claws, sharp and snide and satisfied. “You’ve been cowering all evening like a maiden on her wedding night.” 

That comment made him blush like a maiden too. The only thing covering the shame of his burning red ears was the kindness of candlelight. “I meant no disrespect— ser, honest,” he stuttered out, “Where I grew up, you learn to go unnoticed, is all.”

For the first time, Ser Lyonel stopped playing with the knife in his hands, instead turning it upwards towards the heavens. “The seven above gave you tallness. So, be tall.” He smiled for a moment, seemingly pleased with himself. “Or I will name you a heretic and burn you. Drown you. Drop you off a tall pl–” He paused, seeming to grow bored of Dunk again, “What do we do to heretics?”

“Burn them, my lord,” chimed another man.

“Fine.” He dropped his knife on the table, annoyance seeping through his tone, “What have you brought me?”

Shit.

“Ser, I– I beggin’ your pardons. I didn’t realize.”

And somehow, that nervous stutter of an apology got the man to sit a little more upright in his chair, interest bubbling over his every move, despite his previous apathy. “You wish to curry my favor some. Yet you come with an empty hand?”

Dunk nodded slowly.

“Lord Cafferen, the smug cunt in red.” He pointed to a man dancing a few yards away. “He is scarce to pay his rent. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinied up this bauble from his family’s cellars, for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head… You’ve come for my head, then.”

His eyes shot open, “What? No! No.”

“Then why the fuck are you in my tent?”

“Supper,” he said after a long pause, raising his pastry nervously as if to prove a point.

Ser Lyonel blinked at him for a moment, something like wonder in his gaze. He laughed, and at that moment, he understood why the man was given his name. Dunk wasn’t sure if it was a laugh at his own expense, but he would take the joke all the same. “Alright. Actually makes sense.”

“Supper.”

“What is your name, man?”

“Dunk– Ser Dunk.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Dunk looked down, feeling the red of his ears swim down his neck. But before he could come up with an excuse to walk away, the man was leaning forward, pulling Dunk into his orbit, like a man with a secret to tell. “Do you like dancing?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

The band began playing a jaunty little song, one that Dunk had never heard before. He tried to fit in, his elbows pressed out and his feet stomping to the beat. Soon enough a woman was swinging into his arms, and without a second thought he followed her spinning lead. But before he could adjust to the woman’s arm in his, she was swaying away just as quickly as she had arrived. Another woman took her place, and soon another and another.

He had lost track of Ser Lyonel, too dizzy to focus on anything but his own feet. That was until the man had planted himself in front of Dunk, headstrong as a Baratheon might be. He barely raised his head to meet Dunk’s confused gaze, his own shoulders slumped as they had been for so long. Lyonel—Ser Lyonel, he tried to remind himself, this was a knight, not a friend— stared at him, working his jaw. 

Dunk followed the movement, entranced by the gray curling into black. When reality came pouring in, a split second far too late, he knew he’d likely been caught. Within the other man’s eyes was the hunger of a predator, an animal sizing up his prey. He felt his eyes slide over his shoulders, his neck, his feet, his hands. He was almost dizzy with the sudden need for him to stare at his face with the same intensity, down the arch of his nose and the curve of his lips. 

Suddenly, he came crashing down from his love-drunk gaze when Lyonel’s foot stomped onto Dunk’s. The confusion within him transformed as quickly to rage as the pain shot up his body. And there across from him were Lyonel’s manic eyes. He stomped his feet to the ground again, but he wasn’t quick enough. He tried again, and again, and again. But Dunk was just out of reach. They swung around each other in a violent imitation of a dance, Lyonel leading with the stomp of the beat and Dunk sliding just before his foot could crash into the ground.

Finally, he saw his chance. He slammed his foot down into the other man’s boot before realizing, in very sudden fashion, that he had just stomped on a lord’s toes. Lyonel bent over in pain, likely cradling his foot in his hands. But Dunk couldn’t see or hear anything over the hammering war drums of his heart and the voice in his head screaming STUPID! STUPID! STUPID!

But as the horror of his own death’s imminent arrival began to seep into his bones, he felt the man rise again. He moved slowly, his gaze never leaving Dunk’s own. But rather than rage behind his dark eyes there was a manic sort of glee. He grinned like he had at the table, sharp and full of hunger. His grin was quickly becoming heavy and addictive.

If Dunk hadn’t been drinking the man in like ale after a journey gone too long, he might not have noticed the devilish wink he gave him. Though if he was being completely honest with himself, it would have been easier to see if he could look away from the man’s tongue as it dipped out of his mouth. His eyes traced the line of its path, from his lips up to his shiny white teeth. He felt like a maid at her wedding feast, desperate to be dragged out of the dancing and cheers in favor of being stripped and ravished within her husband’s loving arms.

He felt that heat rise up his chest, embarrassment melting with want in ruby shades of red. He playfully pushed Lyonel away from him. Any longer under his gaze and Ser Dunk might crack like a walnut in his grasp. They began to dance around each other again, this time without the violent undertones with each reaching step. They fell into step with each other like they’d been doing it all their lives. 

By the end of the night, Dunk was being pulled into another Baratheon tent, except this one was by a Baratheon himself, and they just so happened to be his chambers. He felt perfectly drunk, the sway of his hands as they lay by his side, the warmth in his head blushing pink against his ears and cheeks in rosy splotches, the strange softness of his thoughts for the first time in a very long while. 

Maybe if he’d been less drunk, he would have recognized that these feelings were not all from expensive wine or mead, but he couldn’t taste his yearning past the sweetness of blackberries on his tongue.

“I am so glad that you decided to join me. I am so bloody sick of the dregs of society. I need some wine.” Lyonel held the tent flap up higher so that Dunk wouldn’t have to lower his head much more than he normally would with the heavy crown upon his head. 

Dunk laughed, the crown nearly falling off him as he bent down to enter, “I wouldn’t call lords the dregs of society, and did you not have wine before?”

“You say that, Ser Dunk, but deal with as many lords as I do and you begin to resent the bloody cunts.” He led Dunk to a plush bed, covered in soft furs and yellow silk, urging him to sit.

It was the softest thing he had ever seen, so he fell into it with ease. He ran his palms over a large wolf pelt, feeling the fur glide between his fingertips like wheat in a field. When he looked up, he found Lyonel in front of him, absentmindedly adjusting the crown gracing Dunk’s temples with even softer fingers. He never touched his face, merely the antlers atop the crown, and the absence burned him like hot coals. 

“Are you not a lord?” He heard himself saying softly, still distracted by the man’s closeness. If he focused, he could hear the catch of his breath before every exhale. 

“Ahh, that I am.” He moved away from the knight, turning towards a small table with a pitcher on it, presumably to pour some wine for them. He laughed softly, nothing like the maniacal thing he had introduced himself with when Dunk had first entered the tent. “But as a lord, I can say with full certainty that all of them are arrogant assholes, every one a damn lunatic.” He winked, returning with just one goblet full of wine instead of two.

“I don’t believe that to be true. I think you’re quite kind.”

“Oh, aren’t you just the sweetest knight in all the seven kingdoms?” Lyonel was right in front of him again, the goblet hanging from his fingers at his side, but Dunk couldn’t see anything beyond the face of the gorgeous man standing over him. He was spellbound by the look in his eyes as he patted Dunk’s cheek softly. “Open your mouth for me.”

“Wh– What?”

He patted his cheek again, this time a little harder. “I said open your mouth for me, darling. Quickly now.” His fingers splayed out on the side of Dunk’s face, thumb moving softly up and down as he stared at the knight, that animalistic look in his eyes again. This time it was hazy with affection.

Dunk never stood a chance. Not when he was being taken in like a beautiful painting, a masterpiece, and not when he was being devoured like a beggar’s last meal before hanging. His mouth opened softly, still a little nervous despite the soothing nature of their shared touch.

“What an obedient little thing. Thank you, my dear.” Lyonel’s hand moved to cup the back of his neck, his thumb softly tilting his head back from under his jaw. Dunk’s eyes never left his; instead, his lashes began to flutter from the heady feeling the man was giving him. He could barely keep his eyes open with the warmth of his hands and the way his fingertips brushed against his hair in little drags. He was lucky he wasn’t dead from all the attention, but he would be dead and damned before he looked away from Lyonel’s hungry eyes.

He brought the goblet of wine to Dunk’s lips, pouring the drink into his mouth as his thumb felt the edges of his neck. He could feel him swallow, feel the bob of his throat through the very ridges of his fingertips. The idea of that seemed to excite Lyonel. His tongue stuck out of his mouth, licking his lips as he traced something with his eyes. 

He drank whatever was left in the goblet before throwing it somewhere behind him, his newly free hand resting at the base of Dunk’s neck, by his collarbones. “Oh, pet, I think you missed some,” was all the warning Dunk got before he felt a wet tongue glide up his neck all the way to the corner of his mouth. “Gods above, I’m partial to keeping you in yellow, but I cannot deny the red of your cheeks is more tempting than the most skilled whore in Westeros.”

Dunk audibly squeaked, a sound he had never heard come out of his mouth before that moment. He quickly tried to cover it up, stuttering out an almost pleading noise before deciding to keep his mouth closed for the foreseeable future. If he had been blushing red before, he must have looked like a wildfire had swept through his veins by now. 

Lyonel moved his head however he pleased, careful not to knock the crown off of him. “Don’t be embarrassed, my little doe, or, if you prefer, you can keep that embarrassment, whatever means will keep your cheeks so pretty and red. You were blushing from the very moment I saw you.”

“I was not,” he huffed.

“Yes, you were. By the time you were in front of me, you were as flustered as a maiden on her marital bed.” He paused, his eyes flickering down to Dunk’s lips before rising back up again just as slowly. Everything he did felt like torture, pure fucking with his head. Every inch between them could be felt like they were measured by his own arms, each electric touch they shared struck lightning up his spine until he was nothing but a body made of light and a head full of cotton. He wanted to crash into Lyonel like a ship so desperate for land that any hearth would burn the same as home’s.

It was odd, in a sense, knowing he was being toyed with. He’d lived much of his life hating the feeling that others knew something he didn’t, and even more so the feeling of being mocked, and he’d faced both in great abundance. But the same words said in Lyonel’s rough voice didn’t feel like cruelty, or, well, it did feel like cruelty, but in a way that was positively addicting. The way he kept his hand buried at the nape of his neck, fingers squeezing here and there, the way that the tension between them lay thicker than mud, the heat scorching and simmering all at once. The thing that tortured him most of all, that ripped him apart in the most delicious way, was the way he spoke to him like some kind of pure maiden or pet, like he was something special and small. He’d never been allowed to be small. Even in Fleabottom, when you’re young, you aim to be taller and stronger, but once he got taller, he yearned to sink into his old stature.

Lyonel knew that Dunk would never move first, couldn’t move first for fear of being wrong, so all he could do was squirm under his warm touch and hungry eyes. 

“Milord–”

He watched as the man’s eyes darkened, his pupils blown wide. “Oh, so I am your lord now, am I? Your—”

Dunk shifted on the bed, eyes wide and wanting as he stared up at the other man (now that was a first, a first that he quite liked.) “Please, milord.”

“Oh.” A wide smile spread across Lyonel’s face, “Oh, little doe, I could have only hoped you’d beg for me.” For the first time in what felt like centuries, he moved closer, entering the space between Dunk’s legs that he wasn’t even aware he’d made for the lord. One hand finally grasped the hair on the back of his head, yanking it until he was forced to look up at the other man. The antlers on his head tumbled at the sudden movement, but neither seemed to be paying much attention to the crown.

Lyonel’s other hand moved back to Dunk’s jaw, his thumb brushing against his lip with touches just light enough to keep him yearning for it. Lyonel’s eyes traced the path of his fingers, mesmerized by the feeling. “Such a gorgeous thing you are. Don’t let my patience fool you; it is taking everything in me not to eat you alive. You’re just a sweet little thing looking up at me. Seven above, I want to ruin you.”

“Why don’t you?” The question seemed to surprise Dunk, but not Lyonel.

“Because I want you to beg. I know you can do it, my darling doe. You have it in you. You’ve been pleading with your eyes since the moment we entered this fucking tent.” He pulled Dunk’s hair a little tighter, his lips hovering just close enough to his that he could feel Lyonel’s warm breath break across his parted lips. His eyelashes fluttered and he could see the dark look in the lord’s eyes. “Beg for me all pretty like I know you can, my sweet doe.”

The noise that came out of Dunk was strangled and heady. He kept his eyes locked on Lyonel's, letting his mouth part enough for his thumb to graze his tongue. “Milord,” he panted, “Please, please. I need you to touch me, Ser. Pl—”

He could barely get another note out before Lyonel was crashing their lips together in a bruising kiss. His hand released Dunk’s hair, and he whined into the other man’s mouth, a cry to put it back, to move him as he pleased.

Lyonel could not seem to stop kissing him like he was dying of thirst. Every moment he came up for air, he was whispering out praises like it was a prayer to the mother herself. He’d gasp out something about perfection and pretty little thing before swallowing the noises Dunk couldn't stop from crawling out of his mouth. 

Finally, Lyonel lifted his head, taking in the whorish, love-drunk expression on the other man’s face. “Gods, you’re the picture of temptation. I’ve met mothers and maidens and crones, whores and midwives and queens, but none could ever be your equal. Not anywhere in Westeros could you find a maiden as wanting as you, as sweet and addictive. I could drink you like wine.” 

Dunk shivered under his touch, under the drag of his fingers against his rough tunic. “I am not a maiden,” was all he could find the words to say, and even they came out breathy and half-hearted.

“Why not? Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you tremble in my hands at the mere comparison. You could be my maiden.” His hand slid underneath Dunk’s tunic, fingers splaying out on his abdomen with feather-like softness. He shuttered at the movement, but Lyonel just continued, “But I warn you, I wouldn’t make it halfway through our wedding feast as your lord.” His hands continued their lazy movement, whispering into his neck, “the things I’d do to you —want to do to you— they’d burn me alive if they knew.”

Dunk used all the intelligence he had left in his head to string a sentence together, panting out, “Have we not just left our wedding feast?”

The Lord’s eyes lit up like the stars on a clear summer night. He loved the game they had suddenly stumbled into. “Ay, that we have, my little doe. How could I have forgotten?” He grabbed the crown from where it sat on his bed, “not when you looked so gorgeous in my things.” 

Dunk felt the crown being placed on his head; the heavy burden of leadership had never fallen upon his shoulders, but under the weight of the antlers that had held so many Baratheon minds, it dissipated into something closer to submission. Maybe that was the knight in him, the part of himself so hellbent on serving this man on his hands and knees, any way he would have him. He was useless to resist the drag of Lyonel’s hand on the antlers, pushing him into a kiss as his other hand cradled the back of his neck. 

“Will you let me, Dunk? Will you let me have you?” The use of his name felt so tender, so intimate and loving, he was already nodding before he finished the sentence.

“Let me hear you say it, love. Please. Please.” He sounded so desperate, but not in the way he had been before. This was not a man with a sadistic smile, an animal-like cruelty; this was a man who was begging to be wanted.

“Of course. Of course, you can have me.”

Lyonel kissed him one last time, this one slow and tender. He wanted to pour every ounce of thanks into that kiss, in each glide of his lips and swipe of his tongue he was writing sonnets of passion and sweetness, and Dunk could feel every word. 

Before he could process what was happening, Lyonel was sinking onto his knees, his hands tracing the tops of Dunk’s thighs. He shuddered, his legs shaking despite himself. “Come forward, my wife. Bloody perfect, and spread your legs too. Oh, what a good listener you are, just like that, darling.”

From his position on the floor he looked reverential. His eyes cast up with the devoutness of a priest, kneeling while he prayed to the altar of a mere hedge knight. Or maybe he was praying to the mother; it was their wedding night after all. 

Lyonel’s hands still exploring his legs, he asked, “Can I take these off of you?”

“Yes, ser.”

Dunk sat up a bit, helping Lyonel take off his trousers and smallclothes. When his dick was finally free from what felt like its eternal prison, he realized how strung up he had been feeling. In all of the sensations he had been experiencing, he had completely forgotten about anything but the man in front of him. But now that it was out in the open, it was all he could feel. He shifted nervously, his dick throbbing where it stood. 

He saw Lyonel grin one of his animalistic grins, his palms creeping up Dunk’s thighs once more. Without looking up, he said, “Take the shirt off, too.” It seemed the torturous part of the lord was returning, pushing Dunk’s hips forward, he sunk his teeth into the tender skin of his inner thigh. 

“Ah! What the hell was that for?” Dunk cried out, his hips moving up despite the pain shooting up his body. What he didn’t expect was for the pain to light his skin on fire, swirling around until it found his cock in blinding, scarlet sunbeams. His head felt like it was packed full of dirt, no room for any sensation but overwhelming, earthshattering desire.

Lyonel kept his head in between Dunk’s thighs, his eyes gleaming with mischief. He couldn’t see the shape of his lips, only the curve of his lashes and the ends of his beard. The way that the hairs seemed to dust against him was becoming a mead he’d could drown in. “What?” He could feel him smile from the brush of his beard.

“Why did you–” Before he could finish, the man’s teeth were already sinking into his skin, this time hard enough to draw blood. He felt himself shake at the feeling, trying to stifle the whines at the back of his throat. He didn’t understand why he felt this way, why the pain that he had experienced his whole life felt like pleasure when Lyonel did it, but he knew it was deeply wrong. 

“Aww, my little doe, don’t hide your pretty noises.” He licked the wound he had created, if it could even be called one. Barely a drop of blood beaded out, but Lyonel was quick to clean it up. He then licked over the bruise that he had made on the other leg, the sensitive skin burning under the rough drag of his tongue.

“I don’t– I don’t understand.”

“What’s not to understand?”

“It hurts.”

“Yes?”

“But–”

“But you like it…?” Dunk avoided Lyonel’s gaze completely, not noticing the wide smile that spread across his face, too busy with his own mortification to see anything more than an inch in front of him. “Oh, you love it, don’t you?”

Dunk stayed silent, eyes squeezed closed and ears burning like the eternal flame atop the Hightower.

“Look at you, my own blushing maiden on our wedding bed, and here I am embarrassing you. Forgive me, my doe, let me help. Do you like being in pain?”

“No… not normally. It hurts.” He felt rather dumb for even saying it out loud. 

“Do you like it when I hurt you, though?” Dunk breathed out shakily, leading Lyonel to sit up straighter and take hold of his hand. The lust was put behind them for a moment as he spoke to him softly, with the care and compassion of a lord to his wife, two lovers on their wedding night. “There is nothing wrong with that, Dunk. However you feel pleasure is how you feel pleasure.”

“But– it’s not natural.”

Lyonel laughed, “Nothing is bloody natural, but to tell you the truth, I enjoy hurting you as much as you enjoy the pain. That isn’t natural, if anything, it’s beyond fucking insane, but if you like it, and I like it, then who the fuck cares?”

“Then…” he thought about it for a moment, releasing all of the inner guilt and shame that had been building up within him like a boiling pot with a lid screwed on. “Then will you be… mean to me? And nice as well.” He added the last part as an afterthought, something that was pouring out of his lips before he could catch it. 

“I would do anything for you.” He smiled before going to kiss the budding greenish-blue bruises he had just made. He lifted Dunk’s leg, biting soft marks up the underside of his calves all the way to just above the back of his knee. Each bite was barely a scrape of teeth, something teasing to make him squirm. It was working. With his other hand, he pushed up Dunk’s tunic, accidentally brushing against his dick, causing him to whine. “I told you to take this off.”

Dunk had never done anything faster.

He was rewarded by the feeling of canines sinking into his thighs again, rough and mean and exactly what he wanted. The fact that he was completely bare and Lyonel was fully dressed only fanned the flames of his want; he felt like some common whore begging in the marketplace for anything the man would give him.

“Take your shirt off,” he pleaded, his eyes watering and hips bucking upwards from the pain of another bite, this time into the meat of his hip. “Please–” He felt like he’d swallowed enough wildfire to burn this town to ash in a matter of moments.

Lyonel barely paused his movements, working quickly to throw his shirt somewhere behind him. He had slowly moved Dunk onto his back, his hands creeping up his stomach until they reached his chest.

It was the first time Dunk had seen him fully since he’d journeyed in between his legs. His face was painted with obsession, his cheeks red and his mouth bitten raw from where he worked it in between his teeth. He smiled hungrily, tongue dipping out of his mouth to soothe the ache of his abused lip. His beard was completely askew, the white and black mixing in and out of each other like a newborn litter of kittens. His hair was splayed out in a curly mess, falling into his face as he looked at Dunk’s chest.

“I knew you’d have fucking phenomenal tits, seven above.” That got Dunk to practically lose his mind, whatever piece of it he had left. He couldn’t even stutter out a thank you before Lyonel’s calloused fingertips were brushing against his nipple, sending sparks all the way down his spine and straight to his dick. He needed to be touched more than he’d needed anything in his entire life; he’d give up being a knight if it meant that Lyonel’s hands would grab his dick for even a moment. But it seemed that he was intentionally avoiding any friction just to torment Dunk, just to torture him. He didn’t know if he wanted to let the torture continue or plead with the lord.

What he didn’t expect was for Lyonel to dip down and lick a broad stripe up his nipple, his hands kneading the flesh, nails dragging dully into his skin. He nearly came right then and there. 

Lyonel laughed, mean and cruel in a way that had Dunk trying to squirm into his touch like he could be saved by his skin alone. “Desperate little thing, you like your tits being played with? You’re about to cum just thinking about it, aren’t you? I should have known that a blushing maiden like you would be so desperate, so wanting.”

He nodded, eyes squeezed shut like it would save him from the tension rolling over him, crashing and falling like never-ending waves. 

“I bet no one has ever even touched you like this before. Tell me I’m your first, tell me you’ve never lain down like this before. I can’t imagine another man with his hands on something that’s mine, especially not something as gorgeous as your tits.” He twisted one of his nipples in his hand, scraping his teeth against the other in a soft drag.

“No, ser. Never. Not–” he couldn’t prevent the moan that he gasped out as Lyonel began to worship his chest like a false god. “You’re the first.”

“And I shall be the last.” He picked himself up, hand finally falling to Dunk’s dick. The moment he wrapped his fingers around it, he felt himself deflate, like his body had been given its birthright. Lyonel began to work his hand up and down, just feeling the weight of him. His eyes shot up to Dunk, watching him for a moment before practically purring, “Such a pretty little clit you have.” That sentence alone got Dunk to buck his hips up into his hand, his heart hammering in his chest like a war drum. 

“I thought you might like that, my little doe.” Lyonel’s hips shifted against Dunk’s leg, and he felt the shape of his dick drag against him. He was rock hard, and everything inside of him wanted to feel him, see him, touch him. 

“Lyonel–”

He was busy kissing up his ribcage, beard scratching up his sides. “Yes, my love?”

“Can I…” he suddenly felt embarrassed, but he was far too desperate to stay quiet, “Can I put you in my mouth?”

Lyonel jumped up suddenly, his eyes practically ablaze as his feet landed on the rugs of his tent with a loud stomp. “Fucking please. Come here.” Dunk’s limbs felt heavy; every movement felt like a mighty weight was laid across him, but never in his life had he moved faster. He was stumbling in front of his lord in a matter of seconds, nearly falling over from his hurrying.

“Kneel.” His knees dropped from under him, and he was staring heavy-eyed up at him from the floor, eyes (hopefully) parallel with his cock. Dunk couldn’t see past the yellow kilt he wore, but he nuzzled his face into the man until he found what he was looking for. He began to mouth at his dick through the fabric, sloppy and wet just for the sake of it.

“Excited, are we?” Dunk nodded at the words, desperate to feel anything the lord would give him. “Hold on, my little doe.”

He felt so small, so easy to mold in Lyonel’s hands. It was better to be tall when it came to knighthood, and despite Lyonel’s belief that the seven above gave him tallness for a reason, he had yearned for a moment where he wasn’t looked to as a strong, towering figure. He wanted to be moveable, thrown around, picked up, sat back down again, told what to do, and told he did it well. He wished to be treated like he was special, that his body was worth more than a weapon to hurt. He wanted to be loved and wanted it so much that it nearly ripped him in half from the feeling.

And as he knelt in front of the lord, his eyes closed in pure delight at the warmth radiating from the other man, he felt all of those things at once. The love that poured out of Lyonel’s every movement, the pain and the pleasure, had Dunk begging for more. He was gracious enough to play with his hair before adjusting the crown on his head again. 

When looking up with heavy eyes at the Baratheon lord, the man he hoped he would spend the rest of his life serving as a knight, he felt small and weak. Lyonel had made him into someone he could take care of, and he hadn’t realized how badly he’d wanted that until it was so close to his face that it was scratching behind his ears like some sort of overexcited dog.

Lyonel finally pulled off his kilt and underclothes in one swift movement, his dick springing up from where it had been confined for so long. Dunk felt his mouth water just at the sight of him. He was big, bigger than he’d expected. His head felt like it was foggy again, no thoughts passing through him but guttural want, want, want. He’d never wanted something in his mouth more in his entire life; no mead or beef or pastry could even come close to the feeling of hunger he felt in that moment. 

Dunk looked up at him, pleading with his eyes. Lyonel laughed, low and sweet and just a little cruel, “Go on.”

He forgot that he’d never even had sex before, let alone held another man in his mouth. He let his desire consume him so much that he’d forgotten he didn’t know what to do. He must have looked distressed because Lyonel was swiftly scratching underneath his chin, softly pushing his gaze up.

“It is okay, my innocent maiden, I will tell you what to do. No need to cry. Why don’t you hold it first? Can you do that?”

He moved to hold his cock in his hand, enjoying the hiss Lyonel gave from above him. He ran his fingers along every vein and curve that the seven had given him, gently tugging here and there. He looked up expectantly at Lyonel before noticing a bead of precum had formed at his tip. Dunk stared at it, blinking slowly as his thoughts traveled three horses behind him. 

“You can lick it, love.” He looked up to see Lyonel smiling softly at him, goofy and loving. “Go on now. You’ve got it, sweet doe.”

The words melted through him like a warm spring, releasing all of the tension he had been feeling until he was as loose as fallen rope. He tentatively licked the tip, tasting the precum on his tongue. It wasn’t bad. Honestly, it didn’t taste like anything at all. All apprehension he had felt quickly vanished and he was left with nothing but pure excitement and the need to please. He immediately leaned forward to put the tip in his mouth, looking up at Lyonel to make sure he wasn’t hurting him.

He was staring at Dunk with pure lovestruck awe, his eyes nearly falling closed just at the feeling of his dick finally being met with the warm wetness of his mouth. “You’re a natural, aren’t you, sweet girl?”

Dunk nodded absentmindedly, eyes slipping closed at the feeling of weight on his tongue and the perfect stretch of his lips around his lord. He wanted more, more of it all, so he slid farther down his length, slowly, so as not to choke. The more he had in his mouth, the more he fell in love with the sensation. He could feel nothing but the cloudy, thoughtless fog in his head and the stretch of his jaw.

He began to work his way up and down from where he had started, swiping the flat of his tongue against a vein each time he moved. Lyonel was making soft, punched-out sounds, his hands finding their way onto the Stag antlers gracing Dunk’s head. When his eyes softly fluttered open at the slightest bit of drag from the crown, he realized he hadn’t even made it halfway down his length. 

Staring up at Lyonel, he paused his movements. He looked disheveled, his hair as wild as waves on a windy evening, and his chest red and radiating warmth like a hearth in the winter. The hair that traveled up his abdomen all the way to his chest looked like roads Dunk wanted to trace with his tongue until he could make a map just from the memory. His hands gripping onto his own antlers, the ones that Dunk wore as if he were a stag himself, a Baratheon. And the very thing that stood for leadership, that proved the wearer an important man, could be used to fling Dunk however he pleased.

“Seven above, you really do have the eyes of a doe. Look at you, blinking up at me like that. What do you want, love? I will give it to you, anything you wish, just name it.” Dunk continued to blink up at him. If he had been able to think at that moment, he wouldn’t have known what to ask for. Maybe roughness, maybe softness, definitely more, more, more. But Lyonel seemed to understand the position he was in, cooing at him, “Do you want me to be rougher? Would you like that, little doe? Do you want me to be mean?”

Dunk nodded, his jaw beginning to ache in a dull, needy way.

“If it is too much, I want you to slap my leg a few times, hard. I don’t want to hurt you if you don’t enjoy it. Do you understand?” Again, Dunk nodded. “Do I have the freedom to do what  I wish?” Another nod, this time incredibly enthusiastic, “Oh darling, you might just kill me at this rate.”

Lyonel used the hold he had on the antlers to sink the rest of his length into Dunk’s waiting mouth. It was a hard hit, making his eyes water from the slamming movement. He could feel his cock slide down the length of his throat, preventing air from entering his lungs in a bruising press. He choked on almost every slide in, his throat spasming around Lyonel’s dick, which he seemed to love. He could feel each pull of skin as it slid across the roof of his mouth. 

Dunk wanted more.

Luckily, his lord wasn’t in the mood to deny him.

He continued to drag the knight back and forth by the antlers, giving him just a moment to breathe before slamming right back into his wet mouth. Dunk was practically sobbing at this point, the pain and pleasure mixing in a way that made him beyond dizzy. His jaw ached and his head spun, but being used like he was nothing but a common whore made Dunk feel like he was going to cum right then and there. His hips bucked up into nothing, tears streaming down his face as he whined and whined against the perfect weight in his mouth and the feeling of the man’s cock practically slamming into his brain.

“Such a pretty thing when you cry.” He allowed him to catch his breath for a moment, dragging his thumb across the tracks of tears falling down his cheeks. “So fair, so beautiful. Look up at me, darling.”

Dunk did as he was told, mouth hanging open with his tongue almost slipping out like a panting dog. Lyonel carefully closed his mouth, scratching the space in between his antlers. That had him practically preening, looking up at him dumbly. What he didn’t expect was to be met with a hard slap to the face. The initial strike felt like it always did when he had been slapped, but instead of a raw ache forming, all he felt was a delicious burn spreading through his cheeks until they melded with the red of his ears and the warmth of his thoughts. He nearly collapsed his head against Lyonel’s legs as he trembled beneath his soothing hands. The man was kissing his cheeks, reassuring him with soft circles of his fingertips and whispers of “bloody perfect” and “just gorgeous” and “so good for me” falling from his lips.

He whined again, tears streaming down his face as his cheek lay against his lord’s thigh. He could barely function, his hips searching for friction of their own volition. He felt like he had been drowning in milk of the poppy for the last hour and wasn’t considering coming up for air anytime soon.

Dunk couldn’t help but nuzzle into Lyonel, who was cooing at him again. He began to mouth at the side of his dick, his head still lying against him as his wet lashes fluttered against his cheeks.

“So needy and perfect. Let me take care of you, little doe. Let me lay you on our marital bed. You’ve suffered enough.” He helped Dunk raise himself on wobbly legs, like a young fawn just learning to walk. Soon enough, he was lying on the bed, his back sinking into the soft furs and satin sheets, the feathers within cushioning him in a way he hadn’t known possible.

Lyonel was kissing his knees again, tracing over the teeth marks he had left with his tongue before rising again. Terrified he was leaving, Dunk tried to call out to him, but the words just came out as a desperate, wordless little plea. 

He laughed sweetly from across the room, “Don’t worry, love, I will be back in a moment. Just sit there and look pretty.”

He found something on a shelf, crossing the room to stand between Dunk’s legs again, as they had when this all began. Lyonel leaned down, licking a line up the V of his hips. When he looked up, still positioned just an inch above his hips, he was smiling all sharp and insane.

If Dunk was nearly at his breaking point, he certainly wasn’t alone. Everything about the lord looked like he was doing everything in his power not to break the man in half, bend him over, fuck him hard and rough, and bite and suck so many bruises into every inch of his skin that anyone could see that he was Baratheon claimed. 

Lyonel had felt possessive over Dunk from the moment he saw him in his dining tent. He was obsessed with the way he carried himself, the strength hiding underneath his tunic, his monstrous height. He wanted to climb him like a tree. He wanted more than anything to break the man down and have him trembling and begging in his grasp. 

He didn’t want anyone near him. It made him sick to his stomach to imagine the man as anyone else’s knight. He would put him on his knees in front of his king’s guard, just to watch them sit in awe as Dunk fell apart in his hands, the way he would whine and moan and cry at the lightest touch and the meanest twinge of pain. He was almost certain Dunk would love it just as much as him, love the humiliation and the claim of being used in front of men he would lead. To know that their head knight, the one who could destroy each and every one of them with his own hands, was just a whorish little doe begging to be touched by his lord. 

“Would you like me to fuck you, darling? Would you like that?”

Dunk nodded so quickly, his eyes squeezed shut as the other man began to leave feather-light touches against his dick. 

“Need to hear you say it.”

He whined, unable to string the words together, but Lyonel was already two steps ahead, slapping him harshly. That got Dunk to cry out, back arching against the bed without thought. His dick was leaking precum all over the place; he was surprised he hadn’t cum at the second Lyonel hit him.

“I told you to speak, slut. So speak.”

Dunk blinked, the sound of the man’s voice like a siren in his thoughts, honey to his senses. His head was so foggy, he tried desperately to piece together anything that would count as a sentence. “Please, ser… our—” He was gifted with a hand sliding down his dick, causing him to cry out.

“Keep going.”

“I— our– it is our wedding night.”

“That it is, my doe.”

“Then we must make heirs.” The sentence was pouring out of his mouth before he could even think about what he was saying, before embarrassment could overrun the guttural want twisting within his belly.

He feared that Lyonel would turn him away, but instead the lord began to murmur out praises into his skin. “Gods above, you’re perfect. Yes, yes, I’ll breed you, my wife. I’ll give you an heir, as many as you’d like.” He kissed up his stomach, desire and excitement mixing into a beautiful new shade on his face. “I’ll make sure it sticks, don’t you worry, my doe. You will be pregnant by the morrow once I am done with you.”

His manic smile was Dunk’s favorite expression, the one that lit up his body like nothing else. He throbbed in Lyonel’s hand, who gave him one squeeze before releasing him entirely. The torture he was being given, the waiting he was forced to withstand, was so bitter and so sweet in the same breath. He loved and hated it all at once, practically begging him to put it back while his head still spun from the denial alone. The way Lyonel played with him was like the knife in his hands when they’d first met tonight, relaxed while playing with pain like it was his alone to control. He yanked Dunk down full force, till he had his ass nearly hanging off the bed.

“This is going to burn a bit love, but I promise it won’t last long.”

Dunk felt a slick finger begin to trace shapes against his asshole, the feeling causing him to clench out of second nature. His finger barely worked in and out of him, not even a full fingertip pressing in before sliding back out. Lyonel laughed a little breathlessly, staring down at the way Dunk fluttered just at the glide of oil against him, the way his body began to move into the feeling with stuttering gasps of pleasure.

“Gods, you’re beautiful, with a perfect fucking cunt to match.” That got his hips to buck up just slightly, Lyonel meeting him on the fall with a hard press of his other hand, forcefully keeping Dunk flush with the bed. “I know you’re excited, little doe, but you really must stay still if I am to take your maidenhead.”

“I will, milord.”

“I know you will. You’re so obedient.” He pressed a kiss against Dunk’s hip, waiting until he breathed out softly to barely slip his finger in. The oil made it a smooth glide, and Dunk’s body seemed to accept the finger with little to no issue. It felt a little uncomfortable, strange even, but it didn’t hurt at all.

Soon another finger was joining the first, and Dunk was starting to think he could get used to this. The motion of his fingers melted away from a rough back and forth into the smooth glide of a rope swing, something altogether thrilling on every peak and dip. Every time that his fingers began to move away from him, pull out in any way, Dunk whined out in protest. Every part of him was begging for a second deeper, a minute fuller, an hour on his knees. He spread his legs wider, trying to tell Lyonel somehow to keep going, to fuck him harder, without having to battle with the thickness of his tongue for a full sentence. The burn had completely faded away into nothing; all that was left was the pleasure of being filled with thick fingers. 

And it wasn’t until Lyonel’s fingers met something inside him that made every muscle in his body light up all at once. The shattered cry that he let out only spurred the lord on further, his eyes narrowing, his sharp teeth glimmering as he practically whispered to himself, “Found it.” 

That was all it took before he was massaging the spot with his rough fingers, pushing down with harsh inward thrusts as often as he could. He began to play with Dunk then, using him as nothing more than some whore he wanted to watch squirm against him. He added a third finger as Dunk practically sobbed, his hips desperately trying to push back into every movement, forcing him back in farther and chasing his fingers when they moved to disappear.

He’d never wanted something to consume him more than the feeling that had taken over him. Every pattern of constellations that painted his eyelids could have been a map to journey home, back to this exact place. He would follow that map like he was a smarter man than he was, like he could read or write or be wanted for more than a strong body to threaten. The second Lyonel gave him any inch of movement, he was trying to push his fingers in deeper, keep them buried so far in him he could feel nothing but his own falling apart.

He could barely hear the whorish sounds he was making, the way they fell out of his mouth like they had been resting in his throat for years, desperately waiting to be given names and torn from within him like they were freed from their prison of unknowing want.

If he focused, which was becoming increasingly hard to do with the way that his lord was slamming into him with every curling thrust, he could feel Lyonel’s cock drag against his leg. He pushed his thigh closer, giving him something to push his hips into if he’d wanted. 

Lyonel rewarded him with a broken moan as he began to grind against his leg. “Fuck. You’re so bloody responsive, so fucking sweet. I’ve only got my fingers in you, and you’re already sobbing. I can’t wait to have you laid out in front of me, see how you cry at every little movement I make. I want to string you up and watch you snap from atl the pleasure.”

“Milord—”

“I know, I know. I’m taking too long. You can’t blame me, though, darling. If you saw the way your pretty cunt sucks in my fingers, you’d take your time too.” Hungry and vicious like a starving animal, his eyes never strayed from the movement of his fingers. He was all predator in that moment, controlling and dominating, refusing to give Dunk even an inch to work with as he bore his body weight down on his hips. 

He was a doe in that moment, a small frail thing that was being moved as his stag pleased. Dunk had been wanting things his whole life, more food, a good tree to sleep under, a word of kindness, anything. But he had never in his life understood want more than in that moment. Want ripped through him like a dagger in his gut, flooding him with so much feeling it would have poisoned anyone else. He would give up a thousand nights under a warm roof if it meant that Lyonel would fuck him full.

“Please, milord, I need—” he cried out at another harsh press into his ever-expanding bundle of nerves, “Need you to take my maidenhead. I need it— Need—” The last line was barely above a whisper, something almost heartbroken and cracking. He was hiccuping over his words, each inhale shaking like a fawn in winter. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and Lyonel looked at him as though he were the most precious thing the Gods had ever made. 

His fingers were quickly sliding out of his asshole, to the utter disappointment of Dunk. Lyonel hushed the shaky whine he released, kissing up his stomach as he began to line up his cock against Dunk’s asshole. He slowly slipped in, causing Dunk’s breath to catch at the sudden stretch.

The fullness was overwhelming and addicting, a deep ache forming at the bottom of his abdomen just from the tip of him. He felt the burn subside into pleasure with each tiny thrust, felt his body practically beg for more, and felt himself quickly hook a leg around Lyonel’s waist, pushing him down with one quick thrust until he was buried completely inside him.

Another sob ripped through Dunk, something wounded and wanting and whorish beyond belief. His whole body laid like an unconscious plea to be ravished, his eyelashes fluttering, his mouth hung open in a half-whispered moan, his head hung on the pillow behind him, leaving his neck on full display to the man above him. He could feel the way he watched him, the weight of his eyes on each sweep of skin. He followed the bob of his adam’s apple, the way his hands dug into the blankets beneath him, unsure if they were allowed to bury themselves anywhere else. Even the way his thighs shook against the sudden fullness entering his body, Lyonel’s fingernails dug into the meat there as he cursed against Dunk’s shoulder. 

“Fucking tight,” was all Dunk could make out of the grunting curses. He trembled against his chest, trying to force himself into stillness so he doesn’t hurt the man underneath him.

“Milord.”

“Yes?”

“I am not made of glass. You—” Before another word could fall from his lips, Lyonel was slamming into him with a kind of rabid aggression that would have sent anyone else to a maester. Desperation poured out his skin like it were the oil sliding between them, the smell of it thick on everything he touched. He was wild and cruel with every stuttering slam in, each forceful press against the spot within Dunk, one hand gripping his hip like he might disappear at any moment, the other with his fingers buried in his sandy hair. 

All Lyonel could say in between the drumbeat of his grunts on every slide in were the words “my wife” and “my doe.” As though he was ending each thrust with a prayer, with a promise that he would come right back.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise when Lyonel bit down as hard as he could into the meat of his shoulder, and it shouldn’t have surprised Dunk when his vision went blindingly white and he came so hard it hurt. Lyonel wasn’t far behind him, hips stuttering until he buried himself to the hilt, filling him up completely. 

Dunk felt both drained and full, something a smarter man might have thought ironic. Lyonel pulled out, going to grab something to clean them up. but Dunk was not having it, pulling him down until they were laid together on the large bed, side by side.

Lyonel laughed, “alright, little doe, but I’m not finished with you yet.”

“I hope not, milord, you said I would be pregnant on the morrow.”

“And I am nothing if not my word.”