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The spark ignites the day an urgent missive from Baelor’s great uncle was sent to bring word that the fugitives who had taken the ship bearing Bittersteel to his exile with the Night’s Watch two years prior had finally been tracked, and that they had been able to locate Aegor with his Gold Cloak inner circle. The Blood Raven had sought his permission to have the man killed, with just cause given that he was fleeing the punishment legally decided upon at his trial following Haegon Blackfyre’s failed rebellion. It had been Baelor who had advocated for The Wall at the trial, rather than the executioner’s blade, a mercy that had curled his brother Maekar’s lip, as well as the Blood Raven’s. It had been a rare moment of unity between them, and it was to his amusement that neither of them had been able to easily bear the commonality. This time however, there would be no mercy.
The messenger had been almost airborne across the flagstones of the keep as the boy ran for him where he traversed the outer courtyard enroute to his private study. Unfortunately for the boy he was being escorted by his two of his Kingsguard, Ser Duncan and Ser Roland. Duncan’s white, steel clad arm had stopped the boy like an immovable tree branch to the chest and near sent him flying, the former hedge knight no longer abashed by his own strength, and his normally blue eyes were cool and hard as he’d demanded to know who approached the King unannounced at such pace. Baelor had noted at the time that it was fortunate for his uncle’s messenger that Duncan had not stopped him with a blade, so protective was his man in the wake of the recent rebellion.
The matter had been quickly resolved, the boy proffering tiny pot of ink and a thin white raven quill from his tunic for Baelor’s immediate reply. Baelor had hesitated, a blot of ink dripping onto the parchment, for the blow to his head at another trial a decennary ago had weakened the ease of his penmanship and he was loath to have his missive rendered illegible but could not afford to wait to return to his study and writing desk. It was then that he had looked to Ser Duncan and taken the measure of his broad chest, considered the even white metal of his Kingsguard armour and made his decision, “Ser Duncan, turn and lower your shoulders, I have need of a surface upon which to write my reply.”
Baelor had been surprised and amused by the unexpected flare of heat in Duncan’s eyes, and the strange expression that had flickered quickly across his face in the scarce time that it took to draw his next breath before he’d replied with a low rumbled, “Of course, your Grace.” He’d then turned his back to him, swept his white cloak across one shoulder and bent forward slightly so that Baelor had slanted access to his backplate.
It would be an obscuration of the truth to say that he had not taken some pleasure in planting the parchment against the expansive breadth of armour that stretched between Duncan’s shoulders, or to deny that his writing had been a little slower than either the altered capability of his hand or the urgency of the matter required. It would be honest to recall that he had observed with a keen eye the rising flush of Duncan’s neck, a tell ordinarily hidden beneath his long hair but betrayed by his rapidly reddening ears.
Once the messenger had been given his reply and had taken off once more Baelor had requested Ser Roland go ahead to the solar that he might have a moment to himself, with the calm assertion that Ser Duncan could more than aptly keep his watch. As soon as the other knight had been out of ear shot Baelor had moved slowly towards an archway overlooking Kings Landing, enjoying the familiar ease of Duncan falling into place at his heels.
He had tilted his head so that he might take in the knight’s side profile and said, "You have my thanks Ser Duncan, it would seem that you serve as a very apt writing desk."
He was pleased to have done so when blue eyes flitted to him, for there had been a wanting to be found there. Baelor’s own lip had curled in a benevolent smile, his loyal dog, so eager to serve. Praise for his usefulness has always been Ser Duncan’s heady reward but this response to such a particular manner of use had his interest piqued as well.
He had decided then and there that it warranted further exploration.
Dunk stands at ease near the doorway of the solar in King’s chambers gazing out the high narrow window overlooking Blackwater Bay, gauntleted hands folded in rest at his front, awaiting said King so that he might escort him to the Great Hall. He is on the cusp of two years in service with the Kingsguard, a position Baelor had requested him for following Egg’s early adoubment for services rendered during the Third Blackfyre Rebellion. Yet there are still some mornings where he wakes in the guard’s quarters, sees his white cloak hanging from its hook and feels as though he has not yet woken from a dream.
He is pulled from his quiet thoughts as Baelor moves calmly out from the inner room and approaches him. His King inclines his head and gives him the same small neutral half smile that he had given Dunk the day they first met, though his hair is now almost entirely silver-grey bringing him even closer to the look of his Targaryen lineage. Dunk is so busy admiring Baelor’s features it takes him a moment to register that he is being spoken to, “My apologies for the delay Ser Duncan, but I fear we must delay a moment longer as I am yet to fasten my boots. If you would provide me with a seat so that I may do so, then we can be about our business.”
Dunk looks at him blankly for a moment. Baelor has not moved, he is standing directly in front him holding his boots, with one eyebrow cocked expectantly. Dunk can’t help the way his own eyes drift past him to the perfectly strong carved oak seat very close behind them, near one of the twin hearths that heat the King’s solar, before his eyes make it back to Baelor’s face. The King’s gaze has not moved, but his smile is a little more pointed now and his eyes are sparking with something Dunk feels he is too thick to discern.
He could use the chair, but he’s askin’ me, that much is clear to him. So, clearing his throat to break the tension of the heavy silence that hangs between them and still unsure of whether he has correctly grasped what it is he is expected to do, Dunk slowly lowers himself to one knee. He angles he left leg out slightly to that he is more firmly planted to bear weight, for his legs are long and the one he has extended with his thigh parallel to the stone floor he feels should serve well enough for the King to sit upon. Baelor has still not broken eye contact with him and Dunk can feel the heat creeping up his neck, knows that soon he’ll be able to feel his pulse in his ears. He swallows heavily, and see’s Baelor’s gaze flicker down to track the movement in his throat before slowly rising to his eyes once more. He smiles again, softer this time before he sits on Dunk’s proffered thigh as though it is truly no different to a chair.
Dunk inhales slightly at the weight on his leg but does not allow himself to shift or move in any way that might betray a struggle. For the heft of the entirety of Baelor sitting on his armoured leg is not entirely without effort but he will hold it without complaint for his King, so sure is he that Baelor would not have asked if he did not believe Dunk was strong enough to bear it.
Unbidden he remembers once saying to Baelor in their first meeting, “The old man, Ser Arlan, he used to say I was thick as a castle wall and slow as an aurochs.” Baelor had replied, “And strong as an aurochs, by the look of you.”
I will show him my strength, Dunk thought as he refused to wince at the concentrated pressure of the King bending to start pulling on his boots. Baelor’s movements are careful and steady, as he fastens them one button at a time. The nerves in his thigh are singing as the downward force pushes the cut of his cuisse into the muscle where it joins the lame plating articulated above his knee. Gods ‘tis a perfect torture, he thinks as his pulse runs rampant at the proximity. From here he can smell clove, leather and another spice that brings heat, but Dunk does not know the name for, that is entirely Baelor. He is momentarily overwhelmed by his closeness, that he might be allowed, invited even, within this sphere of personal space. That the King would sit upon his thigh, and that he be so sure of Dunk’s willingness and capability as to make a casual affair of it.
His thoughts have his pulse steadily rising, pushing a flush from his heart out across his chest, up and neck and across his face. Dunk just registers that he can feel his pulse throbbing in his ears when Baelor finally stands and the resulting cacophony of sensation through his thigh nearly topples him. He cannot prevent the wounded euphoric sound that escapes him as the absent weight lifts from his leg, leaving him entirely untethered. It takes everything in him not to reach for Baelor, to cling to his leg, to – he doesn’t know what he wants to do, only that he wants his King close enough to feel his weight.
Dunk drops his head, trying to even out his shaky breath, catches Baelor’s face as the King bends to take the measure of his expression, his mismatched eyes fixing him in place. Baelor’s gaze is assessing, pointed and intense, but his voice when he speaks is as calm as if he is enquiring about Dunk’s thoughts on the days weather, “Does it please you ser, to serve your King in this manner?”
Dizziness threatens the edges of his vision as he tries to take in Baelor’s question, “Aye…your Grace. I would do anything to serve you.”
A pause and Baelor smiles, his expression softening, “I know you would Ser Duncan. You’ve quite an aptitude for devotion.”
Still on one knee, his raised leg fizzing and popping beneath his armour, Dunk must fight not to be felled by gravity once more as he takes in Baelor’s words. Fighting to bring his thoughts into order he tries to speak, “I…your Grace, I – “, but his mumbling is cut off by the King, who raises a hand and tilts his head slightly as he considers him.
“I did not ask if you would serve me in this manner ser, I asked if it pleases you.”
Dunk stares up at him, mouth slightly open, and catches the way Baelor fixates on the movement. He thinks he sees a flicker of something hungry in his eyes and the recognition strikes him like a clout to the ear.
“Oh.”
Suddenly different moments from the last two or three moons come to him in a new light.
Baelor strides into the room and hands Dunk his cloak at shoulder height, thinking they must be about to depart Dunk raises a hand and takes it unthinking, holding it ready. It is only when the King moves past him to his desk and sits, proceeding to look over some missives awaiting there, that Dunk’s brow creases slightly in confusion. He shifts his stance slightly wondering whether he ought to lower his arm and fold to cloak to hold until Baelor is ready, but he does not want to presume, Baelor could have folded it before giving it to him, but he didn’t. So, he waits. The ache in his arm takes time to set in, but as the King studiously sorts through the seemingly endless amount of parchment on his desk, he feels the tension in his should and bicep, in his fingers curled tight in the thick fabric. By the time he feels a slight tremble setting in to his forearm, making Baelor’s cloak shiver as if caught in a breeze, Baelor concludes his task and rises. Dunk has to actively force his fingers to release their hold as he approaches and reaches for his cloak. The King smiles at him, “You make for a fine cloak stand ser.” He turns, leaving Dunk speechless and flushed, rubbing the stiffness from his fingers.
~
They have been here for what feels like an hour, Dunk standing close beside Baelor while he writes. His left arm is fully extended, his hand held carefully flat for the goblet of dornish red wine that rests upon it to balance perfectly at the right height for Baelor to take of it as he pleases. Dunk does not pretend to understand why he is holding the goblet instead of the table, and it matters to him little when the King takes his goblet and drinks from it deeply before looking up at him with red stained lips and says, “You’ve served me well, Ser Duncan.”
Back in the present, blinking away his memories, Dunk looks up his King, “Yes, your grace.” He speaks the truth that has been dawning on him like a slow sunrise, “It does. Please me that is, to serve you, in this manner.”
Baelor’s answering smile heats him from the top of his brow all the way to his toes, currently pressed into sabatons against the stone floor.
Ser Donnel leaves him at the door to his chambers, the older man retiring for the evening assured in the knowledge that Ser Duncan waits within, having been given prior instruction to ensure the hearths were ready for both Baelor’s arrival and to combat the chill of these early Winter nights beginning to seep into the Keep.
With a final nod to Ser Donnel, Baelor lets himself in and on the other side of the heavy wooden door he can finally shrug off his cloak and all the weight of the Iron Throne. He does so with relish, easing his coverings off and draping them on his second favourite cloak stand, bending to pull his boots free he tosses them aside, ignoring where they fall beside bone pale armour neatly arranged close to the stand and goes immediately to his preferred spot by the hearth near the window that looks over the inner courtyard of the Holdfast as opposed to the hearth by the windows overlooking Blackwater Bay, always colder in the Winter, where his chair and foot chaise await.
He exhales with a small smile as he settles onto the cushioned wood, raising his feet to their rest. It had been a long day of standing on ceremony and Baelor allows himself a moment to bask in the relief of the days end as he finally stretches back in his chair, the warmth of the fire seeping into his bare feet, easing the slight ache in his legs. He sighs at the added heat sinking into his heels from his footrest, at the sound of his sigh his foot chaise turns its head to look at him, its blue eyes blaze with longing. Baelor raises a single brow and the wanting eyes shift back to the rug where large hands and knees are evenly braced, sinking into the plush material. He feels a low vibrating rumble through his ankles and the corner of his mouth curls at the stifled moan.
The relief of his evening respite is heady, and Baelor lets himself feel it, lets it loosen the muscles in his face, his back, his stomach. As his body relaxes in increments it slowly gives way to the pleasure that comes with being entirely unwatched, free to do as he pleases in the privacy of his own solar. He inhales deeply as the deep feeling of contentment stirs into rising desire. Leaning into the familiarity of his arousal, he slowly palms himself where his cock is thickening against his thigh.
He lowers his feet from their rest and rises from his chair, he moves towards his chaise and runs a hand across the broad black velvet tunic that covers it, feeling it shudder beneath his palm. He tells himself that he simply prefers to be closer to the fire while he takes his pleasure. He silences any other thoughts as he reaches down and pulls the velvet covering off, bearing smooth skin. Baelor settles himself on it, setting his feet shoulder width apart and groans a little at the the heat of his seat searing him through his breeches. He hears a lower echoing groan beneath him as he shifts his weight to free himself from his breeches and it serves to stiffen him completely as he adjusts himself so that his stones rest tucked out of his smallclothes for ease of access.
Twisting his torso, Baelor leans over to lower his right hand, waiting. He does not wait long, a thick wet tongue laves the skin, coating his palm in a scalding layer of spit. He brings his hand back and wraps it around his cock and allows himself to follow the slight curve of it with one long stroke from root to tip to spread the slick. The sound of his pleasure is a rumble in his chest that escapes out through his teeth as he teases his exposed head. Well-worn sword callouses on his fingers press perfectly with a familiar and welcome roughness, he rolls his head back at the feeling, and the heat of the fire before him licks like a kiss against his throat. He falls into a familiar rhythm as he touches himself, tightening his fist around the head on each pass, twisting his wrist slightly, the pacing still slow as he indulges in chasing his release.
He hisses at the slight catch of the signet ring on his right ring finger and pauses to spit with precision, sliding the metal through it to catch enough slick so that it serves to glide over the pulsing glans of his cock with a ribbed motion that has his eyes rolling a little, he sighs spreading his feet slightly further apart and digging his toes into the rug. Baelor lets himself groan freely as his pace quickens despite himself, there is heat coming at from all angles and the pleasure licking at him rises like a scream, he tugs gently at his stones with his free hand, rolling them and caressing them with his thumb as he works his cock sloppily. The sound seems so loud mixed only with panting and the crackle of burning wood. Eventually his thighs begin to tremble, and he slaps his left hand down behind him, gripping a thick shoulder tightly and leans into it so that he does not topple off his perch. The muscle tenses tantalisingly beneath his palm and he finishes all over his hand with a grunt.
Taking a second to catch his breath Baelor loosens his grip on the shoulder and runs his hand once through thick reddish sun-streaked locks. Once he is confident that he can stand without stumbling, he slowly rises and moves to return to his chair, pausing only to turn for a warm willing tongue to clean his softened cock, before holding his coated hand out for the same treatment. It is indulgence only, as he wipes his hand carelessly on his breeches almost immediately after, knowing that the soiled clothes will be collected to wash regardless.
He eases himself back into his chair and lazily tucks himself back into his smallclothes, not bothering to refasten his breeches. Tilting his head slightly he takes in the sight of Ser Duncan before him, still holding position on all fours, his head is hanging low, massive chest heaving as he pants. Baelor can see that he’s hard in his smallclothes. The only thing he’s wearing currently, with Baelor having removed his tunic.
Baelor hums, before extending a leg to nudge at the man with his toe, he’s feeling indulgent this evening after all. At the touch Duncan all but collapses, his rigid posture giving way and the knight sways before looking to his King, having finally being given permission to move. Baelor jerks his chin in a nod and Duncan rolls on his back with a groan, stretching out to his full length. He doesn’t do anything else, doesn’t go to free himself, doesn’t speak. He waits. He is very good at waiting.
Baelor is a good King, he rewards those who serve him well, and none serve him so well as Ser Duncan.
“Bare yourself for me.”
Duncan moves slowly and Baelor is thrilled with him, his man knows he likes things slow. A huge hand frees his cock to stand hard and proud unassisted, before releasing it immediately to await further instruction. Slouching comfortably in his seat Baelor stretches his legs to position one foot tucked firmly against Duncan’s stones and the other low on his stomach, heel digging in near his right hip, because he knows Duncan likes it to hurt a little bit. The younger man having breathlessly confessed as much to him on a previous occasion. Baelor nudges him with the foot tucked against him, that is all the permission his knight needs, Duncan’s hand flies from its resting place to his cock and he moans. They both know it’ll not take long, as Duncan has likely been hard since he got into position to await his Kings presence in the chamber.
The hand pauses from where it tugs at the foreskin sliding over a glistening head and with a twist of his head, blue eyes are suddenly fixed on him from beneath a sweaty brow, “Please…Please, your Grace…”
Baelor hums thoughtfully and drags out the wanting, if only to appreciate the desperation laid out incarnate before him, but tonight he is the gracious King and so he inclines his head and Duncan eagerly stretches out his hand to him. The size of his man is a marvel, his limbs long enough that the outstretched arm brings Duncan’s hand almost past his knee, so that Baelor has only to lean forward slightly to spit on his palm as though he bestows a blessing.
With a contented sigh his knight reclaims himself with a freshly slicked grip, his cock all but disappearing beneath the breadth of his palm. He does not bother with any attempt as pacing or technique, for this is the moment he is allowed to chase his release as he chooses and is the smallest act of rebellion against his King’s preference that he can bear. Baelor watches him indulgently as the slick sound of skin on skin rises and in tandem with heavy breathing, it doesn’t take long before he feels stones contracting against his arch and Duncan is spilling over his stomach and Baelor’s other foot with a broken cry.
He watches the curling, snapping tendrils of fire contentedly, as Duncan lifts his foot to carefully lick that clean too. Running his tongue reverently along his instep and dipping it into the creases of his toes. He waits patiently as his knight then stands to go and clean his stomach before tiredly returning to Baelor and his place in front of the fire. Duncan falls back to his knees with the slow grace that Baelor admires, and folds himself in so that he’s collapsed onto densely muscled thighs, arms tucked so that his head may rest upon them. His blue eyes no longer burn, calm like the sky after a storm. Positioned comfortably thus, Baelor puts his feet back up, folded to rest in the divot of Duncan's lower back and picks up his book from the table beside him.
He reads long into the night, until Duncan’s breath has long been heavy and slow in slumber and the fire in the hearth burns low.