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More than a year had passed since they last clapped eyes on each other, Ser Duncan the Tall and Lord Lyonel Baratheon. Much had changed and much had stayed the same; titles, experiences, greys in some hair and bulk in some muscles. But at their core, they remained the same wild highborn and green lad they’d been at their first meeting, and the memory of those eventful three days never left Lyonel. That wild fascination with this humblest of giants only renewed as he saw him and his young squire trotting through the fields leading to Storm’s End.
The first thought was a frantic denial of his own eyes. It simply could not be Ser Dunk. He’d convinced himself, wounded heart to match his cracked ribs and swollen ankle at the time, that the elm tree was their final parting. It was easier that way. Three days of this hulking mess of a lad and that was that: enough to write a merry song about and move on.
So why was he here?
The knight and his squire were just ahead of a late summer storm brewing at the horizons. The dark clouds were clipping the golden setting sun, casting queer shadows over the Lord house. Lyonel had been keeping an eye on the clouds’ advancement when he saw the figures of the lads and their horses, and that was when all dropped away.
Why is he here?
Oh, right. The storm. That’s fine.
Lyonel had his attendants greet the guests easily and stable the horses for them. He busied himself in his bedchamber, slipping into something a little more befitting a host than the formless, black silk tunic he preferred to lounge in. Cinching up his waist belts and smoothing out his curls—they always got so fussy right before a thunderstorm—he took one last look of himself in the gilded mirror he kept opposite his bed.
What are you so nervous for?
Ser Dunk should be groveling at his feet in apology for so rudely dismissing him. Yes, Lyonel had shouted and cursed his name but Dunk was so ungrateful… Lyonel bristled, shaking his head before descending the stairs. Maybe he’d tell him off yet again; give him another earful, make him miss what could have been had he only joined his party and spent these past 18 months in his service, supped with him, stayed by his side—
The anger melted like dew the second Lyonel saw Ser Dunk, now that much bigger, that much more a comely knight, sitting at his table, patiently waiting for his Lordship to join them.
Oh.
His hair had grown and his handsome face had filled out into that of a man’s, not the scrawny buck he once was. His hands, placed unsurely on the tabletop next to the silverware, seemed so fucking big… Lyonel’s heart began to jackrabbit.
He hadn’t said anything since walking into the dining hall.
“Ser Duncan the Tall,” he attempted to recover. His voice cracked around the first vowel. He grinned despite himself, waving his hands flamboyantly enough to disguise their shaking, “And his squire.”
“M’lord,” Dunk attempted to stand out of respect and Lyonel felt his knees buckle as he attempted to stride to his place at the table. Next to Dunk.
“N-no, sit, sit, none of that,” he gruffed, sitting himself, “Wherever you came from, I’m sure the journey was enough. Sit, eat, meet me again.”
Dunk did as he was told and bid Lyonel a shy but appreciative smile, the uneven pearls of his teeth peeking. Lyonel met the smile with his own, eyes crinkling with fondness to hide the nerves.
“I confess, I’d thought we may not be welcome,” Dunk ventured carefully despite Egg’s wary glancing beside him, “Our last parting…”
“Yes, you were quite rude,” Lyonel grabbed for his wine goblet. The anger, the anger, the anger. Gods, but he’s fucking big. Fuck. Drink your wine, “Mm. But, bigger things to worry about,” What is wrong with you, “I’m pleased to see the two of you in fine condition. Not easy out there in the hedges, is it?”
Egg made a world-weary sound and tucked into his own food, seeming to know his place in the conversation—but not without making his opinion quite clear.
Dunk summarized their year and some together to the best of his ability but Lyonel could scarcely hear a word. His eyes roved over the younger man’s form with a darkness he could not control, made only that much more untamable as he emptied cup after cup of his dinner wine. The roasted chicken and vegetables sat cold on his plate, even as Dunk cleared two or more of his own.
Would that I were that bird. Lyonel’s skin felt like fire.
“Such an eventful life in these months,” Lyonel sighed into his cup, “And to bring you home,” Try again, “To my home.”
“If it’s no imposition,” Dunk winced, “The storm—”
“What kind of man would I be to keep you in that squall,” Lyonel waved a hand dismissively. The thunder had begun to roll in and the boarded windows surrounding the hall were pattering with the heavy raindrops, “Summer rains are not always so sweet, here of all places. Some of my men say it may be thrashing us for quite some time. Catch your death out there under those trees, if not by cold and rain then by the branches,” Lyonel clapped his hands suddenly and stood, alarming both Dunk and Egg. His plate had not been touched, “No. You’re to board here, as long as you like. That’s always been the offer, hm?”
Dunk flushed in the low light of the candles. Lyonel’s stomach, sloshing with wine, almost growled with hunger to follow that heat down, wherever it led. He held the man’s gaze for far too long.
“Anyway. My attendants can show you your chambers and the baths. Your clothes will be laundered and I do think, somehow, I have new threads to fit you in the meantime.”
“Oh, surely not—”
“Or go naked, it’s all the same,” face suddenly burning, Lyonel stepped out from his place at the table and did not wobble, “Now, I do have to be a bit of a bad host and excuse myself for the night. Lordship demands… Well, everything. Some to do tomorrow… but,” he cocked his head loosely at Dunk, “I’ll find you around luncheon and we can have another chat. Some merry games, maybe. There’s plenty to do when storms roll in, Gods know we have the practice.”
Allowing himself one last indignity, Lyonel patted Dunk’s cheek and hastened out of the dining room before either the knight or the squire could comment on his very queer behavior. As soon as he was out of the doorway and four steps up the stairs, he collapsed against the exterior wall of the stairwell and forced himself to breathe.
Go naked, you said. He gripped his hair and tried not to beat his head against the wall.
Another moment of self-loathing and Lyonel continued his ascent. His mind kept racing, replaying every stupid thing he’d said in that short dinner—dinner!—until he was on the other side of his bedchamber door. Shutting it clumsily—four cups? really?—Lyonel slumped against the thick oak and closed his eyes. His hand burned with the memory of Dunk’s warm cheek against it.
–
He’d eventually sent one of his men to make a plate for his bedchamber. The wine was not sitting well with the sickening mortification. Forcing down a handful of the chicken and a mouthful of bread, Lyonel felt a little more grounded.
Three-and-forty, and you’re worked up like a boy in a whorehouse.
Lyonel glowered at the floor and stood. The half-empty plate sat discarded on the bedside dresser and his preposterously fine garments he’d paraded for the hedge knight lay miserably on the stone floor. He’d changed back into his loose-fitting sleepwear, with its fine and breathing silks, and he found the cool air against his skin did much to calm his head. Energy still thrumming under his skin, however, Lyonel knew he’d need to pace the length of Storm’s End to set his mind right. This was not a new occurrence—even to the extent that it was the fault of that damnably kind, handsome, and fucking massive hedge knight. Rhythms in motion, Lyonel began to wander the grounds.
It wasn’t long before he nearly collided with the young squire and his bundle of cloth that rivaled the boy’s own size. Lyonel stumbled back, eyes wide, before realizing what that bundle was.
“Boy? Are you laundering your Ser’s clothing?”
Egg nodded simply, making a move to step around the Lord. Lyonel held his hand out to stop him, “And you’re aware I have men for that?”
“It’s my duty, my Lord,” Egg explained, highborn accent curling around the syllables in a practiced way, “A squire tends to his Ser.”
Lyonel gruffed and did not retreat his hand, “And a Lord accommodates his guests.”
“My Lord?”
“Exactly. Give those to me,” Lyonel held his arms open, “I’ll see they get laundered. And when your time comes for bathing, there will be someone to collect for you as well.”
Egg regarded Lyonel with a furrowed brow. In the dim light of the corridor, his smoky purple eyes seemed black. Lyonel did not budge.
“Don’t make me a bad host, squire,” Lyonel entreated softly, “Grant me that.”
Egg relented and released Dunk’s clothing.
“Good lad,” he sighed, folding up the pile to make it a more manageable hold, “Now go bathe while the water’s hot.”
“I will, my Lord,” Egg gave a curt bow and turned to leave. Lyonel did not wait for the boy to disappear in the direction of the baths before he too took his exit.
–
He did not go to the laundry.
Lyonel paced before his bed, staring at the pile of Dunk’s clothes that took up the foot of it. It’d left his arms in a heap and sat that way for long minutes as Lyonel fretted what in the Seven Hells he meant to do with it, insisting he take it from the knight’s squire.
What is wrong with you?
Why do you have his clothes?
Frustration mounted quickly in the form of a hot headache, and Lyonel found himself quickly overwhelmed by it. The silk of his nightshirt began to cling to him and Lyonel tugged it off over his head. His feet continued to pace aimlessly as he looked at—and away from—the clothes again and again. There simply was no justification for taking Dunk’s clothes from his squire. Well, propriety in some sense—Egg was a guest of his, not part of the staff—but to squirrel it away like a thief, and to what end? It made Lyonel’s stomach flip.
Why are you like this?
He went over to his stash of wine and poured himself a large cup. The remains of his dinner sat idly upon the same dresser, continuing to be ignored. Lyonel sipped the wine, letting the deep, spiced flavor roll over his tongue, and listened to the storm outside. Lightning flashed through the slivered openings of the boarded windows, and thunder rolled not a minute later.
What are you going to do?
Hells if he fucking knew. He was drunk, he was burning with shame, anger, and desire, and that damned hedge knight of his—not yours, never yours—was bathing somewhere on the floor below his, naked and large and hot in the waters of his grounds. Lyonel seethed, not entirely with rage, and took another gulp of his wine.
It’s unbecoming.
So much of his life was. What was one more indignity?
Lyonel was not a man of idle fantasies and the haughty tales of romantic books, but even he was weak to the notion that it could be so easy to wander into the baths—they’d be alone of course—and dip into the waters with that man and claim his mouth and body as he’d intended to that first night at Ashford. Dunk would yield, press into him, and vow his fealty and devotion then and there.
Lyonel moaned softly, eyes closed, and felt his cock respond to the vision.
He padded over the stone floor and thick carpets to his bed again and sat, back pointedly facing the clothes piled at the foot of it. He stared at himself in his gilded mirror once again, taking in his shirtless torso and the growing bulge between his legs. Lyonel huffed and sipped his wine again.
What a fucking mess you are.
Fuck it. So be it, even. The wine was winning and his body wanted so, so badly; why not yield? While he couldn’t rightly proposition Dunk as he so badly desired to, he could take himself to hand as he had many times before, let the pleasure overwhelm him, and sleep this damn foolishness off. He’d meet Dunk in the afternoon, as they agreed, and be friendly and agreeable—not the lovedrunk fool he’d been at dinner.
Snarling at the memory, Lyonel kicked off his silken sleep trousers and regarded himself again in the mirror. His cock was a ruddy, needful color, jutting up from his thatch of dark curls. The rest of him was lithe and well-muscled but older than he once was, and sometimes the mournful pang of this gripped his heart. He sat back and took in the new angle. Still nothing surprising, nothing grand like that hulking hedge knight of his—not yours—but he wasn’t ashamed either. He was a man, nothing more, and the humility of that realization gave him pause.
Just a man.
Lyonel set his mouth in a line and collapsed onto his bed. His outstretched arm brushed the pile of Dunk’s clothes and he drew it sharply back as if he had been burned. He did not look at the clothes. Instead, he maneuvered himself up onto the bed and away from it all. This was not about Dunk. This was about exercising his energy, righting his nervous blood, and going to bed.
It’s always about Duncan.
Lyonel squeezed his eyes shut and let his hand grip the base of his cock loosely, enough to acquaint himself without shock. The hold was familiar and welcome and he set upon a lazy tempo, resolutely ignoring what had driven him to such desire in the first place. It would do no good to dwell on that man.
Lyonel sighed softly as his fingers drifted over his cock, the fore and thumb coming around the head to toy with the extra skin there. Exposing the wet head of his cock, he shivered and smiled lazily—it may have been the first smile all night. He liked this part, where he could start to feel the desire really take hold. It was tacky at first but would soon be wet enough to glide his hand, work into a feverish sweat that always wiped his mind blissfully blank. With how the evening had been going, he needed that silence so very badly.
Pinching gently at the tip of his cock, Lyonel bucked and gasped softly. He gathered the new beads of liquid then and spread them down the length of himself, dragging a tight hold on himself on the upstroke. It was delightfully random, the way he liked to tease himself. He did it this way because he knew no one else could. This was his time and his alone. No one, not any damned hedge knight or other, was allowed in this moment.
Just him and his hand.
He carried on with this pace as the wine continued to cloud his mind and that damn angry voice that taunted him silenced itself. He allowed himself to feel without thinking and move as his body demanded; a cathartic escape to the constant nagging thoughts and responsibilities he found himself buried under. But eventually his hand was not enough and the hungry animal of his lust craved more. Lyonel’s hand drifted lower, squeezing his stones with a gentle hand, and moaned softly. That wasn’t quite right but it felt nice all the same.
Lyonel rolled over and pressed his cock against the cool silks of his sheets, mind going fuzzy at the edges as thunder rolled over the roof. That seemed to do it. The pressure was nice, as was the smooth glide, and Lyonel dipped his forehead against the sheets as he started to rut against them. It’d been a long time since he’d indulged in something so pathetically base but with the looseness of his mind and the demands of his lust, it was all too easy to fall into this undignified scene. Moaning into his arm, he ground his hips messily against the firm and silky texture of his bed and let his mind wander. He had nothing to worry about now; just feeling and pleasuring himself until he could sleep again. He’d worry about that damnable hedge knight and his squire in the morning.
Dunk.
His handsome face with his bright blue eyes—the vision came to Lyonel as suddenly and easily as it ever had in the past eighteen months of fruitless wanting. Now, however, it was bolstered by the fresh memory of him at dinner, rambling on about his adventures, the curl of his lips around the smile Lyonel wanted so badly to believe was only for him. His hips stuttered against the sheets and suddenly it wasn’t enough. His lower back was arching in weird angles and he couldn’t find a stable rhythm. Frustrated, he grabbed blindly up his bed for a pillow and shoved it under his hips and between his thighs, creating a crevice for his cock to fuck into. Sighing with relief, he resumed his rutting and let his mind wander back to Dunk, whose face was now one of reproach, as if he had discovered this wanton display for himself. The sight before him would be a wild thing to explain, and Lyonel flushed with embarrassment.
How depraved…
Fitfully, Lyonel turned his sweaty cheek against the sheets and caught sight of the pile of Dunk’s clothes. He blinked, tensed his jaw, and spent a long moment raking his darkened brown eyes over the shapeless lump.
Do not.
He was a terrible listener.
Without another thought, Lyonel grabbed at the top layer of the pile and drew it close to his face. It was Dunk’s rough-woven tunic, familiar in its grey-blue hue and aged stains. He was overwhelmed instantly by the musk of old sweat and the salt of Dunk’s skin, and he groaned with a bodily shiver. His hips bucked against the pillow and Lyonel saw stars.
It’s always about Duncan.
What he would do to have Dunk in his bed now… Lyonel buried his nose in the cloth and let his wine-addled mind wander. He’d have the man laid out before him, naked and wanting him with that honest, open face and beautiful blue eyes, his soft, pink mouth curling around his name in his lowborn lilt. Lyonel shuddered and inhaled his scent again. He’d be apologizing, thanking Lyonel for his generosity, lamenting the months they’d spent apart. Lyonel would be on him without hesitation, sucking bruises into his skin as Dunk would plead, and praise, and beg…
I should have come with you, he’d moan, large hands carding through Lyonel’s curls.
Please let me stay, he’d beg against Lyonel’s mouth between wet, wanting kisses.
I’ll serve you, be your man, he’d promise, rutting their cocks together. Lyonel whimpered and inhaled the tunic again. His cock jerked against the pillow.
I’ll be good for you.
Lyonel shuddered.
Can you be good for me?
The thought shocked his eyes open. He panted against the fabric, the scent overwhelming him as much as any good wine ever had. He trembled slightly, eyes darting across the dark expanse of his bed as if to find answers for where that command had come from.
Can I be good?
Be good for me, Dunk’s voice bid him. Lyonel’s hips bucked. His mind reeled, be good and I might stay.
He moaned brokenly and buried his face in the tunic.
You were so cross with me, Dunk carried on, his lilting accent pouring over Lyonel like honey, You offended me. Did you know that? It wasn’t very nice.
Lyonel shook his head, panting into the fabric. His hips worked restlessly against the downy feather pillow, soft and yielding against his aching cock.
But I know you’re a good boy.
Lyonel cried out softly.
You can be sweet for me, can’t you? Prove that you love me? That you’ll do anything for me to stay?
Lyonel nodded to the empty air, forehead pressed into the cloth as he fucked harder into the pillow.
I’m good, I’m good, I can be so good for you, let me be good.
You’ll have to earn it.
I can, I can!
Will you obey me?
Anything—!
Be my dog?
Lyonel’s orgasm took him by surprise. He shoved Dunk’s tunic into his mouth to silence himself, muffling his shout with the sweaty fabric clenched in his teeth. His hips jerked hard against his pillow, spilling his release in long, desperate pulses until he collapsed bonelessly into the mess.
He panted around the tunic in his mouth for a long time until his breath evened and his heart came down from its frenzied pace. The shirt had become soaked with his spit by now and releasing it felt like one of the many chiding indignities he was to suffer in the denouement from his climax. His spend had cooled against his cock, stomach, and pillow, leaving him soiled in a way he’d not experienced since his much younger days as a boy growing to know himself. His limbs shook badly as he sat up, taking in the sight of the bed with no small amount of self-loathing.
There was a knock at his door.
“M’lord?”
Lyonel’s blood froze.
Whipping his head around, his sweat-soaked curls bouncing, he saw only the solid wood of his bedchamber door and heard the reproachful knock once again, as if it hadn’t been as jarringly loud as any peal of thunder before it. Lyonel grasped at the tunic in his hands, covering his nakedness with the cloth.
Fuck.
“Erm...” there was no mistaking that voice. It was Dunk on the other side of that door, “Egg had said you’d sent for my things to be laundered but your staff had not seen them.”
Lyonel trembled, eyes wide and indignant.
“I’d come to ask what you’d made of it,” he heard Dunk’s feet shuffle awkwardly, “Are you well, m’lord?”
Would that the floor could swallow him whole then and there. Outside, thunder rolled.
“... I’m well,” Lyonel croaked miserably. He couldn’t move an inch off his posture, “Your clothes will be tended to.”
“I’d only asked—”
“I know,” Lyonel cut him off but the anger wasn’t there, only a pathetic plea for him to leave, “Don’t worry yourself with it. My clothes fit you fine, do they not?”
“They do,” Dunk admitted. A soft thud followed. Lyonel could only guess that it was Dunk tapping his forehead to the door, defeated, “Was just curious, I suppose.”
“Well,” Lyonel huffed, turning his back to the door only to catch the sight of himself in the mirror once again. He looked like an untrained mutt that had been caught humping the couch with his scrawny thighs straddling the sullen pillow, his messy release covering his belly, and his hands possessively clutching that damned tunic that made him so wild.
As if it’s the tunic’s fault…
“Well,” he tried again, shame coloring his face, “Curiosity is natural.”
There was a long silence before he heard Dunk’s steps retreat, and Lyonel crumpled over himself in mortification.
End.