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By the time his horse staggers through the gates of Storm’s End, Lyonel Baratheon wants to kill a man.
Ironic, as the only reason he’s out hours after dark was stopping a war, or at least a scuffle. The smallfolk of the Stormlands were hardy people, used to weathering gales of all sorts, but the nobility were as fussy as anywhere. One daughter had snuck out to elope with a blacksmith’s apprentice, and suddenly her father’s house was on the verge of bloodshed over the broken engagement, and their bannermen had insisted that Lyonel should deal with it. As if it’s his bloody responsibility that some starry-eyed waif had learned how to lockpick her door.
(Lyonel admires the girl, frankly. Had his father insisted he wed a woman, he would’ve fucked every pirate in Dorne atop his grandfather’s grave.)
But admiration for a young woman’s spirit isn’t enough to temper his displeasure. The rain had begun during his retinue’s return to the castle, making an already tedious journey take twice as long. His cloak is filthy, his boots are soaked, and there’s a headache building behind his eyes. He wants a hot bath and a warm bed, and if anyone tries to speak to him more about the sacred trust of marriage obligations, he’ll shove his sharpest pike through their skull. (And perhaps his second-sharpest up their arse.)
So of course, just as he’s finally out of the blasted rain, his steward Eryk is already waiting in the stables. Eryk only bothers him after supper if there’s business that’s truly urgent. Wonderful.
“My lord,” Eryk says, handing Lyonel a cup of wine. “You have visitors.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Lyonel says, and takes half the cup in one gulp. “Can’t it wait?”
“I’m afraid not,” Eryk says. “It’s good Ser Duncan, my lord, and his squire. The boy has taken ill.”
Lyonel coughs around his second swallow. “Dunk is here?”
It’s not unprecedented, to be sure. This isn’t the first time Dunk has surprised him. But his last visit had been only three months ago, and he’d told Lyonel that he and Egg were headed to the Vale. Between the long journey there and back, and the half-dozen excursions Dunk would surely take along the way to save helpless villagers and scared deer and most likely fucking cats stuck up trees, he’d assumed they’d be gone until at least midwinter.
“Aye, my lord,” Eryk says. “They arrived several hours hence. His squire went straight to his sickbed, but Ser Duncan took dinner in the hall.”
Sickbed - right. Egg was ill. Lyonel should be concerned about that. “What’s wrong with the boy?”
“A cold, ser,” Eryk replies. “Mild, but best to rest such things out, especially during the rainy season. Ser Duncan seemed concerned for the strength of the boy’s lungs, as he’s not grown yet.”
Well, thank the Seven for that. If Egg were truly ill, Lyonel’s sure that Dunk would sicken himself with worry.
And, Lyonel supposes, he might worry as well. The boy is charming in his own way, and after two years of travelling together, he’s practically Dunk’s blood. Perhaps that’s why Egg is the only Targaryen Lyonel can tolerate - sick as a dog in the Stormlands, a two day’s ride from his family’s castle, and he’d rather recover in Lyonel’s guestrooms than anywhere in Summerhall. The boy seems to know that his family is poison, or at least that being near them is poison to the soul.
“Good, good. Have the maester see to him again in the morning, and bring him a good breakfast. Feed a fever, and all that.”
“I believe it’s feed a cold, ser.”
Lyonel sighs. “Well, regardless. I trust the boy and his master are in their rooms?”
“The boy is in the suite nearest the library, ser,” Eryk replies. “Ser Duncan seemed determined to rest elsewhere, and I was wont to stop him.”
There’s a faint smile playing on Eryk’s lips, the same smile that most of Lyonel’s staff develops whenever Dunk comes by. It’s only ever smiles, at least, and not whispers: he pays them too well to expect otherwise. Lyonel’s not ashamed of his dalliances, with Dunk or the men before him, but a man of his station must have some sort of deniability. The peasants can gossip about why he never wed, but they’ll never have a rumor more than whatever their minds cook up.
Lyonel wonders what Eryk thinks of Dunk. Or, rather, what Eryk thinks of the lack of any visitors besides Dunk. The staff have gotten used to him: the stableboys know that his horses love oats and green apples, the master-at-arms knows that he prefers to sharpen his own sword before sparing, and the cooks know that he devours sweetrolls, and have started leaving a plate outside of Lyonel’s door on the mornings he shares his bed. Lyonel’s never had a lover stay long enough to learn their preferences himself, much less for the servants to do it.
The thought makes a strange warmth clench in Lyonel’s chest. He ignores it, because indulging that sort of thing always makes him smile like a fool. “Well, then. I’m to bed, I suppose.”
“Aye,” Eryk replies, smile turning up into a smirk. “Should I tell the staff that you’re not to be disturbed?”
“Watch your mouth,” Lyonel says, and slips him a silver anyway.
If Lyonel walks with a longer stride than usual, who’s to judge? There’s no crime in being in a hurry. The halls fly by, and the few servants he passes ignore him, perhaps tipped off to their lord’s unexpected guest. Gods, this is exactly what he needs after today, a good hard fuck. (With some time in Dunk’s arms afterwards, which he pretends that he doesn’t enjoy near as much.) And he’s sure that Dunk is ready for him: the man claims to have no indulgences, but the first place he makes for upon arrival at Storm’s End is always Lyonel’s private washroom, the only bathtub big enough for a man seven feet high.
His cock is starting to fill just thinking about it. By the time he’s gotten to his door, the aches of travel have sloughed off of him, and he feels like a far younger man. Dunk has that sort of charm about him: since the night they met, he seems to fill Lyonel with energy, a fountain of youth he could drink from forever.
So to say that Lyonel deflates when he opens his door to see Dunk fast asleep would, perhaps, be an understatement.
The disappointment is tempered with a wave of fondness as he nears the bed. Dunk is shirtless beneath the sheets, massive back scrubbed clean from the bath and letting out an occasional soft snore. Sometimes, Lyonel’s not sure who Dunk’s fonder of: the bed himself, or the man who resides in it. On the road, Dunk is a light sleeper, alert for threats, fully dressed with his sword next to him on the hard ground. Here, he’s safe behind forty feet of stone, and his instincts must know he’s safe even if his mind agonizes; here, he sprawls across Lyonel’s soft pillows, removes his stiff boots and coarse tunic, and sleeps like the dead. He always seems ashamed of himself in the morning, when he awakens long past dawn, but Lyonel can’t make himself care. Before he’d met Dunk, he hadn’t known how much of a luxury a bed could be.
Before he’d met Dunk, he hadn’t known how many things could be luxuries. And blast his stupid fool heart for getting older, but he wants to give the man every single one.
“Hello, sweetling,” Lyonel murmurs, and sets about stripping down to his smalls. Dunk had left a candle burning; he clearly hadn’t meant to drift, exhaustion catching up before he could blow out the light. Lyonel can use it now, to read his correspondence with Dunk sprawled out beside him, and show his affection in the morning. It’ll hardly be the romp he pictured, but everything is easier with Dunk beside him, even tedious import reports from the border.
Then, Lyonel lifts the sheet to slip under, and the candlelight catches just a glint of oil between his cheeks.
Well. That thoroughly banishes all thoughts of imports from his mind.
He rolls over, ducking to look beneath the bed. Even before Dunk was a guest, Lyonel liked to keep a pot of oil tucked under the frame, in case the mood for pleasure struck. Dunk has taken and been taken by Lyonel enough to know where it hides, and - there. It’s out on the open, lid still ajar. Heart pounding, Lyonel sits back up, pulling the sheet away to take a closer look at the scene.
His fingers prod gently, seeking Dunk’s entrance, pink and rosy where it’s tucked away. His fingertip slides in easily, even unprepared.
Beneath him, Dunk lets out a quiet noise, heavy with sleep.
Lyonel feels himself harden so fast, it’s nearly alarming. Dunk had come home, scrubbed himself clean, lain in bed and opened himself, so desperate for Lyonel’s cock that he’d wanted to be ready the very moment he’d arrived. And Lyonel had coldly, monstrously, left him waiting.
It would be a shame to waste all of that effort, Lyonel thinks, pulling his smallclothes off without truly knowing what his body is doing.
He feels like he’s dreaming, like he’s taken milk of the poppy, the world heavy around the edges. Lust has a way of fogging the mind, and in all of his years, he’s never seen a body that inflamed his lust more than Dunk’s. And it’s all here, naked and glorious in front of him, Dunk unable to blush or or hide himself in his sleep. Dunk was sheepish about removing his shirt in the training yard; allowing Lyonel to properly adore him, worship his stomach and his stones and his thighs and his cock, is a privilege he rarely allows before blushing and squirming away. Near on a year they’ve been lovers, two since they locked eyes at Ashford, and Dunk still has trouble believing the depths of Lyonel’s desire for him. As if he could want anyone else, while Dunk walks the earth.
He tears himself away for an agonizing moment, enough to find the jar again, slicking his fingers up. (An excess of oil was another decadence Lyonel was determined to gift: the first time he’d played with Dunk’s hole, the man had refused more than a palmful and winced in pain, protesting that there was no need to “waste it”. Lyonel had used half a pot in revenge, and Dunk had thanked him by coming twice.) His fingers drip onto the bedclothes by the time he’s done, and slip in like they were made there. Dunk likes it rough sometimes, when they’ve been too long apart, likes Lyonel to tease and pinch and be cruel. But not tonight: his sweet hedge knight had been exhausted enough to fall asleep by a lit candle. He needs his rest, and Lyonel, mind in a fog of pleasure and love and Dunk, is determined to grant it.
He goes slowly, stretching Dunk’s rim around his fingers, skimming his sweet spot on every other thrust. Dunk shifts in his sleep, groans quietly, and once even sluggishly thrusts against the bed, but doesn’t wake. Lyonel wonders what he’s dreaming of; selfishly, he hopes it’s him. It’s not just building up his own ego - Dunk, as the lad had confessed in the afterglow of their first night together, doesn’t have desires like other men. He doesn’t hunger for any warm body, the way Lyonel had as a green boy; he doesn’t lust for strangers, nor take whores. He wants only certain faces, ones he knows, and since they’ve become lovers he only wants Lyonel. He’s not going to pretend that doesn’t stake his ardor as much as his heart; he’s not going to pretend that it doesn’t make him feel a hundred feet tall, that this magnificent fucking creature could have any man, woman, or otherwise that he wanted, and instead he goes months and months without being touched, because at the end of the day he wants only Lyonel.
And who is Lyonel, if not to give it to him?
By the time he carefully extracts his fingers, Dunk is thrusting against the sheets in a sleepy, irregular rhythm, and Lyonel is so hard that he can feel his heartbeat in his cock. Still, he halts a moment, wiping his sodden fingers on a corner of the sheets. Waits for the ardor in Dunk’s body to cool; he doesn’t want him to wake. The thought is so filthy that he has to grasp the base of his own cock to keep him from coming on the spot.
But he waits, because for all of his faults and all of the rumors otherwise, Lyonel Baratheon is a patient man. He waits and waits and slowly, gradually, Dunk sinks back into deeper sleep, his breathing even, and his thrusts stop.
Before his logic can override his cock, Lyonel straddles his love, kisses his back, and slides in.
It’s heaven. Dunk always is, asleep or awake; Lyonel likes to take near as much as he’s taken, and Dunk is just as tight as the night he lost his maidenhead, silken and hot around a cock that’s only had a hand of late. (Perhaps Lyonel doesn’t want anyone but Dunk, either.) Lyonel has to bite his own arm to stifle his groan, teeth sinking in deep. Dunk groans, too - even in his sleep, he knows he’s being taken, being taken care of. The thought makes Lyonel twitch, thrusting hard and deep. Dunk stirs against the sheets in reply, dangerously close to wakefullness, and Lyonel’s heart pounds like it does at the peak of a hunt.
Calm. Deep breaths. No movements. It’s nearly painful, the wait. But it’s not half as painful as the wait for Dunk to return all of these months had been, so Lyonel tenses his muscles, and breathes deeply, and stays calmly, perfectly still.
Dunk calms. Lyonel exhales. And he lets himself start moving, slowly.
It’s contemplative, almost, a pace like this, rationing out pleasure in quiet, careful sips. Lyonel’s always enjoyed athletic partners - Dunk, with all his strength, has been one of the few able to keep up with him - but there’s something tender here about his love’s passivity. Like this, Lyonel can take his time, raking his eyes all along Dunk’s back, enjoying the sights he’s memorized. There’s a cluster of freckles like stars; there’s a red patch from too much sun; there’s a scar he got from a sellsword in Dorne. Things that he’d never bothered to learn with other men, bedwarmers that barely stayed long enough to warm him, but on Dunk they make him feel like fire.
Dunk lets out an aborted little groan into the pillow, and Lyonel slows to a crawl again.
“Sh, sweetling,” he coos, barely daring to whisper. “Just sleep.”
It’s intoxicating, going so slowly, keeping his lover asleep as he moves within him. Because Dunk sleeps on hard ground and eats hard salt beef and refuses every comfort, except when he’s with Lyonel, and Lyonel is determined to give him every luxury at once; pleasure, and gentleness, and softness, and rest.
The pace is perfectly manageable, tender, even, until it isn’t. Lyonel does not have the same gentle temper as his lover; he is a man of passions, a child of the storm, and his ardor is informing him that it’s out of patience. Greedy, selfish thing, he chides to himself, unable to stop from speeding up into Dunk’s perfect heat. Greedy, greedy, greedy. Always greedy for your giant, no matter what he needs.
Beneath him, Dunk lets out a distressed little moan.
Lyonel reaches around Dunk, for the first time since he’s started, and nearly starts when he feels wetness against the sheets.
Dunk isn’t just hard, he’s dripping. The slow, languid pace Lyonel had set had clearly been torture for both of them. Perhaps it’s a foolish rationalization, to chase his pleasure, but it’s all that his desperate brain needs. Dunk wants this as much as me, he thinks, going faster, fumbling to stroke his love’s heavy, beautiful cock, and he’s not even awake to chase it. I can give it to him, I can give it to him, I can -
“Ly’nel?” Dunk murmurs, the heavy burr on his Flea Bottom accent thick with sleep. “Am I dreaming?”
“Something like that,” Lyonel pants, throwing Dunk’s tree-truck thigh over his waist in sheer relief. “Take your pleasure, sweetling, come on now.”
“You - oh, gods -”
“That’s it,” Lyonel coos. “Let me take care of you.”
“Ly’nel -”
“You did so good for me, didn’t you?” Lyonel gasps, feeling his own end race towards him. “Coming home, opening yourself up for me, kept yourself ready. So good of you, preparing yourself, ready for me to fill right up, so good for me, good boy -”
Dunk comes instantly, coating Lyonel’s fist and tightening just so around his cock, and Lyonel falls over the edge with him, filling Dunk up because he’s perfect and powerful and wanting and all his.
They both gasp for breath, in the aftermath, and Dunk shudders and stretches his muscles, rolling over onto his back. Lyonel can’t say that he doesn’t miss the view, but his love’s face is even better, even as he fumbles for a rag to clean their mess off of his chest.
“Hm. Ly’nel,” Dunk murmurs, voice thick from sleep. “Missed you.”
“That wasn’t too much?” Lyonel asks, something like guilt coalescing in his chest, although Dunk’s small, tired smile eases it.
“‘S perfect,” Dunk replies, still half-awake. “I - oh.” He blinks down, suddenly aware of the mess on his stomach. “Sorry.”
“What in the hells are you apologizing for?” Lyonel asks, dislodging himself with an unpleasant squelch.
“Sorry I couldn’t -” Dunk yawns, jaw splitting nearly in two, and now that the haze has passed Lyonel can see the exhaustion in his features, the dark bags underneath his eyes. “Stay awake. Rode hard to get here, an’ I was worried ‘bout Egg, and -”
“Shh,” Lyonel hushes, bending over to kiss his forehead. “Rest, my love. I’ll clean us both up, alright?”
Dunk smiles. “Mm.” It’s the lack of argument that clues him in to how weary the other man must be - normally, Dunk’s eager to serve, either because he gets off on it or because it makes him feel worth a lord’s time. Or, Lyonel suspects, perhaps the two have become so mixed up that not even Dunk can tell the difference.
He’s already closed his eyes by the time Lyonel comes back with a rag, breaths deep and even. Lyonel’s sure that he’s dozed off, until he goes to mop up the spend on Dunk’s stomach and he asks, “are you g’nna take me again?”
“Tonight?” Lyonel scoffs. “Hardly. At my age, I’ll need a night to get it up again.”
“Then the mornin’”, Dunk says. “Wake me up?”
“Wake you up? I - oh.”
The thought makes Lyonel’s cock twitch, but it’s nothing compared to how something in his chest lurches violently, like a jackrabbit caught in a snare.
“Take me whenever,” Dunk says, voice trailing off into sleep again. “Wh’never you want. ‘M yours.”
Oh. Thank the gods Dunk’s eyes are shut tight, so he can’t see the tears springing from Lyonel’s.
“As I’m yours, sweetling,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss Dunk’s forehead. “Never forget it.”
Dunk’s slow, easy smile, his last response before he drifts out of consciousness, is all that Lyonel needs.