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Inside the pavilion of Lyonel Baratheon, the air swells so full of smoke and sweat one could drink it, if they tried hard enough. The musicians have been playing for hours with no sign of respite on the horizon. They were cheery and laughing, during supper; now, they set their eyes resolutely upon their instruments and play. It had quieted for a spell earlier, only for the dancing to start back up again shortly after. The revelry is unceasing, waves broken and remade over and over against the shore.
Ser Dunk, knight of no renown, barely a knight at all, feels as if he has been dashed by the tides upon the rocks. His head spins and pounds in turns. He is working very hard where he’s sat not to lose all of his delicious (and, arguably more importantly, free) Baratheon-sponsored meal. Seven hells, Dunk thinks distantly, this may well be the drunkest I’ve ever been in my life.
Why had he drunk so much, when he should be preparing for the tourney, minding the horses, finding a proper knight to vouch for him, steeling himself for the fights ahead? He could be trying to curry favor with some noble or another, on the off chance they offer him a place under their banner, should he show well in the coming days, if he even makes it that far.
Then again, that’s just about what he’s doing now, isn’t it? Some men require different approaches is all it is.
As if summoned by even the near-thought of him, Lyonel Baratheon materializes by Dunk’s ear, mid-laugh, like his body had stumbled over this way so fast that the rest of him was still on the other side of the tent. Dunk startles hard enough that he hits his knee on the underside of the table, clattering the mess of abandoned plates and cups strewn across it. “Ow,” he says, and turns to look at the drunken noble.
Lyonel is grinning in his face, eyes wild, hair wilder, teeth bared like an animal—something predatory and sharp-toothed, not his house’s rearing stag, dangerously antlered as it is. The collar of his fine-looking shirt is askew, such that when Dunk’s eyes flick uncertainly up and down the Baratheon’s form he can’t help but notice the sweat glistening on his exposed chest. What? Dunk’s brow furrows. Lyonel’s breath is hot and boozy. Dunk feels it on his lips.
“Hedge knight,” Lyonel says, still grinning, “what are you doing sitting down? There’s dancing yet to be done, you know.” He wheels one arm out in a sloppy gesture to the band. “You’re letting perfectly good music go to waste, man!”
“I’m sorry, milord,” Dunk mumbles. He has to drop his gaze from Lyonel’s furiously bright smile, has to avert his eyes then from the tight stretch of fabric across his thigh. What? What?? “M’head was swirling, I needed to sit for a moment is all.”
Lyonel’s thunderous laugh reverberates in the scant air between them. The hair on the back of Dunk’s neck prickles. “Sounds like you need more drink in you,” he hums. He says it with such easy conviction that Dunk’s instinct is to nod and acquiesce, even though he almost certainly needs the very opposite of more drink, why would he—
Before he can even begin to formulate a protest, Lyonel is pressing a freshly full cup into his hands, the origins of which are entirely unclear. “Drink,” he says. It’s not an order, but it’s not not an order either, really. Dunk drinks. The wine is smoother than any piss-thin ale he’s ever downed for the sake of intoxication, and warms his belly like dragonfire; he shudders anyways as he swallows, thinking with great dread towards how he’s going to feel come dawn.
The dark premonitions of tomorrow, however, slip right through his fingers when Lyonel crows happily and clasps a firm hand on Dunk’s shoulder, saying, “There’s a good lad, now! Better than the swill you had to drink out there, I imagine?”
“Right, milord, of course,” Dunk stammers. The man’s grasp is strong, his fingers digging into Dunk’s skin through his rough-spun shirt. He’s too drunk to be able to focus on speaking and the touch of him both, and he can’t stop himself from the latter. What am I doing?
“Good,” Lyonel says again, low and rumbling. Dunk’s stomach flips. Too much to drink is all. “I’ll not have you going back out there on the morrow complaining about Baratheon hospitality, yeah?” Dunk nods, perhaps overeagerly, judging by the amused twitch of Lyonel’s brow. He lifts his hand from Dunk’s shoulder to smack it against his cheek, a one-two spark of muted pain. Then he says to him, with the slight condescension of a master to his hound, “Good boy.”
The rush of warmth that swoops through Dunk’s gut at the words would stagger him if he wasn’t sitting. He reels, lips parting soundlessly as he tries to reach for something to respond with and comes up empty. Good boy. Lyonel Baratheon thinks he’s a good boy.
Whatever it is he’s feeling must show, because Lyonel’s smile tilts wickedly. He’s still standing, not towering over Dunk necessarily, as very few can, but certainly looming. Something about his smile and the intensity of his gaze makes Dunk feel small beneath him. It’s a fascinating sensation. Dunk wants—gods, he’s so drunk—he wants to chase it down.
“All men are fools, and all men are dogs,” Lyonel chuckles, quiet enough that Dunk almost doesn’t hear it over the noise of the revel. “Come, man. Spin with me another song or two.”
Lyonel finds that at tourneys like these, he often tires of the dust and the rabble and the brownnosing from men of lesser houses by day three, unless he can find himself something or someone to entertain himself with for the duration before the irritation gets a chance to set in. Some years, a constant stream of drink is all he really needs. Some years, he picks up a new sword from a sooty merchant just to swing it around for the week and judge the quality of it against his own fine steel. Every time, the new is thrown out in favor of the old.
This year, there is a hedge knight the size of an elm tree in his tent with straw-blonde hair and the pleading blue eyes of the most practiced of whores, and he’s not even trying. Lyonel wants to pick him apart and tear him open with his teeth, or perhaps his cock. Or something like that. He’s really quite drunk.
Ser Dunk, ridiculous name as it is, has the resilience for a knight at least, considering he’s managed to keep up with the dancing this long. Lyonel’s seen far more boastful men than him collapse in a heap after three songs, and with half the wine in them too. The great bulk of Ser Dunk, in contrast, still wheels about the pavilion with him, his tree-trunk arms held awkwardly over his head, his face sweaty and red.
At some point, the back of Lyonel’s throat has dried again. He needs another drink. Dunk needs another drink. “Hedge knight!” Lyonel shouts, shooting an arm out to catch Dunk by the arm as he completes another clumsy rotation around the dance circle. His glossy blue eyes are stretched wide with a flash of panic as he comes to a stumbling halt and meets Lyonel’s gaze. A startled deer; a thieving pup caught with its muzzle in the butcher’s basket. Lyonel has to laugh.
“Milord?” Dunk says. His voice wavers with what could easily be fatigue or fear, but he smiles in response to Lyonel’s laughter, sheepish.
“I’m thirsty!” Lyonel yells, though there’s not any real need to, as Dunk has leaned in—and down, scant few inches between them that they are—to hear him better. “And I would like to put my feet up for a moment.” Truthfully, he could keep going until the last carrion-pecking guest of his has left the tent, but there are matters beyond dancing for him to attend to, tonight. New dalliances don’t always come so easy, and Dunk’s bicep is deliciously thick and firm under Lyonel’s hand.
The big man trails after him through the crowd back towards the high table, but Lyonel stops there only to pick up their cups and the wine carafe, which has at some point been refreshed. The servants are good for one thing, at least. He slips then through the heavy silk drapes of the pavilion wall, across the dew-damp grass to his own personal tent. The antlers set over the entrance rattle quietly at their passing.
Dunk draws up short behind him, apparently only now realizing where he’s been led. “Oh, I.” He swallows audibly. Lyonel catches him glancing down at the luxurious rug beneath his feet, the ornate chest of drawers, the grand bed covered in furs, all bathed in golden candlelight. It’s a nice place, Lyonel agrees. “Lyonel—Ser Lyonel, what…?”
“I wanted to get away from all the sycophantic cunts for a minute. Relax a second, man, I say you’ve earned your rest.” Lyonel gestures to the writing table and accompanying cushioned chair on the near side of the chamber. “Sit. Go on.”
A heady little thrill sparks through him when Dunk obeys, sinking quietly down into the chair without protest. Good man. Good dog. His instincts about this tall, hapless knight are proving pinpoint accurate.
“You did good earlier dancing with me, Ser Dunk. I’ve not had fun like that in a while.” It’s perhaps tipping his hand too far, to admit this, but the way Dunk’s broad chest swells and his face pinks even further with the praise is worth far more than any advantage playing at indifference would give him. He’s got just about everything he wants here, now.
Lyonel perches himself at the foot of his bed, pours himself more wine, and hands the carafe off to Dunk, who takes it with a faintly trembling big, big hand. Gods, the size of him. Lyonel downs his cup and holds it out for another round. He motions for Dunk to pour himself more as well—no real upside to him being the only one having fun, after all.
“Milord, I’m not sure I should have much more myself, no disrespect,” Dunk says, his brows knitting sweetly together. “It’s a strong wine—a good wine, I don’t believe I have the tongue to appreciate it fully—”
“Nonsense, man.” Lyonel cuts him off with a languorous wave of his hand. “Drink and be merry.” He sinks further back onto the bed, humming appreciatively. It’s not as soft as his bed back in Storm’s End, but it’s certainly serviceable, for sleep and play both. Drunk as he is, it’s practically high heaven.
Dunk gulps, and smiles, and drinks. The most wonderful shiver runs down the whole length of him as he swallows. His is a face made for blushing, Lyonel thinks. “Thank you, milord, for this, and the dance and the food—”
Lyonel interrupts him once again, sliding easily into the space between words: “Just Lyonel will do, my friend. We’ve gotten to know each other, haven’t we?”
“Of course—Lyonel. If that’s what you’d prefer, then of course.” Dunk chuckles, presumably at his own inelegance. He’s well-aware of it, at least, Lyonel can tell that much. It makes it all the more charming, in a way. Dunk adjusts himself in his seat, leaning inquisitively forward. “Begging your pardons for asking, Lyonel, but what exactly is it we’re doing back here?”
Oh, my good man. Laughter crackles out of Lyonel’s chest like lightning from a stormcloud, unbidden and exhilarating. Dunk starts laughing too, clearly half-bewildered but softened enough by drink to not fear some unrealized wrongdoing. Lyonel beckons for him to rise—he does—beckons him forward—he comes—beckons him to the bed—he stops inches from Lyonel’s knees, murmurs his name in a timid question, “Lyonel, ser?”
Dunk feels suddenly like a rabbit in a snare, the way the Laughing Storm watches him now. He’s still stupidly holding his half-empty cup in his hand. His chest buzzes with warmth and anticipation of—of something. He’s not sure, though he has his guesses, mad as they seem.
“It’s incredible, my little hedge knight,” Lyonel says with a mercurial smile, “how much is able to go right over your head, considering the height at which it stands.”
“Ser…?”
“Ser, ser, ser,” Lyonel repeats, mocking, slurring the words together. “And I thought I gave you a command to address me otherwise.” He flicks his gaze up at Dunk through his lashes, his smirk lopsided, his shoulders loose. “I thought you’d be a good dog and listen.”
This strikes Dunk utterly silent, sways him on his feet. His mind feels like it’s been scorched clean through in the two heartbeats it took for the words to be spoken. All he can think to do is finish his drink.
His last sip is uncoordinated and fumbling, dark wine spilling out the corner of his mouth and dripping down his chin. Lyonel sees this, with his eyes yellow like a hawk in the lamplight, and throws his head back in another raucous laugh. Dunk finds his own eyes drawn like iron to a lodestone to the strong column of his neck, the square line of his jaw, his silvered beard.
He’s never fancied men, or perhaps he just never realized he even could, until this very moment.
Standing here in this luxurious chamber, his head floating unsteady on his shoulders with wine and the sound of the Baratheon’s voice calling him good boy, good dog, it almost seems ridiculous that it’s taken him this long, that he’s spent the whole night drinking and dancing and talking with this force and only now sees him for what he is: a beautiful, wild thing of want and need. A strong hand in the presence of an untrained mutt.
Dunk thinks, with some level of drunken ferality, that he would like nothing more than to be brought to heel by this man.
His wishes are not often granted so quickly or so magnanimously.
Lyonel takes his empty cup from him with a gentle hand, only to toss it unceremoniously aside. It lands with a muffled thud on the thick furred rug. “You can come closer, little hedge knight,” he soothes. “I won’t hurt you unless you earn it.”
Seven above, the last thinking part of Dunk’s mind wails. What are you doing? But the rest of him is slipping out of his grasp, bending easily to Lyonel’s deep, growling voice.
“That’s a good boy, then,” Lyonel murmurs as Dunk moves closer. He shifts, splaying his legs out so Dunk can slot into the space between until his own knees push up against the side of the feather-soft bed.
A little note of excitement trills in the back of his head, you’ve never lain on a bed as soft as this. The realization cascades before he can stop it: what business do you have to lay on one now, poor hedge knight that you are? What are you doing here? What are you doing here with him?
If Lyonel notices the spiral of despair that has set upon him, he doesn’t call attention to it. Instead, he leans back on his palms, back arched ever so slightly in the most tantalizing way, and tilts his head at Dunk. He’s waiting, Dunk figures, for him to make a move.
“I—I don’t, um.” Dunk’s hands hover in midair. “I’ve not…”
Lyonel’s eyes flare, his brows shooting up behind his mussed silvery curls. “Have you never lain with anyone?”
Dunk feels his cheeks growing impossibly warmer with embarrassment. “No, milord,” he says, and kicks himself internally for the title, though Lyonel lets it pass unremarked upon this time.
“Not even with a woman?”
He wishes the noble wouldn’t pry so. He wishes he was a better liar. He admits, “No. None at all.”
Lyonel’s surprised expression melts into something clever and hungry, self-satisfied, like a gambler whose risky bet just paid off tenfold. “Like a maiden on her wedding night—I should’ve known,” he mumbles, more to himself than anything. “Well, isn’t that fun? For you and for me.” He seems to study Dunk for a moment, eyes sharp as they dart up and down his tall frame. It’s unclear what he’s searching for, but he finds it soon enough. He sits up, points one ringed finger to the ground, and says, “Kneel.”
Dunk hesitates, his hands still held aloft. Lyonel clicks his tongue impatiently.
“Kneel, hedge knight,” he says again, with a little more bite to his honeyed voice this time. “Listen to your lord.”
The room spins. Dunk sinks down, down, down. It feels like the ground is miles away, the roof a distant cloud, his own body a thing outside itself. There’s just Lyonel’s eyes and Lyonel’s voice, Lyonel’s fingers carding through his hair. Oh, gods. I may never come back up again.
Lyonel’s laugh is a distant, divine sort of trumpet call. “Gods,” he’s saying, wine-languid, “you are a good dog. Yet you say you have no master?”
Dunk has to dig deep into his throat to find his voice, then even deeper still to produce any sound beyond a whimper. “No, ser—Lyonel—not since—”
“Yes, yes, since the old man died,” Lyonel grumbles, waving the ghost of Ser Arlan of Pennytree out of the room. “Poor thing you are.”
A pitiful whine ekes out of Dunk. He puts a belated hand to his mouth, feeling his blush heat even his nape and the tips of his ears.
Lyonel practically coos. “Oh, pup, don’t be shy.” The hand in his hair slides down to where Dunk has clasped his own over his lips and pulls it away from his face. “You need another drink to loosen up?”
Loosen up? A white-hot blend of desire and apprehension lances through him at the question. Does he mean to—? In a place like this, with a man like Lyonel, with the amount of wine in him, the prospect doesn’t seem as world-ending as he’d been led to believe by the bawdy declarations of prideful men in dingy taverns. Not if Lyonel keeps stroking his hair like he is, strong fingers rubbing his scalp. Petting you. Like a dog, his fractured mind helpfully supplies.
Another hoarse chuckle from above rouses him from his thoughts. Lyonel clicks his tongue again. “No, perhaps not. Pup is distractible enough already, isn’t he?”
“Ser,” Dunk just barely manages to muster up. It feels physically impossible to follow the lord’s order to address him casually, as much as he wants to do as he’s told. “I don’t know how—I’m not sure I can, um.”
He braces himself for Lyonel’s disapproval, or, even worse, his disappointment. What kind of knight are you that you’re afraid of a little mounting? he imagines him saying with a cruel twist of his handsome mouth. Can’t bend over to please your lord?
Rather than chastising him for his cowardice, Lyonel just laughs. “Relax, little knight,” he hums. “No need for you to fear your role tonight. I’m rewarding you, anyways, for how good you’ve been. Up.”
Dunk lurches to his feet, only for Lyonel to grip him by the front of his shirt and yank him down towards the bed. He yelps, stumbles, puts his arms out to catch himself and finds himself nose-to-nose with the Laughing Storm, hands braced on either side of his head, knees knocking against Lyonel’s parted thighs. Lyonel’s smile turns wild, his pupils blown until his irises are but thin blazing rings of lightning.
“Just a bit further up, now,” he coaxes, moving up the bed, making space so Dunk can join him proper. Dunk follows on instinct. He can’t look away from Lyonel’s grinning face.
They settle somewhere around the middle of the bed, where Lyonel falls on his back and reaches up to grab Dunk’s face in both hands, the touch of him searing through the haze. Dunk’s mouth might be hanging open.
“Fantastic,” Lyonel growls, sheer carnal delight in his tone. “Little hedge knight, you are fantastic.”
Then he kisses him.
The feeling of a beard scratching against his skin is an offputting novelty, at first, but everything else stops mattering in a second when Lyonel’s tongue licks into Dunk’s mouth. A shuddering, faint moan tears out of him as his arms almost give out, answered by an approving rumble and Lyonel sliding his hands back into Dunk’s hair, gripping tightly, pulling him closer.
Dunk has been lucky enough thus far in his life not to have experienced drowning, but he imagines it feels akin to this—blinded, flailing, breathless. Lyonel’s mouth is hot and wet and eager, and he’s making these noises, in the back of his throat, that light little white sparks of need behind Dunk’s eyelids. He fumbles for a grip, finds it in the collar of Lyonel’s shirt. No doubt he’s stretching the fine fabric with how tightly he closes his fist around it.
Lyonel breaks away with an obscene, wet sound. “Fuck, yes,” he groans. “That’s exactly right, pup.” His teeth flash white and dangerous as he smiles. “Learning, are you?”
There’s nothing left in Dunk’s mind, much less anything he could think to say. He’s only dimly aware of the fact that he’s grown hard, perhaps harder than he can ever remember being. Lyonel has noticed this development as well, judging from the positively gleeful expression creasing his face. And he’s—the one arm Dunk is holding himself up with trembles—Lyonel is tenting his trousers too.
His mouth waters.
Lyonel follows his gaze, grinning. “Want me to teach you a new trick, little knight?”
It occurs to Lyonel as he opens his trousers that he is drunker than he thought he was, fingers slipping every which way. In fairness, he’s also contending with the image of the hedge knight kneeling once again at his feet, face upturned, jaw slackened. His breath comes in short, stuttering puffs that Lyonel feels against the heel of his palm when he cups his face. How fucking lucky is he, to have found himself a specimen like this before he’s even run his first tilt.
“Are you nervous?” he asks, just to watch Dunk’s lashes flutter and the apple of his throat bob. Dunk jerks his head in something like a no. “Good. Nothing to be nervous about. Just a bit of fun.” He finally gets his smallclothes out of the way, takes his aching cock in one hand, thumbs the weeping head with a satisfied groan.
Dunk’s giant blue eyes follow the motion of his fingers with the intense fixation of a cat to a mouse. There’s a note of trepidation in the twitch of his brow as he looks up to Lyonel, lips parted in a wordless question: what do I do, milord?
If Lyonel was a weaker man, he’d come right then and there just at the sight of him. He imagines the young knight’s face painted with his seed, imagines it dripping from his long lashes, his pink tongue, his—oh, gods. Lyonel squeezes the base of his cock tightly and sucks in a rough breath. “Kiss it, little knight.”
Dunk’s eyes widen as they flit back to Lyonel’s cock, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Lyonel has to work hard to resist the carnal urge to tangle his fingers in his hair and fuck deep into his throat in one go. He thinks wildly that he wants nothing more than to ruin him for any and every other fool who ever tries to lay with him, wants him to never look at another beautiful person without thinking about Lyonel’s cock in him.
His strange possessive fantasies are interrupted by Dunk’s lips pressing to the head of his cock. Lyonel’s inhale hisses through his teeth. Dunk pulls away just an inch—it’s unbearably far—then returns, still timid but gaining confidence as he loosens his jaw and starts to take Lyonel into his mouth proper, spit-slick and heavenly.
“Watch your teeth, pup,” Lyonel hums. He twitches forward ever so slightly, half-impulse, moans when Dunk’s tongue shivers against the underside of his dick. “Good boy. Will you take more?” Dunk doesn’t respond, but he stays put, breathing hard through his nose, and it’s all the answer Lyonel really needs. He presses in, in, in, the feeling fuzzing the edges of his already wine-blurred vision. Dunk makes a quiet little choking noise, the wet heat of him tightening around where the head of Lyonel’s cock is just breaching his throat. Shit. Shit.
He just can’t help himself—he fists a loose hand in Dunk’s hair, says, “Breathe through your nose, I know you can do it,” and thrusts in to the hilt.
Dunk gags but doesn’t relent, much to Lyonel’s surprise and delight. He knows he’s being a bit of a prick, knows it’s unrefined of him to be so rough with someone as blushing and virginal as Dunk has been all evening, but he’s drunk and shaking with arousal and Dunk is taking it. Lyonel pulls out just enough to press back in, the slide deliriously smooth. “Breathe, pup,” he murmurs as he holds Dunk there by his hair, savoring the way his throat constricts around him.
His long, indulgent strokes devolve into rabbiting jerks of his hips deeper and deeper still into Dunk’s fluttering throat quickly enough that it would be embarrassing, if Lyonel were to have any room to spare for shame in a situation like this. There’s tears in Dunk’s eyes, when he looks up at Lyonel with his mouth full of cock—gods, I’d love to keep him here like this forever, Lyonel thinks—and one of his big hands on Lyonel’s thigh, bracing but not pushing him away. The other hand rests, curled into a tight fist, on Dunk’s own thigh. He’s hard still, through all of Lyonel’s brutish thrusting; Lyonel’s chest fills with the need to see it for himself.
Torturously, he slows his thrusts and pulls out until just the tip of his cock rests on Dunk’s swollen lower lip. His mouth is open and panting, his chin glistening with drool. “Do you want to touch yourself, little knight?”
Dunk swallows loudly. “If—” Gods, how hoarse his voice already is, and it’s Lyonel’s doing— “If I may, milord.” Oh, he’s perfect. Lyonel could cry.
“Go on, then, good boy.”
“Milord,” Dunk chokes, hands fumbling to push his trousers down enough to take himself in hand, “when you call me that—”
“You like it, yes?” Lyonel goads. Of course he does. His cock, big as the rest of him, jutting up from a brown bush of curls, heavy in his hand, is evidence enough of that. Lyonel feels the surge of desire at the sight of it rush red-hot through every one of his veins. Here is his conquest. “Show me how much you like it, pup.”
Dunk groans a heady, wrecked sound as he immediately starts to stroke his cock in earnest. “Lyonel, please…”
Encouraged and itching to take him further and further apart, Lyonel continues, “Yes, pup, that’s what you are. My little hound. My good boy.” He leans down to better watch Dunk’s hand blur over the great length of himself, how his pretty pink tip disappears and reappears in his big fist. “Fuck, look at you.” He needs—he needs that gorgeous cock in him now.
Lyonel just barely manages to tear himself away from the scene in front of him with the thought of what Ser Dunk’s sword will feel like sheathed inside him. By the grace of the gods, his oil isn’t far; he rummages for only a second in the basket of miscellaneous things by his bedside before producing it.
Dunk is watching him with glassy eyes when he turns back around, still knelt at the foot of the bed, hand still working on his cock, albeit less vigorously, with Lyonel’s attention turned temporarily away. He makes a stifled, shameful noise, as if embarrassed to be caught in his state.
“Come up here,” Lyonel croons, patting the bed beside him. “I have another trick to show you. And take your clothes off already, we’re having fun here.” He kicks his breeches off and loses his shirt with all the grace of a young buck shaking its first antler shed loose, too eager for the proceedings to care about the condition of his useless clothing.
Especially not when Dunk sways to his feet and pulls his horrible dirty tunic over his head, letting his trousers and smallclothes fall to the floor, and suddenly there’s this beautiful, giant man naked as his name day in Lyonel’s tent. He’s never been a particularly pious man, but in this moment, all he can think is seven above, thank you, thank you, thank you.
“Get over here, for fuck’s sake, before I go belly-up.” The laugh that bubbles out of Lyonel as Dunk gets onto the bed is just shy of hysterical, giddy with lust. Dunk crawls up to settle between Lyonel’s spread legs, his flushed cock heavy between his thick, furred thighs. Gods, he’s going to need to be properly stretched to take the thing, if he wants to be able to walk out of his tent unassisted on the morrow, let alone ride his horse.
Lyonel uncaps the little vial of oil, pours some ungracefully onto his fingers. It drips down his wrist, onto the fine linens, but it’s barely a whisper of a concern in Lyonel’s mind as he lies back and reaches down, resolutely ignoring his twitching dick, lest he touch it just a moment too long and preemptively spend himself. “Watch close,” he tells Dunk with a sloppy wink. “Learn quick.”
Dunk doesn’t learn so much as he gawks, as Lyonel fucks himself, the sound of it loud and slick with the copious oil he’s used. The motion of his strong fingers in and out of his wet hole is hypnotizing, almost as much as the hitching breaths Lyonel rings out of himself with each thrust. Dunk is so hard it hurts.
“Lyonel,” he says—it comes out as a whine.
Lyonel chuckles breathlessly, chides, “Impatient pup.” It punches something dark and molten through Dunk’s gut, every time he calls him that, makes his head fill with storm-gray clouds. It makes him want to loll his tongue out and pant. Lyonel slides his fingers out of himself, the noise dizzying. “C’mere, give me your hand.”
Dunk obediently presents his hand for Lyonel to pour a generous amount of oil into, spilling yet more onto the linens in the process. It’s a lost cause, at this point, but Dunk winces distantly anyways. He rubs the pads of his thumb and forefinger together, marvelling at the velvet smoothness, feeling his dick jump at the mere thought of how it would feel on his cock. How it will feel.
“What, never felt a nice oil either?” Lyonel teases. “It’ll feel even better in a moment, if you stop dawdling. Silly pup.”
Dunk bites back the most humiliating wanton moan at the words. “Lyonel,” he says again, pleading, stop it, please. I may go mad.
Lyonel just laughs. “That’s not a complaint I hear you lodging, is it?” He shifts, his hard cock smearing a glistening trail where the head of it rests on his taut stomach, wetting the dark hair leading down from his navel. “You know what to do?”
Dunk nods, dumb, and leans in, fingers probing hesitantly where Lyonel is slick and hot beneath him. His first finger sinks in with the ease of a sharpened blade through an apple. The whole luxurious line of Lyonel’s body draws up in a perfect arch. “Oh, I—” Dunk begins, not even sure what he means to say. He starts to pull back, overwhelmed by the control over the lord’s body that’s been handed to him, but Lyonel’s hands fly to his wrist, holding him in place.
“Don’t you dare,” Lyonel hisses through his teeth, bared in a feral grin as they are. His silver-streaked curls are sodden with sweat where they fall into his eyes. “In the good name of my house, I swear, if you stop now I will drop you off a cliff myself—oh, gods—”
Something in Dunk burns at the way Lyonel’s aggrandizement crumbles into a deep moan when he fits a second finger into him. This is the heir to Storm’s End that he has writhing on his hand, the Laughing Storm himself cursing under his breath as his hole flutters around his fingers. Dunk would think he must have fallen asleep back in the Baratheon pavilion and descended into the kind of sordid dream he used to have as a growing boy, if it weren’t for the prickle of sweat at his hairline and the searing heat of Lyonel’s body against his that’s just too vivid to be anything but real.
“Crook your fingers, gentle-like,” Lyonel groans, eyes closed, feet planted on the bed so he can rock himself down to the knuckles. Dunk does as he’s told, curling his fingers just so until he feels the tips of them brush against something that makes Lyonel cry out like he’s been shocked and gasp, “Yes, yesyes, good boy, right there. Fuck, your fingers are so thick, good boy—”
The smoldering approval in Lyonel’s voice washes over him like a thick fog rolling in over a field. Good boy, good boy, Dunk chases it down, pushing again and again into the soft spot that curls Lyonel’s spine up as if pulled by an invisible puppet’s string, makes him dig his nails into Dunk’s wrist until the pain sparks down his arm.
“Yes, yes,” Lyonel chants. The words slide into a deep, rolling laugh, the motion clenching him around Dunk’s fingers rhythmically. Then Dunk’s laughing, too, before he even realizes it. He ducks his head, trying to stifle the sound into the bend of Lyonel’s knee.
Lyonel squirms, dislodging Dunk’s fingers from him with a sound that Dunk imagines would make even the girls he’d met outside the Dondarrion pavilion blush. He’s fighting to find even the barest of wherewithal to form an apology when suddenly Lyonel is sitting up, grabbing him by the back of the neck—scruffing you, that little terror of a voice in Dunk’s head remarks—and reeling him in.
This kiss is no less breathtaking than the first, but less frenzied, somehow already familiar. Lyonel’s whiskers tickle as he nips at Dunk’s lips, coaxing them apart with his tongue. Dunk shudders as Lyonel’s hands run down his sides and up his chest, calloused fingertips brushing over his nipples. His neglected cock twitches mortifyingly against Lyonel’s leg, and Lyonel laughs into Dunk’s mouth, a delighted, sun-bright sound.
“Oh, little knight,” he all but sings, “you are fantastic. I might want to keep you.” He bumps his forehead against Dunk’s in a startlingly intimate gesture, grinning widely. Dunk feels his eyes going cross from trying to look at his face from this close up. “What do you think, Ser Dunk? Would you let me keep you?”
Dunk stammers. To be in the service of a Great House! the far-off part of him that is a hedge knight with nothing to his name marvels. To be kept like a pet by this man, the part of him caught in Lyonel’s piercing gaze trills.
Lyonel mercifully lifts the burden of a response from him by taking him by the shoulders and shoving him onto his back, crawling up after him. He barks out another triumphant laugh as he settles on Dunk’s hips, pinning him with his weight and gaze alike. His eyes gleam with the fervor of a conqueror taking his plunder. His cock bobs invitingly as he grinds back on Dunk’s shaft, wrenching a whimper out of his sore throat.
“Seven hells, pup, the size of you,” Lyonel drawls, lecherous. “Can feel you desperate for it. Gonna split me open.”
Another whine catches behind Dunk’s tongue as his hips cant up, desperate for friction, for heat. “Milord, please, I can’t—”
“You can, you can.” Lyonel bends down to lick a hot wet stripe up Dunk’s neck, the feeling arcing through him like lightning. “You can and you will.” A hand runs down his torso, wraps around his weeping cock—oh gods, oh gods—and holds it just so, and then heat, tight, impossible heat around just the tip of him—
“Milord—milord,” Dunk nearly sobs, whole body tense with the effort to not thrust rudely up into that overwhelming feeling in one harsh motion. “Lyonel, please—“
Lyonel laughs his dark, perfect laugh, croons, “Show me what you’re made of, little knight,” and sinks down onto Dunk’s cock.
His whole body sings.
The last bit of his awareness of the world outside of this tent, of this bed, falls away, and all he’s left with is Lyonel’s hands pressed to his chest, Lyonel’s laugh pealing like bells in the sweat-thick air, Lyonel’s hole a vice grip on his cock, throbbing, burning-hot, unbearable and yet the only thing Dunk ever wants to feel again. Oh gods, oh gods, he realizes he’s saying it out loud when Lyonel’s laughter grows, oh gods, oh gods.
“Seven above aren’t going to do anything for you,” Lyonel says, smiling wickedly. “It’s just us now. You don’t want them seeing you like this anyways.” As if to punctuate his point, he lifts himself most of the way off Dunk’s cock, the wet drag a beautiful agony, and slams his hips back down. His grinning mouth drops open in a gasp that Dunk almost doesn’t hear over the roaring in his ears.
Lyonel repeats the motion—Dunk hears himself moan, mortifyingly loud—again, again, until it builds into a steady, toe-curling rhythm. Dunk ruts helplessly up into the intoxicating heat and is admonished with a pinch at his nipple that makes him yelp like a dog. Lyonel’s answering laugh somehow soothes him rather than embarrasses him.
“Put your hands on my hips, pup, there’s a good boy,” Lyonel says between moans, gracing Dunk with his dazzling smile when he obeys. His hair is slicked to his forehead with sweat now and his handsome, lordly face is flushed unevenly. He’s beautiful, he’s unworldly with how beautiful he is. Oh gods, oh gods.
Lyonel rides him with all the ease of the skilled horseman Dunk has heard him to be, his head thrown back so all his lovely, stubbled neck is on display. Dunk clenches his fingers hard enough around Lyonel’s hips to leave bruises. The thought of them purple and blue on Lyonel’s skin on the morrow, hidden beneath his grand golden Baratheon armor to all except Dunk, snaps something loose in Dunk’s chest. He thrusts up, up, meeting the roll of Lyonel’s hips, biting his lip to keep from crying out. He’s teetering suddenly on the brink of spending himself, what feels like heartbeats away from spilling into the deepest part of Lyonel—
“Please, milord, Lyonel,” he keens, trembling with the effort not to come then and there, “I’m going to—”
“Yes, little knight, do it,” Lyonel groans, triumph sparking at the ragged edges of his voice. “Take your fill.” He doubles over and catches Dunk in a molten kiss, spit pooled on his tongue. One hand tangles in Dunk’s hair and pulls; the perfect pleasure-pain almost finishes him on the spot. Dunk feels the knuckles of the other brushing against his stomach, then realizes as Lyonel moans into his mouth that the lord is stroking himself furiously in time with their thrusts.
The half-image he has of it between the press of their bodies—Lyonel’s fingers, still clad in glittering golden rings, wrapped around his cock—sears into his vision. He can feel the memory of Lyonel’s cock velvet and hot in the back of throat, watching it pushing through Lyonel’s fist.
“Come on,” Lyonel grunts against Dunk’s jaw, the rasp of his beard against his sensitive skin too much, “come for me, pup, I know you can. Be a good boy for me.”
It’s all he can take. Dunk wraps his arms around Lyonel’s waist, buries his face in his collarbone, fucks up into Lyonel one last time, and falls over the edge.
He’s dimly aware of Lyonel tightening around him, the rumble in Lyonel’s chest as he lets out a long, wanton moan, the hot splatter of Lyonel’s seed onto Dunk’s stomach. Everything else is silence.
Then, Lyonel’s warm voice through the fog: “Oh, my sweet boy, the state of you.”
Lyonel is swiping a finger through the mess above Dunk’s navel when he comes back to himself enough to process anything at all. Meeting Dunk’s heavy-lidded gaze all the while, he puts his forefinger to his lips and curls his tongue around it, licking the digit clean of his own spend. Dunk’s cock twitches where it’s still sheathed inside Lyonel at the sight. Lyonel grins, a mischievous glint cutting through the lust-haze in his eyes, and again touches his fingers to Dunk’s stomach, two fingers now, scoops up more of his come, sucks it clean.
Dunk throws a sweaty arm over his face, shielding his eyes from the unbearable image, finding just enough scraps of sense left in his head to groan, “No more, milord, gods.” When Lyonel’s only response is an obscene slurping sound, he adds, “Please.”
Chuckling, Lyonel eases slowly off Dunk’s softening dick. They inhale sharply almost in unison as the head of Dunk’s oversensitive cock finally slips free. Dunk can feel his own come dripping out of Lyonel. Seven above, there’s so much, he realizes, face burning.
“Fantastic,” Lyonel says, a little breathless, as he collapses onto the bed next to him, seemingly without an inkling of concern for the mess Dunk made of his hole. He pats Dunk’s chest with an appreciative hum. “A proper man you are, Ser Dunk.”
“I—thank you, milord,” Dunk manages to say, though it comes out sounding more like a question than a proper response.
“Just Lyonel,” Lyonel tuts, before he bursts into a small bout of laughter at some internal jest Dunk is not privy to. He turns Dunk’s face to him with the barest of touches of his calloused fingers on his cheek. “I think we’re familiar enough now for it.”
Dunk laughs despite himself, ribcage tight with an emotion he doesn’t have the words to describe. “Lyonel, then,” he says, and, perhaps despite his better instincts, fits their mouths together again.
“Good boy,” Lyonel murmurs into the kiss. The sound of it glows golden in Dunk’s chest.