Chapter Text
"All well?" he asks, arms coming warm around her waist.
"It is," Kiera smiles, sliding her hands through the piles of fabric in the carved chest. "Mama sent everything I asked for," and then some, she's already found the first hidden sachet of her favourite bedtime tea, "and remind me, I must send something on the ship to Father."
The messenger leaves, but Baelor doesn't turn back to his report; it's a dry thing from the Citadel, their latest expectations of the timings of the next season, and Valarr's letters and the heavy parcel on his desk are so much more interesting.
His eldest only returned to Dragonstone two moons past, and is likely to visit again before long. He ponders, running his hands over it. It's substantial - weighty, but not quite solid. Clothes? There haven't been any namedays, or other celebrations. What has he sent alongside his usual dispatches that couldn't wait til he was here?
He unties the knot, and it is fabric under his hands, swirls of blue and purple. Unfamiliar, and a great mass of it, he realises, a heavy silken texture, so not clothes - maybe a blanket of some kind?
Either way, certainly beautiful, and definitely from Kiera - this must be from Tyrosh. What a thoughtful daughter, he muses as he hands the parcel and letters to a maid and has them taken to the Holdfast.
Afternoon brightened, he turns back to the words of the maesters.
When he opens the door, Dunk is humming, and he smiles to hear it. Then he stops short, every thought in his head vanishing at once.
Dunk turns and sees him, and the fabric flares out as he moves.
It fits him beautifully, sitting over bare skin, folding in a deep vee on his chest. It's cut somehow to accentuate his hips, his legs, those supremely broad shoulders; Baelor can't pull his eyes away from the line of his thigh under the silk.
He swallows.
"Kiera sent it," Dunk says, and he sounds awed and happy. "They wear them in Tyrosh, apparently, before they dress for the day. She says she got my measurements from the washerwomen at Dragonstone," and he keeps talking but Baelor isn't really listening, glued to the flashes of skin peeping out as he moves.
The colours are so rich against his skin, a deep blue shot through with a dozen shades of purple, reflecting against the red-gold hair that swings unbound against his jaw. It's yards and yards of fabric, made properly for a man of his height, ending just above his ankles, and he looks… luxurious, like an indulgence. Like a prince.
The thighs are moving, and Dunk is suddenly much closer, an arm sliding past him, and there's the quiet sound of the door shutting, the latch.
He smells incredible.
The silk sits flush to his chest, chest hair curling up against it, and he can't help himself, he reaches out a hand to trace lightly there. It dips so much lower than his shirts. It's practically Dornish. He wants to put his tongue on him.
"You like it then?" and Dunk's voice is a tender, amused thing.
He has to drag his focus back together and clears his throat. Tilting his head back to meet his knight's eyes, he answers by sinking to his knees, treasuring his hasty inhale.
He finds Dunk's ankles with his palms, skims up to strong calves and turns to set his mouth against his skin. Gods, the smell of him, the softness over the curve of the muscle, the silk feathering over his hands and the hair and skin underneath - he can't get enough, lets his tongue peek out and swipe.
Delivers a chaste kiss to the perfect expanse of leg, and then another and another, nuzzling with nose and beard, rubbing against his love. When he's covered what he can, he ducks under the silk to find more; once he's satisfied with his efforts he works his way back, attends to the other leg. A pilgrimage, and he worships.
He plants a firmer kiss, sweeps his tongue down to the back of his knee where the scent and taste of him is so strong, and Dunk is leaning over him, bracing against the door with one broad silken sleeve, breathing a little hard. He's surrounded, caged in, and his hands are still busy, still caressing his strong handsome knight, wrapped up so beautifully.
He licks over the bone of his knee, finding the divots with lips and tongue, using his beard to redouble the sensation as he works his way upwards.
He gives in and goes where he really wants, lavishing an open-mouthed kiss on the inside of Dunk's thigh and humming into it at the faint taste of sweat. He repeats it again and again on each thigh, revelling in the skin under his mouth, varying his pressure, the use of his tongue. Dunk's thighs are perfect, perfect, wide and strong, he'll stay here forever, and he sways under the silk further to get his tongue around the back, swipe along the crease where thighs meet arse, moans at it. Slides his hands up through golden-red hair, springy under his palms, the silk heavier here, closing over, trying to keep this glory from him.
No, this is his, he thinks, applying his teeth. He drags them gently up the inside of one thigh, revelling in the sound Dunk makes and doing it again on the other. A sucking bite, here, by his knee, and then harder and harder, all the way up the long strong stretch of inner thigh, nudging at the velvet softness of Dunk's stones with his nose, until Dunk is moaning and giving him all the noises he wants. His hips jerk at every bite, just a little unintentional movement, and it's stoking the strange fire of supplication and possession inside him.
A hand, landing heavy and intent on his head, and he growls but pulls back, looks up. The robe's held together somehow at the waist, heavy folds creating the impression of a full skirt - or they would be, if not interrupted by his knights' cock rising firm, parting the silk.
Dunk's lips are red, for all that he's not been kissed - he must have been biting them, trying to keep quiet, and Baelor realises he doesn't know how long he's been on his knees and he still doesn't care.
"Bed," Dunk says, ragged.
Baelor grumbles, leaning back in to rub his beard over sensitive bite marks, layer fluttering kisses over the cooling trails from his tongue, nip gently at him, relishing the way Dunk's thighs have gone flushed and quivering.
The hand in his hair tightens and then he's back up against the door and Dunk's stealing all his air. He's happy to give it up, really, one hand still petting the front of his thigh, dragging his nails lightly and making Dunk groan. He can't stop. It's a fair exchange.
When Dunk pulls back, he's got the other hand fisted in the silk at his throat as he gasps for breath. He's pressed up against his knight, cock a brand of heat against his hip.
"Bed. Now," Dunk orders, and doesn't give him a chance - he bullies Baelor there, shoving as needed.
Pinned to the bed by one massive hand spread across his chest, he can only look, so he tilts his head to behold his knight. A vision, a bit more rumpled now, but the silk is still sliding delectable across his skin, and he's flushed and vital, smiling crossly down at him. The robe parts over his spread knees, cock rising proud above the bites on his thighs, little flashes of colour and Dunk must be able to read it in his face, they way he's barely holding back from reaching for him again, salivating for him.
"Insatiable," he says, shaking his head and intensifying the pressure on his chest. "Will you even let me get the oil?"
"No promises," Baelor says, honest to a fault.
Dunk grins at him as he slides his hand down, cupping him through his breeches. The pressure makes his eyes roll back, a shocked little grunt making its way out as he raises his hips to meet it, and Dunk leans in close to say,
"You'd better get it then, hadn't you?"
He does. When turns back, Dunk's bent himself over the bed, a magnificent long fall of silk over the shape of him, and for the first time since he walked in the door, he finds words coming naturally.
"Look at you, Ser Duncan," and that gets him a shiver, the silk moving gently. "What am I to do with you, dressed and brought to me like this, like some tribute for an ancient god?"
Dunk looks back over his shoulder, eyes soft and mouth a wicked curve.
"Best not take too long deciding, after working me up like that," and that's a fair point, and besides, he knows what he really wants to do.
Bending, he takes the hem of the robe in his hands and drags it up slowly, whispering it and his own fingertips against Dunk's skin in a gentle tease. It gathers up, a great froth spilling over his wrists, warm from his knight.
When he reaches Dunk's hips, he bunches it there, framing his arse in folds the colour of the sea at night off Dragonstone.
"Like a work of art," he says reverently, and sees pink rising up the back of Dunk's neck. He unlaces himself just enough, runs his hands firm over the swell of that arse, down to where his thighs meet, and urges them barely apart. A little oil, and he takes hold of Dunk's hips, positions himself.
The first thrust between his thighs is heavenly. The oil smooths the way, and Dunk clenches, those impressive muscles making it firm and tight around him, and the sight is beyond anything he could have imagined. Then he angles up, pushes forwards, and slides over Dunk's balls to rub against his cock, hard and smooth.
He pulls back slowly, luxuriating in it, dragging himself against Dunk's length, and sets a slow generous rhythm, rolling his hips, watching his cock disappear between those beautiful thighs.
The whole picture of it is overwhelming: the late afternoon sun pouring through the windows, spilling over Dunk, drenched in pools of indigo and lavender silk, splayed wide against the sheets. Every roll of Baelor's hips draws a noise from him, a groan as he's pushed against the robe or a breathy noise that might be his name when their cocks meet and stroke against each other.
"So beautiful," he breathes, awed that this is his, to fuck and to cherish.
The movement's disturbed the silk, and in a few more thrusts it cascades over his hands, over Dunk's hips and arse, and suddenly his cock's hidden from his view, Dunk's thighs disappearing, and it looks - it looks -
He can't see, and Dunk's thighs are hot and supple and smooth, and he's making delicious little sounds on each stroke. He can't see, but Dunk's clenching around his cock, and the angle is just perfect that with the robe bunched as it is, it's almost a gown, like a woman would wear, and it hits him hot and shivery behind his stomach that this is what it would be like if Dunk were his wife - if he'd walked through the door and bent him over, found him wet and willing and waiting for him, and he could take - take his rights -
He's frantic now, thrusting hard into the skin he bit and sucked into sensitivity, and Dunk's gasping his name against the covers with the force of his hips.
"Yes, say it - say it," he's desperate, intoxicated in a vision where Dunk raises his skirts, lets his husband sink to his knees underneath it, give his wife pleasure with his mouth.
"Baelor, I'm yours, give it to me -"
His thighs are damp now, pre-come and oil mixing to make it a smoother glide, and the thought of Dunk, his wife, wet for him, sends him hurtling over the edge.
He comes hard, all between Dunk's thighs, and maybe the robe too, he can't tell. He folds over Dunk with the force of it, groaning his name into the sweat-dampened silk at his shoulderblades.
He gets a moment there as the bliss soaks into every corner of his mind, before Dunk's turning underneath him, finding his mouth to sweep him up in a kiss.
"Gods, Baelor," Dunk says, and he reels, face suddenly on fire as he realises what he was thinking, how he was thinking of Dunk, his - his - he can feel his face dropping in shock, acrid-hot shame welling up in his stomach.
He acts on instinct, and pulls his love in to kiss him hard, deliberately starving him of air as he did against the door.
That had been good, he'd thought, Baelor acting like a man possessed when he'd laid eyes on the robe, and he'd felt - wanted, and seductive, and only good things.
But that - Baelor's panicking, and he doesn't know why, and he's damned if he'll let it ruin this.
He breaks the kiss but keeps a firm grip on Baelor's head, and his love's hands are fists on his shoulders, crumpling the silk. Damn, but he's still so hard.
He gives Baelor a second to catch his breath, then kisses him again, softer but intent, sucking his bottom lip, using every trick he knows to make him tremble. He winds his legs around him too, holding him as close as he can, and when he breaks off this time, he rubs his nose along Baelor's, keeping his face close.
"Deep breath," he says to his love, and Baelor obeys. The panic has receded, diverted like some great river, and his love's back with him, he thinks.
"There you are," he praises, and Baelor presses into him, hisses a shuddering breath into his collarbone.
"What happened there - I thought you were enjoying it?"
"Too much," Baelor says raggedly, and he chuffs, nudging his ear. What an idea.
"Don't know that's possible, sweetheart," he says, "but if it is, that's not anything wrong. I always want you to find your pleasure," he adds teasingly.
Baelor speaks to his collar, pressed against the silk.
"I thought of you as a woman," and Dunk goes lax in amazement, "the robe - and the - I thought -"
"Tell me," and he didn't know his voice was going to be that low, but he can smell it, taste it, whatever Baelor says next is going to be a revelation.
"I thought of you as my wife,"
He knows his inhale is long and ragged, and he also knows Baelor feels the way his cock - which has understandably flagged a little, with Baelor so distressed - firms back up at once, pressed up against Baelor's hip.
Baelor peeks up at him tentatively, and he remembers that responding, probably. Good idea.
He licks his lips. "Tell me?"
"You don't mind? You don't think it is… that I have unmanned you, in thinking of you so?"
"I'm a knight of the Kingsguard. Not sure there's much you can do to unman me." And he's sitting here in one of the prettiest things he's ever seen, finer by far than half the court ladies' gowns, and his love has gone wild for it, painted his thighs for it, and he's supposed to worry about feeling less of a man?
He rubs gently up against Baelor to make his point.
"No," and presses a quick kiss to that shocked mouth, "now tell me," and he takes Baelor's hand and presses it over him where he's full and needy, heat leaking through the silk pooled in his lap.
Baelor's shocked little noise is delicious, but he wants words.
His love's a clever man. He starts talking.
"You look so good - like you were made for me, draped in silk, like I'd pulled your skirts up and sunk straight home in you," and he's very, very clever, he's snuck his hand beneath the silk to palm him, the heat of his hand startling.
Gods, what an idea. He wants that, suddenly and viciously, wants Baelor to be able to turn him over and fill him without a second thought.
Dunk rubs himself against his hand, decadent and wanton, and Baelor keeps going, words pouring from him like water from an unstopped dam.
"I wanted you to raise your skirts and let me open you up with my mouth, let me worship you, get you wet," and he's making little noises now as he rolls his hips into Baelor's fist. He can see it, in his minds' eye.
"I am," he moans helplessly, and it's true - he's leaking prodigiously, and Baelor's clever hands have spread it all down his length, and his thighs are covered in Baelor's spend, and he's so fucking close.
"My beautiful wife," Baelor breathes, his eyes glittering, and Dunk makes a guttural sound as his hips buck hard, holds himself desperately back from the edge, has to hear more, "waiting here wet for me to take, just as soon as I walked through the door," and the thought of such - such indolence, a life where all that mattered was letting his husband cover him in jewels and giving him pleasure, being available for Baelor whenever -
"Would you?"
"Oh, I'd have you against the wall," Baelor laughs, and the edge of meanness in his voice is setting sparks off in his skull, "you'd never be allowed to leave the bed, my pretty wife, all for me, whenever I want to fuck you," and Dunk whines out a desperate, gasping "Yours," as he plummets over the edge, coating Baelor's fist and the robe and gods know what else.
Kiera wrote her note in a large, careful hand, easy for Dunk to read, and once he's stopped laughing at Baelor's appalled face at remembering who the robe came from, he writes back his thanks, finishing with
… very beautiful. Your Father agrees and sends his thanks, or will when he stops blushing every time he thinks of it.
The next evening, Baelor sighs and lowers the book he's been failing to focus on, and looks at his knight. Dunk has been biting his lip and staring absently at him for almost ten minutes.
"Ask," he says.
Dunk hesitates, and then, "It wasn't - it wasn't like that with Jena, was it?"
It takes him a moment to realise he's talking about - yesterday - and -
"No!" he blurts, and a horrified laugh burbles out of him. He puts the book down and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. "If she's watching us somewhere, she is laughing her head off at me right now," he groans, and Dunk grins, recognising the irreverent habits of the last Princess of Dragonstone.
"No, Jena was - for one thing, she disliked court dress immensely, thought it foolish and unwieldy, and if I'd ever found her waiting for me in our chambers I'd have known she was ill," and he's smiling to think of her, his indignant busy straightforward wife. "And while we enjoyed each other very much," once they'd figured out what they liked, at least, they'd been married quite young, "it was - somewhat less playful, in truth, than we are."
They'd spent large stretches away from each other too, preferring to keep the boys at Dragonstone, and even when together there'd been so much to do. The duties of court, of being Hand, or of running the keep, and when his mother had died Jena had become responsible for the whole clutch of Targaryens, as well. After Matarys, it had become a matter of comfort, of relief, for them, not passion or hunger.
It's such a luxury, he thinks - not for the first time - that Dunk is almost always by his side, in such immediate reach.
He looks back at Dunk, who's smiling softly at him. "Anything else?"
The pearly blush that works across Dunk's throat and cheeks fascinates him. Book forgotten, he rises and crosses to him, settling into his lap, relishing the easy acceptance, big hands wrapping around his hips.
"Still thinking about it?" he murmurs, brushing against his ear. Dunk nods, biting his lip again. Baelor uses his thumb to liberate it, run gently back and forth over it.
"I thought you'd hate the idea," he confesses, "think it unmanly,"
"No, I liked it," Dunk mutters, hiding in his collarbone a little.
"And you thought of something else?" he coaxes, tender at the thought of his big strong knight, who took his - his honestly incendiary fantasy with barely a blink, and is somehow now shy about it.
"You could get me with child," Dunk whispers, and Baelor's heart seizes with shock, and then drowns in an overwhelming wave of lust. "If - if I were your wife. Parade me around court so they'd know, show everyone I'm yours," and he can't help it, he can't, rising on his knees to invade Dunk's mouth, tipping his head back and winding his hands in that beautiful hair. It's less a kiss than a vow, a messy exchange of tongues and air and moans. He needs Dunk, has to possess him, all of him, robe or no, now, always.
Those big hands are kneading at his arse and he releases him for air, briefly, pressing their foreheads together and gasping at the image of it, of it somehow working, his seed taking root, running a hand over Dunk's swelling stomach. A babe, another babe to dandle, his and Dunk's love wrought into flesh.
"Gods," he whimpers, mad with it, a visible, undeniable proof of his claim, that Dunk is his, that he would show the whole court and anyone else who he belongs to. They're grinding into each other, and he shifts to align them better, and Dunk makes a gorgeous punched-out noise as he begins to move his hips in earnest.
They freeze at the tap on the door.
"I have to go on shift," Dunk whispers, pained, fingers tight on his hips. He sucks in air, tries to settle, and laughs at Dunk's aggrieved face as he pulls away from him.
"No time," he agrees ruefully, and Dunk lifts him off, settles him on the armchair with a hard kiss.
"Revisiting this later," he says, bent over him, "I think you'd make a pretty wife for me," and grins, as his palm presses firm heat over Baelor's cock. His eyes roll back, hips lifting helplessly into it, and he can practically taste Dunk's delight at the inhuman noise that escapes him.