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Baelor must admit, when the man knelt at his feet, that towering man forced to truly look up at another, it was a heady feeling that the simple hedge knight inspired in him.

Ser Duncan was such a man who truly thought that Baelor was what all those songs sang of. He did not swear his allegiance to the Baratheons, though the Laughing Storm seemed eager to sway him. He did not even swear his loyalty to that of House Targaryen. He sworn himself to Baelor alone. Not for his name, his title, or for the throne he would one day inherit. No, Ser Duncan the Tall believed him to be a good, honorable knight. Ser Duncan believed he was truly what the Realm needed.

Would he still think that, Baelor wondered, if he knew how much I wanted to shove my cock between his eager lips?

Baelor had never been one prone to lust, never believed he'd take another to bed when his lady wife died. He'd been content to never wed another woman. But this is no woman, is it?

It had been moons since they'd met, since Ser Duncan had entered his service. Three years since that cursed Tourney, where he'd nearly died and two good men had. The people had loved Duncan, called them their hero, their champion, and he couldn't help but agree with the smallfolk. He was glorious and brave and true, and the gods had proven him right. He'd known he had to have the knight, make him his in some way, and he had. He'd made Ser Duncan the Tall his man, his sworn shield, telling his family that this was the way to show that the Targaryens were righteous, show the smallfolk that they followed the gods' ruling. The perfect way to show the realm that the Dragons were benevolent rulers who meant to care for the people, shown by their own Champion's approval of their House, their future King.

He was lying to them all.

However, he couldn't tighten the chains around his knight yet. Let the boy have his freedom in his youth; and once he'd wandered far enough, worn himself out and rid himself of the itch for the road, he would return to Baelor. He'd return to Baelor's side and be content. The realm delighted at his announcement that his sworn shield would travel the realm, protecting the innocent and serving the realm in place of their Crown Prince. Maekar had been furious at him for allowing his youngest son to galavant across the kingdoms with the knight, but considering he could only make such proclamations from his sickbed, Maekar had relented swiftly under the weight of his own suffocating guilt.

This was the first time he'd seen the knight in since the whole Blackfyre debacle at Whitewalls. He'd been furious with Brynden. His uncle hadn't insisted that the knight and Aegon come to the capital with them, despite how much danger they had encountered there. Aegon had nearly been captured, and Ser Duncan could have been killed, and yet Lord Brynden did not bid them return. Baelor had only intervened when Maekar went to escalate from simply yelling at their uncle to pummeling him in the face of Bloodraven's indifference. He'd looked genuinely scared for a moment, which had given Baelor a sick sense of satisfaction. Shiera had been very cross with Baelor for a sennight for that.

It was Maekar's nameday celebration, and the knight and Aegon had snuck in during the feast. Aegon had swiftly found his father, greeted him with a happy yell and a hug. Maekar had hugged him tightly, and Baelor could spy the tears in his eyes that he tried to hide. With the arrival of his nephew, he knew the knight would not be far behind. His mismatched eyes scanned the crowds, the tables, and found him there amongst the servants. Duncan himself slunk in the shadows, weaving about the servants who shadowed these lords and ladies, awaiting someone who needed their cup filled or something fetched.

Baelor turned now, finding Ser Donnel who stood behind him. "Fetch my sworn shield."

Ser Donnel, ever observant, found the massive man as his King had, and did as he was bid. His Hand's eyes found his over the shaved, shiny head of Aegon, withering and brutal. Baelor knew what those eyes demanded. He wanted his son returned permanent, wanted his former hedge knight's leash tightened. If the knight could not roam, little Prince Aegon would be penned just as his Ser was.

Baelor could admit to himself that he wanted that too, after Whitewalls. After talking to that damned Blackfyre who insisted Ser Duncan was his, would swear himself to him, that he'd wear White that a Blsck Dragon gave himself instead of the Red. He could not stand Ser Duncan traveling the realm where everyone seemed to think he was not claimed, that Ser Duncan was not his man. He remembered Aegon's letter after that Red Widow and the issue at the Coldmoat, how Lady Webber had kissed Ser Duncan. It was for the best that he hadn't seen them for moons after that, would not have been able to retrain his jealousy.

Ser Donnel was speaking Duncan now, calling the knight to follow him to their King. He watched him come to him, gratification burning through him. All others could not hold his knight, could not possess that mountain of a man. Ser Duncan the Tall, Champion of the smallfolk, winner of the first Trial of the Seven the realm had seen in more than a century and a half, would always return to Baelor, belonged to him.

"Your Grace," Ser Duncan greeted, kneeling at his feet.

"You've returned, hale and whole, my knight." Baelor barely resisted the purr that wanted to creep into his voice, eyes drawn to that dagger scar on his cheek that made him look all the more roguish and dangerous to those who did not know him. "And my nephew also looks well cared for."

"Of course, your Grace. You entrusted him to me."

Baelor smiled, and he was sure he looked like a satisfied cat who got the canary. "Come, sit with me. Tell me tales of your journeys." Ser Donnel pulled up a seat beside him, on the other side from Maekar, who was enraptured with his boy's return. Ser Duncan took it, and Baelor gestured from a serving girl to bring the knight a plate and a cup of Dornish red.

They talked well into the knight, despite many interruptions by Lords trying to foist their daughters onto him. Never mind how they were younger than his sons, how he barely showed anything out polite interest to them. He gave them his attention, enough to mollify them and prevent scandal from perceived slights. Thankfully, his Matarys had yet to be betrothed, so he happily volunteered his son for dances with the young ladies.

For the even-younger (because no one seemed to have any sense of decency), he suggested young Aegon dance with them. The boy was nearing on two-and-ten, so soon might find interest in girls. Matarys, at five-and-ten, would need to begin considering marriage with some noble lady, but Baelor had not pushed yet. He hoped his son might find an ideal match that he liked, not one that would simply lead to obligation.

Valarr watched him from where he and Kiera stood by the dance floor, taking a short reprieve from the jaunty songs they played. Kiera had only moons ago had a babe, a little girl, and so still tired easily. Baelor paid these eyes no mind. The realm did not need a queen. He had given the realm two healthy heirs. He was allowed to be selfish this once, wasn't he? To be self-serving and indulgent in someone so personal?

After foisting the most recent girl who has aspirations of being Queen, of being Queen-Alicent-come-again, he turned to Duncan. The man looked troubled, irritated. "Shall we retire to my private terrace for some fresh air?"

Duncan nodded his agreement, and Baelor stood, leading them. See Donnel shadowed him, but at the door to his terrace, he turned to the White Cloak. "Ser Duncan is more than capable of protected me out here, so simply guard the door."

The Duskendale native nodded, taking his post, and Baelor was elated to be alone with his knight. He went to the far end, hoping that no prying eyes or listening ears would find them. Ser Duncan seemed more at ease now, though still agitated in some ways. "Aegon looks as if he's gained quite a bit of muscle," Baelor said, attempted to find a subject that would soothe his knight.

"Aye, the lad's gotten strong. Better at the lance than I've ever been and good with a sword, too," Duncan agreed, and they proceeded to talk at length about his nephew's training, his footwork, Duncan's own faults in the training yard. It delighted him, seeing how the younger man would hang on his every word of advice, how amazed those blue eyes seemed at his insights. It made him feel every bit the hero, reminded him of the admiration he received as the Hammer of Redgrass.

They hit a lull in their conversation, with Ser Duncan running out of questions about training to ask him, and Baelor, blustering with confidence from Duncan's admiration, asked, "what do you think of my reign?"

Duncan seemed taken aback by the question, blue eyes startled now. Those eyes always have Duncan away, so sincere. "You're a good king, your Grace."

"But am I just? Do the people see me as kind?" He fished. Do you?

"The people sing your praises, your Grace. If they have complaints more than of poor harvests or taxes, I have not heard tell of it," Duncan claimed, and Breakspear pressed further.

"Do you like being in my service?"

"It suits me well, your Grace, to serve a good man," Duncan said, and it warmed Baelor to his marrow.

"Good, then you will have no complaint in settling here in my Keep." Duncan sputtered, but he forged on. "Maekar can no longer be mollified. He wishes his son home, and Aegon has reached an age such that his princely training must continue again. No matter how he wishes it, he just return to court. You, too, shall take up your place as my sworn shield," Baelor continued; and, because he is a selfish bastard, he added, "I mean for you to take the white when a spot opens on my Kingsguard."

He would not see his man married, taking some lover. Not in Baelor's home, under his roof that sheltered Duncan, in the bed he provided him. He was his. He knew what a possessive beast he sounded like, knew how it ranged true of his Targaryen ancestry. What monsters lurked in his blood, roared for conquering? There were no more dragons to mount nor kingdoms to conquer, but there was the mountain of a knight before him, ripe for claiming and climbing and riding, and that seemed to suit his Dragon just as well.

Duncan stared at him, eyes wide in shock, and Baelor thought that he would agree. Already, in his mind, he imagined the knight guarding his chambers every night, at his side at every meeting with Lords demanding something of him. A pleasant dream, just to look upon his handsome face every day, to be able to reach out and feel him there.

However, instead of agreeing, Duncan changed the subject again. "Is it always like this, your Grace?"

The King tilted his head just slightly, brows furrowing as his smile fell into a more neutral expression. "How do you mean, Ser?" Baelor remembered how he did not seem to like crowds, so unused to them after years in his hedges and on desolate roads. Surely he knew that this was more people than usual on the grounds, in the Keep, for Maekar's nameday. Though, certainly it always is a rather busy place. No bother, Baelor would not assign him to the more busy tasks of feasts and court, only having him at his side for smaller engagements or guarding his chambers at night, just until he grew used to more crowded rooms. If he never got used to such situations, Baelor would resolve to be content simply with Duncan's post at his chambers, happy to have their nightly talks in his solar.

"The girls, your Grace. Vying for your attention," Duncan said, instead of the crowds as Baelor had thought.

"Ah, yes. It happens quite frequently, I'm afraid. Many wish to see me remarried and see their daughters as the new Queen," Baelor answered, smile returning. He did not say how the thought of marrying such young girls revolted him, seeing only how any one of them could have been his daughter at such ages. He didn't say how he did not intend on marrying any other woman, how the only one he wished to place a crown and cloak upon was a man who towered above him. All would reveal too much, show his weakness. "Please, Ser. When we are alone, my sworn shield can call me Baelor."

He couldn't recall the last time he'd heard his name from anyone outside his family. Certainly, not since he was King. Before, he'd be addressed at times as Prince Baelor, but now it was simply 'your Grace' or his name followed by so many titles that he'd forgotten they'd ever uttered it in the first place. In truth, he didn't care for anyone to utter it but this man, so good and kind, the real embodiment of what a knight ought to be. Surely, his man would not deny him the simple pleasure of hearing his name from those precious lips?

Duncan did not say anything, so Baelor pressed again. "So, what say you? Are you ready to be my sworn shield here, at my side?"

"Your Grace-"

"Baelor," he insisted.

"Baelor. I fear that my work in the realm is not yet done." Baelor felt his mood souring now, his lips falling into a true frown. "I believe I should remain on the road with Egg, serving the realm in your name."

"Nonsense. As I said, it is high time Prince Aegon learns the ways of court. He shall be my cupbearer here."

"Then, perhaps I might continue my training on Dragonstone? I am not yet worthy of such a position."

Baelor thought of all the Dragonseeds on Dragonstone, how beautiful those bastards were, with only a few drops of Targaryen in their veins. Thought of Daemon Blackfyre, in his dungeons, talking about how Duncan was meant for Daemon. "No, Aegon is here, and he still is just a squire. He needs his Ser," Baelor reasoned, though an edge was creeping in to his voice.

"Your Gr- Baelor. I think he has surpassed me in skill, and should be trained under a knight better suited. Or perhaps he can learn courtly etiquette on Dragonstone, under his cousin's tutelage? Surely your Heir would make an excellent tutor, and perhaps less eyes on Egg as he learns would serve to avoid any embarrassing incidents," Duncan suggested, and Baelor knew that it was better than what he had suggested, but he would not heard it. "Or perhaps Summerhall, so he can see his sisters again?"

"I forbid it!" Baelor snarled, watching the dream of Duncan happily staying by his side dissolving before his eyes, burned away under Duncan's rising distress. "Aegon will stay here, and you will stay with him."

"I cannot, your Grace!" Duncan pleaded, but Baelor could feel the fingers of his soul just clutch harder on the knight. Were they on the other man's throat, strangling him? Around his heart, squeezing?

"You have sworn yourself to me, and I have given you an order," Baelor said darkly, rage bubbling in him where he cannot express his despair. I cannot take you to wed, so this will be the only vows between us. You do not want to kneel under a cloak of my colors, so I shall cloak you in white. You do not wish to take me to bed, but you will not allow another to take my place.

Duncan fell to his knees then, shocking Baelor out of the spiral of his thoughts. He bowed his head, depriving the King of the sight of his pretty cerulean eyes, tortured as they were. "Please, your Grace, please. I cannot bear it. Do not make me bear witness to it."

So blinded was he in his rage, he could not think on what his knight said. He clasped Duncan's chin in a vice-like grip, wrenching his face up to look into his King's mismatched eyes. "You will bear witness to whatever I deem fit," he seethed. Always keep these eyes on me, never look away, cherish me, you are the only one who sees me.

"It is too cruel, your Grace, you are too cruel!" Duncan whimpered, but did not pry himself from Baelor's grip despite the tears swimming in those blue eyes.

"Am I so unbearable? You only wish to serve me away from mine eyes, out of my reach?" Baelor asked, voice quiet and pained. He was a good king, a kind king, but Ser Duncan the Tall did not wish to endure his presence longer than a few days a year?

"You must know, you must, do not make be say it," he begged, but Baelor had an unquenching thirst, desired every though in his knight's head.

"Say it," he demanded. You swore yourself to me, and I will have all of your mind.

"Do not make me watch you take one of those girls to wife, or any other highborn Lady. Don't make me watch them all vie for your attention, your hand, as if you were some prized stallion they wanted to stud," he spat, furious and distraught, and Baelor marveled at the beauty of his rage, just as he had when Duncan demanded don't all knights swear the same oath?

"Why can you not bear it?" He asked carefully, tried to regain that regal calmness he was known for. Known for keeping calm, for letting level heads prevail, and yet Duncan reduced him to a beastly Dragon hoarding its treasure.

"Surely you know how I love you," Duncan replied, miserable, and Baelor felt the weight of crown, the realm's expectations, and his own heart's yearning fall away as he realized the feelings in his own desolate heart were echoed back in Duncan's own, their hearts a mirror image of each other. Baelor finally smiled again, looking down into his pretty knight's eyes.

"Oh, prūmia, how could I not have seen this?" He marveled, soft and cooing. Duncan sagged into him, as if some invisible string that had been held taunt was cut.

"I will leave tonight. I will not burden you with my presence or my feelings," Duncan murmured, devastation so clear in this face, in those eyes. "Can I at least give my goodbyes to Egg?"

"Why would I ever scorn my sworn shield?" Baelor asked, an amused lift to his lips.

"You would still make me watch?" Duncan asked, enraged and affronted and so very beautiful.

"No more than you would make me witness you seducing some guileless maids from the kitchens, or serving girls who blush at you at dinner." He tried for an amused affect, but his jealousy wanted to rear its head at the reminder. Carefully avoided thinking of Lady Webber and that Blackfyre bastard.

His eyes searched the King's mismatched eyes, tried to understand.

"Dearest, I have dreamed of you warming my bed since we met in Ashford," Baelor said, watching his precious knight as the man's eyes darkened, pupils blown wide. A wicked gleam entered Baelor's. "Every time you knelt at my feet, my mind conjured images of pushing my cock into your pliant mouth, of all the ways your body might blush under my attention. Of your thick thighs around my head, teeth marks littering your stomach and inner thighs. So no, Ser Duncan the Tall, I have no intention of marrying any of those girls that I would sooner see married to my sons or nephews. Rather, I would put a cloak upon your shoulders in a sept, but I cannot for fear of rebellion. So I ask again, Ser Duncan. Will you swear yourself to me?"

Pupils still dilated, blush high on his cheeks, mouth fallen open, Duncan nodded jerkily.

Baelor kissed him then, the moon shining on them, and his garden below them, the sounds of his guests in the Hall a distant memory.