Chapter Text
The water ran cool over Dunk's skin, and he let the current tug at his hair as the faint sounds of Ashford Meadow drifted through the reeds. He’d left Egg near the puppet tent where they had found not Tanselle, but her companions, bearing an array of smaller puppets for a different show, which promised to keep Egg and a dozen other children occupied for some time. He’d come back to his camp to bathe, seeking a little peace and privacy, but his thoughts refused to leave him be.
Ser Lyonel's words from the previous day had lodged stubbornly in his mind. Cowering, like a maiden on her wedding night.
Dunk scrubbed a hand through his wet hair and frowned at the rippling water. He’d worked out what Lyonel had meant, that his attempt at going unnoticed had instead meant that he had been marked and the very thing he’d been trying so hard to hide, all his uncertainty, the sheer overwhelm, had been plain as the nose on his face.
Something about how Lyonel had said it lingered still, and he couldn’t shake it.
What was a maiden meant to feel on her wedding night? Nervous? Mayhap a little breathless. Waiting for someone she trusted to take her hand and tell her all would be well? Septas might know, but Dunk had rarely trespassed inside a sept, not unless there'd been food on offer. There was something horribly appealing in the idea of setting aside the endless need to be strong and fearless, to be cherished instead of tested, to be looked upon with tenderness rather than expectation.
His ears were growing warm despite the chill of the stream. ‘Tis a stupid thing to think on, he told himself, but as the stream flowed around him, he found he could not quite make himself let the thoughts go.
They swirled in Dunk’s mind as he ducked beneath the water one final time, where he stayed under long enough to emerge gasping. As he rose from the stream, water coursed from his skin and dripped from the ends of his hair, he found his heart beating faster than it ought. He gathered his clothes in hurried hands, annoyed with himself for dwelling on such things. Yet it settled deep within him, the thought of being held gently, looked upon with affection, as though he were precious. He rebuked himself for his foolishness, and yet… His heartbeat felt like a drum in his chest and his face was flushed, despite the cool evening air.
He strode up the bank, boots dangling from one hand, determined to think of anything else, but his thoughts kept circling. By the time he reached the shelter of his tree, he was riddled with a mix of shame and bewilderment at the thrill that lingered in his chest. It was as though Lyonel had fired an arrow into some hidden truth about himself, and now that he’d noticed it quivering where it struck, he didn’t know what to make of it.
He was familiar with this feeling, for what lad could be as old as him and a stranger to the way it pulsed through him, firming his cock. Normally he could trace the source of it without the ring of shame that accompanied it tonight - usually some pretty girl and the way her dress clung to her chest, or some dream of broad shoulders and strong hands that faded with the morning mist, leaving only a damp patch in his breeches.
Well, he thought, having pulled his shirt back on, I’ve the camp to myself… The fire at his back might have been a warm caress at the back of his bare thighs, and his breathing grew heavy as he took himself in hand.
Tanselle, he thought, the taste of his own stubbornness in the back of his throat, rough bark under one hand and smooth damp skin in the other. Tanselle, in her pretty draping blue, so kind and smiling - she would guide him, surely? They might discover it together. He spit in his hand, the tug made smoother by the wet slide of his palm. Yes, she would love him, and touch him sweetly, and he might kiss her mouth, maybe her neck, hear her sigh his name and praise his strength –
Strong as an aurochs.
His breath caught. No! He would be gentle. He might be stupid, gods know he’d been told that many a time, a lumbering oaf who'd once stepped on a girl's foot when he'd hoped to kiss her, but he would be gentle with Tanselle and she would be gentle and sweet to him. He would win a tilt and crown her with flowers, and she would look at him in delight and see him for the knight he yearned to be.
Let him join the lists.
Tanselle, he thought desperately, against the rising tide of the Prince’s voice.
You're a good man, ser. A fine knight.
He held back a whimper, though there were none around to hear him. His cheeks were scarlet. He imagined hands covering them, a strong and confident touch, the warm metal of rings pressed against his jaw, and those eyes that had seen straight through him, looking at him now, at the hand around his cock.
His heart stuttered, he dragged in a breath, and another, tightened his grip. I'm not –
He gave in to the Prince Baelor of his mind, and imagined that, as he turned his face desperately into the warm dry hand on his face, the other might settle on his bare chest, right over the pounding of his heart.
“You are. You'll be my man.”
What could he say, in the face of that voice, that smile?
He could not argue with a prince, “As you say, milord,” he would say, and dared to imagine that he would see the light in those noble eyes kindle in response to his words, that the corner of the prince’s lips would tilt up, just so, into the suggestion of a smile.
Oh gods, his cock was so hard he could feel his heart beating in the grip of his palm, he could hardly think.
What would the Prince say to a man like Dunk? Would he want Dunk to serve him?
Dunk wanted to serve him.
He imagined Baelor’s voice would be smooth and low, like it had been in Lord Ashford’s parlour.
“On your knees for me, Ser Duncan.”
His knees hit the grass with a thunk, no graceful noble fold for him, thick as a castle wall, but in his mind his Prince cared not, and his hand moved faster, faster. He twisted his wrist and squeezed the circle of his fist to catch on the ridge of the glistening head, opened his mouth to plead –
Then a warm ringed hand landed on his head, patting once, twice, and Dunk imagined his caress heavy with approval, elegant fingers sliding through his hair. He could see it, feel it, for only a brief overwhelming moment before he choked back a whine and spilled in a jerking mess all over the base of the elm tree.
The phantom weight of the Prince’s hand remained as he shuddered through his finish. When he finally raised his head, he found himself all alone, save for the noise of the tourney over the fields in the dwindling twilight.
He cleaned himself by rote. Pulled on his breeches and boots, splashed the mess on the gnarled trunk of the tree with some of the contents of his waterskin for good measure, and banished all thoughts of princes.
It's no matter, he told himself firmly. Like as not you'll never have to look him in the eye again, how often do you expect to have a private audience with a prince? He'll never know.