Chapter Text
The summer night pressed against Summerhall like warm breath on skin. Moonlight poured through the open arches of Prince Daeron’s chamber, gilding the pale sandstone in silver and pooling on the floor in molten drifts. Far below, the Cockleswhent sang its low, endless lament, and the jasmine vines trembled as though stirred by some invisible wind.
Daeron woke with the sensation of being pulled backward through deep, cold water. He lingered between sleep and wakefulness, the edges of the dream clinging to him like mist.
There had been no room, only endless white marble veined with gold, stretching infinitely until it curved overhead like the inside of an eggshell. Mist drifted at ankle height, cool against bare calves. Ser Duncan the Tall stood before him - not armored, not even in the plain brown tunic of Summerhall, but bare to the waist, skin gilded by a sourceless light. His shoulders were impossibly broad yet delicate, as though he had been carved from warm ivory and then breathed upon until he lived.
Dunk did not speak. He never did in dreams. Instead, one hand - scarred, callused, familiar - cradled the side of Daeron’s face with a tenderness. His thumb traced the faint scar left by a childhood tumble, a mark no one else remembered. Daeron’s hands rose of their own accord, sliding along the knight’s forearms, feeling muscle shift beneath skin like slow-rolling waves.
Then came the kiss.
It was not fierce. Not urgent. It was slow - achingly slow, as if time itself had thickened around them. Dunk’s lips were warm, slightly chapped; they tasted of sun-dried wheat, salt, and something sweet and green, the elusive scent of summer grass crushed underfoot. The kiss deepened by imperceptible fractions, each movement coaxing from Daeron a soft, shivering sound he had never made awake. Dunk’s other hand settled at the small of his back, fingers splayed wide, steadying him as if Daeron might float away into the milky mist if not held.
No words passed between them. Only breath shared in rhythm, the faint wet sound of lips meeting, the impossible gentleness of a man built like a siege engine choosing to be careful.
Daeron woke gasping, mouth dry, tasting nothing but that ghostly sweetness and the sour aftertaste of shame. Cold sweat slicked his skin; his heart thudded painfully. The sheets clung wet to him; the air seemed suddenly frigid. He sat up, trembling, pressing his hands to his face as though he could shove the dream back where it belonged.
Seven save me. Seven bloody hells.
He stumbled to the sideboard, bare feet slapping the tile, and found the flagon by moonlight. Dornish red burned down his throat in choking gulps, scouring the lingering sweetness from his tongue. It did not help. The memory of those hands - enormous, careful - remained branded on his skin.
Dawn found him hollow-eyed and freshly bathed, dressed in black and silver, eyes shadowed. He descended to the great hall, telling himself he was steady, telling himself it was only a dream, telling himself he could look at the man without remembering how those lips had felt.
Ser Duncan the Tall stood near a long table, speaking quietly with Ser Roland Crakehall about the day’s training. He wore the same brown tunic, stretched snug across his shoulders. When he laughed at something the older knight said - a low, warm sound - it traveled straight through Daeron’s ribs.
Their eyes met across the sunlit hall.
Dunk offered his usual nod: courteous, grave, utterly without guile.
Daeron’s pulse roared in his ears. Heat climbed his throat. He felt suddenly too tall, too visible, as though every inch of him remembered being held. He veered toward the sideboard, snatched a cup, filled it with watered wine he barely tasted, and then - because flight would be too obvious - he walked toward them.
“Ser Duncan,” he said, voice pitched for lightness, for mockery. “Still defying gravity, I see. One would think all that virtue would make a man float right off the ground.”
Dunk turned fully, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. “Your Grace. Good morrow.” A small, crooked smile. “I slept on straw last night. Seems to keep me anchored.”
Daeron laughed - too sharp, too loud. “Lucky straw, then. Some of us sleep on featherbeds and still wake… unmoored.” He swallowed wine to cover the tremor of his hand. “Tell me, ser - do your dreams ever betray you? Or are they as obedient as the rest of you?”
Dunk rubbed the back of his neck, faintly puzzled. “I dream of ordinary things, mostly. My steeds - Sweetfoot and Chestnut. Freshly baked bread. Not getting unhorsed in front of half the Reach.” He shrugged one massive shoulder. “Nothing worth fretting over.”
Daeron’s smile felt like broken glass. “Nothing worth fretting over,” he echoed softly. “How fortunate you are.”
He stepped closer - close enough to catch the sun-warmed scent of the man, close enough that, for one terrible heartbeat, he could almost believe the dream had followed him into daylight.
“Be wary of shadows, Ser Duncan,” he murmured, low enough only the knight could hear. “They creep into a man’s sleep and leave marks no wine can wash away.”
Dunk frowned, head tilting. “Marks, Your Grace?”
Daeron held his gaze one heartbeat too long. Then forced another brittle laugh and stepped back.
“Only jesting,” he said. “You know how I love to be puzzling.”
He turned away before the flush could reach his ears, striding toward the garden galleries with his cup clutched like a shield. Behind him, Dunk watched him for a moment - bemused, faintly concerned - then returned to his conversation with Ser Roland as though nothing had happened.
In the shadowed archway overlooking jasmine-choked gardens, Daeron leaned against warm stone and closed his eyes.
The dream-kiss lingered on his mouth.
And somewhere behind him, Ser Duncan the Tall ate his bread and thought of nothing more complicated than the tilt yard and the boy he was sworn to protect - never knowing that, for one wretched prince, the simplest touch had become the most dangerous thing in the world.
The days blurred into a haze at Summerhall, each one warmer than the last, the sun beating down on the pale walls like a relentless interrogator. Prince Daeron threw himself into distraction with the fervor of a man fleeing his own shadow. He rose early - earlier than his wine-soaked head preferred - and filled his hours with anything that kept him far from the tilt yard, the armory, or any corner where Ser Duncan the Tall might loom into view.
Mornings he spent with his companions: young lords and knights' sons who orbited him like moths to a flame, drawn by his title and his sharp tongue. They rode out along the Cockleswhent, hawking in the scrubby foothills where the Red Mountains met the Marches. Daeron laughed too loudly at their jests, his voice carrying over the rush of water and the cry of birds. "See that falcon?" he'd quip, pointing to a speck wheeling high above. "Faster than my father's temper - and twice as deadly." His friends roared approval, clapping him on the back, but his eyes would dart back toward the palace, half-expecting a certain towering silhouette to appear on the horizon.
Afternoons bled into evenings in the shaded galleries or the cool cellars, where he uncorked bottles of Arbor gold and Dornish reds with practiced ease. The wine flowed like excuses - first a cup to steady his nerves, then another to blur the edges of memory. His companions matched him drink for drink, spinning tales of tourneys and trysts, but Daeron's mind wandered unbidden. Gentle, he thought, staring into the depths of his goblet. How can a man that size be so gods-damned gentle? He remembered Dunk's hands in the yard, steadying a stumbling squire with a touch that was firm yet kind, or the way he'd bow his head when speaking to servants, as if his height were an apology. And then, inevitably, the dream slithered back: those same hands on him, that kiss unfolding like a secret in the mist-shrouded eggshell world. Slow. Sweet. Wanted.
No. He shook his head, forcing a grin as one of his friends poured another round. "To women," Daeron toasted abruptly, raising his cup high. "The only dreams worth chasing."
They cheered, and the evening spilled into night. When the palace grew stifling, they ventured down to the village at Summerhall's base - a cluster of whitewashed inns and taverns where merchants from Dorne mingled with Marcher folk. Daeron led the way to the Golden Cockleswhent, a low-beamed den thick with pipe smoke and the scent of spiced ale. There, amid the clamor of dice games and lute strings, he sought further oblivion.
A tavern wench caught his eye - or rather, he let her. She was comely enough: dark-haired and quick-smiling, with a laugh that filled the room like bells. Her name was Mysa, or Mira - something like that; he didn't ask twice. She perched on his knee as the night deepened, her fingers tracing patterns on his arm while his friends wagered on arm-wrestles and swapped bawdy songs. Daeron bought her a flagon of sweetwine, let her feed him olives from her fingers, and when she leaned in to whisper invitations, he followed her upstairs to a cramped room above the common hall.
The door clicked shut. She kissed him first - eager, practiced, tasting of honeyed mead. Daeron closed his eyes and tried to lose himself in it, his hands roaming her curves, pulling at laces and linen. But as she sighed against his neck, his traitorous mind drifted again. Not like this. Not hurried, not in a tavern bed that creaked like old bones. He saw Dunk instead: the dream-version, bare and gilded, moving with that surreal slowness, lips parting his with a gentleness that bordered on reverence. Daeron's breath hitched; he pressed harder against the wench, chasing the illusion away with force. She moaned appreciatively, mistaking his urgency for passion.
Afterward, as she dozed curled against him, Daeron lay staring at the rafters, the room spinning faintly from drink. It was nothing, he told himself fiercely. A dream. I was awake all along - wide awake - and that... that version of him never existed. The lie tasted bitter, like lees at the bottom of a cask. He knew better. His dreams were not mere fancies; they were harbingers, glimpses of futures twisted and true. Dragons dying in flames, shadows of betrayal - these he had seen, and some had come to pass. But this? A kiss from a hedge knight? Gentle hands on a prince who craved ruin?
The shock of it coiled in his gut, deeper than shame: he wanted it to be true. Wanted those enormous arms around him, that mouth claiming his in waking light. Not the wench's practiced affections, not the hollow cheers of friends. Him. Duncan. The one man who saw him not as a drunken seer or a spare heir, but as... what? A puzzle? A duty?
Daeron slipped from the bed before dawn, leaving a purse of dragons on the table - generous, guilty. He dressed in silence and stole back to Summerhall under a paling sky, the village stirring with cocks' crows and cart wheels. His head throbbed; his heart worse.
In the palace stables, as he handed off his horse, a familiar voice rumbled from the shadows: "Your Grace? Out early - or late?"
Ser Duncan emerged, leading a destrier for morning exercise. Tall as ever, oblivious as ever, with that earnest furrow between his brows.
Daeron froze, heat flooding his face. "Ser," he managed, voice clipped. "Just... enjoying the night air."
Dunk nodded slowly, concern flickering in his eyes. "You look weary, my prince. If there's aught troubling you - "
"Nothing," Daeron snapped, too sharp. Then, softer: "Nothing at all." He turned away, striding toward his chambers, but the weight of that gaze followed him like a promise.
The afternoon sun hung low over Summerhall, gilding the long lake that stretched like a silver ribbon between the palace gardens and the first gentle rise of the foothills. The water was still, reflecting the sky in perfect, unbroken blue, and the air smelled of sun-warmed grass and the faint mineral tang of the springs that fed the lake.
Egg - Prince Aegon, though no one called him that when he was scampering about barefoot and earnest - found Daeron in the shaded colonnade where he’d retreated with yet another cup of watered Arbor gold. The boy’s face was flushed from running, his short silver hair wild, eyes bright with the particular determination only little brothers can muster.
“Daeron,” Egg said, breathless but firm, “come walk with us. Just a little way. Dunk’s taking me down to the lake path. I’ve missed you.”
Daeron looked down at the small, stubborn face and felt the familiar twist of guilt beneath the wine’s dull armor. He wanted to refuse - every instinct screamed to keep distance, to bury himself deeper in drink and noise - but the boy’s eyes were too honest, too much like their father’s when Maekar was younger and still believed the world could be mended.
And beneath that guilt lay something worse: the pull toward Dunk, steady and magnetic, like tidewater drawing him under no matter how hard he fought.
He exhaled through his nose. “All right, little dragon. Lead on.”
Egg beamed and darted ahead to fetch Dunk, who appeared moments later with his usual grave courtesy, offering Daeron a polite nod. “Your Grace. Glad to have you with us.”
Daeron managed a crooked smile and lifted his cup in salute. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, ser.”
They walked in companionable quiet at first, Egg chattering between them about everything and nothing: a frog he’d seen that morning, the way the new destrier snorted like a bellows, how he’d convinced the cooks to sneak him an extra honey cake. Dunk listened with patient attention, asking gentle questions that made Egg puff up with pride. Daeron trailed a step behind, nursing his wine, letting the low rumble of Dunk’s voice wash over him like warm rain. Every so often their shoulders brushed when the path narrowed - accidental, meaningless - and Daeron’s skin prickled as though branded.
At a wide, grassy stretch beside the lake, Egg stopped and turned, eyes shining. “Dunk, can we do swords? Just a little? I want to show Daeron how much better I’ve got. Please?”
Dunk rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at Daeron. “If your brother doesn’t mind watching.”
Daeron waved a negligent hand, though his pulse had already quickened. “By all means. Let’s see what the terror of Summerhall can do.”
They found a flat patch of grass. Dunk drew his practice sword - blunted, wooden, but still long enough to look ridiculous in anyone else’s hands - and handed Egg a smaller one suited to the boy’s size. They began slowly, Dunk calling corrections in that calm, steady voice: “Keep your shield up, lad. Feet wider. Good - now strike.”
Egg moved with surprising grace for his age, darting in and out, and Dunk met every blow with careful restraint, turning aside strikes with the flat of his blade or stepping just enough to let the boy feel the thrill of near-success. Sweat soon gleamed on Dunk’s brow and darkened the neck of his tunic; his broad shoulders rolled with each measured parry, the muscles in his forearms shifting under sun-browned skin. He was beautiful in motion - not the polished beauty of tourney knights, but something rawer, more honest: power held in check, gentleness made manifest in every careful touch of wood on wood.
Daeron watched, throat dry despite the wine. Heat pooled low in his belly, shameful and insistent.
When Egg finally landed a glancing blow to Dunk’s thigh - more luck than skill - the knight laughed, a deep, warm sound, and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Well struck, ser. You’ve improved.”
Egg beamed up at Daeron. “Did you see that?”
Daeron forced his gaze away from Dunk’s flushed face and smiled - genuine this time, if strained. “I saw, little brother. You’ll unhorse half the Reach before you’re twelve, mark my words.”
Egg preened for a moment, then suddenly pointed toward the far end of the lake. “Look - there’s that heron again! The big grey one with the crooked beak! I bet I can get closer this time.” Before either of them could protest, he was off, pelting down the lakeside path with the tireless energy only children possess, shouting promises to the bird over his shoulder.
And then they were alone.
Dunk wiped his brow with the back of his wrist, breathing a little harder from the play. A bead of sweat traced the line of his jaw and disappeared into the collar of his tunic. Daeron’s mouth went dry all over again.
“You fight well with him,” Daeron said, stepping closer under the guise of casual interest. “Gentle. Patient. Most men would’ve flattened the boy just to prove a point.”
Dunk shrugged, sheepish. “He’s a good lad. Deserves to learn proper, not be bruised for sport.” He drank from his waterskin, throat working, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Daeron watched the motion too long. “You’re all gentleness, aren’t you, ser? Even when you could crush a man like kindling.”
Dunk blinked, puzzled. “I try not to crush anyone, Your Grace. Unless they need crushing.”
Daeron laughed - low, a little reckless. “Lucky for the rest of us.” He took another swallow of wine, letting the words slip out softer. “Some of us might not mind being handled… carefully.”
Dunk’s brows drew together. “Handled?”
Daeron stepped nearer still, close enough to smell clean sweat and sun on skin. “You heard me.”
The knight shifted his weight, looking more bewildered than alarmed. “You’ve been… different lately, my prince. I don’t mean offense, but - ”
Daeron cut him off with a sudden, bright smile. “I hate fighting, you know that. Loathe it. Always have.” He gestured at the practice sword still in Dunk’s hand. “But I find myself wondering what it would feel like. To cross blades with you. Just once. Playfully.”
Dunk stared. “You hate swords.”
“I do.”
“Then why - ”
“Because,” Daeron said, voice dropping, “I want to fall. And I want your hands on me when I do.”
Silence stretched, taut as bowstring. Dunk’s eyes widened fractionally; the waterskin dangled forgotten in his grip.
“Your Grace,” he said slowly, “you’ve been acting strange for days. More than usual. If you’ve had a dream - if I did something in it that troubles you - ”
Daeron looked up at him then - really looked. The height of him, the earnest furrow between his brows, the faint flush still on his cheeks from exertion. Longing rose in Daeron’s chest, sharp enough to cut.
“I did dream,” he said quietly. “Of you.”
Dunk waited, patient as stone.
Daeron drew a shaky breath. “You should kiss me, Ser Duncan.”
The words hung between them, fragile and irrevocable.
Dunk’s mouth parted, but no sound came. For once, the towering knight looked utterly lost - eyes searching Daeron’s face as though trying to read a language he’d never learned.
And somewhere down the lake path, Egg’s distant laughter carried back on the breeze, innocent and far away.
Dunk’s eyes searched Daeron’s face. His voice came low, careful, the way one speaks to a spooked horse.
“Your Grace… is this some sort of jape? Because if it is - ”
Daeron stepped forward, cutting him off with quiet urgency. “I would never jape about this.”
The words hung between them, stripped of mockery. Daeron’s gaze never wavered.
“I dreamed of you,” he said. “You kissed me. Slow. Gentle. Like the world had stopped to watch. And since I woke I’ve been able to think of nothing else. Nothing. It follows me like a shadow I can’t outrun.”
Dunk swallowed. The sound was audible even over the soft lap of the lake against the reeds. His broad shoulders rose and fell once, as though he were bracing for a blow.
“I’m not… that way,” he said at last, the words rough, almost apologetic. “I wouldn’t kiss a man. Not like that.”
Daeron’s mouth curved sadly. “Neither am I.”
They stared at one another then, the admission lying naked between them. The afternoon light caught in Dunk’s lashes, turned the faint stubble along his jaw to gold. Daeron could hear his own heartbeat, loud enough that he wondered if Dunk could hear it too.
Dunk’s eyes flicked away first - toward the far end of the lake path, searching for the small running figure of Egg. He licked his lips once, unconsciously, the tip of his tongue catching the corner of his mouth. His brow furrowed deeper; he was thinking hard, weighing something heavier than honor or oaths.
“We can’t do it here,” he said finally, voice barely above a murmur. “Not out in the open. Not like this.”
Daeron’s laugh was soft, shaky, almost a sob. “If you don’t kiss me this very moment, ser, I’m afraid I might unravel right here on the grass. Piece by piece. Until there’s nothing left but wine puddles.”
Dunk looked back at him then - really looked. His eyes were storm-dark with conflict, but beneath it something else flickered: curiosity, perhaps, or recognition of a need that mirrored his own buried ones.
He hesitated another heartbeat.
Then he moved.
One enormous hand rose to cup the side of Daeron’s face - callused thumb brushing the line of his cheekbone exactly as it had in the dream. The other settled at Daeron’s waist, steady, anchoring. Dunk bent slowly, giving Daeron every chance to pull away.
He didn’t.
Their mouths met.
It was surreal, impossibly tender. Not the fierce clash Daeron had half-feared, but something quieter, deeper: lips parting with the same aching patience of the dream, warm and careful. Dunk kissed like he fought - like a man who knew exactly how much strength he carried and chose, every second, to hold it back. Daeron’s knees buckled; the world tilted. He clutched at Dunk’s tunic with both hands, fingers curling into rough wool, and Dunk’s arm tightened around him, holding him upright without ever making it feel like restraint.
Time stretched thin and golden. The kiss lingered - soft, searching, a question neither of them had words for - until at last they drew apart, breaths mingling, foreheads nearly touching.
They stared at one another in silence. No words. Only the slow, mutual retreat: half a step, then another, hands falling away as though waking from the same dream. The space between them felt colder than the lake.
A sudden, raucous honk shattered the stillness - a heron’s indignant cry echoing across the water.
Dunk’s head snapped toward the sound. “Egg - ”
He was already moving, long strides eating up the path. Daeron followed more slowly, heart slamming against his ribs so hard he thought it might bruise them.
Down by the reeds, Egg wrestled gleefully with the big grey heron he’d chased. The bird - crooked beak and all - flapped enormous wings and stabbed at the boy with outraged dignity while Egg laughed, arms wrapped around its long neck in a hug that was half affection, half conquest.
“Got him! Look, Daeron - look, Dunk! I caught him!”
Dunk reached them first, gently prying the heron free before it could do real damage, murmuring apologies to the bird as though it could understand. He set it loose; it launched skyward with an indignant squawk and a flurry of grey feathers.
Egg turned to them both, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. “Did you see? He almost got away!”
Daeron managed a smile. “I saw, little brother. You’re braver than half the knights in the Marches.”
Egg beamed and darted ahead again, already planning his next adventure.
Dunk lingered a moment longer. He glanced back at Daeron - only a glance, brief and unreadable - before following the boy.
Daeron stood where he was, the taste of the kiss still on his lips, his heart racing faster and harder than it ever had in battle or tourney or nightmare. The lake glittered innocently before him, the heron a distant speck against the sky.
The walk back to Summerhall was quiet, the three of them moving in a loose line along the lakeside path as the sun dipped behind the Red Mountains and turned the sky the color of bruised plums. Egg skipped ahead, still buzzing with triumph over the heron, chattering to himself about how he’d tell everyone at supper that he’d wrestled a bird taller than he was. Daeron and Dunk walked a careful distance apart - close enough that their shadows touched on the grass, far enough that no one glancing from the palace windows would think anything of it.
At the garden gate, Egg darted through first, calling over his shoulder that he was going to find a servant to tell about the heron before anyone else stole his story. Daeron slowed. Dunk slowed with him.
Daeron turned, voice pitched low, barely above the rustle of evening wind through the jasmine.
“If you wanted to,” he murmured, eyes fixed on Dunk’s collar rather than his face, “you could come to my chambers later. After the castle quiets.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. The words felt too big, too naked; if Dunk refused outright he wasn’t sure he could bear hearing it. So he turned on his heel, strode after Egg, and left the knight standing there beneath the archway.
In his tower chamber, Daeron shut the door with both hands and leaned against it until his heartbeat slowed enough to think. Then he laughed - short, jagged, the sound of a man who knows he’s being foolish and can’t stop.
He poured wine with shaking fingers, drank half a cup standing, then carried the flagon to the window seat and drank more. His mind spun wild, reckless images: Dunk filling the doorway, moonlight catching the breadth of his shoulders; Dunk’s hands sliding under linen; Dunk’s mouth on his throat, on his chest, lower. Daeron’s breath hitched. He set the cup aside, pressed the heel of his hand to the front of his night shift, and closed his eyes.
He remembered Dunk by the lake: sweat gleaming along his jaw, tunic clinging to the hard planes of his chest, the easy power in every movement as he parried Egg’s strikes. Gentle. Strong. Beautiful in a way that felt unfair. Daeron’s hand moved faster, breath coming in soft, broken sounds. When release came it was sharp and sudden, leaving him trembling against the cushions, sticky and ashamed and still aching.
He cleaned himself with a cloth, changed the shift for a fresh one, and crawled into bed. The sheets felt too cool against his flushed skin. He rolled onto his stomach, then his back, then his side - restless, laughing again at himself, at the absurdity of a prince reduced to this: a squeaking, needy thing waiting for a hedge knight who might never come.
The door opened.
Daeron froze mid-roll, heart slamming.
Moonlight poured through the open arches, silvering the stone floor and gilding the figure who stepped inside. Dunk. Still in his plain brown tunic and breeches, hair mussed from the night wind, shoulders hunched slightly as though he half-expected to be turned away.
He looked nervous - jaw tight, fingers twitching at his sides - but gods, he looked impossibly handsome too: tall and steady in the way only a man who’d faced worse than moonlight trysts could look.
Daeron lay very still on his back, thin night shift clinging to him, and watched Dunk close the door with careful quiet.
The knight fidgeted with the hem of his tunic, eyes darting anywhere but Daeron’s face.
“I really hoped you weren’t playing me for a fool,” Dunk said at last, voice rough. “I kept telling myself that on the way here. That maybe it was all some cruel jest. I can’t believe I actually came.”
Daeron swallowed. “Come closer.”
He patted the edge of the mattress.
Dunk hesitated - long enough that Daeron’s stomach twisted - then crossed the room in three slow strides and sat. The bed dipped under his weight. Close enough that Daeron could smell sweat and leather and the faint green scent of the lake path still clinging to him.
Daeron reached out, fingertips brushing Dunk’s shoulder through wool. “My lips haven’t stopped burning since the lake,” he whispered.
Dunk broke eye contact first, looking down at his own hands folded in his lap. Almost timid.
“If I’m truthful,” Dunk said quietly, “I’m not here just because I’m afraid of whatever prophecy your dream might hold.”
Daeron’s breath caught. “Neither am I.”.
Dunk huffed a small, surprised laugh. “You stink, Your Grace. Wine. And sweat.”
Dunk met his eyes again, steady despite the flush creeping up his neck. “I wonder if kissing me is truly so scary,” he said, voice low and rough. “For you.”
Daeron shook his head slowly. “No,” he answered. “It is not.”
He leaned in then, pressing his lips first to Dunk’s cheek - warm, faintly stubbled - then lower, to the side of his neck where the pulse beat strong and quick. Dunk’s breath hitched, a sharp, involuntary sound that sent heat curling through Daeron’s belly.
They shifted awkwardly on the bed, turning toward each other. Daeron kissed him properly then - mouth to mouth, slow and searching - while his hands moved: sliding up Dunk’s neck, over broad shoulders, down to the hard plane of his chest. He mapped him through fabric, marveling at the heat of him, the solid muscle that flinched at first beneath his palms, then melted, softening into the touch as though surrendering. Daeron’s own arousal sharpened at the feel of it - Dunk’s skin warm and alive under his hands, the faint tremor that ran through the bigger man when fingers traced the line of a collarbone.
Dunk pulled back from the kiss just enough to speak, voice unsteady. “All this touching… it was surely not in your dreams.”
Daeron’s mouth curved, playful despite the pounding of his heart. “No,” he confirmed. “It wasn’t. But we’re not in a dream though, are we?”
Dunk blinked, brow furrowing in that deep, earnest way that Daeron already found unbearably endearing. He thought on it hard for a long moment - lips parted, gaze distant - then lifted his own hands. They settled first on Daeron’s neck, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin beneath his ears, then slid to his shoulders.
Daeron let out a shaky sigh of pure relief, eyes fluttering closed as pleasure rippled through him. Dunk’s touch was tentative at first, exploratory, but it steadied as Daeron leaned into it - head tipping back slightly, throat exposed, a soft sound escaping when those big hands tightened just enough to hold rather than merely rest.
Fingertips skimmed the sharp line of collarbone, then drifted down over the thin linen of Daeron’s night shift, mapping the lean planes of his chest. Every touch was light, almost questioning, as though Dunk expected Daeron to flinch away at any second.
Daeron didn’t. Pleasure sparked along his skin like lightning; he arched subtly into the contact, breath catching. His own hands rose, fingers curling into the rough wool of Dunk’s tunic, pulling the bigger man closer until their bodies were pressed together from knee to chest. Daeron leaned back slowly onto the mattress, drawing Dunk down with him, the bed dipping under their combined weight.
Dunk followed, but his face had gone flushed and flustered, eyes wide in the moonlight. He braced one forearm beside Daeron’s head to keep from crushing him, the other hand still splayed uncertainly over Daeron’s ribs.
“I’ve only ever… slept with a woman before,” Dunk admitted, voice low and rough, almost lost in the quiet of the room. “Never - not like this. Not with - ”
Daeron silenced him with a kiss - soft at first, then deeper, coaxing. When they parted he murmured against Dunk’s mouth, “You can pretend I’m a woman, if it helps. If that makes it easier.”
Dunk’s brow furrowed, deep and earnest. He shook his head once, decisive.
“No,” he said. “I don’t want to pretend. I want it to be you. Just… you.”
The words landed like a spark on dry tinder. Daeron squirmed beneath him, heat flooding his face and belly in equal measure. Pleasure twisted sharp and sweet; arousal surged so fiercely it left him breathless. He’d never heard anything so simple and devastating.
His hand moved before he could think better of it - sliding down the hard plane of Dunk’s stomach, over the coarse fabric of his breeches, until his palm cupped the thick outline of Dunk’s cock through the wool. It was warm, already stirring; Daeron felt it twitch and swell beneath his touch, thickening to half-hard in seconds.
Dunk’s breath hitched audibly, a ragged sound. His eyes dropped to where Daeron’s hand rested, then flicked back up, wide and dark.
Daeron’s voice came out soft, teasing, though his own pulse thundered. “Should I not touch you like that?”
Dunk didn’t answer. Words seemed beyond him; his cheeks burned, his gaze darted away in embarrassment. But his hips rocked forward - small, instinctive - pressing himself harder into Daeron’s palm, seeking more.
Then he leaned down again and kissed Daeron, fiercer this time, less tentative. One hand slid into Daeron’s long blond hair, fingers threading through the strands, cradling the back of his head. The other hand returned to Daeron’s chest, groping now, palm spreading wide over pectoral muscle, thumb brushing a nipple through linen until Daeron gasped into the kiss.
Dunk broke the kiss first, head tipping back as a low, ragged moan tore from his throat. Daeron’s grip had tightened around the thick length of him through the breeches - strokes firmer now, more deliberate, thumb circling the swollen head where fabric already clung damply. Dunk’s hips jerked forward into the pressure, chasing it helplessly.
Daeron’s voice came soft and teasing against the corner of Dunk’s mouth. “How do you know I didn’t lie about the dream?” he murmured, lips brushing stubble. “How do you know I didn’t make the whole thing up just to lure the great Ser Duncan the Tall into my bed?”
Dunk huffed a breathless laugh, rocking his hips again into Daeron’s hand, slow and needy. “If that were true,” he managed, voice rough with want, “then you should’ve done it sooner.”
Daeron grinned and caught Dunk’s lower lip between his teeth, tugging playfully before soothing the sting with his tongue. The kiss deepened at once, hungry and wet; they moaned into each other’s mouths, the sound muffled and shared. Daeron’s cock throbbed painfully hard now, straining against the thin linen of his shift, aching with every grind of their bodies.
Dunk’s hand slid from Daeron’s chest, tracing a hesitant path down his side - fingers trembling slightly as they skimmed ribs, waist, hip - before finally settling on the curve of Daeron’s ass. He gripped, tentative at first, then firmer, kneading the flesh through linen. Daeron gasped sharply into the kiss, legs instinctively wrapping around Dunk’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back to pull him closer.
Dunk groaned at the new pressure, the way it locked their hips together. They rocked against each other instinctively, groins grinding in slow, desperate rhythm. Fabric separated them - rough wool against thin shift - but the friction was enough to make heat coil tight in both their bellies. Daeron’s hand slipped free of Dunk’s cock so both arms could wind around broad shoulders, clinging as though Dunk might vanish if he let go.
They moaned again, the sounds raw and unguarded, swallowed by the next kiss. Daeron pulled back just enough to speak, voice wrecked and trembling. “Do you want to be inside me?”
Dunk stilled. His eyes widened, pupils blown dark in the moonlight. “I - ” He swallowed hard, voice trailing off into something almost bewildered. “I didn’t know men could…”
The words hung there, unfinished. He looked at Daeron - aching with a longing that went beyond words. Then he leaned down and kissed him again, fierce and passionate, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the press of mouths and the slow roll of hips.
Daeron felt it first - the damp heat spreading between them where their groins pressed and rubbed, wool and linen soaked through with sweat and the slick leak of precum seeping from both of them. The realization sent a fresh jolt of arousal through him, sharp and dizzying.
He broke the kiss slowly, lips trailing to the corner of Dunk’s mouth - soft, lingering - then higher, to the shell of his ear. Daeron caught the sensitive edge between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to make Dunk shudder above him.
“Men most certainly can,” Daeron whispered, breath hot against the bitten skin. “And I can do a lot more than just that.”
He nipped again, gentler this time, then pulled back enough to meet Dunk’s dazed eyes.
“Would you rather I take your cock in my mouth instead?” Daeron murmured, voice low and velvet-smooth. “Maybe the dream meant a different kind of kiss.”
Dunk moaned helplessly, the sound vibrating through both their chests. His cock twitched hard against Daeron’s, straining against the wet fabric, and Daeron felt the answering throb of his own arousal.
“Stop,” Dunk gasped out, voice wrecked. “I - I’m close. Too close.”
The confession hit Daeron like wine on an empty stomach: a warm, heady rush of pleasure that made his own cock ache fiercely. He grinned against Dunk’s ear, wicked and delighted.
“Close already?” he teased, voice dripping honey. “From a few kisses, my hand on you, and some filthy words? Gods, ser, you’re easy.”
He bit Dunk’s ear again - sharper this time - then dragged his mouth down to the side of Dunk’s neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. Dunk’s hips jerked once, twice, grinding up into Daeron with desperate little thrusts before he forced himself to still.
They kept moving for a few more heartbeats - slow, filthy rolls of hips - until Dunk groaned low in his throat, the sound raw and breaking. He pulled his head back just enough to press their foreheads together, breaths mingling in harsh pants.
“How… how do we do it?” Dunk asked, voice trembling with need and uncertainty, eyes searching Daeron’s face in the moonlight.
Daeron’s smirk was slow, predatory. He kissed him once, then planted both hands on Dunk’s broad shoulders and pushed gently.
Dunk yielded at once, submissive in a way that made Daeron’s blood roar. He let himself be guided, rolling onto his back with a soft grunt, the mattress creaking under his weight. Daeron followed, swinging a leg over to straddle him, settling his hips squarely in Dunk’s lap so their cocks pressed together again through sodden cloth.
“We start,” Daeron said, voice husky, “by taking this offending thing off.”
His fingers found the hem of Dunk’s tunic and peeled it upward - slowly, savoring the reveal of sweat-slick skin, the heavy rise and fall of Dunk’s chest, the dark hair dusting his pectorals and trailing down the center of his abdomen. Dunk lifted his arms obediently, letting the shirt be tugged free and tossed aside.
Daeron’s gaze dropped lower. His hands moved to the laces of Dunk’s breeches, fingers deft despite the tremor in them. He worked the ties open, pushed the fabric down just enough, and Dunk’s cock sprang free - thick, flushed dark, glistening at the tip with precum. It was impressive, veined and heavy against his stomach, and Daeron’s mouth watered at the sight. His own cock throbbed painfully in answer, leaking steadily into his shift.
“Gods,” Daeron breathed, almost reverent.
He leaned down and kissed Dunk again - sloppy now, all teeth and tongue and shared desperation. One hand splayed over Dunk’s bare chest, groping greedily: thumb circling a nipple, palm sliding over muscle and scar and heat. Dunk arched up into the touch with a broken moan, hands coming up to clutch at Daeron’s hips, holding him there.
Their mouths moved together in wet, hungry rhythm, the kiss less coordinated now and all the more intoxicating for it. Daeron rocked down once, twice - cock sliding against the bare length of Dunk’s - and felt the knight tremble beneath him, already so close again, teetering on the edge.
Daeron paused, fingers curled at the hem of his night shift. The moonlight made everything too clear: his own body lean above Dunk’s broader one. What if the knight looked up and saw only a man, not the dream he’d chased? What if the sight cooled that hungry flush on Dunk’s cheeks?
But Dunk was watching him already, eyes dark and steady, cock still hard and leaking against his own stomach. Waiting.
Daeron exhaled shakily and peeled the linen up and over his head in one slow motion. The fabric whispered to the floor. Moonlight slid over him like cool water - gliding along the sharp line of his collarbones, the faint definition of his ribs, the soft trail of pale hair below his navel, the flushed length of his cock curving up toward his belly.
Dunk stared.
His hands rose almost without thought, large palms settling on Daeron’s sides - thumbs brushing the delicate skin over his lowest ribs, then sliding down to grip his narrow hips. A low sound rumbled in Dunk’s throat. His cock twitched visibly beneath Daeron, thick and insistent, smearing more wetness across his own skin.
Daeron felt the evidence of that arousal like a brand against his pride. He rolled his hips once - smug - grinding his bare cock along the length of Dunk’s. The friction dragged a groan out of the bigger man.
Daeron leaned down again until their lips were barely touching, breath mingling.
“Would you prefer I prepare myself with oil,” he murmured, “or with spit?”
Dunk’s mouth opened, closed. He stammered something wordless, eyes glassy, completely lost.
Daeron chuckled and kissed him, swallowing the helpless sound Dunk made. When they parted he decided for both of them.
“Oil, then.”
He sat back, straddling Dunk’s thighs, and deliberately rolled his hips again - grinding the cleft of his ass along the hot, slick length of Dunk’s cock. Dunk’s fingers dug harder into his hips, knuckles whitening; another groan tore free of him, pleading.
“You’re beautiful,” Dunk rasped, voice cracking on the last word. A small, involuntary whine followed as Daeron lifted himself off, the sudden loss of contact almost painful.
Daeron paused long enough to lean down and press a teasing kiss to Dunk’s flushed cheek.
“You’re beautiful too,” he whispered, lips curving.
Dunk blushed - boyishly - and looked away toward the moonlit arches, ears scarlet. The sight delighted Daeron so much he had to kiss him again, quick and laughing, before he finally slid off the bed to retrieve the small stoppered vial from the chest by the window.
He returned, uncorking it as he knelt beside Dunk on the mattress. The faint, expensive scent of rose attar and something warmer - sandalwood, perhaps - drifted into the air.
“When I bought this from that Lysene trader,” Daeron quipped, voice light despite the tremor in his hands, “I never imagined it would end up slicking me open for a hedge knight.”
Dunk huffed a nervous laugh, then shifted - propping himself on one elbow so he could watch more closely. His head hovered near Daeron’s shoulder at first, breath warm against skin. Then he moved lower, sliding down the bed until he had an unobstructed view between Daeron’s spread thighs.
Daeron’s cheeks burned. The exposure made his pulse thunder; his hole clenched around nothing, aching already. He coated two fingers generously, reached down, and pressed the first inside himself - slow, careful. A soft hiss escaped him at the stretch.
Dunk watched, rapt, lips parted.
“You’re pink,” he muttered absently, almost to himself. “Down there.”
Daeron laughed brightly, head tipping back. “Gods, you’re ridiculous.”
Dunk flushed darker but managed a shaky grin. “Well - what else am I supposed to call it?”
The laughter died in Daeron’s throat when Dunk’s hand moved. Thick fingers brushed over Daeron’s own where they worked in and out - gentle, questioning. Daeron gasped, hips jerking at the contact. He stilled his hand long enough for Dunk to understand the invitation.
Dunk’s middle finger joined Daeron’s - careful, so careful - sliding in alongside it. The stretch burned sweetly; Daeron’s breath hitched, thighs trembling. He rocked back onto both fingers, taking them deeper, and felt Dunk’s low groan vibrate through the mattress.
Dunk’s fingers worked together inside him - slow, steady thrusts, stretching him open with careful patience. The knight’s voice dropped to a rough whisper, almost reverent.
“Gods, you’re tight,” he murmured, genuine wonder threading through the words. “Feels like… like I might not fit, my prince. Truly. I’m not - and you’re - ” He broke off, swallowing hard, cheeks burning even in the moonlight.
Daeron glanced down again at the thick, flushed length of Dunk’s cock - still leaking steadily against his own stomach - and felt another hot spark flare low in his belly, sharp enough to make his hole clench around their fingers. He moaned softly at the thought.
“You will,” he answered, voice low and certain.
To prove it - to himself as much as to Dunk - he slid a third finger in beside the others, the stretch burning sweetly. Dunk followed without hesitation, easing in his own, slow and gentle, matching Daeron’s rhythm. They thrust together now, slick and deep, and Daeron couldn’t hold back the obscene moan that tore from his throat echoing off the stone walls.
Dunk exhaled sharply through his nose, teeth sinking into his own knuckles to stifle a groan. His cock jerked untouched, weeping more precum onto his belly; the sight of Daeron riding their fingers seemed to be unraveling him thread by thread.
Then - spurred by some impulse Daeron couldn’t fathom - Dunk leaned forward between Daeron’s spread thighs. His lips brushed the sensitive head of Daeron’s cock.
Daeron’s whole body jerked. Too much. Far too much. Overwhelmed, he shoved at Dunk’s shoulders with both hands, pushing him flat onto his back again.
“No - not yet,” he gasped, crawling up to straddle him once more. He kissed Dunk hard, desperate, then pulled back just enough to whisper against his swollen mouth. “You’ll fit. I promise.”
He licked slowly along Dunk’s bottom lip; the bigger man shuddered beneath him, hips twitching up helplessly.
Daeron sat back, reached between them, and wrapped his oiled fingers around Dunk’s cock. He lined them up - tip nudging at his slick, stretched entrance - and began to sink down.
He had underestimated it.
The blunt head breached him, thick enough to make his eyes roll back, mouth falling open on a silent gasp. Inch by burning inch, Daeron took him - slow, relentless - until Dunk’s fingers dug deep into the flesh of his hips, hard enough to bruise. Dunk winced, groaned low in his throat, curses spilling under his breath like prayers.
“Seven hells - Daeron - ”
Daeron managed a breathless, shaky laugh. “Think you might split me in half, ser.”
A sharp gasp escaped him as Dunk’s cock slid home - perfectly, impossibly - seated to the hilt. The stretch was overwhelming, filling him so completely he could feel every vein, every throb.
Dunk threw his head back against the pillow, throat working, panting. “Fuck,” he whined, voice cracking. “Gods, you’re tight - like a fist around me. Tighter than - than anyone. Ever.”
Daeron couldn’t help the foolish, open-mouthed smile that spread across his face. He rocked experimentally - small, shallow rolls of his hips - and felt the blunt head grind against that sweet spot inside him, the place that sent white-hot pleasure spiking up his spine. Bliss washed over him in cool, endless waves; he moaned low, head tipping back.
Beneath him, Dunk was coming apart - sweat gleaming on his brow, chest heaving, repeating Daeron’s name like a litany. “Daeron - Daeron - please - ”
Daeron ground down again, deliberate, and Dunk whined - high and broken.
“What’s the matter?” Daeron asked, voice wrecked with pleasure.
Dunk stammered, eyes glassy. “I - I can’t. Not - not like this. I can’t - ”
It took Daeron a heartbeat to understand. Then a slow, filthy grin curved his lips.
“You can’t fuck me proper in this position,” he finished for him, voice dripping honey. “Can’t rut me like a hound in heat, is that it?”
Dunk could only nod - jerky, desperate.
Daeron chuckled, the sound melting into a moan. “Then let’s fix that.”
They rolled together - awkward at first, limbs tangling - until Daeron was on his stomach, knees spread, ass lifted high. Dunk knelt behind him, dazed and breathing hard, staring down at Daeron’s slick, flushed hole with his mouth open, cock bobbing untouched between his thighs.
“Please,” Daeron said, playful but edged with real need. “Fuck me, ser. I’m begging.”
Dunk groaned - low, animal - and lined himself up. One slow, careful push, and he sank back inside - deeper this time, easier, the angle letting him bottom out in a single smooth stroke.
Daeron’s back arched, a broken cry tearing from his throat.
Then Dunk began to move.
He gripped Daeron’s hips with bruising force and fucked into him - deep, relentless thrusts that rocked the bed against the wall. Each stroke dragged over that perfect spot inside, relentless, merciless over and over, until Daeron’s vision blurred white at the edges. Daeron clawed at the sheets, moaning into the pillow, body trembling with every punishing drive. Dunk’s breath came in harsh grunts, hips snapping forward again and again, the wet, filthy sound of oil-slick flesh meeting flesh filled the chamber, punctuated by the rhythmic creak of the old bedframe.
“Fuck - Duncan - gods, Duncan - ” Daeron gasped, the name torn from him like a prayer. His fingers clawed at the sheets, knuckles white. “Harder - Seven hells, don’t stop - ”
Dunk’s answer was a guttural groan. One huge hand fisted in Daeron’s long blond hair, tugging his head back just enough to arch his spine deeper, exposing the long line of his throat. Dunk’s other hand planted beside Daeron’s head, bracing his full weight so he could drive in even harder - long, rolling strokes that bottomed out with a wet slap each time, hips slamming against Daeron’s ass.
The bed groaned in protest, headboard thumping against stone.
Daeron’s moans climbed higher, shameless and broken. “Duncan - yes - there - fuck me, please - ah - !”
Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in his belly, a white-hot spiral winding closer to the edge with every merciless thrust. His cock dragged against the sheets beneath him, leaking steadily, aching for friction he couldn’t quite reach. He was so close - shaking, whimpering, tears of overwhelming sensation pricking at the corners of his eyes.
Dunk’s rhythm faltered first. His hips stuttered, thrusts turning short and desperate. “Daeron - Daeron - I’m - I can’t - ” A shuddering cry ripped from his throat as he came, burying himself to the hilt and grinding deep, rolling his hips in slow, helpless circles while thick pulses flooded hot inside Daeron. Dunk’s whole body trembled with it, low groans spilling against Daeron’s back.
Daeron basked in the feeling - warm, full, claimed - his own cock throbbing painfully hard against the mattress. He hadn’t come yet; the ache was exquisite, almost too much.
Dunk realized a heartbeat later. Still panting, he reached down between Daeron’s legs, fingers brushing the slick, straining length of his cock.
Daeron winced at the sudden touch - too sensitive, too close.
Before he could murmur that it was all right, that he could finish himself, Dunk pulled out - too fast, too soon. Daeron shuddered hard at the sudden empty drag, a broken little sound escaping him.
“Shit - sorry - ” Dunk’s voice was wrecked with apology. Big hands turned Daeron gently onto his back, careful despite his own shaking limbs. “Did I hurt you, my prince? Gods, I didn’t mean - ”
Daeron laughed - soft, breathless, a little dazed. He smiled up at the knight like a fool in love, eyes shining. He reached up, cupping Dunk’s flushed, sweat-damp face with both hands.
“If this were a dream,” he whispered, thumb stroking along a sharp cheekbone, “I wouldn’t want to wake up. Ever again.”
Dunk gulped, staring down at him - eyes wide, vulnerable, something raw and terrified and wonderful in them. He swallowed again.
“I lied,” he confessed, voice rough. “That day in the hall, when you asked what I dreamed about... It wasn’t only horses and bread and jousts. It was you. In that inn. In the dream… I always follow you up the steps.”
The words burn Daeron like dragonfire. His breath hitched; heat flooded every inch of his body, cock twitching hard against his belly, fresh arousal crashing over him so fiercely he nearly sobbed. Dunk didn’t wait for an answer. He leaned down, hesitant but determined, and took Daeron’s cock into his mouth.
He was clumsy - obviously inexperienced - tongue curious and tentative as it swirled around the head, lips stretching awkwardly around the girth. He managed only a few shallow bobs, cheeks hollowing, one big hand wrapping around the base to steady himself.
It was enough.
Daeron came with a hard, broken cry - back arching clean off the bed, fingers tightening in Dunk’s hair as pleasure ripped through him in shattering waves. He spilled down the knight’s throat in long, pulsing spurts, moaning Dunk’s name like a benediction until the last tremor faded and he collapsed boneless against the sheets.
Dunk pulled off carefully, coughing once, then crawled up to collapse beside him. They lay tangled together in the moonlight - sweaty, spent, breathing hard.
Eventually, slowly, Daeron turned his head.
Dunk lay on his back beside him, staring up at the shadowed ceiling beams as though they held answers written in the grain of the wood. Sweat gleamed on his brow and throat; his cheeks were still flushed a deep, honest red; his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. In that moment he looked impossibly handsome - something almost otherworldly about the way the moonlight carved the planes of his face and caught in the damp strands of his hair. Daeron felt his heart stutter at the sight, a quiet ache blooming beneath his ribs.
He turned onto his side, ignoring the dull throb in his ass and the faint tremor in his thighs, and laid one hand flat on Dunk’s broad chest, feeling the strong, steady thud of his heart beneath callused skin.
“Ser Duncan the Tall,” Daeron whispered, voice playful and hoarse, “you’re a dragon rider now.”
Dunk blinked once. Then a startled laugh burst out of him - low, warm, surprised. It rolled through his chest under Daeron’s palm like distant thunder.
Daeron joined him, laughter bubbling up soft and helpless, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over them. The sound felt like a release all over again.
“That line usually works on the people I bed,” Daeron added, grinning crookedly. “Gets them every time.”
Dunk turned his head, brows lifting in incredulous amusement. “With no offense intended, Your Grace,” he said, voice still rough from moaning Daeron’s name, “but I’m no tavern maid.”
Daeron laughed again - brighter this time - and slid his fingers into Dunk’s damp hair, carding through the short, dark strands with slow affection.
“No,” he agreed softly, the teasing edge melting into something gentler. “You most definitely are not.”
They stared at one another then, comfortable silence wrapping around them like another blanket. Daeron’s hand drifted from hair to cheek, thumb brushing the faint stubble along Dunk’s jaw, tracing the line of his mouth. Dunk’s gaze roamed in return - lingering on Daeron’s lips, the curve of his throat. His hands twitched at his sides, uncertain, until Daeron shifted closer.
There was an ache in his hips and a tender burn between his legs as he draped himself half across Dunk’s side, cheek resting on the knight’s shoulder, one leg thrown over a thick thigh. Dunk exhaled slowly, then - tentative at first - let one big hand settle on Daeron’s hip. The other arm came around him, cradling the small of his back, holding him steady.
“Planning on staying?” Daeron asked quietly.
Dunk’s brow furrowed. “Hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
Daeron huffed a small laugh against his skin. “Neither had I.”
A lull stretched between them, warm and heavy.
Daeron sighed, reluctant. “It probably wouldn’t be smart. If you’re found in my bed come morning… you’d face worse than I would. Far worse.”
Dunk’s thumb traced an absent circle on Daeron’s hip. “I do have work early,” he mumbled. “Egg wants to drag me down to the markets. Says there’s a man selling steel he wants to show me.” His voice trailed off. Neither of them moved.
“You don’t have to leave this very moment,” Daeron said after a beat. “You could stay. A little longer.”
Dunk chuckled fondly. “If I don’t leave right now, I probably won’t get up at all.”
Daeron smiled against his shoulder. “Then the issue’s settled.”
They stayed.
Daeron lifted his head just enough to press a slow, lingering kiss to Dunk’s mouth - soft now, unhurried, tasting of salt. Dunk kissed him back with the same gentle care he’d shown all night, one hand sliding up to cradle the nape of Daeron’s neck.
They drifted off like that - tangled together, breathing slowing, the moonlight fading to grey as dawn crept closer.
In the dream that came, Daeron stood once more in the endless white marble room. But this time the golden veins cracked open like eggshells, splintering wide until the whole surface shattered and fell away in glittering shards.
Beyond it: clear blue sky, endless and clean.
The scent of fresh-baked bread drifted on a warm wind.
He heard Egg’s laughter - bright, boyish - somewhere close by.
And then footsteps - steady, familiar. Dunk approached from the green slope beyond, leading two horses by their bridles: Sweetfoot and Chestnut, coats gleaming in sunlight. The knight’s face was open, easy, smiling that crooked smile as he drew near.
Daeron woke briefly in the dark hours before dawn, Dunk’s arm still heavy around him, the knight’s slow breaths stirring his hair.
He closed his eyes again, smiling into the crook of Dunk’s neck, and let the dream carry him back under.