Chapter Text
The midday sun beat down on the Red Keep’s training yard, but Ser Duncan didn’t even seem to be sweating.
Baelor leaned against the wooden railing, crossing his arms as he watched his sworn sword dismantle another sparring partner. The preposterous scale of the man had only magnified over the past year. Regular meals in the royal kitchens and daily drills had packed thick slabs of muscle onto a frame that had once been nothing but lean, hungry cord. When Dunk hoisted a fully armored guardsman over his shoulder and tossed him into the dust like a sack of turnips, the ground literally shuddered.
Beside Baelor, Maekar was twitching. His jaw was clenched, his knuckles white where they gripped the pommel of his practice sword. It had been well over a year since the trial at Ashford Meadow. Maekar had deliberately avoided the yard whenever Baelor or his giant was present, letting his guilt and pride fester.
"He fights like a falling mountain," Maekar muttered, his eyes glued to Dunk. "No finesse. Just... avalanche."
"A mountain that can move with shocking speed, brother," Baelor corrected softly, a wry smile playing on his lips. "It has been far too long since we fought together, Maekar. And I confess, my sword arm is itching. What say you? The two of us, against my knight?"
Maekar bristled instinctively. "I do not need your help to best a hedge knight."
"He isn't a hedge knight anymore. And look at him." Baelor gestured as Dunk turned toward them, having to stoop slightly to retrieve his practice blade. With his recent, impossible growth spurt, Dunk towered over them both. Baelor and Maekar possessed the tall stature of their Martell and Targaryen blood, yet standing before Duncan, neither prince would even reach the bottom of his chin. "If we do not go together, he might accidentally step on one of us."
Maekar’s pride warred with his desperate need to hit something large and challenging. The challenge won. He unclasped his cloak and tossed it to a squire. Baelor grinned, doing the same, and the two princes vaulted the railing.
Dunk paused, wiping a hand across his brow. When he saw who was entering the ring, his eyes widened. He snapped to attention, an action that made his chest expand. "My Princes," Dunk said. "Are you requiring the yard?"
"We require a match, Ser Duncan," Baelor said, tossing a heavy, blunted tourney sword to Maekar before drawing his own. "Two on one. Defend yourself."
Dunk looked between the two of them, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. "Both of you, Your Graces? At once? I wouldn't want to..." He trailed off, likely realizing that saying 'I wouldn't want to accidentally crush the King's sons and the Hand of the King' might be construed as treason.
"Do not hold back, Ser," Maekar snapped, already falling into a flawless offensive stance. "If you coddle us, I will have your hide."
"As you command," Dunk sighed, raising his shield and bringing his own blunted greatsword up.
Maekar struck first, a vicious, sweeping low strike meant to test Dunk's reflexes. Baelor moved a half-second later, circling to Dunk’s other side and bringing his blade down in a heavy, overhead arc.
For the first few minutes, it was a beautiful display of sparring. The yard echoed with the rhythmic clack-clank of steel on steel. Duncan held up incredibly well. His reach was so absurdly long that Baelor had to overextend just to get within striking distance. The two princes, despite the tension between them, moved with the synchronized grace of brothers who had trained under the same master-at-arms since childhood. Where Maekar was a storm of aggressive, driving strikes, Baelor was the calculating tide, waiting for the giant to overbalance.
But Dunk did not overbalance. Baelor parried a sweeping strike from his sworn sword, and the sheer force behind the blow sent a shockwave rattling up Baelor's arm, rattling his teeth. Gods, he is strong, Baelor thought, breathing heavily.
"You leave your left side open, boy!" Maekar barked, pressing an advantage and raining three rapid blows against Dunk’s shield, forcing the giant to take a step back.
Dunk grunted, absorbing the hits. He glanced between Baelor’s poised stance and Maekar’s relentless assault. Baelor saw the exact moment the knightly veneer cracked. Ser Duncan the Tall realized that playing by the polite rules of the tilt against two royal prodigies was a losing game.
Dunk from Flea Bottom took over. Instead of blocking Maekar’s next aggressive lunge, Dunk simply dropped his shield. He sidestepped with shocking agility for a man broader than a doorway, caught the flat of Maekar's practice blade with his armored gauntlet, and stepped inside the prince's guard.
"Hey—!" Maekar started.
Dunk didn't use his sword. He simply brought his massive, iron boot up in a devastating, thoroughly un-knightly punt. The kick caught Maekar squarely in the center of his breastplate.
The sound was like a blacksmith's hammer hitting an anvil. Maekar lifted off the ground, entirely airborne, and was launched backward through the air. He hit the dirt half across the training yard in a clatter of armor, skidding out of a cloud of dust with a muffled, wheezing curse.
Baelor felt a sudden, sharp pang of disappointment that his memory of the Ashford trial was so hazy. I would have paid good gold to see him do exactly that to Aerion, he thought, a bubble of laughter threatening to break his concentration.
Capitalizing on Dunk's diverted attention, Baelor lunged forward, aiming a thrust right at the gap beneath Dunk's arm.
He never made it.
Dunk spun, dropping his sword entirely. Before Baelor could even register the shift in momentum, two hands the size of dinner plates clamped around Baelor’s waist. With zero apparent effort—almost entirely one-handed—Dunk hoisted the Crown Prince of Westeros off the ground as easily as one might pick up an unruly toddler.
The world suddenly inverted. Baelor’s feet left the earth, his sword swinging wildly at empty air as he was lifted high, high up.
Baelor looked down. Directly between his suspended boots was Duncan's face. The giant was looking up at him, a lock of sweat-dampened hair falling across his forehead, and on his face was a breathless, thoroughly mischievous smile.
Oh, Baelor thought.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. The raw, terrifying strength of the man holding him suspended in the air. The breadth of the shoulders currently framing Baelor's entire field of vision. The heat radiating off Dunk's skin.
In a fraction of a second, Baelor went from the adrenaline of battle to being so incredibly hard it actually ached against his armor. His heart slammed against his ribs, his breath catching in his throat as he stared down into those earnest, smiling eyes.
Baelor didn't even have time to process the sudden, overwhelming rush of lust. Dunk shifted his weight, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second—sending a secondary jolt of electricity straight to Baelor's groin—and then the giant twisted at the hips.
Baelor felt his internal organs get left behind in mid-air. Did he just throw me?
The yard spun in a chaotic blur of blue sky and brown dirt. Baelor flew backward, a sprawling tangle of limbs and armor, and crashed directly into a solid, swearing mass.
He had landed squarely on top of Maekar, who had just managed to sit up from his earlier punting. The two princes collapsed back into the dirt in a heap of tangled legs, bruised egos, and dropped swords.
"Get off me, you oaf!" Maekar roared, trying and failing to shove Baelor’s armored bulk off his chest. "By the Seven, I'll have his head! I'll have his enormous, stupid head on a spike!"
Baelor couldn't breathe. He was staring up at the sky, his chest heaving, and suddenly a laugh burst from his throat. It started as a chuckle and rapidly escalated into a full-bellied, joyful roar of laughter.
"Stop laughing!" Maekar hissed, his face red with humiliation as he struggled in the dirt.
"I cannot help it, brother," Baelor wheezed, finally managing to roll off Maekar, though he made no move to stand up. He looked across the yard. Dunk was jogging over, looking suddenly terrified that he might have actually broken the line of succession in a single afternoon.
My man is so incredibly strong, Baelor thought, feeling the lingering ache in his breeches and a wicked, brilliant heat spreading through his chest. He watched the massive thighs carrying his sworn sword toward him, recalling the feeling of those tree-trunk arms hoisting him into the sky.
If he can throw a grown man in full armor with such ease... Baelor smiled into the dirt, allowing himself a delightfully impure fantasy.
The cloud of dust kicked up by the collision of two Targaryen princes had not even begun to settle before a sudden silence descended upon the training yard.
A moment ago, the yard had been a cacophony of ringing steel, shouted orders, and the thud of practice bouts. Now, the only sound was the frantic, wheezing gasps of Prince Maekar trying to draw breath, and Prince Baelor’s booming, entirely inappropriate laughter.
Every single pair of eyes in the yard was fixed on the pile of royal limbs in the dirt.
Over by the weapon racks, a young squire stood frozen, his mouth hanging completely slack. The wooden bucket of water he had been carrying slipped from his numb fingers, hitting the ground with a loud crack and a splash that seemed deafening in the quiet. He didn't even flinch.
A few yards away, two knights of the Kingsguard, resplendent in their white cloaks shared a look of confusion. Their vows demanded they protect the royal blood from harm, but the man who had just manhandled the Crown Prince was the Crown Prince's own sworn sword, and the Crown Prince himself was currently cackling like a madman in the dirt. One of the white knights had his hand hovering uncertainly over the pommel of his sword, glancing back and forth between the looming mountain of Ser Duncan and the laughing Hand of the King, completely at a loss for protocol.
"Mother's Mercy," breathed a grizzled veteran knight of the household guard, slowly lowering his practice shield. He stared at Dunk, blinking rapidly as if trying to banish an illusion. "He tossed him like a sack of grain. He just... he threw the Hand of the King."
"And kicked Prince Maekar," whispered his sparring partner, a lordling from the Crownlands, looking visibly pale. "Are we... are we supposed to pretend we didn't see that?"
In the center of the ring, Ser Duncan the Tall was entirely unaware of the awe and terror he was inspiring. Dunk looked down at his massive hands as if they had betrayed him. His face drained of color, making his freckles stand out starkly against his pale skin. He dropped to his knees beside the princes with a heavy thud, panic radiating from his frame.
"Your Graces!" Dunk's voice cracked. "I—gods be good, I am so sorry. I didn't mean... the madness took me, I swear it! I lost my head! I'll go to the Wall, I'll pack my things right now, just please don't take my head!"
Maekar finally managed to shove Baelor’s heavy, armored leg off his chest. His face was a thunderous, blotchy red, his silver hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and dirt. He glared up at Dunk, opening his mouth to undoubtedly promise the giant a very slow, very painful execution.
Baelor didn't give him the chance. Still chuckling, Baelor propped himself up on one elbow, waving a dismissive hand at his panicked sworn sword.
"Peace, Dunk, peace," Baelor wheezed, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. He raised his voice, ensuring it carried across the frozen, breathless yard. "There will be no talk of the Wall, nor of heads on spikes! If a man demands a fight without holding back, he must be prepared to eat the dirt when he is outmatched!"
Baelor shot a thoroughly unapologetic grin down at his brother. "Isn't that right, Maekar? A fair spar!"
Maekar looked ready to spit fire. He scowled at the gathered crowd of knights and guardsmen, who were all still staring in morbid fascination.
"What are you all looking at?!" Maekar roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the Red Keep. "Have you never seen a man fall before? Back to your drills, you lot of gawking sheep, or I'll have the lot of you running the walls until you bleed from your boots!"
The threat shattered the paralysis. The yard erupted into frantic, terrified activity. Squires scrambled to pick up dropped equipment, knights hurriedly resumed their sparring with slightly too much enthusiasm, and the two Kingsguard knights visibly relaxed, their hands dropping away from their sword hilts as they turned their backs on the scene.
"Help me up, you great oaf," Maekar muttered, holding out a gauntleted hand toward Dunk, though he refused to meet the giant's eyes out of mortification.
Dunk swallowed hard, looking like he expected the prince's hand to be a trap. He reached out gingerly and hauled Maekar to his feet with a single, effortless pull, nearly pulling Maekar out of his boots in the process.
Baelor watched from the ground, thoroughly enjoying the show. His pulse was still racing, and the flush on his neck had very little to do with the exertion of the spar.
"My turn, I believe," Baelor said smoothly, extending his own hand.
Dunk turned to him, the panic finally beginning to recede from his eyes, replaced by a deep, sheepish flush. "Your Grace," he murmured, wrapping his massive fingers around Baelor's forearm.
When Dunk pulled, Baelor didn't just stand; he allowed himself to be hauled upward, stepping into the momentum so that he ended up standing just a fraction of an inch closer to Dunk than was strictly necessary. The heat radiating off the giant was immense, and looking up at the broad, solid expanse of Dunk's chest, Baelor felt that wonderful, wicked tightening in his stomach all over again.
"A masterful defense, Ser Duncan," Baelor said quietly, dropping his voice so only the two of them could hear. His dark eyes caught Dunk's, gleaming with amusement and a heavy, undeniable heat. "I must say... I have never been swept off my feet quite so thoroughly."
Dunk’s flush deepened, spreading all the way to the tips of his ears. He quickly stepped back, coughing into his fist. "I... yes. Thank you, Your Grace. I'll... I'll go fetch us some water."
Baelor watched his sworn sword retreat toward the armory, admiring the way the muscles in Dunk's broad back shifted beneath his damp tunic. Maekar was busy dusting himself off, cursing softly under his breath about hedge knights and brute force.
Baelor merely smiled, brushing a speck of dirt from his own pauldron. Yes, he decided. We must definitely train together more often.
Baelor’s gaze lingered on Duncan’s retreating back for a moment longer before he turned to his brother. Maekar was still brushing dust from his cloak with sharp, irritated motions, muttering curses under his breath.
“Ser Duncan,” Baelor called out, voice carrying just enough to reach the giant without shouting.
Dunk stopped mid-stride and turned, his broad shoulders tense. Even from across the yard, Baelor could see the flush still coloring the big man’s neck.
“My chambers tonight,” Baelor said, calm and deliberate, as though he were merely discussing tomorrow’s patrol schedule. “After the evening meal. I would… continue our discussion on proper technique.”
For a heartbeat, Dunk looked like a man who had been asked to juggle wildfire. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Y-yes, Your Grace,” he finally managed, the words coming out rough and low. “I’ll… I’ll come. As you command.”
The giant gave a clumsy bow that somehow still managed to look respectful despite his size, then hurried toward the armory as if the Seven Hells themselves were nipping at his heels.
Maekar let out a sharp, disbelieving snort the moment Dunk was out of earshot.
“‘Continue our discussion on proper technique’?” he echoed, voice dripping with mockery. “Seven save us, brother. You might as well have bent over right here in the yard and begged him to mount you.”
Baelor’s lips curved into a lazy smile. “Jealous, Maekar? Or simply envious that no one has ever thrown you quite so… enthusiastically?”
Maekar stepped closer, lowering his voice so the lingering onlookers couldn’t hear. His eyes glittered with a mix of amusement and warning. “I’m telling you to be careful. That brute is built like a tower. If you invite him to your bed tonight, you’d best pray he doesn’t break you in half. I’d rather not explain to Father why the Crown Prince is walking bow-legged for a fortnight.”
Baelor laughed softly, brushing dirt from his own sleeve. “Worried for my virtue, little brother? How touching. Or are you simply afraid that if Dunk ruins me, you’ll have to take up the Hand’s duties while I recover?”
Maekar’s grin was sharp. “I’m more worried you’ll enjoy it too much and start begging the giant to throw you around every night. The realm can’t afford its Hand being too busy getting split open by a hedge knight’s cock to attend council meetings.”
Baelor arched an eyebrow, stepping in until they were nearly chest to chest. “Careful, Maekar. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you’ve spent more time imagining what Ser Duncan can do with that massive frame than I have.”
Maekar’s ears went red. He shoved Baelor’s shoulder — hard — but there was no real anger in it. “Fuck off. Just don’t come crying to me tomorrow when you can’t sit on a horse.”
“I’ll be sure to send you a detailed report,” Baelor replied smoothly, smirking. “For educational purposes, of course.”
Maekar rolled his eyes and turned away, but not before muttering, “Incorrigible whore,” loud enough for Baelor to hear.
Baelor only chuckled, already imagining the night ahead.