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“Ser.”

Lyonel raised an eyebrow at his squire, who had skidded into the doorway in his usual manner. Chance was ungraceful by default, which made him a surprisingly intimidating opponent in the training ring. He always kept Lyonel on his toes, more than the rest of them, to be sure. The wide-eyed look on his face—worry, panic, fear—told him that now was no exception.

“What is it?”

“It’s—it’s Dunk, ser.”

Lyonel was on his feet in an instant, the chair wobbling behind him. “What’s happened?”

Chance glanced back the way he’d come. “He uh, I’m pretty sure it’s still happening, there were a lot of them coming in when I ran to get you—”

“He’s in a fight?” Lyonel intuited, before reaching for his poignard and coin purse: the best tools for any noble knight with wits. He’d have grabbed for his longsword, were it here, but it had just gone to the blacksmith in preparation for tomorrow’s melee.

“Yeah, we were just at the tavern, and they were—”

“I don’t need to hear anything else. Show the way, be quick about it.”

“Yes, ser.”

The pair took off at a run through the campground. Lyonel wasn’t worried about throwing his weight around, should Dunk be proven the guilty party in all this. The tournament was in Bronzegate. They could practically see the tip of Storm’s End over the hill to the southeast.

I’ll give him one thing: there’s never been a dull tourney since I’ve taken him on.

Lyonel assumed his own navigation once they approached a thick throng of gawkers outside an ale tent. Chance did his duty, shouting for everyone to get out of their way, but it was hardly heard over the sounds of the scuffle just beyond the frontline observers.

It was certainly a brawl, if he’d ever seen one. Several seconds passed before Lyonel got his first actual look at Dunk, he was so surrounded by other fighters. Blooming bruises were already forming on his jaw and cheek, and there was a cut on his brow that had bled over almost a third of his face. But he didn’t seem concerned with it, or perhaps even aware. The unhinged, bestial fury that had overtaken his sweet face made him almost unrecognizable. He shouted madly as he took another swing at the man in front of him, laying him out in one punch. The twitch of interest his cock gave was enough to recalibrate his senses.

Knight turned to squire. “Round up the guards, tell them to stand at the other exits here, they’re to catch all the ones who try to escape. They’re not to engage without my say so. Go.”

Chance scampered off, somehow needing all of his limbs to run while remaining upright. Lyonel cleared his throat and planted his feet at the main entrance to the tent before he spoke.

Well, spoke was perhaps too delicate a word. Lyonel Baratheon had the voice of a sailor-commander. His voice could sometimes be heard clear across Shipbreaker Bay from the curtain wall at Stomr’s End. His old ship captain aboard the Mad Mercy sometimes joked that he could be a suitable replacement if the fog-bells didn’t ring loud enough from the point.

“ALRIGHT, EVERYONE: THREE STEPS BACK, NOW!” 

The men who did not spring apart for the sense of his words were forced apart by the animal flinch of hearing such a loud fucking bellow. The only man who did none of those things was Dunk the Squire.

Lyonel would deal with him in a moment. For now, he let himself be seen, and let the brawlers all around him look their fill of the one who had called an end to their rabble-rousing. He kept a hand on his hilt as he stared right back at them, a glare of challenge. But they saw the gold woven into his doublet and his ear, they saw the fine, glittering rings adorning his fingers, the heavy swing of his coin purse, and the iconic antlered pommel of his poignard.

Any man in the Stormlands, even visitors, would know the Laughing Storm when they saw him.

Though he was not laughing now.

“Duncan.” No other orders accompanied the word, but the command to heel was heard nonetheless. Dunk separated himself from the mass of bodies, favoring his left side as he took Lyonel’s side, standing just a step behind and to the left. Lyonel felt a thrill zing through his spine at the response. He could hear Dunk breathing, heavy as a bellows, could feel him shaking, angry as a hurricane, but he could not address those things presently. Not while he faced down a mob who wanted to spill the blood of the man at his shoulder.

One was bold enough to address him outright. “Milord, we were just—”

Lyonel held up a hand to the man to silence him before turning his face toward his squire.

“The one who started this, is he here?” Was it you?

Dunk didn’t reply in words, just a little grunt of affirmation, continuing to glare ahead but not at one particular man. Lyonel wondered, worried, fleetingly,  if he’d been hit too hard in the jaw and couldn’t speak.

“Is he conscious?”

Silence, this time.

Great.

Lyonel faced the mob. “Who represents you lot? One mouth will do.”

There was some shuffling, some nervous glances among the men. A few of them were even trying to hide the sigils of the house they served. Lyonel had seen them all and would remember them all. Nobody laid hands on his squires without consequence. Eventually, the mob came to a muttered agreement, and one man stepped forth.

He had a blooming welt on his face in the shape of Dunk’s open hand. He must have slapped him hard to get that kind of look. Lyonel sized him up before asking his name.

“Wenloff,” he said.

“Are you a knight?” Lyonel snapped. “A lord of a noble house?”

“N-no,” Wenloff said, his spine bowing a little beneath the sharp regard.

“Then you shall address me as my lord or Ser Lyonel.” He felt a muscle twitch in his eye. Behind him, Dunk’s hackles raised again. He hoped they could make it through this confrontation without a round two.

He tried for a smile.

Wenloff went a little ashen.

He tried for a nicer smile.

“Goodman Wenloff, what happened here, precisely? There’s no need for anyone to call the guards, we’re just speaking, aren’t we?” For now.

“Well, you see, milord, the lads were just having a laugh, milord, Ser Lyonel, ser. He just hauled off on Claren for nothing, nearly killed him, just for a bit of a joke. S’just, he was havin’ a laugh, right, men?”

The mob around him laughed nervously, smiling through bloody teeth and mouths.

Lyonel raised a brow. “Oh? A laugh about what?”

This time, many of the men in the group went pale, fidgeting and shifting en masse. Some enterprising men even took the opportunity to duck out of the ale tent the back way, and quickly returned inside when they saw the guards. Lyonel made a gesture at Wenloff to answer the question, but he had clammed up.

“Come now, you all know who I am. I’m the Laughing Storm! I love a laugh, let me in on the fun. No? Then will anybody else answer their lord?” Lyonel said, fighting and failing to keep the exasperation from his tone.

A smaller voice from the side was the only answer. “Claren was speakin’ ill of ye, milord,” said a young serving girl, twisting her apron in her hands. But her eyes were full of determination, burning hotly with righteousness. Lyonel turned to her, beckoned her closer.

“What’s your name?” he asked, bending over to meet her eyes a little easier.

“Lynella, milord.”

He paused, then gave her an indulgent smile. Stormlanders. “A fine name, girl. Now, which one of them is Claren, my dear?”

The question was like a rock dropped in a still pond. The rippling, nervous mob was now actively looking for the exit, but with the others effectively guarded, Dunk and Lyonel now stood in front of the only one. Lyonel bit down on a smile. The fidgeting worsened.

But little Lynella didn’t care for their nerves.

“He’s the one what started it all. Wouldn’t leave your man alone, ser. Claren saw his colors, saw your stag, started wheedling.”

“Wheedling how?”

The girl repeated a blushingly specific list of insults directed at Lyonel, his prowess, his conquests, his squires, his family, even his skill as a painter. He heard Dunk’s breathing grow agitated the more she spoke, and for everyone’s sake, he cut her off before she really got rolling. Several of the men in the mob looked rather ill.

“And they were directing all of this at my man here?” he said, gesturing up at Dunk. Lynella looked up at Dunk and pursed her lips, obviously disquieted by the sight of him. Lyonel knew his squire would never think to harm a child, but he fought those men like a demon in his own right. “He’s alright, dearheart. Answer the question. Was Claren saying it to him specifically?”

“Yes, milord. But it wasn’t just him, they were all trying to get him mad.”

“…I see.”

“He told them to go away.”

“I’m sure he did.”

“But they didn’t.”

“Clearly not. Alright, thank you, dearest. This is for you.” He reached into his coin purse and gave her two silver stags. “Stick around, there might be more if my friends here don’t want to talk.”

Lyonel chanced a look at back Dunk, whose eyes had gone glassy and unfocused. He swayed lightly on the spot, staring straight ahead at nothing. Worry sat in a cold pit at the bottom of his stomach. Can’t deal with that here.

“Where’s Claren?” Lyonel asked the crowd, his voice sharp and loud. The mob parted for him like a set of curtains, revealing a crumpled shape near the center of the previous affray. He took a step closer and heard Dunk’s breath hitch unsteadily the further away he walked. I can’t linger here. He’s going to boil over, or freeze over, then it’ll take all night to get him out of it.

The poor man was pointed out to him, rolled over so Lyonel could see his face.

Or really, what was left of it.

He was still breathing, which was a relief. He’d have needed much more coin were he not. “Who here are his kinsmen?” Lyonel asked the crowd.

None raised their hands.

“Should I ask Lynella? I’m sure she’ll be awfully truthful.”

Six hands shot up. The men they belonged to were badly battered, and had likely been first to respond to Dunk’s attack on Claren, if not the rest of the instigators Lynella had spoken of. Lyonel recognized Dunk’s handiwork.

Lyonel sighed. “Which of you is eldest?”

Five hands went down, and a pale-faced man with a broken nose came forth. “I am, milord ser.”

“And your name, man?”

“Clorish.”

“…”

“Clorish, s-ser.”

Lyonel straightened to his full height and looked down his nose at the man, which was easy enough with his Baratheon stature. “Clorish. Now, I do believe this whole altercation was started on the basis of a grand misunderstanding, don’t you?”

“Erm—”

“I think that Claren perhaps had too much to drink, and let his mouth get away from him.”

The man’s face twisted. “He didn’t deserve—”

“While under Stormlander hospitality, I’d add,” Lyonel said, gesturing with one hand to the rack of antlers nailed to the hutch behind the tavern table. Clorish’s eyes went very wide when he put together what Lyonel was saying.

“Oh, did you not know? Or perhaps you simply forgot,” Lyonel added, his voice kept deceptively light. Lyonel's hands itched to twist the knife, and he did—with a blinding smile. “This tent, and every other gold fucking tent you’ll find in this campground, was brought here by me. The ale you and your cousins got drunk on came from my casks. The land which we stand on is owned by—Lynella, who rules the Stormlands?” he called over his shoulder, all without taking his eyes off the man in front of him.

“House Baratheon, milord!”

“Ah,” Lyonel said softly, tilting his head to the side. He put a ringed hand on the man’s shoulder and nodded. “House Baratheon. That’s right. Lynella, come get another silver.”

She did, and scampered away once it was in hand.

“Now, would you say my family’s generosity has been lacking at this tourney, Goodman Clorish? Enough to inspire violence against it?” Lyonel said, tapping out a palm full of coins that drew the eyes of every battered man around him.

Dunk made a wheezing sort of noise when the crowd started to lean closer. He snapped his fingers at his squire. “Eyes on your feet, Duncan.” He didn’t have to check to know he was obeyed.

Lyonel spent another few seconds in contemplative silence, just letting the gold, silver, and copper speak and sparkle in his hand as he pretended to count. It was a paltry sum to a man such as himself, but to men like Clorish, Claren, and the rest, it was a mighty sum.

“Truth is a priceless thing,” he mused, watching stars flip over dragons to rub cozily against stags. “Do you agree, Clorish?” He reached down to grab the man’s hand.

“I… I don’t—”

Lyonel pried the man’s hand open and laid it flat. He observed Clorish’s knuckles and tutted. “Your hands are red, Clorish. They’ve cut themselves on something quite precious to me, methinks.” He met the man’s eyes, and kept himself from shaking apart in anger only by his wealth of self-control in such things. In a slow, deliberate movement, he cupped the man’s hand and held the wealth just above it. “I’ll ask you once more: was this not a grand misunderstanding? Between your family and mine?”

The look he gave said: which family do you think will come out on top, here?

Clorish looked near to pissing himself. Lyonel hoped he would not, but very little could make this night worse, so it truly didn’t matter one way or another. Still, the man mustered a voice to speak with. “A misunderstanding, yes. Milordser.”

Lyonel let a little of the coin slip into his palm, smiling benevolently. “Yes.”

He did not give the whole sum to Clorish, though he was sure the man wished he would. He withdrew and looked from Clorish, to Claren, to the men around them. He raised a brow, prompting.

“Misunderstanding,” the crowd murmured as one. “Too much to drink. Ran his mouth. Always ran his mouth. Ungrateful.” They were all elbowing one another so they could all take part in the glittering benediction. Some even had their hands cupped and ready to receive it.

Lyonel nodded once at them and let his smile drop into an ugly sneer. He tossed the rest of the coins on Claren’s body and turned to leave before they hit the mark.

“Duncan.”

Dunk fell into step immediately, and the crowd of gawkers parted around them. They’d made it about fifty feet away before Chance caught up with them, arms wheeling. “Ser, the guards—”

“Fuck, I knew I was forgetting something.” Lyonel paused, ducking them between two tents and out of sight. He gave Chance his orders while Dunk loomed behind his shoulder. “Call them off. No, don’t call them off. That bunch are from the Reach, some vassal on the western coast. Figure out exactly who the fuck they are, then have the guard patrol their pavilion until they start packing up to leave. If the captain has any questions, they can wait until morning. Tell anybody else I’m not to be disturbed. And none of my squires walk alone this night, understood?” he finished, pointing his finger directly at Chance’s nose, so close the squire went cross-eyed.

“I-I’ll go find Treva, ser!”

“Good. Begone.”

He resumed his hasty walk back to his tent and suppressed a scoff of irritation when he realized just how many gold fucking tents there were around here. Really, you’d have to be a fucking idiot to forget whose coin paid for such things, let alone to say those things in the Stormlands.

“Inside,” Lyonel said to Dunk as they approached his private tent. Dunk ducked his head and disappeared inside, and Lyonel turned to the attendant who had just scrambled out of his chair. “I need ice and bandages brought out here. I know Buckler has a cellar full of it. Go.”

Lyonel sighed once he was gone and looked up at the stars, who had no word of advice for him, as expected. He went inside.

Dunk hadn’t moved further than the small carpet just inside the entrance, and Lyonel nearly ran into his back. “When I say inside, I mean inside,” Lyonel said, stepping around him and removing his poignard and much lighter coin purse. Both went onto the small card table he’d abruptly abandoned, then Lyonel brought a few candles closer to see Dunk better.

The cut on his brow had stopped bleeding, at the very least, though the blood on his face was horrific. His face remained neutral—no, blank. Dunk’s left cheek had started to swell, and there was a dark shadow blooming under his jaw that he hadn’t seen back in the tent. Lyonel came closer and took his time poking at his shoulders, his elbows, his wrists. Dunk was ambidextrous, and used both hands equally well in a fight. And use them, he had: his knuckles were split and bruised, but the cuts had stopped bleeding already.

“Arms up.”

Lyonel continued his slow examination, prodding at his ribs, chest, and sides until he found what he was looking for: whatever had made him favor one side over the other.

The answer was Dunk’s left hip. When he touched it, Dunk’s breathing grew harsher, nostrils flaring as he silently rode out the fresh wave of pain. Lyonel was more careful there, but no less efficient in his movements. He untied the sides of his surcoat so he could lift up Dunk’s blood-spattered tunic by his fingertips. Beneath it was a massive bruise most of it bisected by a massive black line where his skin had nearly broken.

“Shoved you into a corner?” Lyonel intuited.

He got a soft, pained grunt in response.

“Cat got your tongue, Duncan?” he said, swaying back a step to look at his squire.

Dunk was gritting his teeth so hard that Lyonel could hear them grinding together from here. Some of the hounds in the kennels at Storm’s End got like that, unable to loosen their jaws for all the juicy meat in the Stormlands. Dunk was certainly his dog, but he was no hound. He was a man, and Lyonel dealt with men differently.

He slapped Dunk once across the face, hard. It snapped his head to the side, making his eyes go wide in shock. But his mouth remained stubbornly closed. Those big blue eyes turned to him again, looking lost—but a little defiant, all the same.

“Knees. Eyes down.”

Dunk fell in a less-than-graceful heap at his feet, the landing softened by sheer will. Since the first time he’d made Dunk kneel for him, months and months ago, Dunk had been careful with his body while in Lyonel’s presence.

It’s when he’s not in my presence that he gets reckless, Lyonel thought, eyes tracing the cut on his forehead.

He heard the attendant approach, the rattle of ice signaling his arrival. Lyonel strode to the entrance to intercept him before he could see Dunk on his knees and dismissed him for the night. This tent was tucked fairly deep into their little cluster of the grounds, so it was unlikely they’d have company. If they did, that wouldn’t be Lyonel’s problem.

He set the ice on the table and wetted one of the rags that had come with the bandages before pouring water into the rest of the bowl. He’d need it later, to be sure. As would Dunk.

Dunk hadn’t moved from his perfect kneeling posture. He sat on his heels with his shoulders square, hands folded behind his back, knees slightly apart on the ground. His neck and head were straight as his spine, but his gaze was pointed straight down, fixed on nothing.

Gods, how many hours had they spent like this now? He’d had Dunk in his service less than a year, and this side of them had been going on almost exactly as long. It was a craving that spun into an addiction. Even now, he could see Dunk’s raging emotions settle into a subtle stillness, like a man whose hands only steadied with drink.

He didn’t want Dunk steady. He still had that fucking deadness to his eyes from the tent. Lyonel wanted him off-kilter enough to break free of the shade he’d lost himself within. He only ever got that way when things went wrong, when he got too in his own head or when Lyonel didn’t catch it happening in time.

“Going to have to do this the hard way,” said Lyonel, rolling back his sleeves and removing his rings.

He brought his hand back and delivered another slap across Dunk’s face. Dunk did not turn with it this time, keeping his face dutifully pointed ahead, eyes averted. It made the impact worse, but Lyonel couldn’t let on that the hit hurt him, too. He had his role to play.

Dunk breathed a little more heavily, but otherwise did not react.

That wouldn’t do.

Over and over, Lyonel slapped him. After a while, he switched sides, laying his open palm where others had already hit him. Dunk took the beating wordlessly, and Lyonel did not let up until he heard the first hitching breath come to his squire’s lungs.

Tears had built in those baby blue eyes, and spilled over the moment he blinked over them. They cut through the dried blood on his ruddy cheeks and left sparkling rivers, bright as pink diamonds. Lyonel stood above, chest heaving as he caught his breath. He had to concentrate to keep from getting any harder at the sight. Dunk’s lips parted in a gasp, and his breathing picked up again, still skipping over where his body wanted to sob.

“Ser,” he said softly, uncertainly. He sounded lost, confused, scared.

“Back with me?” Lyonel said, coming close and taking his chin in hand, pointing his gaze up. The tears now cut back across his temples, joining the sweat matted hair at his temples.

“I’m s—”

“I know you are,” Lyonel interrupted, slapping him once more, the hardest he’d let himself go.

This time, Dunk's head snapped to the side, no longer held by jaw-clenching anxiety and fear. The hit pulled a gut-deep groan from his mouth, ending on a whine. Something slick and red shone on his lower lip.

Lyonel looked down at his hand, and saw that he’d taken some of Dunk’s blood with him on that last hit. He waited until Dunk was looking up at him before licking it off his fingers and palm.

Dunk gave another groan, louder than before.

“That’s enough,” Lyonel said sharply. “You know what you did wrong tonight?”

His eyes dropped, body falling back into proper posture. His voice still trembled a little. Lyonel would bet his hands shook behind his back.

“I threw the first punch, ser,” he said, sounding miserable and resigned to his fate.

“Try again.”

“I…” Dunk winced, trying to think. “I let myself be angry, ser. Over words, ser.”

“Try again.”

He was quieter, longer. Lyonel could practically see him searching for the answer in his mind, and the panic grew when he could not come to it. He sniffled a little, lower lip trembling. “I don’t know, ser.” His voice was a broken whisper. More tears fell, and his shoulders tensed, expecting another hit.

Well, at least the hard part’s over.

Lyonel went to the ice and faced away while he plunged his hands into the freezing-cold water. “You put something that belongs to me in danger. Not only that, it was harmed, too. A very precious thing, Duncan.” He looked over his shoulder at his squire.

It took several seconds for Dunk to realize exactly what Lyonel was talking about, but when he did, his entire face turned red. “Ser—”

“And I cannot trust you with such a thing right now. So we’re going to have to work out how you’re going to regain that trust, are we not?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Wonderful. Now: I need some wine. Fetch me some wine.”

Lyonel did not look at him while he was working. Instead, he went directly to the bed. It was sturdy, and large, meant for more than one to share. It was a bloody fucking hassle to haul from Storm’s End. Dunk didn’t even like to sleep fully extended when they lay together in it; he preferred to stay curled small as he could get, either around Lyonel’s legs with his head on his stomach or with Lyonel draped across his back, keeping him held and secure and kept, even in his dreams.

When he was done with him tonight, he’d certainly prefer to lay flat.

Dunk returned with the wine, still red-faced and a little teary-eyed but functioning enough for Lyonel’s needs. Lyonel took his drink and drained it in one go, barely tasting it. The moment the sweet red touched his lips and drew the lingering taste of blood from his tongue and into his throat, he knew he was teetering toward the edge of something dangerous.

His squire sometimes fell into quiet, glassy-eyed states when even Lyonel couldn’t reach him for want of love or money. It was usually something else that set him off, distressing him enough to retreat into his own mind for hours and hours. Lyonel had spent lots of time taking care of him, keeping him out of sight, and coaxing him back to the present.

If he didn’t play his cards right, Dunk could fall into that state by accident. He was distressed now, and was about to get even more upset.

He took another fortifying breath. “Get me another cup, water it a little, then set it on the table, by the ice.”

Dunk moved with haste, but not clumsiness. When he stood still again, awaiting more orders, Lyonel tapped a finger against the inside of his knee.

“Boots off.”

They went, and were placed carefully with the others near the entrance to the tent.

“Belt.”

“Kecks.”

“Smalls.”

He paused then, considering his squire. All that remained was the knee-length surcoat bearing the Baratheon crest and a cream-colored tunic beneath. Both were blood-stained and tear-damp, from the fight and the beating he’d taken just now. Were this a good day, Lyonel might have asked him to only wear the surcoat, so he could fuck him wearing nothing but the symbol of his house.

But this was not a good day. There was a punishment to be given, and a lesson to be learned.

“I want you to give me your surcoat, squire.”

The way Dunk’s face absolutely crumpled would stick with him for the rest of his life, not for all the wine in Westeros. His voice cracked when he said, “Ser—”

“Just do as you’re told, Duncan.”

Dunk’s lip wobbled, but he ducked his head and nodded before unlacing the rest of the ties holding it together. Were Lyonel a sentimental man, he’d have thought the little strings were holding Dunk together, too. Regardless, the pieces fell away from one another like they were meant to. Time would tell if Dunk fell apart just as easily.

Lyonel wanted more than anything to assure Dunk that he would get the damned thing back, that he was not being dismissed from service, especially with the doomed look he gave the thing when he folded it in practiced motions and offered it to Lyonel. But he couldn’t, not until the lesson had been imparted and all was well again between them. So Lyonel wordlessly accepted the surcoat and set it over the bottom rail of the bed, leaving it there and moving on.

“Vest off, tunic, too.”

His hands fumbled slightly beneath the sluggish weight of despair, like he was moving around underwater. Lyonel gritted his teeth, swallowing down his emotions. He had to be strong enough for both of them to make it through tonight.

“The oil, now. Bring it here.”

His face reddened a little. “The—?”

“You know the one.”

They kept it in a utilitarian earthenware vial, because if he used any of the fancy cut-glass things he normally kept in his rooms at Storm’s End, Dunk would balk at the luxury. Having a bed was sometimes too much of a luxury for his poor squire. Dunk set the large vial in his hand and stood back, naked as his nameday.

Lyonel looked him over again. The bruise on his hip had darkened a little more, as had a few blows to his chest and ribs he hadn’t noticed before in his assessment—or, more likely, Dunk hadn’t had the wits to react to.

What those fools did to my boy. Should’ve given them steel instead of silver.

He set the oil aside and planted his legs wide, patting his thighs. “You know where to go, lad.”

You need to watch yourself twice as much as a man half your size.

That was what Ser Arlan had told him, around his second growth spurt. He’d knocked over a clay jug when they were headed out of Maidenpool. His eye had been swollen shut from Ser Arlan’s backhand, and therefore his balance had been messy, but excuses weren’t the domain of true knights.

So he’d made up for it in double the caution. He’d hesitated before his every action, and even in the later years, Dunk always had a moment of thought before taking a swing on Ser Arlan in training. Hurting another person, breaking things that weren’t his, those were the two worst fears he had with regards to his size. He had to be careful.

But that caution hadn’t shown itself tonight. Though Ser Lyonel had all but told him he’d not been in the wrong for swinging on that unarmed man, Dunk knew he was guilty. The gods knew he was guilty. But the anger that had bubbled inside him—!

Lyonel Baratheon is nothing but a traitor-hearted cad, a nasty trollop of a false knight who’d give up the Stormlands to get bent over the Iron Throne, since that’s as close as his blood will ever get to sitting atop it!

There had been other things that craven man and his cousins had spat his way. Chance had tried to get him to ignore it, but his size made him a target. Big men get punched more than little men. Unfortunately, the men were only encouraged when they saw how his ears and cheeks had reddened with offense. Their jeers had worsened, escalating to full-handed shoves as they attempted to provoke a reaction from him.

Anger had not been so close at hand in a very long time. Not since he’d become as squire for Ser Arlan had he needed it. King’s Landing had been a brutal place to grow up. If you couldn’t use your fists and feet and whatever else the Seven gave you, you’d end up dead in the gutter for it. Anger and the strength it gave a body were two tools most gutter rats had in droves.

But squiring had put his energy toward something he could be proud of, and exhausted him enough that some days he was too tired to be frustrated or offended. Then Ser Arlan had died, and all that was left was sadness and a bit of fear, the quiet terror of I don’t know what to do without him.

Finding Ser Lyonel had been a miracle. He’d taken him on without question, and had put him right to work and right on his knees. Both things, service and service, had further separated him from that inner rage. He no longer had to bare his teeth to survive. He’d gentled that beast inside him, coaxed that bloody and bleating thing into purring, quiet obedience. He was grateful to exist in the space between orders, living for his ser’s next command. In that quiet, waiting place, it was easy to forget those hard years of living hand-to-mouth, fist-to-teeth.

Tonight was different. Though the insult had not been dealt to him directly, he felt the offense in a deep chamber of his heart. Ser Lyonel’s maesters at Storm’s End had instructed him on history, had told him of divinely sanctioned warriors who fought and shed blood for the righteous glory of the Seven. Dunk could easily say he did not understand the point of such things until tonight. Tonight, his god had been insulted, and his heart had broken beneath the blasphemy spat in his ears, and all was taken out of his hands in the blink of an eye.

The anger flooded in like a storm surge, wiping out everything soft and vulnerable inside him and leaving only the grit, the ugly jagged edges that had been softened by time and Ser Lyonel’s smiles. He hadn’t known what he was doing until the jarring blow to his hip, when he thought, fuck, he’s going to be so angry with me, and had kept fighting anyway because those men intended to kill him where he stood.

His life was not theirs to take. So he fought.

This was the price of his devotion. To stand naked and vulnerable before his god and receive his judgment. He would do so, gladly and without fear, for this was the path Ser Lyonel had set for him. The path to absolution, at the end of which he would not be cast from his sight. Dunk knew, in the lowest depths of his heart, that if Ser Lyonel sent him away, dismissed him from service, he would still follow at a distance for the rest of his life. Where else would he go, now that he'd known such divine favor?

He fought from trembling beneath his stare. He had some idea of what would come next, judging by the ice in the bowl. His face still stung with the open-hand slaps he’d been dealt, and the position his ser demanded of him now promised further pain, just on a different part of his body.

Ser Lyonel had spanked him before, typically while he was fucking him senseless on the bed he now sat on. When they weren’t fucking, he would spread him sideways across his lap to spank his arse. Dunk liked that position. If he required a bit of reassurance from the punishment, all he had to do was tilt his head to the side and he could see his ser’s face, and that would be enough.

The position he put him in now faced him completely away, hands planted flat on the ground, with his hips cradled atop his ser’s lap. Unless he tensed his core, it put strain on his lower back, so he kept his belly tight and forced his legs to relax, letting them curl lightly around his ser’s waist.

Dunk was strong enough to maintain the position for some time, but he wasn’t feeling very strong right now. All he felt was exposed, vulnerable. Like this, his cock hung heavy in midair. There wasn’t anywhere he could squirm or turn to rub against like he could with their normal positions.

Not that he’d expected to rub off against his ser. This was a punishment, after all.

If it weren’t for the scratchy jute rug beneath his palms and the brush of Ser Lyonel’s fine clothes around his thighs and knees, Dunk would have floated off into a dark pit of anxiety the moment he lost sight of his ser. His ser knew that he could get overwhelmed when there was no external sensation for him to focus on. It was why he permitted Dunk to wear at least one piece of clothing while they played like this.

Still, even with the press of his ser’s hands against his bare thighs, not being able to see him at all was the worst punishment. All he had to look at were his ser’s boots, or, if he let his head hang upside-down between his shoulder blades, the few inches of his surrendered surcoat hanging off the foot of the bed. Shame boiled him alive when he glimpsed it, and he forced his eyes away, keeping them fixed on the rug beneath his hands.

Dunk’s attention returned to the present when Ser Lyonel squeezed his uninjured hip. “You’ll get fifty, and you’ll count for me. You may go to your elbows once we are halfway through. What number is halfway through, Duncan?”

He had spent many long hours with Ser Lyonel’s trusted staff at Storm’s End. The other squires were also taught with the masters-at-arms in Storm’s End, and Dunk learned sword forms and trained with them, but he had other instruction as well. Ser Lyonel did not want a wide gap between his squires’ education and insisted that Dunk learn his letters, his histories, the basic things a gutter rat like him had never needed to know. Most recently, the maesters in the library had taught him his numbers. Ser Lyonel received thorough reports on his progress, and knew for a fact that Dunk could reckon the answer to his question.

The maths sharpened his focus and pulled him out of the nervous spiral that was nipping at his self-control. He double- and triple-checked the answer in his head, even mumbling the numbers to himself before answering. “Half’s five-and-twenty, ser.”

“Good boy.” The praise made him flinch at how out of place it was at present. This wasn’t the time for such things. Ser Lyonel seemed aware of that as well, but did not apologize for misspeaking. Knights didn’t have to answer to their squires. It was the job of a squire to keep his head down about these things. “Would you like to start at fifty, or at one?”

“Fifty, ser.” It’d occupy his mind a bit more than the inverse.

“Alright, then. Be sure that I hear each number clearly.” There was less than a heartbeat between his final word and the first swat to his arse. It hardly stung, but Dunk knew the ramping up wasn’t for his own benefit.

“Fifty, ser.”

The first ten or so went in much the same way, and Dunk felt himself relaxing into it, the usual rhythm of his ser’s hand against his body. At nine-and-thirty, ser, the words came slightly choked, for Ser Lyonel had spread his cheeks and spat right across his hole. He quickly repeated himself, however, always diligent, always focused on his ser’s given task. “Nine-and-thirty, ser,” he panted, adjusting his grip on the floor. His elbows were starting to shake.

Ser Lyonel did not linger with this new addition to Dunk’s punishment. He resumed his spanking, and to Dunk's mortification, he started to get truly hard from it, his cock bobbing against his belly with each powerful slap to his arse. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, he thought to himself, shame making his head hang low. He felt his mouth flood with the taste of copper as he bit his lip to keep from moaning.

“Thirty, ser.”

There was no predicting where Ser Lyonel’s next hit or touch would land. This made the radiant sting of pain all the worse for the wide footprint it left across his skin. His breaths sawed in and out of his mouth after that, and by the time he finally gasped five-and-twenty s-ser, he was grateful for his ser’s permission to collapse further on the ground. He went to his forearms and moaned in relief.

But the position had the added consequence of presenting his arse as a greater canvas for Ser Lyonel’s hand. His skin was now sweaty from the pain and tension in his body, and he felt pink all over.

Whenever Ser Lyonel sensed that Dunk was getting too close to that blissful place he sometimes went to when they played together, he would swipe a finger over the tight furl of his hole, made wet by his ser’s spit and his own sweat from getting so worked up. The pleasure was just enough to distract him from the pain, and made the pain all the more terrible when it returned again. He felt like he could hardly breathe through it, let alone continue his countdown.

But he endured, because his ser asked it of him. This was the path to absolution. This was a punishment, a repentance. It was not meant to be easy.

A tense noise snuck out of his throat, and he curled his toes against the difficult swat across the untouched skin of his sit-spots. By twenty, ser, he was squirming unconsciously, forehead falling to rest against his wrists.

The shame of what he’d done had set in now. He’d broken one of the first rules his ser had ever set for him. You will care for your body, as I would care for it. His ser might slap him around, spank him like an unruly child, but he’d never beat him in the way those men had done. They’d wanted to kill him. When Ser Lyonel raised a hand to him, it was for his own good. Some spankings were maintenance. Right now was what Ser Lyonel would call corrective action.

And certainly, he needed to be corrected. He thought he could go off and fight his way out of a situation like that? Against seven men? He’d gotten into that fight under the assumption that he could handle it, could defend his ser’s honor and make him proud, without a scratch on him. He’d assumed mistakenly that because he was bigger, he could afford to be careless. Reckless.

His ser must be so disappointed in him. Disgusted.

F-four-and-ten was sniffled wetly against his forearm, and three-and-ten was even shakier. But they were permissible enough for Ser Lyonel. All Dunk wanted to do was turn around and apologize, beg for forgiveness, let his ser use his mouth, his hands, his body however he wanted. He’d do anything to wipe clean the slate he’d scribbled such sins upon. But he couldn’t. There were still a dozen spanks left to receive.

Ten, ser was when the first real sob came. It hitched hard in his throat, closer to a heave that might have brought up his dinner. Dunk felt appropriately sick with shame, sweat going cold on his forehead as the carpet beneath his hands spun and spun. His thighs shook around Ser Lyonel, who had paused when he heard Dunk start to cry.

He was patient, though. He let Dunk weep, but he had promises to keep, too. When Dunk caught his breath and went still again, down came n-nine, ser, I’m sorry.

“I know you’re sorry,” said Ser Lyonel, who didn’t even sound out of breath despite the heave of his belly against Dunk’s thigh. “That’s why we’re here. That’s why you have eight more, Duncan.”

“Y-yes, ser,” he nodded, hiccuping a little and hanging his head again. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the smallest corner of his—the yellow surcoat.

You deserve the pain and the guilt, not that. You don’t deserve to wear ser’s colors, his sigil.

Smack!

“Eight, ser,” Dunk wailed, hiding his eyes in the crook of his elbow. It wasn’t very steady, his skin too slick with tears, nor was it comfortable. But nothing about this was comfortable.

Down came another three, so fast and brutal that Dunk could barely understand himself as he counted. He couldn’t remember what a number was, let alone which direction he was counting. Three from eight, or was it three to eight? How many—had he said one-and-ten? What number were they on? His chest and belly heaved with the force of his sudden, wretched sobs. His lungs felt flayed open, like they’d been left exposed to some hellish, hot, dry wind for hours.

“F-five? Five, ser?” he squealed, too well-trained to squirm but wanting to, nonetheless. He thought he could feel the smacks in his teeth by now, but that could have been from how hard he was clenching his jaw. If he didn’t, he knew it’d be chattering.

“That’s right, that was five. Come on, Duncan, I know you can do the rest for me.”

“I-I—” Dunk couldn’t tell him I don’t know that I can because that’d be directly opposite to what his ser said. His ser believed in him, know you can do the rest for me, he wanted him to get to the end. Wanted him to endure past the point of pain and beyond. Wanted him to be forgiven. Wanted him here and present for it, too. But Dunk was afraid of the tattered edges of his mind coming and messing it all up. “What if I don’t remember?” he asked, his words coming out jumpy and hoarse, hardly words at all.

“I’ll remind you. I know you know the numbers, Duncan. Let’s count together.”

Smack!

Dunk cried out again, pressing his face into his forearm as agony ripped through his spine. It was half fire, half ice, a clashing little dance of swords stabbing him from all sides. He’d given up on trying to keep his belly tight, and his back ached horribly. His whole body spasmed as he tried to correct against one pain, but inadvertently made another pain worse.

There was something he had to do, something he had to—with his mouth, he had to use his mouth, but it was, he was crying and moaning against the agony as he squirmed. He had to do something. There was something someone wanted him to do—

“Do you remember the number we’re on, Duncan?” a smooth voice, a strong voice, cut through the drowning panic. “F-f-fuh—?”

“Four, ser, four. Four four four,” Dunk moaned, his shoulders shaking. He had to stay present, he had to take this, he needed to last, he needed this so his ser would trust him again, would trust him enough to—

Smack!

Dunk nearly choked on his tongue, his legs seizing up and tensing abruptly. He sounded like he was dying, wheezing and out of his mind. He tasted salt, and sweat, and blood.

“Get your teeth out of that arm this instant.”

He gasped and jerked away, licking his lips free of spit and casting his eyes down to the rapidly darkening mark he’d left on his forearm. He was bewildered, shocked at himself. Gods, but he really was just a dumb beast.

“I’m sorry s—”

“The number, Duncan. One less than four.”

Through the madness, through the bestial impulses running through his body, he felt a tap-tap-tap on the base of his spine, where none of the blows had landed.

“Three, ser,” Dunk slurred, his tongue feeling too heavy in his mouth. A few more tears slid out of his eyes. “M’sorry.”

Something was coming, something was going to come, something bad but his ser needed him to weather this storm, needed him to hold on a little longer. He felt nauseous. He took a shuddering breath—

And immediately lost it in the guttural shout that accompanied a loud smack!

Dunk wept wretchedly for who knew how long. He found himself saying words, or at least attempting to. “—sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, ser, I’m sorry—”

This time, his ser offered no comfort, no reminders. He’d bitten something that belonged to his ser. A very precious thing, Duncan. He’d bitten his ser’s precious thing, like an animal. Of course there would be no help given to an animal. He’d have to get through this on his own. For as much as he could feel Ser Lyonel’s legs against his, his hands on his thighs, he felt utterly alone.

“T-two, ser, please, please don’t send me away plea—”

Smack!

He was fairly certain he blacked out. When he came to, everything felt like a dream. He was turned onto his back and hauled through the air like he weighed nothing. He felt light and detached, a feather in a gentle breeze. His head lolled to the side, and his eyes caught something yellow, familiar and beloved enough to make him whine at the sight of it. Please, please, give me that, please, all I want—

“Oh, you silly thing,” a familiar voice said. It was a lighthouse in a storm, air for the drowning. He couldn’t move his head to face the voice, though, too wretchedly exhausted.

The yellow thing was lifted from the bedrail and pressed against his chest. There was a little bit of blood on it, but none of it fell near the center. He had folded it carefully, always carefully, always ensuring not a single crease fell upon the stag in the center. It was this stag that pressed directly against his heart. His clumsy hands fumbled with it when it was put in his arms, and the surcoat unfolded somewhat. The cool, smooth fabric, almost as smooth as suede, felt cold as winter against his cheek. He gave a soft coo of appreciation, of gratitude, of relief.

“Be careful with that, sweet boy,” the voice said. A hand pressed into his hair, stroking his scalp with gentleness. The hand was burning hot, near hot as flames. But it was another relief, distracting him from—from—

Dunk groaned, squirming on the blankets as the irritation in his skin demanded his attention. Holding the surcoat to himself helped ground him in the present, but the itching, bruising burn in his behind only made him yearn for that floating place where nothing existed, where he didn’t exist.

“Hold still for me,” came the order, and Dunk obeyed. He was good, he was a good squire, who obeyed his ser and took his punishments and didn’t fight. He had earned back his ser’s trust after breaking it, after harming something of his, and now he had his reward in his arms. He would do anything his ser asked, because that’s how things should be.

A burning cold cloth touched against his forehead, swiping gently over his cheeks and coming away pink. Dunk only saw it out of the corner of his eye, still a little dazed even as his face was held up for inspection and cleaned with the cold water again. The moments were intermissed by repeated sounds of gentle splashing, ice clinking on wood, and a cloth being rung out.

He hissed at the feeling of something hard and cold pressing against his hip, then getting secured in place by a bandage that spanned his waist. He tried to help lift his body for his ser, but was just too tired. His ser did not scold him for his sloth, but he was a gracious man.

A much cooler hand came and smoothed over his lower back, gentling him in long strokes, like one would soothe a horse. It moved easily across his skin, the hand slick with oil. It glided over the expanse of his abused flesh, making him moan softly in confusion. He felt the deep bruises settling darkly into his muscles. They’d show for weeks, most likely. He’d not be able to ride tomorrow, unless, of course, his ser asked it of him.

At Dunk’s confusion, his ser explained. “If I don’t oil up your chapped hide, you’ll not be able to move without screaming. I’ll find the lotion in the morning, this’ll do for now. Just let me touch you, Dunk. Your punishment’s over, my sweet squire.”

Dunk gave a soft, heartwrenching noise at the title, the claim, the endearment. His. His squire. His sweet squire. His eyes burned, but there were no more tears to be shed this night. Or rather, no more tears he could shed.

He felt his mind settling back into his skull, like a sword slowly falling into its sheath. Ser Lyonel kept talking, kept touching, kept massaging the bruises even deeper. Occasionally he would return to the ice bath and chill his hands again before returning to work him over. The ice at his hip melted a little, tickling as water trickled down his thigh. He was too tired to even shiver. Sometimes, Dunk’s muscles would twitch involuntarily as his ser pressed over a nerve, but for the most part, he simply melted into the bed.

“In the Reach, there are some stablemasters who believe in controlling a stallion through the whip. There are others who believe control is to be found in offering a mare’s cunt for use. Punishment…” He emphasized his point by gently pinching the abused skin of Dunk’s arse, making him gasp and whimper. “…and reward.” His fingers glided easily into Dunk’s crack, slicking up his hole just how his spit had done earlier. This feeling was much more gutting now, for all it was less intense.

One fingertip pressed gently inside him, a familiar stretch that made Dunk’s cock give a twitch from where it was pressed into the sheets. He squirmed, wanting to keep from making too terrible a mess. But Ser Lyonel seemed uninterested in such concerns. He simply pressed in and out, testing the rim and stretching him by degrees.

“I think a balanced approach is best for taming stallions,” he murmured, his voice rising and falling in tempo with his finger. “No pleasure without pain, no obedience unrewarded. Makes life sweeter that way, don’t you think?”

The finger pressed deeper, and Dunk’s hands curled around the surcoat tighter, his moan coming out high and reedy—but then it pulled back, nothing fancy, nothing rough, nothing searching as he’d expected. His ser sometimes liked to fingerfuck him just on the edge of wet enough before fucking him, leaving him achingly sore and walking funny the rest of the day. For now, things were nearly the opposite, his arse too wet and slick, and not rough in the slightest. It felt a little mechanical, like his ser was checking he had an arsehole at all, instead of actually doing anything with it.

That was, until the finger turned and prodded the front of his walls, that spot inside him that felt like a punch to the guts the first time Ser Lyonel had shown it to him. Your prostate, squire. Show me where the word is on the page. Dunk gasped, legs kicking out on reflex at the unexpected touch.

“Well? What do you think of their methods, Squire Duncan?”

I don’t think I can think of anything right now, ser, he nearly said. He thought he’d lost his entire mind just a short while ago, propped on his ser’s lap and receiving fifty swats. He thought his brains would melt right out of his ears to join the tears and spit. But reason and thought had returned to him in the come-down. “I—whatever you say’s best, ser,” Dunk said, his go-to answer whenever his opinion was asked for.

Ser Lyonel chuckled. “Thought you’d say that.” The warm note of pride and approval in his tone alleviated any worries he had. Dunk melted back into the blanket and let his body be used as his ser saw fit. “But my point—what was my bloody point.”

“Stallions, ser?”

“Right. Stallions. You know what the Tyrells bloody do when they need to fizz up a docile horse? They stick a knob of ginger right in here—” Ser Lyonel curled the lone finger inside of Dunk, allowing him to feel a little bit of a stretch. “—and it burns like the seven hells, has the beast running like mad while they’re showing off a steed to a prospective client. They pull it out the moment those poor fools look down at their coin purse.”

Dunk frowned, not liking the idea of hurting an animal in the slightest, especially a horse.

“Oh, you tender heart,” Lyonel chuckled, leaning over to spread more oil on Dunk’s arse. He used his other hand to rub it in, ensuring the next layer would take just as well as the first. Dunk was amazed that he was right about how dry and thirsty his skin was, but he shouldn’t have doubted his ser knew how to take care of him. “It’s not all that bad. Perhaps I’ll show you what it’s like, sometime.”

Dunk made a squawking noise, amplified when Lyonel pressed two fingers back inside him. It collapsed into a moan quickly, and Dunk felt a different kind of fire licking at his skin from the feeling.

But it was gone a moment later, just a tease before that single finger sank back into him. The pleasure unspooled again, bleeding away with his becalmed heart. He wondered why his ser seemed so reluctant to give him more of what they were used to.

“But what about those unruly steeds in the stable? The mean ones who resisted breaking and training from the very first day?” he continued conversationally, like he wasn’t lazily probing Dunk’s arse without any real purpose. “Nobody wants to buy an untrained, out-of-control beast. And no stable wants to keep one. So how do they keep them docile? They won’t take the whip, nor the root.”

Dunk had no idea. His horses came to him from his ser. He’d never had to buy one before. He’d sold horses, certainly. But it wasn’t something he knew enough about to have a conversation with someone.

Ser Lyonel continued, “they give him a mare—or what feels like a mare.”

“Hn?” Dunk whined, looking around at his ser with bleary eyes.

Usually, whenever he went off on one of his tangents, he had a great big point that he was going to get to. They usually began with some grand metaphor or piece of obscure history that would guide what he would do next. Sometimes his comparisons and flowery language wrapped Dunk’s mind up in knots, and cast him out beyond any hope of comprehension. To Dunk right now, whose mind was certainly guttering like a forgotten candle, it sounded like he wanted Dunk to fuck a horse. Or maybe a woman. Dunk wanted neither of those things.

Lyonel prattled on, oblivious to Dunk’s dubious expression. “They bring a mare in heat around. There’s always at least a few on hand for that purpose. And the hands, they wait until the problem stallion has gone to mount her, and then they give him another sheath to fuck into. A fake one, lined with wet velvet. Just to get the edge off of the poor-mannered beast.”

Dunk had never heard of such a thing before. Then again, he was admittedly undereducated in most topics. “Does that actually work? In calming the horse down, I mean.”

Lyonel chuckled in such a way that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “I think we’re going to have to find that out for ourselves.”

He said nothing else on the matter, nor did he clarify what, exactly, he meant. He withdrew his fingers and wiped them on a rag before helping Dunk to drink a cup of watered wine. He left him only for a moment, to blow out the candles in the tent and return to bed.

“You’ll stay here tonight, squire. You’ll sleep, and in the morning we shall test our theory.”

Dunk didn’t know how much of that our was accurate, but he’d follow his ser down whatever path he wanted him to go. Sleep came easily at his side, the soreness in his muscles aiding in his drift into unconsciousness, as did his ser’s hand on the back of his head and the soft surcoat clutched in his arms.

Lyonel woke early out of necessity. While away at a tournament, it was easy to party until dawn and sleep until sunset. For what he planned for Dunk, he had to ensure as few people as possible were awake enough to overhear. The exhausted man slept on in the bed beside him, curled around that surcoat and snoring softly.

He took a moment to gently brush the hair out of Dunk’s eyes, giving him the soft, fond smile he only smiled when none were around to see—or when none were awake to see. His gaze trailed down across the rest of his body, snagging sharply on the angry mark on Dunk’s brow, and the dark bruise on his left hip. The ice had helped with the latter, but it was still ugly and likely painful. The mark there melded abruptly into the pall of deep bruises across his arse, left there by his hand. Lyonel's palms and fingers were still quite numb and achey from inflicting such abuse, but they’d be warmed and put to better use soon enough.

Lyonel extricated himself from the bed and rolled Duncan onto his front again, before untying the sodden wet bandage from around his hips and walking to the entrance of the tent.

He poked his head outside, looking up and down the lane for several long seconds. Nobody moved about, and the air was hushed in the way that told him all were asleep around him. Not that he particularly cared how many people heard him taking Dunk apart (he’d certainly not cared who heard what was happening last night), but he’d rather not get any dirty looks for waking anyone unnecessarily early. He’d not be able to hold in his grin at their glare, and then what would the realm say about Baratheon hospitality?

He shut the tent and unpinned one of the upper panels inside, letting in some milky dawnish light through the top. It showed the way to a small chest beside a small washbasin in the corner, within which was something he likely should have gotten last night.

“Maintenance,” Lyonel murmured, his voice coming out scratchy as he spoke his first word of the day.

Lyonel started practically, as he did with most things. Many people forgot he was a highly practical man; they only remembered the moments when he sharply turned from practicality to hedonism. Admittedly, this was not infrequent. Regardless. 

He returned with the lotion to the squire curled in his bed. Dunk remained unconscious throughout his applying the lotion, and his arse looked a lot happier for it.

However, his early wakeup was not just for this. He’d made a promise to Dunk to train him well, to treat him well, in the ways of a squire and a lover. He was eager to please in all ways, but some lessons needed further reinforcement, clearly. Nobody wants to buy an untrained, out-of-control beast. And no stable wants to keep one.

While Dunk still slept, clutching the symbol of his service to Lyonel, Lyonel performed his service to Dunk.

His touch was familiar enough to Dunk’s skin that he did not wake when he spread his cheeks open for him, not even at the first lotion-slick sweep of fingers over his hole. Lyonel normally liked to keep his squire loose and ready, so they might enjoy one another at a moment’s notice. The last several days of travel, setting up for the tournament, and all the ensuing nonsense of last night meant their usual shared ablutions had fallen to the wayside, but Dunk took care of himself well enough, since cleanliness was part of his duties as a squire. He was, however, not permitted to touch himself without his ser’s permission, so his hole had gotten tight again for him, which Lyonel had noticed the night before.

Hesitation was anathema to Lyonel Baratheon. The two fingers that pushed inside Dunk at once were confident and assured. Lyonel knew this part of Dunk more thoroughly than anybody else in existence, including Dunk himself. He watched the sleeping squire like a hawk as he opened him up, slowing his pace whenever the brows pinched on that sweet, open face. Through it all, Dunk remained asleep. He was tight, yes, but this was familiar enough to sleep through.

This would be messy, he knew, but Dunk needed a task to set himself to before the evening’s opening tilts. He could launder the sheets and clean the furs himself. Despite Lyonel’s denouncement of his behavior last night, he seemed to actually enjoy caring for Lyonel’s things, so this, too, would be a reward.

Dunk made a soft, displeased noise when Lyonel pulled his fingers out of his arse, but Lyonel leaned in and shushed him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You just lie still, sweet boy. Your ser will take care of you.”

Dunk blushed even in his sleep, curling even further around his pillow and surcoat. Gods, but he was beautiful. Lyonel gave him another kiss, right on the corner of his mouth, before leaning back and gently maneuvering Dunk into a kneel.

There was something about kneeling that gave Dunk a deep, near-religious comfort. He was young enough that his knees could accommodate it for quite a while before fatigue set in. Lyonel did not seek to spoil his squire, but kneeling was an indulgence that worked out for both of them. Even now, the moment Dunk got his knees under him, the rest of his body slumping to follow, his breathing deepened, settling into something heavy and slow. Lyonel could probably swat his poor arse right now, and he’d do little more than flinch.

As tempting as that thought was, Lyonel let it be for the moment. He had other priorities and would not be swayed by his own desires this early on. (Later, though? He’d consider it.)

He gently pressed his fingers against the cluster of nerves inside of Dunk’s arse, firmly enough that the pleasure wouldn’t shock him awake. Even so, a low moan tore from Dunk’s throat, lower than he normally gave when he was awake. He was always so sweet for Lyonel in their waking moments that it was difficult to remember that Dunk was nearly seven feet tall and broad as a barn. He could be a force to be reckoned with, if Lyonel ever deigned to let him off the leash he so deeply cherished.

Looking at the clutched and crumpled surcoat in his arms, he wondered idly if Dunk would ever want to leave his service as a squire at all. He shook the thought away.

Dunk settled again, enough that Lyonel started in on a rolling pressure against the little nub inside him. Prostate, the maesters named it in a diagram. He’d made Dunk look at the drawings once, made him read out loud the parts of his own anatomy that Lyonel was touching, so he could commit the sight of the words to memory if he ever read them again. Knowing that particular experience in the Storm’s End library was seared into Dunk’s memory was a heady thing, and a familiar warm fog started to descend on his mind.

Lyonel hummed softly, spreading his other hand across the expanse of Dunk’s back before looking at his cock. It was already stiff from the light petting he’d given him as well as his body’s natural rhythm of arousal, but the longer Lyonel massaged at his prostate, the wetter the tip got. Dunk’s breathing hitched, another weak moan stuttering out of his throat.

“Shh,” Lyonel gentled, biting back a chuckle. “Be still.”

Even in sleep, Dunk obeyed. He’d really trained the squirm right out of him, hadn’t he? Pride filled his chest like light in a lantern, burning and warm and pleasant. Wanted to laugh, to crow his delight to the dawn like a rooster. But he didn’t. His breathing only stuttered a little bit, his mouth filling with spit that nearly escaped over his lower lip. Punishment and pleasure, Lyonel had promised him. That’s how you control a stallion.

The quiet of the tent was broken only by Dunk’s sleepy, gentle moans and the slick pass of fingers through oil. Lyonel's cock was hard enough to chip ice, but he ignored it for now.

It felt like he was keeping him asleep by thought alone, the order echoing in every corner of his mind, if not aloud. Stay asleep. Let me touch you. Lay still. Your ser will take care of you.

Dunk’s cock drooled and leaked into the blankets beneath him, a thick and steady drip as Lyonel milked him for all he had. Lyonel longed to get his mouth on him, to keep his jaws open beneath his tip, just to receive all Dunk had to give him, but then he’d be remiss in monitoring the rest of him. He’d likely wake him up by accident, and that was not the goal here. In fact, the challenge of keeping him asleep thrilled Lyonel more than he thought it would. They’d not done anything like this before. Dunk’s eyes had always been open—or, at least, he’d been awake—to anything they’d done together previously.

Lyonel knew from previous experience that Dunk had a lot to give when he spent. His loads were massive, and the thought of taking one inside himself always set Lyonel’s blood to sparkling whenever he thought about it longer than a moment. Soon, soon, Lyonel promised himself, giddy. Milking him now, torturing that lovely little spot inside him, the mess he was making was just as extreme as he expected.

Dunk’s whines and moans came on a little faster now, a little louder the longer he fingered him and coaxed more come out of him. Would his fingertips come out wrinkled, like he’d stayed too long in the bath? Lyonel added more oil from their vial when things started to get a little sticky instead of slick. Dunk whimpered at the feeling but did not rouse.

Maybe he’d teach Dunk to do this for him, one day. His fingers were so thick, he’d likely need only one to do the job. Any more of a stretch, and this was a different game entirely. Lyonel groaned softly at the thought of Dunk pushing his fingers up inside him, bumbling and awkward and inexperienced but for the familiar shadow of memory in his own body.

He pushed his smalls down and sighed when he wrapped a hand around himself, a small relief from the pressure building behind his eyes. Gods, but an impending orgasm sometimes felt like a headache at times. Funny that he could find relief from both in the same way. His hand was still a little slick from the oil he’d rubbed into Dunk’s hole, and it made the first pass of his tight fist smooth and decadent.

Lyonel jolted a little when he felt Dunk pushing back onto his hand, a gentle rocking of his hips. His eyes snapped to his face. His face was pink, mouth dropped open, pillow darkened beneath his face with drool. Still asleep, but enjoying this.

My, what nice dreams he must be having. He may wake up with no idea what I’ve been doing to him, the soreness in his arse too much to pinpoint exactly what had been done to him. His stones would ache from this, surely, but that could be explained away. Gods, what a puddle he’s making. Could fucking cast off in that ocean.

A slightly louder moan jumped off his tongue without his meaning to, and he bit his lip to keep the volume from climbing any higher. He stroked himself faster, wanting to reach his end, since Dunk’s end technically could never come with what Lyonel was doing to him now. He would be so drained, it’d likely take until nightfall for him to get hard again.

Poor thing would be so confused, his mind set in a heavy fog from the start of the day, looking dumb and fucked-out the moment he opened his eyes.

His breathing came faster, as did his hand. The fingers still pressing inside of Dunk matched pace with him, and another milky blurt of come drooled out of Dunk’s cock. Dunk came untouched all the time; could he do so now, asleep, unstimulated save for the over- and underwhelming abuse his prostate was taking right now?

Lyonel’s peak almost hit him like a lance to the gut, but he took his hand away quickly, holding his breath to try and regain control. Without thinking, his hand went right to Dunk’s arse, gripping the bruised flesh tightly.

Regret could not penetrate his fascination as he observed Dunk’s reaction to the cruel touch. It started in his arse, muscles clenching down around Lyonel’s fingers. Then his stones drew up tight, so fast it looked nearly painful. His cock twitched hard just a moment before he came, a real orgasm with loads thick, white spend, not the milky stuff he’d been leaking for close to half an hour now.

The sight and feeling alone nearly drove Lyonel over the edge anyway, were it not for the surprise of it all.

Dunk tucked his face into the surcoat clutched to his chest and whined through the waves of pleasure racking his body, shaking through it as he always did, full-body and wrecked. Dunk blinked his eyes open in confusion, and Lyonel smirked.

“You can go back to sleep, Dunk. I’m not finished with you yet.”

He stilled the fingers inside him and loosened the awful grip he had on Dunk’s arse, turning it into a caress, rhythmic and gentle as a lullaby. It was still early, after all, and Dunk sometimes had a difficult time waking up after an exhausting night like the one they’d had.

He withdrew his fingers and observed them in the spare light of the tent. The pads of his fingertips were indeed wrinkled, comically so beside the others that were not so utterly drowned inside him. He used that hand to reach for the bedding between Dunk’s legs, scooping up as much of the still-warm come that Dunk had spilled onto the sodden sheets.

With the palmful of come, he brought it up to his cock to wrap the slickness around himself. The slide was practically obscene, like he’d pushed inside a dripping wet cunt and not his own hand. The excess was smeared back on Dunk’s hole, now a pretty pink from the early morning activity it’d gotten.

Dunk made another noise, still teetering on the edge of waking after his orgasm. “Ser?” he murmured, rolling his face out of the surcoat for a moment. His hair stuck up every which way, mussed with sleep.

“Just a dream, sweetling. Close your eyes and rest.”

“S’a good dream, ser, thank you,” Dunk sighed, body relaxing once again.

Lyonel grinned sharply and pushed his cock inside. Dunk opened beautifully for him, a loud moan choking out of him at the sudden fullness. Lyonel didn’t rightly care that Dunk woke up. He’d lie there and take his cock just as sweetly either way.

It didn’t take long to find his peak like this; he’d been close before, but seeing and feeling Dunk come for him had him on the knife’s edge. His hips slapped into Dunk’s oil-and-come-slicked arse, a sharp pace, a cruel pace.

“S-ser!” Dunk cried, his voice muffled into the surcoat. His eyes were open but bleary with tears, looking back at Lyonel with a pleading look. His disorientation only heightened Lyonel’s sick enjoyment. “Is—is this still a dream?”

“Oh, yes, sweet thing,” Lyonel panted, snapping his hips deeper and harder. “Don’t you dare wake up.”

He moved faster, chasing his end with his gaze locked on Dunk’s. He got a perfect view of Dunk’s eyes rolling back the instant he angled his hips to ram into Dunk’s prostate again and again, the hardest he’d gone all morning. He choked on air, body seizing up as he finally, finally came dry after all Lyonel’s efforts to wring him out.

Lyonel groaned as his orgasm finally overtook him, hips stuttering and coming to a grinding halt as he filled Dunk up with come. He knew his squire loved to start his day full like this, sated and happy and dripping into his smalls. Nobody could tell his ser’s come was leaking out of him when he wore his full uniform. It was their little secret.

He let out a long sigh, mind finally going blank for the first time since waking. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of the camp getting ready for the day, the clang of cooking pots and stablehands turning out horses. The sounds were muffled slightly inside the tent, just Dunk’s heaving breaths and the slight drip-drip of his overflowing hole adding back to the puddle between his legs.

Lyonel pulled himself out and sat back on his heels just to look at the lovely mess he’d made of his loyal squire. His hole was now a much darker pink, not as dark as it got when they were fucking for longer but still very pretty. His arse was almost glowing red, however, which concerned him enough to grab the lotion again, slicking his skin up just as he had before.

Dunk gave a soft hum of thanks, testing the give of his skin with a wriggle of his hips. It pushed another gush of come out of his hole, dribbling over his stones and back onto the sheets.

“Sore?” Lyonel asked, smirking.

“Y-yes, ser,” Dunk said after a while. “Thank you, ser.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Now, get up. A squire’s not meant to stay abed while his ser’s awake. You need to clean up the mess you made.”