Chapter Text
The moon hung low over Ashford Meadow, silver light spilling through the narrow windows of Prince Baelor Breakspear’s private chamber like molten steel poured from a crucible. Ser Duncan the Tall stood just inside the heavy oak door, his enormous frame nearly blocking the entire entrance. His sweat-stained tunic clung to him like a second skin; the roughspun breeches were still stiff with dried blood and dirt from the trial ground. Fresh bandages wrapped his ribs where Aerion’s mace had torn through mail and flesh when Duncan had thrown himself in front of Baelor. A deep gash on his left side wept sluggishly beneath the linen; ugly purple bruises bloomed across his ribs, shoulders, and the thick column of his neck. His head throbbed where a glancing blow had split the skin above his brow. Yet none of the pain compared to the tight, bewildered knot twisting in his gut.
A servant had fetched him an hour past midnight with a terse message: Prince Baelor requires your presence. Come alone. Now the same servant bowed low and retreated, the door closing behind him with a soft, final thud.
Duncan faced the man he had nearly died for.
Baelor sat propped against a mountain of silk pillows on the wide canopied bed. Bandages swathed his chest, stark white against the deep, sun-bronzed skin of his Dornish blood. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples. One eye burned vivid violet, the unmistakable mark of true Targaryen lineage; the other was warm, earthy brown. The mismatch only sharpened the arresting beauty of his face. Exhaustion carved deep purple shadows beneath his eyes, yet his gaze held a fire far hotter than simple gratitude.
“Ser Duncan,” Baelor said. His voice was low, rough from the smoke and shouting of the trial by combat. “Come closer. Let me look properly at the man who gave his life for mine.”
Duncan stepped forward, boots heavy on the rug. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, the way a hedge knight was supposed to stand before royalty. “Your Grace… it was only my duty. Any knight would have—”
“No.” Baelor’s single word cut like Valyrian steel. “No other knight did. Only you.” He leaned forward slightly, wincing at the pull on his wounds, but his mismatched eyes never left Duncan’s face. “I watched you throw yourself between me and my brother’s mace. Maekar would never have meant to harm me—never. It was an accident born of fury and chaos. But you… you saw the danger and moved without thought. I saw your back—those shoulders like castle walls, that thick neck straining, the way every muscle in your body locked to shield me—and even as the world went black, I thought, "Gods, he is beautiful.”
Duncan felt heat crawl up his neck, burning beneath the tan of a thousand dusty roads. His bright blue eyes widened. “Your Grace… I’m no beauty. I’m just a big, clumsy oaf with a sword and more luck than sense.”
Baelor’s full lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. His gaze dragged downward—deliberate, hungry—lingering on the broad chest that strained the tunic seams, the thick arms corded from years of swinging steel, the unmistakable heavy bulge already thickening beneath the worn breeches.
“You are a giant,” Baelor murmured, almost reverent. “A golden-red giant with eyes like the clearest winter sky. And tonight, Ser Duncan, I mean to repay the debt you have laid at my feet.”
Duncan’s mouth went dry. His heart hammered against bruised ribs. “Repay… how, Your Grace?”
Baelor lifted one bandaged hand and crooked a finger. “Guards.” His voice rang with quiet command. “Leave us. Bar the door from outside. No one enters until I call.”
The two white-cloaked Kingsguard exchanged the briefest glance, then obeyed without question. The heavy iron key turned with a decisive clack. The chamber became suddenly, dangerously private.
Baelor swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He winced visibly as the movement tugged at torn muscle and cracked bone, but pain did not stop him. Barefoot, wearing only the loose silk robe the color of deep Dornish wine, he crossed the space between them. Up close he smelled of expensive sandalwood oil, lingering fever-sweat, and something darker—muskier, primal. Duncan towered over him by nearly a foot and a half, yet Baelor moved with the absolute certainty of a man who owned the world and everything in it.
“Look at you,” Baelor breathed. His dark hands rose, elegant and long-fingered, and tugged open the laces of Duncan’s tunic with deliberate slowness. “All this strength. All this size. I have dreamed of it every time I closed my eyes since the trial. Your body covering mine. Your weight pinning me down. Your heat. I woke hard and aching, Ser Duncan. For you.”
Duncan’s breath hitched audibly. “Your Grace… this isn’t proper. You’re a prince of the blood. I’m—”
“You are the man who saved House Targaryen,” Baelor interrupted, pushing the tunic off Duncan’s massive shoulders. It pooled on the floor. The knight’s chest was a brutal map: fresh bandages wrapped tight around cracked ribs, the deep purple gash where Aerion’s lance had bitten deep into his side, ugly spreading bruises blooming like storm clouds across his torso and arms. Coarse blond-red hair dusted the heavy slabs of muscle. Baelor’s palms spread flat against that chest; his thumbs brushed over flat brown nipples that pebbled instantly under the touch.
Duncan’s cock twitched hard inside his breeches. He could feel it thickening, lengthening, the fabric suddenly too tight. “Gods… my prince, I—I don’t know what to do with a man like you.”
Baelor laughed—low, filthy, delighted. “You will learn.” His fingers moved to the laces of Duncan’s breeches, tugging them open with impatient hunger. The thick, heavy length of the knight’s cock sprang free—veined, flushed dark at the head, already leaking a thick bead of fluid. Baelor’s violet-and-brown eyes darkened to near-black with raw want.
“Seven hells,” he whispered almost reverently. “Look at this monster. No wonder they call you Duncan the Tall. You’re tall everywhere.”
Duncan groaned as those elegant dark hands wrapped around his shaft. Baelor stroked slowly, twisting at the head, spreading the slickness over the sensitive crown until Duncan’s hips jerked forward involuntarily.
“I’m… I’ve never—” Duncan stammered, voice cracking. “Never been with anyone like this. Never with a prince. Never… never wanted anyone this badly.”
“Never been with a prince?” Baelor’s smile turned wicked, tender. “Good. Then this will be unforgettable.” He stepped closer, pressing his bandaged chest to Duncan’s bare one, and claimed his mouth.
The kiss was not gentle. Baelor’s mouth was hot, demanding, tongue sliding deep, tasting of expensive wine and fierce defiance. Duncan’s huge, callused hands rose automatically, gripping the prince’s narrow waist through thin silk, feeling the heat of rich brown skin. Baelor moaned into the kiss, grinding his own rigid cock against Duncan’s thick thigh, the friction sending sparks up both their spines.
“Bed,” Baelor ordered against his lips. “Now.”
He pulled Duncan backward. The knight’s knees hit the mattress; he sat heavily, the bed groaning under his weight. Baelor shrugged off his robe in one fluid motion. His body was leaner than Duncan’s warrior bulk, but corded with the muscle of a lifetime spent in armor—narrow hips, flat stomach, a proud dark cock curving upward from a nest of black curls, already slick and flushed at the tip. The contrast stole Duncan’s breath: his own sun-bronzed, scarred enormity against Baelor’s richer, smoother Dornish brown.
Baelor climbed onto the bed, straddling Duncan’s thick thighs. “I want you inside me,” he said bluntly, voice shaking with raw need. “I want to feel every brutal inch of the man who saved my life stretching me open. You will lie back, Ser Duncan, and let your prince ride you until neither of us remembers our own names.”
Duncan’s bright blue eyes were wide, pupils blown to black. “Your Grace… you’re still wounded. The bandages—your ribs—I’ll hurt you. I’m too big. I’ll tear you.”
“You will heal me,” Baelor growled, leaning down to nip sharply at Duncan’s jaw. “Every thrust will remind me I’m alive. Every bruise you leave on my hips will be proof I survived because of you.”
He reached for the small crystal vial of scented oil on the bedside table. Pouring a generous amount into his palm, he slicked his fingers thoroughly. Duncan watched, utterly mesmerized, as Baelor reached back between his own thighs. One long finger circled his entrance, teasing the tight ring of muscle before pressing inside. Baelor’s head tipped back; a low, throaty moan vibrated in his throat. He worked the finger deeper, then added a second, scissoring slowly, stretching himself with deliberate patience. His dark cock bobbed against his stomach, leaking steadily now. A third finger joined the first two; he twisted them, seeking that spot inside himself that made his mismatched eyes flutter shut and his full lips part on a broken gasp.
“Gods,” Duncan rasped, hands sliding up those strong, corded thighs, thumbs digging into muscle. “Look at you… so beautiful. So filthy for a prince. Opening yourself for a hedge knight like me.”
Baelor laughed breathlessly, eyes snapping open to lock on Duncan’s. “Only for you, Ser Giant. Only ever for you.” He withdrew his fingers with a wet sound, positioned the fat, leaking head of Duncan’s cock against his slick, stretched hole, and began the slow, relentless descent.
The sound that tore from both of them was raw.
Duncan’s hands clamped onto Baelor’s hips—hard enough to leave fingerprints on dark skin. “Fuck—Your Grace—so tight—so hot—”
Baelor’s lashes trembled; his mismatched eyes rolled back for a heartbeat. “So full… seven hells, you’re splitting me open and it’s perfect.” He paused when he was fully seated, breathing hard, letting his body adjust to the impossible thickness. Then he began to move—slow, rolling grinds of his hips at first, savoring every ridge, every vein. Gradually he rose higher, then slammed back down, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the chamber.
Duncan’s head fell back against the pillows, blond-red hair sticking to his sweat-damp forehead. He could only stare up in awe: Baelor’s dark skin gleaming with sweat, mismatched eyes glazed with pleasure, full lips parted on desperate, filthy moans. Every downward plunge made Baelor’s own cock slap wetly against Duncan’s ridged stomach, leaving shiny streaks of precome.
“Touch me,” Baelor commanded, voice hoarse and wrecked. “Your big hands—everywhere. Mark me. Claim the prince you saved.”
Duncan obeyed instantly. One massive palm splayed across the bandaged chest, feeling the frantic, living heartbeat beneath silk and linen. The other wrapped around Baelor’s leaking cock, stroking in perfect time with the ride—firm, twisting pulls that made the prince cry out and stutter in his rhythm.
“Yes—yes—just like that, my knight,” Baelor gasped. “Harder. Fuck up into me like you mean to keep me forever.”
Duncan’s hips snapped upward, meeting every descent with powerful thrusts. The bed shook violently; the canopy rattled overhead. Sweat poured down both their bodies—Duncan’s tanned skin shining like burnished bronze, Baelor’s deeper brown flushed rose at throat, cheeks, chest.
“I’m going to—” Duncan’s voice cracked, desperate. “Your Grace, I can’t hold—”
“Not yet,” Baelor panted. He leaned forward, biting Duncan’s lower lip hard enough to draw a bright bead of blood. “I want to feel you come inside me first. Fill your prince. Mark me so deep I’ll carry you for days.”
He rode faster, tighter, clenching rhythmically around Duncan’s cock like a velvet fist. Their eyes locked—bright winter blue on violet-and-brown fire—and something raw, unspoken, passed between them.
“Come for me, Ser Duncan,” Baelor whispered, voice breaking on the edge of his own climax. “Now. Give it to me.”
Duncan roared. His huge body arched off the bed; hips slammed up one final time as he spilled deep inside the prince—thick, hot pulse after pulse, flooding him until seed leaked out around his buried cock in creamy rivulets. Baelor followed seconds later—cock jerking violently in Duncan’s fist, painting the knight’s scarred chest and ridged stomach with long ropes of white.
They stayed locked together, shaking, sweat-slick, trembling. Baelor collapsed forward, forehead pressed to Duncan’s collarbone, dark hair damp against tanned skin. After long minutes of ragged breathing, Baelor lifted his head. His mismatched eyes were soft now—almost wondering, almost tender.
“The debt is paid in full,” he murmured, tracing a lazy finger through the mess on Duncan’s chest, spreading his own spend like a signature. “But I find… I still want more. Stay the night, my giant. Let me thank you again at dawn. And the dawn after that.”
Duncan’s big hand slid gently down the prince’s sweat-damp back—careful, reverent, avoiding the bandages. His voice was hoarse, awed, thick with something deeper than lust.
“As my prince commands,” he whispered, voice hoarse and awed. “I’m yours.”
Outside, the moon continued its slow path across the sky, indifferent to the two men tangled together on silk sheets—hedge knight and dragon prince—bound now by something far hotter, far more dangerous, than mere gratitude.
Sunlight filtered through the narrow windows of Prince Baelor Breakspear’s private chamber at Ashford, soft and golden, painting the silk sheets in warm hues. The air still carried the faint musk of last night’s passion—sweat, oil, and the mingled scent of two bodies that had claimed each other without restraint. Ser Duncan the Tall lay on his back, one massive arm curled protectively around the prince beside him. His blond-red hair spilled across the pillow like spilled copper; his bright blue eyes were still half-lidded with sleep. Fresh bandages wrapped his ribs and the deep gash along his left side where Aerion’s lance had struck; bruises bloomed purple and black across his shoulders, chest, and thick neck. Yet the pain was distant now, muted by the warmth of the man pressed against him.
Baelor woke first. His short dark hair, streaked with silver at the temples, was tousled against Duncan’s broad chest. The prince’s mismatched eyes opened slowly, focusing on the giant hedge knight who had saved his life and then ruined him so beautifully the night before. He is still here, Baelor thought, a quiet surge of possessive tenderness flooding his chest. This enormous, loyal, beautiful man stayed. He could have slipped away at dawn, but he did not. He belongs to me now. To us.
Baelor shifted carefully, mindful of his own bandaged chest and the dull ache in his ribs, and pressed a soft kiss to the center of Duncan’s sternum. The knight stirred, a low rumble vibrating under Baelor’s lips.
“Your Grace,” Duncan murmured, voice rough with sleep and lingering awe. His bright blue eyes opened fully, gazing down at the prince with something close to reverence. “I… I thought last night might have been a dream. But you’re real. Warm. Still here.”
Baelor smiled, slow and wicked yet strangely gentle. “And you are still inside my skin, Ser Duncan. I can feel you everywhere.” He trailed dark fingers over the knight’s bandaged side, tracing the edge of the linen with feather-light touches. “Does it hurt? Your wounds… I was selfish last night. I should have been gentler.”
Duncan’s huge hand came up, cupping the back of Baelor’s neck with infinite care. “It hurts less when you touch me,” he admitted quietly. “And I wanted it. Wanted you. Still do.” Gods, he’s a prince, Duncan thought, heart thudding heavily. A real prince with dragon blood, and he looks at me like I’m worth more than any lord. I’d let him break me a thousand times if he asked.
Baelor’s mismatched eyes darkened with fresh hunger. “Then let me repay you properly this morning. Slow. Gentle. Let me feel every inch of my giant without rushing.” He rose up on one elbow, wincing only slightly, and kissed Duncan—deep, unhurried, tongues sliding lazily together. Duncan groaned into the kiss, his free hand sliding down Baelor’s bare back, mapping every ridge of spine, every curve of muscle, careful to avoid the bandages.
They took their time undressing what little remained—Baelor’s silk robe already half-open, Duncan’s smallclothes shoved down with eager but tender hands. Baelor straddled Duncan’s hips briefly, just to feel the knight’s thick cock hardening against his thigh, but he did not rush. Instead he leaned down and began to kiss every bruise, every scar. His lips brushed the purple bloom on Duncan’s collarbone, the raw edge of the head wound, the bandaged ribs. “These are mine now,” Baelor whispered between kisses. “Every mark. Every scar. You took them for me. Let me worship them.”
Duncan’s breath hitched. “Your Grace… Baelor… you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Baelor interrupted softly, voice thick with emotion. “I need to.” His dark hands roamed everywhere—stroking the heavy slabs of Duncan’s chest, thumbs circling nipples until they pebbled, palms sliding down the ridged stomach, fingers tracing the coarse blond-red trail that led to the knight’s now fully hard cock. He wrapped his hand around the thick length, stroking slowly, reverently, spreading the leaking fluid with his thumbs. “Look at you,” he murmured. “So big. So strong. And so gentle with me even when I rode you like a storm last night.”
Duncan’s hips twitched upward into the touch, but he kept his movements controlled. “Only for you, my prince. I’d be anything you need.”
Baelor smiled against Duncan’s skin. “Then I need you inside me again. Face to face this time. I want to watch your eyes while you take me.”
He reached for the vial of oil, slicking Duncan’s cock with long, luxurious strokes until it gleamed. Then he slicked himself—two fingers first, then three, preparing slowly while Duncan watched with blown pupils and parted lips. He’s so careful with me, Baelor thought, chest tightening. This giant could break me in half, yet he trembles when he touches me.
When Baelor was ready he lay back on the pillows, pulling Duncan over him. The knight braced his massive weight on forearms, careful not to crush the bandaged prince. They fit together—face to face, chest to chest—Duncan’s thick cock pressing against Baelor’s slick entrance.
“Slow,” Baelor whispered, one hand cupping Duncan’s stubbled jaw. “I want to feel every inch.”
Duncan pushed in gradually, inch by thick inch, until he was buried to the hilt. Both men groaned—long, broken sounds of pure pleasure. Duncan stayed still for long moments, letting Baelor adjust, letting them both savor the stretch.
“Gods,” Duncan breathed, bright blue eyes locked on mismatched violet-and-brown. “You feel like heaven. Hot. Tight. Perfect. I could stay here forever.”
“Then stay,” Baelor answered, legs wrapping around the knight’s waist. “Move. Love me.”
Duncan began to thrust—slow, deep, rolling strokes that dragged against that spot inside Baelor with every push. Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm, skin sliding on sweat-slick skin. Duncan’s hands never stopped touching: one palm cradling Baelor’s short dark hair, the other roaming—caressing the prince’s dark nipples, stroking down his sides, gripping his hip with gentle possession. He kissed Baelor’s mouth, his throat, the silver-streaked temples.
“You’re beautiful,” Duncan murmured between thrusts. “So strong. So brave. I’d die for you again without thinking.”
Baelor’s eyes fluttered, pleasure coiling tight. “You won’t die. You’ll live. With me. With us.” He arched up to meet each thrust, nails lightly scraping Duncan’s broad back. “Harder now—but still slow. I want to feel you claim me.”
The pace stayed languid but intense, the bed creaking softly, the slap of skin muted and rhythmic. Sweat beaded on Duncan’s tanned brow; Baelor’s darker skin flushed rose across his chest. They kissed endlessly—deep, wet, loving kisses that tasted of morning and forever.
After long, delicious minutes Duncan gently rolled them onto their sides, still buried deep. Baelor’s back pressed to Duncan’s broad chest; one massive arm wrapped around the prince’s waist, holding him close. The new angle let Duncan thrust even deeper while his free hand stroked Baelor’s leaking cock in perfect time.
“Like this,” Duncan growled softly against Baelor’s ear. “I can hold you. Protect you. Feel every tremble.” His hips rolled in deep, grinding circles, the thick head of his cock pressing relentlessly against that sensitive spot.
Baelor moaned, head falling back against Duncan’s shoulder. “Yes—gods—right there. You’re so deep. Filling me completely. I can feel your heartbeat inside me.”
They moved together like that for what felt like hours—slow, passionate, unhurried love-making. Duncan’s big hand never stopped caressing: stroking Baelor’s dark cock, thumbing the sensitive head, occasionally sliding up to pinch a nipple or trace the bandages with reverent fingers. Baelor turned his head for more kisses, whispering filthy endearments and tender promises between gasps.
When release finally built, it crashed over them together. Duncan buried his face in Baelor’s short hair, hips stuttering as he spilled deep—thick, endless pulses flooding the prince. Baelor followed with a broken cry, cock jerking in Duncan’s fist, painting the sheets and the knight’s fingers with white ropes.
They stayed locked together, breathing hard, bodies trembling in the afterglow. Duncan carefully pulled out but did not let go; he rolled Baelor gently onto his back again and pressed soft kisses to his forehead, his mismatched eyes, his full lips.
“Thank you,” Baelor whispered, voice raw. “For saving me. For staying. For this.”
Duncan’s bright blue eyes were soft, almost shy. “I’d stay forever if you asked, Your Grace.”
Baelor smiled, tracing a finger along Duncan’s jaw. “Then I am asking. Come with me to Summerhall. I need to recover fully before we return to King’s Landing. My brother will be there, my son Valarr… all of us. We want you there. I want you there. Not as a hedge knight. As… ours.”
Duncan’s heart swelled so fiercely it hurt. Summerhall. With dragons. With him. He pressed his forehead to Baelor’s. “Yes,” he said simply, voice thick with emotion. “I’ll go. Wherever you lead, my prince. I’m yours.”
Baelor’s mismatched eyes shone with triumph and something deeper—something that felt dangerously like love. He pulled Duncan down into another slow, lingering kiss, bodies still warm and sticky and perfectly entwined.
Outside, the sun climbed higher over Ashford Meadow. Inside the chamber, a hedge knight and a dragon prince lay wrapped together, already planning a future where a giant belonged to an entire family of fire and blood.