Archive of Our Own

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.

Chapter Text

The armory of Ashford smelled of oil, steel, and old leather—familiar scents that usually steadied Ser Duncan the Tall. Morning light slanted through the high arrow-slits, catching motes of dust and glinting off rows of polished shields and racked swords. Duncan knelt on one knee beside a low bench, his massive hands working a rag over the fresh dents in his battered breastplate. He was packing—slowly, methodically—preparing for the journey to Summerhall that Prince Baelor had asked of him only hours ago.

The bandage around his ribs pulled tight with every reach; the deep gash along his left side where Aerion’s lance had torn through mail still throbbed beneath the linen. Bruises painted his torso in ugly mottled purples and blacks. Yet the physical pain felt distant, almost secondary. What truly distracted him was the memory of the night before.

Gods, that prince. Duncan’s mind kept drifting back to Baelor’s mismatched eyes—violet and brown—rolling back in ecstasy as he sank down onto Duncan’s cock. The way those dark, elegant hands had gripped his shoulders, nails digging in. The heat of Dornish skin sliding against his own tanned bulk. The broken, royal moans that had echoed off the chamber walls when Duncan finally spilled inside him. He rode me like I was his throne. Like I belonged under him. And I did. I still do. The memory alone made his cock twitch inside his breeches, half-hard despite the ache everywhere else. A prince. I fucked a prince. And he wants me to come to Summerhall. With his family. With dragons. Duncan shook his head, a rueful grin tugging at his lips. What am I even doing? Packing like some fool who thinks he can keep up with fire.

He dipped the rag in the pot of oil again, trying—and failing—to focus on the armor.

The heavy door slammed open with enough force to rattle the racks.

Maekar Targaryen strode in like a gathering storm. The fourth son of King Daeron II was shorter than Baelor, but built like a siege engine—broad shoulders, thick arms corded with muscle from decades of war, a chest that strained the plain black tunic he wore. His silver hair was swept back severely from his forehead, accentuating the sharp planes of his face and the pale violet eyes that burned with Targaryen fire. Pale skin, lightly dusted with freckles from years in the sun, gleamed in the morning light. To Duncan—who had already decided Baelor was one of the most handsome men alive—Maekar was something else entirely: colder, harder, a vision of pure, unyielding dragonfire wrapped in steel.

Duncan rose slowly, towering over the prince by a full head and more. “Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head in respect. “If you’re looking for your brother, he—”

“I know exactly where my brother is,” Maekar cut in, voice a low, dangerous growl. He kicked the door shut behind him; the iron latch dropped with a heavy clang that echoed like a judgment. “Still in his bed, no doubt. Sore. Leaking your seed after you spent half the night splitting him open on silk sheets.”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes widened. Heat flooded his face—and lower, his cock thickening visibly against the worn fabric of his breeches. “You… you know?”

Maekar stalked forward until only the length of a sword separated them. His violet gaze raked over Duncan’s huge frame—tanned skin still marked with fresh bruises, thick blond-red hair tied back messily, the unmistakable bulge swelling beneath the laces. Look at him, Maekar thought, a dark coil of envy and hunger twisting in his gut. This lowborn giant throws himself between Baelor and death, takes a mace meant for my brother, and then—then—claims him. While I stood frozen like a useless statue. He has no right to be this beautiful. No right to make me ache like this.

“The whole bloody castle knows,” Maekar snarled. “Servants whisper. Guards gossip. I heard them this morning while I broke my fast—how the hedge knight fucked Prince Baelor Breakspear raw until dawn. How the prince moaned loud enough to wake the Seven. How he begged for more.” Maekar’s voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. “They said you filled him so deep he could barely walk this morning. Is that true, Ser Duncan?”

Duncan swallowed hard. His cock jumped again, tenting the breeches shamelessly. “Your Grace… I didn’t mean to cause talk. It just… happened. He asked. I—”

“Shut your mouth.” Maekar’s hand shot out, slamming palm-first against Duncan’s broad chest and shoving hard. Duncan’s shoulders hit the cold stone wall with a thud that rattled nearby shields; swords clattered on their racks like startled birds. Maekar pressed in close, one thick forearm braced across Duncan’s collarbone, pinning the bigger man in place. Their faces were inches apart; Maekar’s breath was hot against Duncan’s throat.

“I should be furious,” Maekar growled, voice thick with conflicting emotions. “You upstaged my sons in that tourney. Made Daeron and Aerion look like green boys. You saved my brother when I almost—” He faltered for half a heartbeat, the memory of his own mace swinging too close flashing behind his eyes. “When my blow went wild in the chaos. I could have killed him. And instead you took it for him. For us.” His free hand dropped, palming the thick ridge of Duncan’s cock through the breeches with deliberate roughness. “But all I can think about—every waking moment since—is you on top of Baelor. Those huge hands gripping his hips. That monster cock stretching my brother’s tight royal hole until he screamed your name. Until he came apart under you like he never has for anyone else.”

Jealousy tastes like ash, Maekar thought bitterly, even as his own cock hardened painfully against his breeches. But gods, the thought of it—of this giant claiming what’s mine by blood—makes me burn hotter than dragonfire.

Duncan groaned, hips bucking helplessly into Maekar’s grip. “Gods, Your Grace… you’re jealous?”

“Furious,” Maekar corrected, squeezing harder until Duncan hissed in pleasure-pain. “And harder than I’ve been in years.” He ripped open the laces of Duncan’s breeches with one savage yank. The heavy length sprang free—thick , veined, flushed dark at the head, already leaking steadily. Maekar wrapped his callused hands around it and stroked once, slow and possessive, twisting at the crown until more fluid welled up.

Fuck, Maekar thought, staring down at the sheer size of it. No wonder Baelor moaned like that. This thing would ruin anyone. And yet he took it. Willingly. Eagerly. And now it’s mine to claim too. The thought sent a dark thrill through him—possession, envy, raw lust all twisting together.

“Seven hells,” Duncan gasped, head falling back against the stone with a dull thunk. “Your Grace… Prince Maekar… you’re a vision. I thought Baelor was the handsomest man I’d ever seen—dark and beautiful like a Dornish night. But you… silver and steel and fire. Strength and those eyes like storm lightning. I’d let you do anything to me. Anything.”

Maekar’s violet eyes flashed with dark, hungry satisfaction. “Good. Because I’m going to.” He spat into his palm, slicking his own cock—already freed from his breeches, long and thick, flushed dark at the head—then spun Duncan around with brutal strength. The knight’s broad chest slammed against the wall again; shields rattled. Maekar kicked Duncan’s legs wider apart, rough but deliberate.

He didn’t rush. Instead he leaned in, chest to Duncan’s back, one hand sliding between them to spread the knight’s cheeks. Maekar’s fingers—callused, strong—circled the tight ring of muscle slowly, teasing. Duncan shuddered, breath hitching. One finger pressed in—slow, insistent—then a second, scissoring carefully despite the roughness of his tone. He crooked them, seeking that spot inside that made Duncan’s knees buckle.

Duncan groaned, forehead pressing to the stone. “Yes—gods—I want you right now. Please, my prince—don’t tease. Take me.”

Maekar added a third finger, twisting deeper, stretching with deliberate patience even as his own cock throbbed against Duncan’s thigh. He’s so tight, Maekar thought, dark satisfaction curling in his chest. He’s still clenching like he’s never been touched. Like he’s waiting for me. He withdrew his fingers slowly, lined up his own thick length, and pushed in—hard, relentless, no further mercy.

Duncan’s roar echoed off the armor racks. “Fuck—yes—Your Grace—take me!”

Maekar sank to the hilt in one brutal thrust, hips slapping against Duncan’s tanned ass. The knight’s hole clenched hot and velvet-tight around him; Maekar snarled in raw pleasure. Gods, he’s perfect, he thought, hips already drawing back. Tight. Hot. Gripping me like he never wants to let go. Baelor had him first, but this—this is mine now. Every inch.

“Still sore from my brother, no doubt,” he hissed, slamming in again, deep and punishing. “You let him ride you like a whore on silk and now you’re taking me like one too—against a wall in an armory. Gods, Duncan, you feel better than I imagined. Hotter. Tighter. Like you were made for dragons.”

Duncan’s huge hands scrabbled at the stone, knuckles white. Blond-red hair stuck to his sweating forehead. “Harder,” he begged, voice hoarse and eager. “Please, my prince—fuck me harder. I want it. I want you. Been thinking about this since I saw you in the lists yesterday—those arms, that chest. You’re a dragon made flesh. Claim me.”

Maekar laughed darkly, teeth grazing Duncan’s shoulder as he pounded in deep and fast. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the armory; shields rattled with every thrust. “You like it rough, hedge knight? Like being used by a prince who’s jealous his brother got you first?” He reached around, fisting Duncan’s leaking cock, stroking in brutal time with his hips. “Tell me. Tell me how much you loved fucking Baelor. Every detail. While I wreck you.”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes glazed over, mouth open on desperate moans. “He was perfect—dark skin sliding against mine, those mismatched eyes rolling back when I filled him. He rode me so deep I thought I’d die from it—clenching around me, begging for more. But you—fuck—you’re stronger, meaner, better. Split me open, my prince. Own me. Make me forget anyone else ever touched me.”

Maekar’s rhythm turned feral. He gripped Duncan’s hips hard enough to leave fresh bruises, driving in so deep the knight’s toes left the floor with each thrust. “Mine now,” he growled. “Not just Baelor’s. Mine. Valarr’s. Daeron’s. Aerion’s. All of ours. This giant cock, this thick ass, this stupid loyal heart—House Targaryen owns it all.” He bit down on the meat of Duncan’s shoulder, sucking a dark, possessive mark into the tanned skin. “Come for me, Ser Giant. Come while I breed you like the dragon’s whore you are.”

Duncan’s whole body shuddered violently. “Yes—gods—Maekar—Your Grace—” His cock pulsed in Maekar’s fist, thick ropes of white painting the stone wall and the prince’s fingers. His hole clamped down like a vice, milking Maekar mercilessly.

Maekar snarled and buried himself to the root, hips stuttering as he came—hot, endless pulses flooding deep inside Duncan until it leaked down the knight’s trembling thighs in creamy trails.

For a long moment they stayed locked together, panting, sweat dripping onto the stone floor. Maekar’s forehead pressed to Duncan’s broad back, breathing ragged. Slowly—almost reluctantly—he pulled out, watching his own seed trickle from the stretched, reddened hole with dark, possessive satisfaction. Marked, he thought. Claimed. And he’ll carry me inside him all day.

Duncan turned around on shaky legs, cock still half-hard and glistening, bright blue eyes shining with raw, exhausted enthusiasm. “Seven hells, Your Grace… that was… I’ve never been taken like that. Never wanted it so much.”

Maekar gripped Duncan’s chin, forcing those blue eyes to meet his violet ones. A slow, predatory smile curved his lips. “We’re not finished, hedge knight. Not by a long shot. Baelor had you all night on silk. I’m claiming you again tonight—on the training field, bent over a quintain if I feel like it. And then? Valarr will want his turn. Aerion already asked me where to find you.”

Duncan’s grin was wide and filthy, big hands sliding around Maekar’s waist to pull him closer. “As my prince commands. I’m yours. All of yours. Just… keep looking at me like that. Like I’m worth more than any lord in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Maekar kissed him then—hard, claiming, tongue fucking into Duncan’s mouth the same way he’d just fucked his ass. When he pulled back, both men were breathing ragged, lips swollen.

“You are worth more,” Maekar muttered against those swollen lips, voice low and almost tender beneath the growl. “You’re the knight who saved my brother—saved all of us. And now you’re the knight we’re all going to ruin. Slowly. Thoroughly. Until you forget what life was like before dragons.”

Outside, the morning bells rang for the second hour. Inside the armory, among the swords and shields, Ser Duncan the Tall had already been claimed by the second dragon.

The camp outside Ashford Meadow had fallen into the deep quiet that comes the night before a long march. Tents were rolled and tied, horses picketed and fed, the last cookfires banked to glowing embers. By dawn the entire royal party—Prince Baelor still healing, the king’s household, Maekar’s own sons, and one very tall hedge knight—would begin the slow journey north to Summerhall so Baelor could recover fully before facing King’s Landing or Dragonstone. No one would have privacy on the road. No stolen hours. No locked doors.

Maekar Targaryen had made certain of that.

He waited inside his private pavilion, a simple but spacious tent of black canvas set a little apart from the others. A single lantern burned low on the central pole, casting long shadows across the furs and the narrow camp bed. Maekar stood in only his breeches, silver hair loose to his shoulders, pale violet eyes fixed on the tent flap. His broad chest rose and fell with barely contained hunger. One last night, he thought. One last time to take what’s mine before the road turns us all into proper princes and knights again. I’ll have him hard and fast, the way I did in the armory. I’ll remind him who owns that giant body.

The flap lifted.

Ser Duncan the Tall ducked inside, filling the entrance with his enormous frame. He wore only a loose tunic and breeches, blond-red hair still damp from a quick wash at the river. Fresh bandages peeked from beneath the collar; the bruises on his thick neck and arms had darkened to deep violet. His bright blue eyes found Maekar instantly and softened with unmistakable warmth.

“Your Grace,” Duncan said quietly, voice low and respectful even now. “You sent for me.”

Maekar crossed the space in two strides, grabbed the front of Duncan’s tunic, and yanked him forward until their chests collided. “I promised you another claiming,” he growled, already shoving Duncan toward the camp bed. “And I keep my promises. Tonight I’m going to bend you over that bed and fuck you raw, just like in the armory. No silk. No gentleness. Just me taking what belongs to House Targaryen.”

Duncan let himself be pushed, but when Maekar’s hands moved to pin his wrists above his head, the knight caught them instead—gently, firmly. Huge callused fingers closed around Maekar’s wrists, not fighting, simply stopping the motion. Duncan’s bright blue eyes held the prince’s violet ones without challenge.

“Wait,” Duncan murmured. “Not like that tonight. Not yet.”

Maekar’s brows drew together, a flicker of irritation flashing across his face. “You dare tell me—”

“I’m not telling,” Duncan interrupted softly. “I’m asking.” He brought Maekar’s hands down between them, still holding them, and lifted them to his own lips. He kissed each scarred knuckle with deliberate tenderness, one after the other. “You’ve had me hard. You’ve had me rough. You’ve had me against a wall like I was yours to break. Tonight… let me have you soft. Just once. Before the road takes us.”

Maekar opened his mouth to snarl something sharp, but Duncan leaned in and kissed him.

It was nothing like the brutal claiming in the armory. Duncan’s mouth was warm, slow, coaxing—lips brushing, then pressing, then parting gently so his tongue could slide inside like a question rather than a demand. Maekar stiffened, every muscle coiled to fight, but Duncan’s free hand rose to cup the back of his silver head, fingers threading through the long strands with impossible gentleness. The kiss deepened, still slow, still patient, until Maekar felt something tight and furious in his chest begin to loosen.

Gods, Maekar thought, stunned. He’s kissing me like I’m something precious. Like I’m not the dragon who nearly killed his own brother. Like I’m… worth tenderness. The realization made his knees weak.

Duncan pulled back just enough to rest their foreheads together. “Let me touch you,” he whispered. “Let me see you. You’re so beautiful, Maekar. Silver and steel and fire, yes—but there’s more. There’s this.” His fingers traced the strong line of Maekar’s jaw, then stroked through the short, neatly trimmed silver beard with slow, reverent passes. “I keep staring at you. At the way your hair catches the light. At how your eyes go soft when you think no one’s looking. You’re a vision, Your Grace. Stronger than any knight I’ve ever known, but tonight… tonight let me worship the man, not just the dragon.”

Maekar’s breath shuddered out. The fight drained from his shoulders. “Duncan…” he rasped, voice rough but no longer angry. “I don’t… I don’t do soft.”

“You do now,” Duncan answered simply. He guided Maekar backward until the prince sat on the edge of the narrow camp bed. Then Duncan knelt—huge body folding with surprising grace—and pressed another slow kiss to Maekar’s mouth. While they kissed, Duncan’s hands never stopped moving: stroking through silver hair, cupping the back of Maekar’s neck, tracing the line of his beard again and again as if memorizing the texture.

“You’re trembling,” Duncan murmured against his lips. “I can feel it. Let go, my prince. I’ve got you.”

Maekar’s hands rose of their own accord, sliding into Duncan’s blond-red hair, holding on as the kiss turned deeper, sweeter. He’s right, Maekar thought, dazed. I am trembling. And it feels… good. Dangerous. But good.

Duncan’s mouth left Maekar’s and trailed lower—kissing the hollow of his throat, the silver-dusted collarbone, the center of his broad chest. He lingered at each flat nipple, sucking gently until Maekar hissed. Then lower still. Duncan tugged Maekar’s breeches down just enough to free his already-hard cock, long and thick and flushed dark at the head.

“Beautiful here too,” Duncan whispered, looking up with those bright blue eyes full of open admiration. “Let me taste you. Just a little. Slow.”

Maekar’s answer was a broken nod.

Duncan took him into his mouth—slow, wet, reverent. He didn’t try to swallow him whole; he simply worked the head with his tongue, sucking gently, one big hand stroking the shaft in long, lazy pulls while the other cupped Maekar’s balls with careful warmth. Maekar’s head fell back, silver hair spilling over his shoulders, a low groan rolling from his throat.

“Fuck… Duncan… your mouth—” Maekar’s fingers tightened in the knight’s hair, but he didn’t pull, didn’t force. “You’re going to ruin me with gentleness.”

Duncan hummed around him, the vibration making Maekar’s hips jerk. He pulled off with a soft pop, lips shiny. “Good. You deserve to be ruined softly sometimes.”

He rose then, shedding his own clothes until he stood naked and massive in the lantern light. Maekar’s eyes devoured him—the thick thighs, the heavy cock already leaking, the map of bruises and bandages that only made him look stronger.

“Turn around,” Maekar said, voice hoarse but no longer commanding. “On your knees. I still need to be inside you… but slower. Like you want.”

Duncan obeyed without hesitation, bracing his forearms on the furs, broad back arched, tanned ass presented. Maekar moved behind him, slicking himself quickly with oil from the small vial beside the bed. He pressed in—still deep, still claiming—but this time he went slow, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

Both men groaned.

Maekar’s hand slid around immediately, wrapping around Duncan’s thick cock. He didn’t stroke fast. He stroked slow—agonizingly slow—thumb circling the head on every upstroke, fingers tightening just enough on every downstroke. His hips rolled in deep, grinding circles that dragged against that spot inside Duncan with merciless precision.

“Feel that?” Maekar whispered against Duncan’s ear, chest pressed to the knight’s back. “I’m going to torture you with pleasure until you can’t think. Until you’re begging. Until you come for me exactly when I say.”

Duncan’s head dropped, blond-red hair falling forward. “Gods—Maekar—Your Grace—it’s too much—too good—”

“Not enough,” Maekar growled softly, still moving slow and deep, hand never speeding up. “You wanted gentle? This is gentle. This is me owning every inch of you while I make you feel everything.” He twisted his wrist on the upstroke, smearing the steady leak of fluid over the sensitive crown. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Like fire,” Duncan panted. “Like you’re burning me from the inside. Your hand—fuck—your cock—please, I’m close—”

“Not yet.” Maekar slowed his hips even more, dragging the head of his cock over that spot again and again while his hand kept the same torturous rhythm. Duncan’s thighs trembled; his hole clenched rhythmically around Maekar.

After long, endless minutes of that slow, relentless pleasure, Duncan broke. “Maekar—please—I can’t— I’m—”

“Come,” Maekar ordered, voice rough with his own building climax. “Come for me, knight. Now.”

Duncan’s whole body locked up. He came with a broken moan, thick ropes of white spilling over Maekar’s fist and onto the furs beneath him. His hole clamped down so tightly Maekar had to grit his teeth to keep moving.

But Maekar didn’t stop. He kept thrusting—slow, deep, steady—hand still loosely stroking Duncan’s oversensitive cock until the knight was whimpering. Only when Duncan was shaking and gasping did Maekar finally pull out.

“On your knees. Mouth open,” he rasped.

Duncan turned instantly, dropping to his knees, lips parted, bright blue eyes glazed with pleasure and devotion.

Maekar fisted his own cock twice more and came—hot, endless pulses painting Duncan’s tongue, his lips, his chin. Some of it landed on the knight’s chest, sliding down tanned skin in creamy trails. Duncan swallowed what he could, then licked his lips slowly, eyes never leaving Maekar’s.

For a long moment the only sound was their ragged breathing.

Maekar sank down onto the bed, pulling Duncan up with him until the giant knight was curled against his chest. His fingers threaded through blond-red hair, stroking gently—the same way Duncan had stroked his silver strands earlier.

“I didn’t know I could want it soft,” Maekar admitted quietly, voice thick. “You… you make me want things I never thought I’d need.”

Duncan pressed a lazy kiss to Maekar’s silver-dusted chest. “Good. Because I’m going to need you soft sometimes too. On the road. In Summerhall. Wherever we end up.” He smiled against warm skin. “But I’ll still let you wreck me against a tree if you ask nicely.”

Maekar laughed—low, surprised, genuinely amused. “Deal, hedge knight.”

Outside, the camp slept. Inside the black pavilion, the second dragon and the giant knight lay tangled together—bodies sated, hearts quieter than they had been in days—already dreaming of the road north and everything that waited at Summerhall.

Chapter Text

The morning of the departure for Summerhall dawned clear and cool over Ashford Meadow. Servants hurried between tents and wagons, horses were being saddled, and the royal party buzzed with the low excitement of a journey about to begin. In a few short hours the column would move north—Prince Baelor still healing, the king’s household, Maekar’s sons, and one very large hedge knight who had somehow become part of their flight.

Maekar Targaryen strode toward his brother’s chambers with the impatient energy that defined him. His silver hair was pulled back neatly, his short silver beard freshly trimmed, pale violet eyes narrowed in mild irritation. He should be up by now, Maekar thought, boots crunching on the dew-wet grass. Baelor always was the one who rose with the sun, even after a tourney. Now he’s lazing about like a Dornish lord because that giant knight wore him out. I love the man more than my own soul, but gods, sometimes I want to drag him out of bed by the ankles. He paused for half a heartbeat outside the heavy oak door, a softer thought slipping in unbidden. Still… he is so damn handsome. Even bandaged and tired, that short dark hair with its silver threads, those mismatched eyes… he could stop a heart without trying. My beautiful, reckless brother.

He pushed the door aside without knocking—brothers did not knock—and stepped into the warm, dim interior.

Baelor Breakspear was still in bed.

The prince lay propped against a pile of pillows, short dark hair tousled catching the thin shaft of sunlight that pierced the windows. His bandaged chest rose and fell slowly beneath the half-open silk robe the color of deep wine. Mismatched eyes were half-lidded in lazy contentment as he watched his younger brother enter.

Maekar planted his hands on his hips and scowled, though the expression was softened by the deep affection that lived permanently in his chest. “Still abed? The wagons are nearly loaded, the horses are stamping, and you’re lying here like a pampered cat. We leave in two hours, brother. Two.”

Baelor’s full lips curved into a slow, unrepentant smile. “Good morning to you too, Maekar. Come closer. You look ready to bite someone’s head off, and I’d rather it not be mine.” Gods, look at him, Baelor thought, warmth blooming in his chest. My silver dragon. That strong jaw, the neat beard, those pale violet eyes that see straight through me. Even when he’s grumpy he’s the most handsome man alive. I would follow him anywhere.

Maekar crossed the space in three strides and dropped onto the edge of the wide bed, making the frame creak. “Someone has to be ready. You’ve been… occupied." His pale violet eyes flicked meaningfully toward the faint bite mark still visible on Baelor’s throat. “Tell me, did our giant hedge knight leave you so sore you can’t even stand? Or are you simply enjoying the memory of him filling you until dawn?”

Baelor laughed softly, the sound warm and teasing. “Jealous, little brother? You had him in the armory the next morning. I heard the shields rattling from my solar. And last night? I’m told you two were… thorough.” He reached out, dark fingers tracing the line of Maekar’s silver beard with open affection. “You mock me for riding him slow and sweet, but I know you bent him over and took him hard. Admit it—you’re just grumpy because you wish you’d been the one waking up beside him in the morning.”

Maekar caught Baelor’s hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the knuckles even as he grumbled. “I am not jealous. I’m practical. You nearly died four days ago. You should be resting, not letting that giant split you open at night.” His voice dropped, the mockery softening into something fonder. “Though I will admit… the thought of him inside you does make me hard enough to ride a horse uncomfortably. You sounded so damn beautiful riding him that first night. Eyes rolling back, dark skin gleaming I imagine. I almost came just listening through the wall.”

Baelor’s mismatched eyes sparkled with mischief. “And you, my silver dragon? I heard you had him in the armory. Growling like a beast while you claimed him against the stone. ‘Mine now. House Targaryen owns it all.’ Very dramatic. Very you.” He tugged Maekar closer until their foreheads touched. “But I know the truth. You love him already. The same way I do. The same way we love each other. Duncan is ours now. All of ours.”

The air between them thickened. Maekar’s irritation melted into the deep, bone-deep love he had carried for his brother since childhood. He is my blood, my fire, my everything, he thought. Even when he teases me, even when he’s reckless, I would burn the world for him.

Baelor felt it too—the same fierce, obsessive devotion. My strong, grumpy, beautiful brother. He pretends to be stone, but he melts for me. For Duncan. For us.

They moved at the same moment.

Their mouths met in a slow, deep kiss—familiar, hungry, full of years of shared secrets. Tongues slid lazily, tasting morning and love and the faint trace of last night’s wine. Maekar’s hands roamed over Baelor’s bandaged chest with careful reverence, thumbs brushing dark nipples until they pebbled. Baelor’s elegant fingers slid into Maekar’s silver hair, tugging gently, then stroking down the strong line of his neck and across the broad shoulders.

“You’re so beautiful,” Baelor whispered against Maekar’s lips. “Silver and steel and mine.”

Maekar groaned softly. “And you’re still recovering, you stubborn fool. Let me take care of you.”

But Baelor had other plans. He pushed Maekar onto his back, straddling his hips with careful grace. “Not yet. First I want to taste you.” He kissed his way down Maekar’s chest—slow, open-mouthed kisses over every ridge of muscle, pausing to suck and lick at both flat nipples until Maekar was panting and arching. Lower still, until he reached the hard, flushed length straining against Maekar’s breeches.

Baelor freed him with reverent hands, then took his brother into his mouth—slow, wet, worshipful. He sucked the thick head gently at first, tongue swirling around the sensitive crown, tasting the bead of fluid already leaking there. One elegant hand stroked the thick shaft in long, firm pulls while the other cupped and rolled Maekar’s heavy balls, gently tugging them just the way he knew his brother liked. He took more, hollowing his cheeks, sliding down until the head nudged the back of his throat, then pulling back with a wet, obscene sound only to dive down again, humming around the length so the vibration traveled straight to Maekar’s spine.

Maekar’s silver head fell back against the pillows, a low, broken moan rolling from his throat. “Gods… Baelor… your mouth—always so perfect—fuck, the way you suck me—slow like that—yes—”

Baelor hummed again, taking him even deeper, throat relaxing to swallow around the girth while his tongue pressed up against the thick vein running underneath. Spit glistened on his chin and dripped down to slick Maekar’s balls. He pulled off only to lap at the underside, dragging his tongue from base to tip in long, filthy strokes before swallowing him down once more, faster now, one hand twisting on every upstroke while the other pressed a single slick finger behind Maekar’s balls, circling the tight entrance there teasingly.

“Gods—Baelor—please—” Maekar gasped, hips twitching.“ Don’t stop—your tongue—fuck—”

Baelor pulled off with a wet pop, lips shiny and swollen. “Not done yet, brother.” He pushed Maekar’s thighs wider, leaned down, and dragged his tongue straight over Maekar’s entrance—slow, deliberate, circling the tight ring before pressing inside. Maekar’s back arched clean off the bed.

“Baelor—fuck—your mouth there—please—more—”

Baelor licked him open with patient, filthy devotion—tongue fucking in and out, then flattening to lap broad strokes while two slick fingers joined to stretch and scissor. Maekar was begging now, silver hair sticking to his forehead, voice hoarse. “Please—Baelor—I need you inside me—now—”

When Maekar was trembling and open, Baelor rose, kissed him deeply—sharing the taste—then lined up and pushed inside in one smooth glide.

Both men groaned—long, shared sounds of pure pleasure.

Baelor began to move—slow, rolling grinds of his hips, exactly the way he had ridden Duncan that first night. He leaned forward, kissing Maekar’s mouth, then his neck, then each nipple again, sucking lightly while his hips kept that luxurious rhythm. His tongue flicked over the pebbled buds, teeth grazing just enough to make Maekar hiss and arch.

“You feel so good,” Baelor panted between kisses. “So strong. So deep. I love you like this—under me, letting me have you.”

Maekar’s hands gripped Baelor, guiding but not forcing. He’s still weak, Maekar thought, concern threading through the pleasure. His breathing is already ragged. My brave, stubborn brother. But gods, the way he’s sucking my nipples—every flick of his tongue—fuck, it’s shooting straight to my cock.

Baelor’s pace faltered slightly; a faint wheeze escaped him as the wound pulled. Pleasure still flooded him—Maekar’s tight heat clenching around him, the slide of silver hair against his cheek, the taste of his brother’s skin—but fatigue was creeping in. His thrusts grew a fraction shallower, his breath catching.

Maekar acted instantly—gentle but decisive. One large hand cupped the back of Baelor’s head protectively, the other arm wrapping around his waist. In one smooth, careful motion Maekar flipped them, keeping his brother’s head cradled so he wouldn’t jolt the bandages.

Now Maekar was on top, but he didn’t stay there. He rolled again so Baelor lay on his back and Maekar straddled him—exactly as Baelor had ridden Duncan. Maekar sank down onto his brother’s cock in one smooth glide, taking him to the hilt.

Both men groaned loudly, the sound raw and filthy.

“Like this,” Maekar growled softly, voice thick with love and lust. “Let me ride you the way you rode him. Hard and slow. Let me take care of you.”

He began to move—deep, powerful rolls of his hips that dragged Baelor’s cock over that perfect spot inside him with every descent. It was hard, possessive, yet controlled. Maekar’s silver hair fell forward like a curtain as he braced his hands on either side of Baelor’s head and rode.

Baelor looked up at him, mismatched eyes wide with awe and obsessive love. Gods, he’s magnificent, Baelor thought. My strong, silver dragon. So beautiful. So powerful. Riding me like he owns the world. I would die for this man. I would kill for him.

“You’re so beautiful,” Baelor whispered, hands sliding up Maekar’s thick thighs, then higher to grip his waist. “Look at you—silver hair, strong chest, taking me so perfectly. I love you. I love how you feel around me—clenching so tight—fuck, Maekar—right there—”

“Feel that?” Maekar panted, rolling his hips harder, slower, grinding down until Baelor’s cock pressed relentlessly against that spot. “I’m taking every inch of you. Just like you took him. You’re mine. Always.”

Maekar came first—sudden, shattering—his cock pulsing untouched between them, painting Baelor’s dark stomach with thick ropes of white. His hole clenched hard around Baelor, but Baelor did not stop.

Instead Baelor’s elegant hand wrapped around Maekar’s still-hard cock and began to stroke—firm, steady, merciless. “Not done yet, brother,” he panted. “Give me another. I want to feel you come again while I’m still inside you.”

Maekar’s violet eyes widened, oversensitive and shaking. “Baelor—gods—it’s too much—I can’t—every stroke—fuck—it hurts so good—”

“You can,” Baelor whispered, stroking faster while his hips rolled up to meet Maekar’s descent. “For me. Come again. Let me feel it.”

Maekar broke with a hoarse cry—second climax wrung from him by overstimulation, cock jerking in Baelor’s fist as a few more weak pulses spilled over dark skin. The clench of his body dragged Baelor over the edge at last. Baelor thrust up hard and came deep inside his brother—hot, endless pulses flooding him. The sensation was overwhelming: Maekar’s heat spasming around him, the wet slide, the knowledge that his brother had come twice for him.

They collapsed together, trembling, sweat-slick and breathing ragged. Maekar carefully eased off Baelor but stayed close, curling against his side. They kissed slowly, lazily—soft presses of lips turning deeper, tongues brushing with exhausted affection, tasting salt and each other. Baelor’s hand stroked through Maekar’s silver hair while Maekar’s fingers traced lazy circles over Baelor’s bandaged chest, both of them lingering in the sticky, sated mess between them.

“I love you,” Maekar murmured against Baelor’s mouth. “More than anything.”

“And I you,” Baelor answered, fingers tracing Maekar’s silver beard. “Always.”

They lay like that for long minutes—kissing, breathing, simply being together—until a sharp, impatient knock rattled the pavilion door.

The door was yanked open just enough for a small bald head to poke through.

Aegon Targaryen—Egg—stood there in his traveling cloak, violet eyes wide with pure nine-year-old disgust. He did not look inside more than necessary. “Everyone is waiting,” he announced in a flat, mortified voice. “The horses are saddled. The wagons are ready. Father. Uncle. Ugh. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to know. Just… come outside. Please.”

He ducked back out instantly, face flaming.

Maekar and Baelor exchanged a glance—half embarrassed, half amused—then burst into quiet laughter.

Aegon marched straight across the camp to where Ser Duncan the Tall was checking the straps on his horse. The boy stopped in front of the giant knight, arms crossed, cheeks still pink.

“Ser Duncan,” Egg said seriously, voice pitched low so no one else would hear. “I know what my father and my uncle are doing with you. And what Uncle Baelor did. And… everyone. It’s disgusting. Like… grown-up stuff. I hate it. But…” He scuffed his boot in the dirt. “If it means you come with us to Summerhall and you stay… then I will tolerate it. I will allow it. But I don’t want to know anything about it. Ever. No details. No jokes. Nothing. Just… be there. Like a knight. Like my protector. Okay?”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes widened in pure embarrassment. His tanned face flushed darker than the bruises on his neck. He rubbed the back of his neck with one huge hand, looking anywhere but at the boy.

“Egg… little prince… I… uh… yes. Of course. No details. Ever. I swear on my sword.” He cleared his throat, fighting a mortified grin. “And I’m coming with you. All the way to Summerhall. I promise.”

Egg nodded once, satisfied, then turned on his heel. “Good. Then let’s go. Before they finish… whatever that was.”

Duncan watched the small prince stomp away, equal parts horrified and helplessly fond. Seven hells, he thought. The dragons are going to be the death of me—and their nine-year-old is already keeping score.

He swung into the saddle, still blushing, and joined the column.

The road to Summerhall stretched ahead—full of dragons, secrets, and one very tall, very claimed hedge knight who was learning that some flights were louder, messier, and far more complicated than he had ever imagined.

But he would not have traded it for anything.

Chapter Text

Two days had passed since the royal column finally reached Summerhall. The castle nestled among the rolling hills of the Stormlands felt like a different world from the dust and chaos of Ashford Meadow. Servants had unpacked trunks with quiet efficiency, grooms had stabled the horses and brushed them until their coats gleamed, and the great hall had echoed with the first proper feast since the trial. Torches flickered along the walls, casting long shadows that danced like dragons across the tapestries. Ser Duncan the Tall had been given a modest but comfortable chamber in the eastern wing — stone walls warmed by thick tapestries, a wide bed with fresh linens, and a window that overlooked the godswood. The message was clear in every small courtesy: he was no longer just a hedge knight passing through.

Duncan had spent the first day helping with the horses, his massive hands gentle on restless destriers, and the second exploring the grounds, his broad shoulders still carrying the faint stiffness of healing wounds. The deep gash along his ribs from Aerion’s lance had closed, but a dull ache lingered whenever he twisted too quickly. Tonight, after a long afternoon spent oiling armor until his arms burned and sharpening blades until the steel sang, he had heard a servant mention the natural hot pool in the godswood — an old spring fed by underground fires, tucked beneath the heart tree. The idea of hot water soaking into every bruise and knot had been too tempting to ignore.

He made his way there under the cover of deepening dusk.

Steam rose in lazy, curling tendrils from the natural basin carved into the black stone beneath the ancient weirwood. Moonlight painted the water silver and turned the blood-red leaves overhead into drops of crimson. The air was thick with the scent of mineral-rich water and the faint, sweet sap of the heart tree. Duncan lowered his massive frame into the heat with a deep, rumbling groan that echoed off the ancient trunk. The water came up to his broad chest, easing the tightness in his shoulders and the deep bruise along his left side. He tipped his head back against the smooth stone rim, blond-red hair floating around his face like damp flame, bright blue eyes half-lidded in pure, bone-deep relief.

Gods, this is heaven, he thought, letting the heat sink into every muscle. Baelor’s smile … the way his mismatched eyes lingered on me. Maekar’s quiet nod of approval across the feast table. Even little Egg’s grudging “tolerate” speech and the way he clings to my arm when we train. I’m really staying. With dragons. With them.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the water lap gently against his tanned skin, the faint scars and fading bruises softening in the warmth.

He did not hear the soft footsteps until it was too late.

A shadow detached itself from the weirwood’s trunk — tall, lean, moving with the silent grace of a prince who had already been taught how to rule. Valarr Targaryen stepped into the moonlight. At twenty-one he was a younger mirror of his father: the same rich, sun-bronzed Dornish skin that glowed warmly in the silver light, the same lean warrior’s build that promised deadly skill with sword and lance. He wore a loose white shirt that hung open at the collar, dark brown trousers tucked into riding boots, and a dark red cloak draped over one shoulder like spilled wine. His dark hair spilled to his shoulders, but a single thick lock shone pure silver, catching the moonlight like a blade drawn from the forge. One eye burned violet fire, the other warm brown earth — exactly Baelor’s mismatched gaze, yet somehow sharper, hungrier, the eyes of a young man who carried the weight of the Iron Throne on his shoulders but still knew how to smile like a rogue.

Valarr did not speak at first. He simply stood at the edge of the pool, arms loosely crossed, and observed Duncan — the way the giant’s massive chest rose and fell with each slow breath, the way water beaded on tanned skin and trickled down the deep grooves of muscle, the way his hair floated like flame around a face that looked almost peaceful for once.

Duncan’s heart slammed against his ribs. He sat up straighter, water sloshing around his chest and sending ripples across the surface. “Prince Valarr — Your Grace — I didn’t know anyone else used this pool at night.”

Valarr’s lips curved into a slow, playful smile — cheeky and responsible all at once. “The water looks peaceful,” he said softly, voice smooth as velvet. “Is it alright? Warm enough for those bruises I see on your ribs?”

Duncan stammered, suddenly very aware of how naked he was beneath the water. “Y-yes, Your Grace. Very warm. Feels… good. Healing, even.”

Valarr’s eyes sparkled with quiet amusement. Without another word he reached up and unclasped the dark red cloak, letting it slide from his shoulders to pool on the grass. He moved slowly, deliberately, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. The loose white shirt came next — he tugged the hem free, unlaced it with unhurried fingers, and let it fall open, revealing smooth, sun-bronzed skin and the lean lines of a warrior’s torso. Duncan tried — gods, he tried — to look away, but his bright blue eyes kept drifting back. Valarr caught the glance and smiled wider, a playful, knowing little curve of his lips.

Duncan’s face heated. “Your Grace, I —”

Valarr didn’t answer with words. He simply stepped out of his boots, then hooked his thumbs into the waist of his dark brown trousers and pushed them down in one smooth motion. Naked now, he stood unashamed in the moonlight — lean muscle, narrow hips, and a proud cock already half-hard.

He slid into the pool without a splash, water lapping at his narrow hips as he waded closer. “You were right,” he said, voice low and warm. “The water is very good. Almost as good as the view.”

Duncan’s breath caught. Valarr moved through the water with easy grace, stopping only an arm’s length away. The heir’s playful, responsible nature shone through even now — the heir’s heir who worked harder than anyone, yet still found time to be cheeky with the man who had saved his father.

“I should have spoken to you sooner,” Valarr admitted quietly, one hand trailing through the water. “After my father asked for my armor and fought for you in the trial… I was confused. Why would the Hand of the King involve himself with a hedge knight? But then you threw yourself in front of my uncle’s mace without thinking.”

Duncan stammered again, big hands gripping the stone rim. “Your Grace, I… I would have done it for any of the princes. It was my duty.”

Valarr laughed softly, the sound low and warm, moving a little closer so the water rippled between them. “Well, perhaps not Aerion, hmm?” He tilted his head. “But you’re not just any knight anymore. You don’t know yet what you are now, do you?”

Valarr moved slowly through the water, circling Duncan like a curious cat, his dark eyes never leaving the knight’s face while the knight remained still, water lapping gently at his broad chest.

“You know,” Valarr began, voice light and teasing, “it’s strange. Ever since you, the whole castle feels… quieter. My father smiles more. Uncle Maekar grumbles less. Even little Egg seems less prickly. It’s not magic, is it? Just you being you.”

Duncan rubbed the back of his neck, water dripping from his fingers. “I’m just a hedge knight, Your Grace. I don’t do anything special.”

Valarr laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine. “Oh, but you do. You’re gentle when the world expects you to be rough. Honorable when most men would take advantage. That’s rare, Duncan. That’s why my father fought for you. Why Uncle Maekar claimed you in the armory. And why I’m here now.” He gave a playful shrug. “I know they’ve both had their private time with you already. Servants talk. We are dragons, after all.” His grin turned cheeky. “We share what we treasure.”

Duncan’s face heated even more. “Your Grace… I didn’t mean to cause any —”

Valarr waved a hand through the water, still circling. “No jealousy here. None at all. Father and Uncle both deserve their peace. And you… you give it to them. Just like you gave it to me the moment you stood between that mace and my father’s heart.”

Valarr’s eyes softened for a moment. “You’re special. You calm us, Duncan. Not with spells or swords — just by being steady. By being kind when the rest of us are fire.” He moved a little closer, water rippling between them. “And now I want my turn. Properly.”

Their eyes kept drifting — Valarr openly admiring the sheer strength in Duncan’s broad shoulders and thick arms despite the healing wounds, the way the water glistened on every ridge of muscle and made the faint scars shine like silver threads. Duncan, for his part, was unable to stop staring at the lean, elegant lines of Valarr’s body, the way moonlight slid down sun-bronzed skin, catching in the single silver lock of hair and turning the droplets on his chest into tiny diamonds. The air between them grew heavier, thicker, charged with something that made the water feel suddenly warmer.

Valarr moved first. He reached out slowly, almost reverently, and let his elegant fingers trace the curve of Duncan’s massive shoulder, following the thick muscle down to the heavy bicep. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and admiring. “Even healing, you’re built like a god. These arms could snap a man in half… yet you’re so gentle with us.” His fingertips brushed over a fading bruise on Duncan’s collarbone, then traced lower, mapping the broad chest, thumbs circling the flat nipples that tightened instantly under the touch. Duncan’s breath hitched, cock twitching visibly beneath the water. Gods, Duncan thought, heat flooding his groin. A prince… touching a hedge knight like this… I’m so hard already.

Duncan let him explore, staying perfectly still, only his chest rising and falling faster. Valarr’s hands kept moving — slow, deliberate — sliding down the knight’s ridged stomach, thumbs following the trail of coarse hair that disappeared into the water. “You’re strong enough for this,” Valarr whispered, eyes dark with hunger. “Even with the bruises. Touch me too, Ser Duncan. I want to feel these huge hands on me.”

Duncan’s voice was rough, almost shy. “As my prince wishes.” He lifted his massive hands out of the water, droplets cascading down his forearms, and placed them gently on Valarr’s shoulders first — thumbs stroking the lean muscle there before sliding down the prince’s arms to his wrists, then back up. His palms spread wide across Valarr’s chest, covering almost the entire width, thumbs brushing over dark nipples until they pebbled. Valarr shivered visibly. Duncan’s hands continued lower — tracing the narrow waist, thumbs pressing into the sharp hipbones, then sliding around to cup the firm curves of Valarr’s ass, squeezing gently.

Valarr’s breath stuttered. “Fuck… your hands are so big. They almost cover my whole waist. That’s… that’s so hot.” He moved closer until their chests brushed, water rippling between them. “What do you want tonight, Ser Duncan? Do you want to bury that cock inside me… or do you want me to ride you until neither of us can think?”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes were blown wide with lust. “I want whatever you need, Your Grace. I just… I need to feel you.”

Valarr took Duncan’s huge right hand in both of his own and guided it slowly between his thighs beneath the water. Duncan’s thick fingers brushed warm, slick skin — Valarr had prepared himself earlier in his chambers, two fingers and plenty of oil worked deep while he thought of this exact moment, stretching himself open until he was loose and ready. Duncan explored gently at first — one thick finger circling the rim, then pressing inside the tight, velvet heat, feeling the way Valarr’s walls fluttered around him. He added a second finger, scissoring slowly, curling them to brush that sensitive spot inside until Valarr’s hips jerked and a soft, needy moan escaped him.

“Gods… Duncan… your fingers are so thick,” Valarr gasped, voice trembling. “Deeper — curl them again — right there — fuck, yes — just like that.” Duncan obeyed, pumping the two fingers in and out with slow, deliberate strokes, thumb brushing the sensitive skin just behind Valarr’s balls. Valarr’s head fell back, eyes half-lidded in pleasure. “You’re going to ruin me… and I want you to.”

“Stop teasing me,” Valarr finally gasped, voice playful but edged with raw need. “Lift me. Fuck me. Now.”

Duncan’s hands slid under Valarr’s ass — those huge palms easily cupping both cheeks — and lifted the slimmer prince as though he weighed nothing. Valarr wrapped long legs around the knight’s thick waist, arms looping around his neck, their bodies pressed flush together. The blunt, leaking head of Duncan’s impossibly thick cock pressed hotly against Valarr’s slick, already-prepared entrance, nudging the stretched rim.

“Slow,” Valarr whispered against Duncan’s mouth, breath warm and shaky. “I want to feel every single ridge as you open me.”

Duncan eased him down with aching control. Inch by thick, veined inch, the massive length sank into tight, velvet heat. Valarr’s mismatched eyes fluttered shut, a long, luxurious groan rolling from his throat as the stretch burned so perfectly. “Seven hells… so big… so fucking deep…”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes were wide with awe, pupils blown black. “You’re burning around me, Your Grace. So tight — gods.” He held Valarr suspended in the water, hips rocking in tiny, careful thrusts that made the water ripple softly around them, the wet sounds of skin and water mingling with their ragged breathing. Moonlight silvered their joined bodies — Duncan’s tanned bulk and Valarr’s skin gleaming together like living bronze and gold, water cascading down their pressed chests with every tiny movement.

Valarr began to move then — slow rolls of his hips, rising and sinking with deliberate luxury. Every downward glide dragged a deep, shared moan from both of them. Their mouths met in a slow, filthy kiss — tongues sliding deep and wet, the slick sounds of lips and tongues loud in the quiet godswood. Duncan’s hands kneaded Valarr’s ass, thumbs spreading the firm cheeks wider on every descent so he could sink even deeper.

“Faster,” Valarr gasped against Duncan’s lips, voice breaking on a moan. “Please — I need it harder — fuck me faster.”

Duncan obeyed instantly, hips snapping up in powerful, deep thrusts that made the water splash loudly around them. Valarr gasped sharply with every brutal stroke, the pleasure so very intense, and his legs tightened around Duncan’s waist. His hands, which had been braced on Duncan’s broad shoulders, slid down frantically between their bodies to wrap around his own cock, stroking himself in fast, desperate pulls.

“Fuck — Duncan — you’re so deep — hitting that spot every time — I’m so close —”

“Come for me, my prince,” Duncan growled, voice hoarse and wrecked. “Mark me. Let me feel you fall apart on my cock.”

Valarr cried out — sharp, broken — his cock pulsing between their bellies, painting Duncan’s chest with thick, hot ropes of white that the water could not wash away fast enough. The clench of his body around Duncan was merciless. Duncan lasted only a few more powerful thrusts — hips slamming up hard, burying himself to the hilt — before he moaned and came, flooding Valarr’s insides with pulse after thick, endless pulse until the prince was overflowing, warm seed mixing with the pool water in lazy white clouds that swirled around them.

They stayed locked together, foreheads pressed, breathing ragged. Valarr’s fingers traced lazy circles through the mess on Duncan’s chest, spreading his own spend like a signature.

“I’m not done with you tonight,” the heir whispered, voice dark with promise. “The pool is warm. The moon is high. And I intend to map every remaining scar before dawn.”

They slipped from the water, bodies gleaming in the moonlight. Valarr grabbed his thick wool cloak and tossed it around him. Laughing softly, they moved quickly through the silent godswood and up the private stairs to the heir’s chambers in the royal wing. The door clicked shut behind them, heavy oak and iron bolts sliding into place. Valarr’s bedchamber was lavish—wide silk-covered bed, thick Myrish rugs, a fire crackling low in the hearth—but neither of them cared about the luxury. They wanted each other.

Duncan sat heavily on the edge of the bed, the wood creaking under his weight. Water still clung to his tanned skin in shining rivulets, tracing paths down the deep valleys of his chest. His hair was damp and wild, sticking to his forehead and neck. He looked up at the young prince standing naked before him and crooked one thick finger, blue eyes dark with hunger.

Valarr stood there naked — lean but powerfully built, sun-bronzed skin still glistening from the pool. His eyes burned with heat as he stepped forward, cock already hard again and curving proudly upward from a neat nest of dark curls, the flushed head glistening with fresh precome.

“Come here, my prince,” Duncan said, voice low and rough with new confidence. “Stand between my legs. Let me worship you properly.”

Valarr’s mismatched eyes flared with heat. He stepped forward until he stood right in front of the seated knight, close enough that Duncan’s broad knees brushed the outside of his thighs. The size difference was obscene — Duncan’s massive frame dwarfed the heir even while sitting; Valarr had to stand between those tree-trunk thighs, looking down at the giant who could easily lift him with one hand.

“You’re taking charge now, hedge knight?” Valarr asked, voice husky and playful, but his breathing was already faster.

Duncan’s big hands settled on Valarr’s narrow hips, thumbs stroking the sharp bones with slow, possessive circles. The contrast was dizzying — Duncan’s huge, callused palms easily spanning almost the entire width of Valarr’s waist. “Only because you want it. I can feel how much you need to be touched. Let me give it to you slow.”

He leaned in and latched onto one of Valarr’s dark nipples, sucking hard while his tongue flicked the stiff peak in fast, wet circles. Valarr gasped sharply, hands flying to Duncan’s broad shoulders to steady himself as his back arched. Duncan’s other hand slid between Valarr’s cheeks, two thick fingers circling the still-loose entrance teasingly before pressing inside — slow and deep, curling immediately to find that spot.

“Fuck—Duncan—” Valarr’s voice cracked, thighs trembling. “Your mouth—gods, the way you suck my nipples—ah—your tongue is so hot—”

Duncan hummed around the bud, the vibration shooting straight through Valarr’s body, and sucked harder, teeth grazing just enough to make Valarr’s hips jerk forward. At the same time he pushed both fingers deeper, scissoring them open while curling relentlessly against that sensitive bundle of nerves. Valarr’s knees buckled; only Duncan’s strong grip on his hip and the hand braced on his shoulder kept him upright. The prince’s cock throbbed untouched against Duncan’s chest, leaking steadily and leaving shiny trails on the knight’s tanned skin.

“More,” Valarr begged, voice already hoarse and desperate. “Deeper—twist them—yes, right there—fuck, your fingers are so thick—they’re stretching me so good—”

Duncan added a third finger, stretching him open wider while his mouth moved to the other nipple, sucking and licking until it was shiny and swollen, tongue flicking rapidly over the stiff peak. He scissored his fingers slowly, deliberately dragging over Valarr’s prostate with every stroke, the wet, slick sounds of spit filling the room alongside Valarr’s broken moans. Valarr’s cock throbbed untouched, leaking steadily onto Duncan’s chest, the head flushed dark and glistening.

“You’re shaking, my prince,” Duncan murmured against wet skin, pulling off the nipple with a wet pop, a thin string of spit connecting his lips to the swollen bud. “Look at you—hard as steel, hole clenching around my fingers like it never wants to let go. Beg for my mouth.”

Valarr’s head fell back, sticking wetly to his forehead, eyes glazed with pleasure. “Please—Duncan—suck me—your mouth—I’m going to fall if you don’t—please, I need it—”

Duncan grinned, bright blue eyes dark with lust. He kept three thick fingers buried deep, thrusting slowly and curling against that spot with every push, and leaned down to take Valarr’s cock into his mouth in one smooth, greedy glide. The prince cried out sharply, hands clamping hard onto Duncan’s massive shoulders, nails digging into the thick muscle as pleasure slammed through him like lightning.

“Seven hells—your throat—fuck—so hot—so wet—so tight around me—” Valarr’s hips stuttered forward helplessly, but Duncan controlled the pace completely, sucking slow and filthy, tongue swirling around the head on every stroke while his fingers kept fucking that spot inside with relentless precision. Valarr’s thighs trembled violently; he had to lock his knees to stay standing, legs shaking as the dual sensation overwhelmed him.

Duncan pulled off just long enough to growl against the slick head, voice rough and hungry. “Come in my mouth, Your Grace. Let me taste you.”

He swallowed Valarr down again, throat relaxing fully, taking him to the root while his fingers curled harder against the prostate. Valarr lasted only seconds more. His whole body locked up, a broken cry tearing from his throat as he came hard — thick, hot pulses flooding Duncan’s mouth in heavy spurts. Duncan swallowed every drop greedily, humming around the pulsing length, fingers still working Valarr through the aftershocks until the prince was whimpering and oversensitive, hips twitching helplessly.

Valarr’s legs finally gave out. He slumped forward, panting hard, hands still braced on Duncan’s shoulders. Duncan gently eased his fingers out with a wet sound and pulled the trembling prince into his lap, kissing him slow and deep so Valarr could taste himself on the knight’s tongue — salty, warm, filthy.

“Gods… you’re dangerous with that mouth,” Valarr gasped when they broke apart, voice wrecked and breathless. “My turn.”

He stayed right there on Duncan’s lap, straddling his thick thighs, and wrapped both hands around the massive, leaking cock that rested heavy against his own stomach. “Look at this monster,” he murmured, eyes gleaming with hunger as both of them stared down at the obscene sight — Valarr’s hands around his cock. “Still so hard for me. I’m going to stroke you until you spill all over my hands, then I’m going to lick every single drop.”

Valarr’s hands were elegant but strong, stroking in long, firm pulls — twisting at the head on every stroke, thumbs smearing the steady leak of fluid over the sensitive crown until it glistened. They both watched intently as the huge cock pulsed in Valarr’s grip, the size difference stark and arousing. Duncan’s head fell back with a deep, rumbling groan, hips twitching upward into the touch.

“Fuck—Valarr—your hands—feels so good—tighter—squeeze the head like that—yes—”

Valarr sped up, one hand working the thick shaft in twisting strokes while the other cupped and rolled Duncan’s heavy balls, gently tugging them. “Come for me, Ser. Paint my hands. I want to taste what my knight gives me.”

Duncan lasted less than a minute under the relentless, perfect rhythm. With a broken moan that shook his entire chest he came — thick ropes of white spilling over Valarr’s hands and fingers in heavy, pulsing jets. Valarr didn’t stop stroking until every last drop was milked out, then he brought his cum-covered hands to his mouth and licked them clean — slow, deliberate swipes of his tongue, eyes locked on Duncan’s the entire time, moaning softly at the taste.

“Delicious,” Valarr purred, licking a final thick streak from his thumb with a filthy little swirl of his tongue. “You taste like victory.”

Duncan hauled the prince up onto the bed with one easy motion, rolling them so Valarr lay half on top of him. They kissed again — lazy, sated, filthy — tongues sliding deep, tasting each other and the evidence of what they’d done, hands roaming possessively over sweat-slick skin.

“I’m never letting you go,” Valarr whispered against swollen lips, fingers tracing the fresh marks he’d left on Duncan’s chest earlier that night. “You’re ours now. The prince’s personal knight.”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes were soft and shining with adoration. “And you’re mine, Your Grace. Even if the whole realm calls you prince one day, tonight you’re just Valarr — moaning under my mouth and begging for my fingers.”

Valarr laughed, low and wicked, already sliding one leg over Duncan’s hip, pressing their bodies close again. “Then prove it again, Ser Duncan. We have hours until dawn.”

Outside the bedchamber, the moon kept climbing. Inside, the heir and the hedge knight tangled together on silk sheets, learning every inch of each other with hungry, possessive devotion.

Chapter Text

Early morning light filtered through the tall arched windows of Maekar Targaryen’s private chambers at Summerhall, painting the stone walls and heavy tapestries in soft rose and gold. The air still carried the faint scent of last night’s hearth fire and the warm musk of two bodies that had fallen asleep tangled together. Maekar lay on his back, one thick arm curled protectively around his older brother Baelor, who slept peacefully against his chest. Baelor’s bandaged chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths, the faint pink lines of healing scars visible where the tunic had slipped open. Maekar’s silver hair spilled across the pillow, his short silver beard catching the light, one broad hand resting possessively on Baelor’s hip even in sleep.

For the first time in weeks, both brothers looked almost peaceful.

The sun had just begun to creep higher, its rays slanting across their faces, when the heavy oak door burst open with a loud creak.

“Daddy! Uncle Baelor! Wake up!”

Two small figures came barreling into the room like a pair of enthusiastic storm clouds. Daella Targaryen — seven years old, brown hair in wild braids, pale violet eyes sparkling with mischief–led the charge, followed closely by her younger sister Rhae — five years old, silver hair but with stubborn curls that refused to stay in place—. Both girls wore matching nightgowns that were already rumpled from running through the corridors.

A harried maid hurried after them, face flushed. “My ladies, please! Your father and uncle are still resting — you mustn’t —”

But it was too late.

Daella launched herself onto the bed with a delighted squeal, landing squarely on Maekar’s broad chest. Rhae followed a second later, scrambling up and throwing herself across Baelor’s legs. The mattress bounced violently under the sudden assault of small bodies.

Maekar jolted awake with a startled grunt, silver hair flying as he sat up halfway. His pale violet eyes widened in alarm for half a heartbeat before recognition set in. “Seven hells — girls! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

Baelor woke more slowly, mismatched eyes blinking open in confusion, then crinkling with laughter as Rhae crawled up to plant a wet kiss on his cheek. “Careful, little one,” he said, voice still rough with sleep but warm. “Uncle’s still a bit sore from the tourney. Don’t jump too hard on the bandages.”

Daella ignored the warning completely, wrapping her arms around Maekar’s neck and squeezing tight. “We missed you! You were gone forever! And now you’re back and we have to play!”

Rhae nodded vigorously, already trying to burrow under Baelor’s arm like a small puppy. “Yes! Play time! You promised when you came home!”

Maekar’s expression softened instantly, the gruff warrior melting into the devoted father. He wrapped one thick arm around Daella, pulling her close against his chest, while his other hand gently stroked Rhae’s messy curls. Gods, I love these two more than anything, he thought, chest tight with fierce affection. Even when they try to kill me with surprise attacks at dawn. “I know, my loves. We were gone too long. But we’re here now.”

Baelor chuckled softly, wincing only slightly as he shifted to make room for Rhae. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his free hand resting protectively on her small back. “We’ll play, sweetlings. But first, breakfast. You can’t conquer the gardens on an empty stomach.”

Daella pouted dramatically, still clinging to Maekar’s neck. “But we want to play now! You were gone so long and Aerion and Daeron and —”

“Shh,” Maekar murmured, kissing her forehead. “We’ll have all day. But breakfast first. Then we’ll spend the whole morning with you. I promise.”

Rhae’s eyes lit up. “Can we wake Daeron and Aegon and Valarr? They have to come too!”

Baelor smiled, his mismatched eyes warm. “Yes, you can wake your brothers and your cousin. But be gentle with Aerion — he’s still healing from the tourney. Let him sleep a little longer and have his meal in bed today.”

The two girls nodded eagerly. Daella planted one last sloppy kiss on Maekar’s cheek, then scrambled off the bed, Rhae right behind her. They ran toward the door, nightgowns flying, the maid hurrying after them with a resigned sigh.

“Be careful!” Maekar called after them, voice half-laughing, half-exasperated. “And don’t wake the whole castle!”

The door slammed shut behind the whirlwind of small Targaryens. The solar fell quiet again, save for the soft crackle of the hearth.

Maekar let out a long breath and turned to Baelor, his large hand sliding gently over his brother’s bandaged chest. “They’re going to be the death of me one day,” he muttered, but there was no real complaint in his voice — only deep, boundless love. “Waking us like that… I thought we were under attack.”

Baelor laughed softly, reaching up to cup Maekar’s bearded jaw. “They missed their father. And their uncle. You can’t blame them.” His thumb stroked Maekar’s cheek with tender affection. “You worry too much, brother. I’m healing.”

Maekar’s pale violet eyes darkened with concern as he leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to Baelor’s lips. “I know you’re healing. But I still worry. You nearly died. I nearly lost you.” His hand slid lower, gently tracing the edge of the bandages, then lower still, stroking the warm skin of Baelor’s side. “Let me take care of you a little longer.”

Baelor’s eyes softened, a quiet smile curving his mouth. “You always do.” He pulled Maekar closer, their bodies pressing together under the sheets — bare skin against bare skin, warm and familiar. “And I love you for it. More than anything.”

They kissed again — slower this time, deeper, tongues sliding lazily. Maekar’s hand roamed gently over Baelor’s chest, careful of the healing wounds, then down to his waist, pulling him flush against his own body. Baelor sighed into the kiss, one hand threading through Maekar’s silver hair, the other resting on the strong line of his brother’s back.

“I love you,” Maekar whispered against his lips, voice rough with emotion. “More than the throne, more than the dragons, more than anything in this world.”

“And I you,” Baelor answered, pressing another soft kiss to the corner of Maekar’s mouth. “Always.”

They stayed like that for long minutes — tangled together, kissing slowly, hands stroking warm skin with exhausted tenderness — until the distant sound of small feet and excited voices echoed down the corridor, signaling that breakfast was about to begin.

The morning sun had climbed a little higher over Summerhall, turning the eastern wing’s corridors into golden tunnels of light. Daella and Rhae Targaryen had already completed their mission of waking their brother Aegon — the nine-year-old had been dragged from his bed with giggles and pillow threats, now trailing behind them in his rumpled nightshirt, rubbing sleep from his violet eyes. Daella led the charge as usual, her small hand clutching Rhae’s. Rhae skipped beside her sister, nightgown trailing behind her like a tiny cloak.

“Valarr next!” Daella declared, voice bright with the certainty only a seven-year-old could possess. “He always sleeps the longest. We’ll jump on his bed and make him wake up for breakfast!”

Rhae nodded eagerly, silver curls bouncing. “And then we can all play in the gardens! Daddy promised!”

Aegon trailed a few steps behind, yawning. “Just don’t jump too hard. Valarr gets grumpy in the mornings.”

The three children turned the corner into the royal wing, small bare feet pattering on the cool stone floors. The maid who had been trying (and failing) to keep them from waking the entire castle had given up and now followed at a respectful distance, resigned smile on her face. The girls knew exactly which door belonged to their cousin Valarr — the one with the carved dragon on the handle.

Without knocking — because why would they? — Daella pushed the heavy door open with both hands.

The room was still dim, curtains half-drawn against the morning light. The wide silk-covered bed dominated the space, and two figures lay tangled together beneath the sheets. Valarr Targaryen slept on his side, dark hair tousled. Beside him — or rather, half under him — was a much larger shape: Ser Duncan the Tall, massive arm curled protectively around the heir’s waist, blond hair spilling across the pillow. Both men were clearly naked beneath the thin sheet that had slipped low on their hips.

The girls stopped dead in the doorway.

Daella’s dark eyes went wide. Rhae’s silver head tilted like a curious bird. Aegon, standing behind his sisters, simply froze, turned bright red, and stared with the deadpan expression only a nine-year-old who had seen far too much could manage.

For a long second, no one moved.

Valarr stirred first. His mismatched eyes fluttered open, then widened in pure mortification as he registered the three small faces staring at the bed. He sat up quickly, one hand clutching the sheet to his chest while the other reached instinctively to cover Duncan’s shoulder.

Duncan woke a heartbeat later. His bright blue eyes snapped open, took in the scene — two little girls and one small boy standing in the doorway — and his tanned face flushed a deep, embarrassed crimson that spread all the way to his ears. Seven hells, he thought, heart slamming against his ribs. The girls. Valarr’s little cousins. And they’re staring right at us. I’m naked. Valarr’s naked. This is not how I wanted to meet the youngest dragons.

Egg’s deadpan voice cut through the silence like a wooden sword.

“You two are gross,” he said flatly, arms crossed. “I’m never entering this room again without knocking first. Come on, sisters. Let’s go wake Daeron before he misses all the fun.”

Daella and Rhae didn’t even blink at their brother’s comment. They were already too busy processing the giant knight in their cousin’s bed.

Valarr cleared his throat, trying to sound calm and princely despite the situation. “Daella… Rhae… good morning. You’re… very early.”

Daella blinked, then pointed with one small finger. “Why is the big knight sleeping in your bed, cousin Valarr? Is he your new guard? He’s really big.”

Rhae, being five and far less filtered, tilted her head further and asked in her sweet, piping voice, “Is he cuddling you? Like Daddy cuddles us when we have bad dreams?”

Valarr’s face went scarlet. Duncan’s ears burned even hotter. The knight sat up slowly, one massive hand keeping the sheet firmly over both their laps, his other arm still half-curled around Valarr as if instinctively protecting him even now.

Duncan’s voice came out rough and embarrassed. “Ah… good morning, little ladies. I… we… fell asleep after talking late last night.”

Aegon, standing behind his sisters, muttered under his breath, “I told you not to jump on the bed…”

Daella wasn’t satisfied. She stepped closer, dark braids swinging, eyes full of innocent curiosity rather than judgment. “But why is he here? We saw him playing with Egg in the yard yesterday. He’s very tall. Does he sleep with you because he’s your special friend like Uncle Baelor and Father are special friends?”

Valarr made a strangled sound that was half-laugh, half-choke. Duncan rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, face still burning. Gods, they’re so young. They don’t understand… but they’re not scared or angry. Just curious. I can work with curious.

Valarr recovered first, managing a soft, playful smile despite the mortification. “Yes, Daella. Ser Duncan is… a very special friend to all of us. He keeps us safe. And sometimes he stays close so we can talk and… rest better.”

Rhae’s silver curls bounced as she nodded solemnly. “Like when I sleep with my doll because I’m scared of the dark. Does Duncan keep the dark away for you, cousin Valarr?”

Duncan couldn’t help the small, fond smile that broke through his embarrassment. “Something like that, little princess.”

Daella’s eyes lit up. “Can we play with him too? He’s bigger than all the other knights! He can lift us both at the same time!”

Valarr glanced sideways at Duncan, who gave a tiny, helpless nod. “After breakfast,” Valarr said, voice gentle. “Go wake your brothers first. And be careful with Aerion — he’s still healing. We’ll all have breakfast in the family solar, and then… perhaps Ser Duncan can join us in the gardens.”

The girls cheered. Daella grabbed Rhae’s hand again. “Come on! Let’s wake Daeron and Aerion — and tell them the giant knight is coming to play!”

Egg sighed dramatically, still deadpan. “I’m coming too. But I’m telling Father you were 'cuddling'.” He turned and followed his sisters out the door without another word, small feet pattering after them.

They darted out as quickly as they had arrived, the maid hurrying after them with an apologetic glance over her shoulder. The door clicked shut, leaving the room in sudden, ringing silence.

Valarr dropped his head back against the pillow with a groan, one hand covering his face. “Seven hells. Of all the ways to be discovered…”

Duncan let out a low, embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of his neck again. “I’ve faced lances and maces and your whole family… but two little girls might be the most terrifying thing yet.”

Valarr peeked through his fingers, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “They’re curious, not upset. That’s… something, at least.”

Duncan reached over and gently brushed the hair from Valarr’s forehead. “They’re sweet. And they love you. I’ll make sure they have a good day in the gardens.”

Valarr turned his head, mismatched eyes softening as he looked at the giant knight beside him. “You really are ours now, aren’t you? Even the little ones are claiming you.”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes were warm. “Seems that way.”

They shared a quiet, lingering kiss — soft and unhurried — before reluctantly pulling apart to dress. Outside the chamber, the excited voices of Daella and Rhae could already be heard echoing down the corridor as they woke the rest of the family.

The family solar at Summerhall was bathed in warm morning light streaming through the tall arched windows. The long oak table had been set with fresh bread still warm from the ovens, bowls of honeyed fruits, soft cheeses, cold meats, and pitchers of juice and milk for the children. A fire crackled low in the hearth, filling the room with the comforting scent of cedar and rosemary. Servants moved quietly, refilling cups and placing platters, but the real noise came from the Targaryens themselves.

Maekar sat at the head of the table, silver hair styled back neatly, short silver beard trimmed, pale violet eyes scanning the room with a mix of fatherly affection and mild exasperation. Beside him, Baelor Breakspear looked more relaxed than he had in weeks. Daeron sat across from them, sandy hair still tousled from sleep, pale violet eyes bright for once. Aegon perched at the far end, kicking his legs under the table and stabbing at a piece of bread with his knife. Valarr, the heir, sat to Baelor’s right,  he buttered a slice of bread with a faint, satisfied smile.

Aerion was absent — still recovering from the tourney and serving a quiet “punishment” by taking his meals in bed. The family had decided it was best for everyone.

The double doors burst open with the force only two small girls could manage.

Daella and Rhae came running in, nightgowns swapped for simple day dresses, braids and silver curls bouncing. Daella led the charge, Rhae right behind her, both of them giggling and breathless from their successful mission of waking the household.

“Daddy! Uncle Baelor!” Daella announced, climbing into the chair next to Maekar without waiting for permission. “We woke everyone! Even Valarr and the giant knight!”

Rhae scrambled into the seat beside Baelor, kicking her legs happily. “Yes! The giant knight was in cousin Valarr’s bed! He was cuddling him! Like a big warm pillow!”

The entire table went still for half a heartbeat.

Valarr’s butter knife paused mid-air. His mismatched eyes widened slightly, but then a proud, cheeky grin spread across his face — the expression of a young prince who had just been caught doing exactly what he wanted and saw no reason to be ashamed. He leaned back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the back.

“Well,” Valarr said smoothly, voice playful and unrepentant, “Ser Duncan does make an excellent pillow. Very warm. Very strong. And quite comfortable to sleep against after a long night.”

Daeron nearly choked on his bread. His pale violet eyes darted between Valarr and the girls, curiosity winning over embarrassment. “Wait — he was actually in your bed? All night? You didn’t just… talk?”

Valarr’s grin widened, clearly enjoying himself. “We did more than talk, cousin. Duncan is very… thorough. And very big. Everywhere.”

Baelor pressed his lips together hard, mismatched eyes sparkling with barely contained laughter. He coughed into his fist, trying desperately to keep a straight face while Maekar shot him a suffering look.

Maekar rubbed his temple with two fingers, pale violet eyes closing for a moment in pure paternal endurance. Seven hells, he thought. My daughters just walked in on my nephew and the giant knight. And now Valarr is boasting about it at breakfast. I love my family. I really do. But sometimes I want to throw them all into the Blackwater.

Egg, still stabbing his bread with deadly precision, muttered under his breath, “Gross. I told you not to jump on the bed. Now look what happened. Everyone’s talking about ‘cuddling’ again.”

Daella, completely oblivious to the tension, bounced in her seat. “He was really big! Bigger than all the other knights! Can we play with him today? He can carry both of us on his shoulders at the same time!”

Rhae nodded enthusiastically, silver curls flying. “Yes! Like a real giant! He can lift us up to see the birds and the clouds and everything!”

Valarr laughed softly, clearly proud. “He can do a lot more than that, little cousins. Duncan is very good at… lifting things. And holding them. For a long time.”

Daeron leaned forward, eyes wide with genuine curiosity now that the girls had opened the floodgates. “Wait — so last night… after the godswood? You actually took him to your bed? How was it? Did he —”

“Daeron,” Baelor cut in quickly, voice strained with laughter he was fighting to contain. “Perhaps we save the details for after the children have eaten.”

Maekar shot his older brother a look that clearly said — You are not helping. His hand tightened around his cup. “Girls,” he said, voice firm but loving, “finish your bread. Then you can tell us all about the gardens you want to play in today.”

Daella tilted her head, dark braids swinging. “But why was the giant knight in cousin Valarr’s bed? Is he his special knight now? Like how Uncle Baelor and Daddy are special to each other?”

Rhae clapped her hands. “Yes! Special friends! Like when you and Uncle Baelor cuddle at night!”

The table went silent again.

Valarr’s grin turned positively wicked. “Exactly like that, little one. Duncan is very good at cuddling. And other things.”

Daeron’s face flushed. “Other things? Like —”

“Daeron,” Maekar growled, voice low and warning. “Not at breakfast.”

Baelor finally lost the battle. He covered his mouth with his hand, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, mismatched eyes sparkling. Maekar shot him another suffering glance — You’re enjoying this far too much, brother — while internally praying the girls would move on to talking about ponies or flowers.

Egg sighed dramatically, pushing his plate away. “I’m never eating breakfast with you people again. It’s always gross.”

Daella, sensing the shift in mood but not understanding why, simply beamed. “So can the giant knight come play with us after breakfast? He can be our giant too!”

Valarr leaned back, still proud. “He can be everyone’s giant, little cousins. That’s the best part.”

Maekar pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath, “I need more wine.”

Baelor finally let out a soft laugh, reaching over to squeeze Maekar’s hand under the table. “Let them have their fun, brother. Duncan is good with children. And good with the rest of us.”

The girls cheered again, already planning their garden adventures with the giant knight. Egg rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. Daeron kept glancing at Valarr with open curiosity. Valarr sat there looking entirely too pleased with himself.

And somewhere down the corridor, Aerion was probably still sulking in bed with his breakfast tray, completely unaware that his little sisters had just turned the family meal into the most awkward — and strangely affectionate — breakfast in Targaryen history.

The rest of the morning passed in a whirlwind of small-dragon energy. Daella and Rhae dragged Duncan through the gardens for nearly two hours, insisting he carry them on his shoulders. The giant knight obliged with endless patience, his massive hands steady under their small bodies as he walked wherever they pointed — past the rose hedges, around the fountain, even stopping so they could reach the lowest branches of the weirwood to “talk to the tree.” Rhae’s silver curls bounced wildly every time he lifted them higher; Daella’s dark braids flew as she squealed with delight. Maekar and Baelor joined them for a short while, the two brothers watching with fond, exhausted smiles as their daughters and nieces climbed all over the hedge knight like he was their personal tree. Egg followed close behind, wooden sword in hand, occasionally muttering “gross” under his breath whenever Valarr made a teasing comment about the night before. Daeron watched from the balcony above with a quiet, hungry look in his pale violet eyes, already thinking about finding Duncan later. Aerion remained in his bed, still sulking and healing, but the servants reported he had asked twice if “the oaf” was coming to visit.

By midday the family had scattered. Maekar disappeared into the map room with the castellan to review some documents. Baelor retreated to his solar to rest his still-healing ribs, lying back on the wide couch with a book he barely read. Valarr went to his own chambers to write letters for Dragonstone. Duncan finally escaped the girls’ enthusiastic demands and retreated to the training yard with Egg for a quieter afternoon of sword forms. The castle settled into its usual rhythm, the distant clang of the smithy and the murmur of servants the only sounds breaking the warm afternoon hush.

Late afternoon found Daeron wandering the castle alone.

He moved through the long corridors of the eastern wing without purpose, pale violet eyes distant, sandy hair still slightly tousled from the morning. The stone floors were cool beneath his boots; the tapestries on the walls depicted ancient Targaryen victories, but he barely saw them. His mind was elsewhere — replaying the same images over and over since breakfast. Valarr had him last night.

The thought burned behind his eyes like dragonfire. He had seen the way Valarr looked at the table — proud, satisfied, as he teased about “a very comfortable pillow.” Daeron had watched Duncan all morning too — the giant carrying his little sisters on his shoulders, laughing with Egg, moving with that effortless strength that made everything seem possible.

Daeron’s breath quickened as he walked. His cock twitched inside his breeches at the memory alone.

I want that, he thought, cheeks heating. I want Duncan to hold me down. I want him to fuck me until I can’t think about anything except his cock splitting me open. I want him to make me cry from how good it feels. I want him to tell me I’m perfect while he’s buried inside me.

He stopped in front of a tall window overlooking the training yard. Below, Duncan was still there with Egg — the giant knight patiently correcting the boy’s stance, one big hand on Egg’s shoulder. The sight sent another hot spike through Daeron’s body.

He’s so gentle with Egg… but with me... I want him to ruin me. I want him to pin my wrists above my head with one hand and fuck me so hard I forget my own name. I want to feel that thick cock stretching me until I’m shaking and begging and coming untouched because it’s too much.

Daeron leaned his forehead against the cool glass, breathing faster. His hand pressed against the front of his breeches without thinking, feeling how hard he already was.

Valarr had him last night. Baelor and Father have had him. But I need him. I need him to hold me down and tell me I’m not weak. I need him to make me feel strong while he’s inside me.

He closed his eyes, imagining it — Duncan’s massive body pressing him into the mattress, one hand on his throat, the other stroking him while he thrust deep and slow. The way Duncan’s voice would rumble in his ear: “You’re perfect, Daeron. You take me so well.”

A soft, frustrated sound escaped Daeron’s throat. He was aching now, cock straining against the fabric, the image of Duncan’s heat and strength making his thighs tremble.

Tonight, he thought, fingers tightening against the window frame. I’ll find him tonight. I’ll ask him to take me. I’ll beg if I have to. I need him to fuck the doubt out of me. I need him to make me forget everything except his cock and his hands and the way he looks at me like I’m worth everything.

He stayed there for a long moment, breathing hard, the late afternoon sun warming his back while his mind burned with vivid, filthy images of Duncan holding him down and ruining him.

Dinner had ended quietly in the family solar, the last plates cleared away and the candles burned low. The children had been sent to bed with kisses and promises of garden adventures the next day. Daeron had slipped away with a quiet, hungry look that no one commented on. Only Maekar and Baelor remained, walking side by side through the dimly lit corridors of the royal wing.

Maekar’s hand rested lightly on the small of Baelor’s back as they moved. The touch was casual to any observer, but to them it was everything — a silent claim, a reminder that they belonged to each other first.

They reached Maekar’s private chambers. The heavy oak door closed behind them with a soft click, and Maekar slid the iron bolt into place. The room was warm, lit by a low fire in the hearth and two beeswax candles on the mantel. The large bed waited in the corner, sheets already turned down by a servant, but neither man moved toward it yet.

Baelor sighed and sank into the wide, cushioned chair near the hearth. He was still a bit tired — the day with the girls had been joyful but draining, and his ribs, though mostly healed, still ached when he moved too quickly. He leaned back, short dark hair catching the firelight, mismatched eyes half-lidded as he exhaled.

Maekar watched him for a moment, silver hair loose around his head, pale violet eyes soft with concern and something deeper. He looks so beautiful even when he’s tired, Maekar thought. My strong, stubborn brother. Carrying the realm on his shoulders and still smiling for my daughters. I want to take care of him tonight.

He stepped behind the chair without a word. His large hands settled on Baelor’s shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the tight muscles there.

Baelor let out a low, grateful sound. “Maekar…”

“Shh,” Maekar murmured, voice rough but tender. “Let me.”

His thumbs began to work in slow, firm circles, kneading the knots that had built up over the long day. Baelor’s head fell forward slightly, a quiet groan escaping him as the tension started to melt. Maekar’s hands moved with deliberate care — sliding up to the base of Baelor’s neck, fingers stroking the warm skin there, then tracing the line of his throat with the pads of his thumbs. He caressed the short dark hair at Baelor’s nape, then moved lower again, palms spreading wide across his brother’s back.

“You’re tense,” Maekar said quietly, leaning down so his breath brushed Baelor’s ear. 

Baelor reached up with one hand, trying to touch Maekar’s arm. “Let me touch you too…”

Maekar caught his wrist gently but firmly, guiding it back down. “Not yet. Tonight I take care of you first.”

Baelor exhaled shakily, surrendering. Maekar continued the massage — hands sliding forward over Baelor’s chest on top of the thin tunic, thumbs brushing over his nipples through the fabric until they stiffened. He leaned down and pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses along the side of Baelor’s neck, tongue flicking lightly against the warm skin.

Baelor’s breath hitched. “Maekar…”

Maekar kissed lower, teeth grazing the curve where neck met shoulder, then soothed the spot with his tongue. His hands kept moving — one still massaging Baelor’s chest, the other sliding down to caress his waist, thumbs stroking the sharp hipbones through the tunic.

After long minutes of this slow, worshipful touching, Maekar finally moved around to the front of the chair. He dropped to his knees between Baelor’s spread thighs, silver hair falling forward as he looked up at his brother.

Baelor’s mismatched eyes were dark with desire, watching every movement. Maekar’s hands slid up Baelor’s thighs, squeezing the firm muscle there, then higher, palms pressing against the growing bulge in Baelor’s breeches.

He leaned in and kissed Baelor deeply — slow, filthy kisses, tongues sliding together while his hands continued to caress and tease over the fabric. Baelor moaned softly into his mouth, hips shifting.

Maekar pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “You’re so beautiful.”

Then he moved lower.

His hands worked open Baelor’s breeches with slow, deliberate movements, fingers tugging at the laces until the fabric parted. Baelor’s cock sprang free — thick, dark, already fully hard and curving slightly upward, the flushed head glistening with a steady bead of precome that threatened to drip. Maekar’s pale violet eyes darkened with raw hunger as he stared at it, the heavy length twitching under his gaze.

He didn’t suck yet.

Instead he leaned in, hot breath ghosting over the sensitive skin, and began to lick — slow, reverent strokes of his tongue from the very base all the way to the leaking tip. The first long lick drew a deep, rumbling groan from Baelor’s chest. Maekar savored the taste — salt and skin and pure Baelor — dragging the flat of his warm tongue along the thick underside, tracing every vein that pulsed beneath the surface. He circled the swollen head with deliberate slowness, tongue flattening against the sensitive frenulum before dipping teasingly into the slit to collect the fresh bead of fluid.

Baelor’s head fell back against the chair with a heavy thud, his short dark hair sticking slightly to the wood. A deep, guttural groan rumbled from his throat as his hips twitched upward involuntarily. “Maekar… your tongue… gods, it feels so fucking good… slow like that… you’re killing me…”

Maekar hummed in response, the low vibration traveling straight through Baelor’s cock and making his thighs tense. He licked again — even slower this time — tongue pressing flat and wet, then swirling around the head in lazy circles while his hands stayed firmly on Baelor’s thighs, thumbs stroking the muscle there in soothing patterns. The wet, obscene sounds of Maekar’s tongue lapping at the leaking cock filled the quiet solar, mingling with Baelor’s increasingly ragged breathing.

Baelor’s fingers dug into the arms of the chair, knuckles whitening. His mismatched eyes were half-lidded, chest rising and falling faster. “Maekar… let me touch you… I need your mouth properly — suck me — I’m aching for it…”

Maekar looked up from between his brother’s thighs, pale violet eyes dark with lust and a hint of teasing dominance. His lips were already shiny with spit and precome. “Beg for it.”

Baelor’s voice cracked, raw and desperate. “Please… suck me… I need your throat — please, brother — I’m so close already…”

Maekar finally gave in with a low, satisfied growl. He took Baelor’s cock into his mouth — slow at first, lips stretching wide around the thick head, then sinking deeper as his throat relaxed to take more and more of the heavy length. Baelor’s hands flew to Maekar’s silver hair, gripping the long strands hard.

“Yes — fuck — like that — deeper —”

Baelor pushed Maekar’s head down with both hands, forcing him to take every inch until his nose pressed against the dark curls at the base. Maekar groaned around the thick cock filling his throat, eyes watering slightly as Baelor began to fuck his mouth — deep, steady thrusts that made wet, obscene slurping and gagging sounds echo through the chamber. Spit dripped down Maekar’s chin and onto Baelor’s balls. Maekar’s own cock was painfully hard inside his breeches, throbbing with every thrust; he pressed the heel of his hand against it desperately, grinding for any friction while his brother used his throat.

“Gods… your mouth — so hot — so tight — so fucking perfect —” Baelor’s voice was completely wrecked, hips snapping forward. “I’m close — don’t stop — take it all —”

He came with a broken, guttural groan, hips stuttering as thick, hot pulses flooded Maekar’s throat. Maekar swallowed every drop greedily, throat working around the pulsing length, humming softly to milk Baelor through the long, shuddering aftershocks until the prince was shaking and oversensitive, hips twitching weakly.

When Baelor finally released his silver hair with a trembling hand, Maekar pulled off slowly, lips shiny and swollen, a thin string of spit and come still connecting his mouth to the tip of Baelor’s spent cock. He licked it away with one last slow swipe of his tongue.

Baelor looked down at him, chest heaving, mismatched eyes glassy with pleasure. “Come here,” he said softly, voice hoarse and wrecked. “On the table…”

Maekar rose with a quiet grunt — his knees were not as young as they once were — and Baelor reached out to help him up, guiding him to sit on the edge of the heavy oak table. Baelor stayed in the chair, moving forward so he was positioned perfectly between Maekar’s spread thighs, as if his brother were a feast laid out just for him.

He pressed both hands over Maekar’s cock through the breeches first, feeling how painfully hard and hot he was. Maekar groaned deep in his throat, hips twitching.

“Please… Baelor… continue…”

Baelor opened his brother’s trousers with steady, reverent hands, freeing Maekar’s thick, heavy cock. It sprang out, flushed dark and leaking steadily at the tip. Baelor leaned in and took him into his mouth — slow, deep, throat relaxing fully as he swallowed him down to the root. Maekar gripped the edge of the table hard, head falling back with a low, broken moan as Baelor sucked him with loving, devoted intensity — tongue swirling, throat working, wet sounds filling the room once more.

When Maekar finally came, spilling down Baelor’s throat with a guttural, shuddering groan, Baelor swallowed every thick pulse without spilling a drop. He pulled off slowly, lips shiny, and then rested his head against Maekar’s stomach, still seated in the chair, breathing hard but content.

“This reminds me of when we were younger,” Baelor murmured, voice soft and content. “More energy. More time. I miss your long silver hair… the way it used to spill over your shoulders when you rode me.”

Maekar’s hand came down to stroke Baelor’s short dark hair and then his beard, thumb tracing the line of his jaw with infinite tenderness. “I’ll grow it again if you do the same. I miss your curls… the way they used to fall over your forehead when you were on top of me.”

Baelor smiled against Maekar’s stomach. “Deal.”

They stayed like that for long minutes — Baelor’s head resting on Maekar’s stomach, Maekar’s fingers gently stroking his brother’s hair and face — two dragons who had loved each other longer than either could remember, wrapped in the quiet afterglow of shared pleasure.

Chapter Text

Ser Duncan the Tall had spent most of that afternoon exactly where little Aegon wanted him: out in the training yard, letting the nine-year-old prince swing a wooden sword at his legs while Duncan patiently corrected his stance. Egg’s violet eyes had shone with possessive delight every time Duncan chose him over the grown-ups. The boy was jealous—quietly, stubbornly jealous—of how much attention his father, his uncle, and his cousins kept stealing from the giant knight who had saved them all. Duncan didn’t mind. He liked the boy’s fierce little hugs and the way Egg clung to his arm like a barnacle.

But by late afternoon, Duncan had retreated to his own modest chamber to wash the sweat and dust from his skin. He sat on the edge of the narrow bed, pulling a clean tunic over his massive frame. The fabric stretched tight across his broad chest and thick arms. His honey colored hair was still damp and tousled from the basin, bright blue eyes heavy-lidded with the pleasant exhaustion of a day spent being a knight. 

The door burst open without a knock.

A figure stumbled inside—not drunk, but trembling with days of bottled-up courage and nerves. Duncan’s huge hands shot out on instinct, closing gently but firmly around narrow shoulders to keep the intruder from face-planting into the rug. He found himself staring down at Prince Daeron Targaryen, Maekar’s firstborn.

Daeron was nineteen, lean and runner-built, sandy hair sticking up in wild tufts from restless fingers. His pale violet eyes were wide and bright, not glassy with wine but sharp with raw want. His fine linen tunic hung half-unlaced, revealing a glimpse of smooth chest; the faint scent of soap and nervous sweat clung to him. Long, elegant fingers clutched Duncan’s arms for balance, trembling slightly.

“Ser Duncan,” Daeron slurred, grinning crookedly. “Big… big beautiful giant. Knew I’d find you here. I waited until Egg finally went to bed. Everyone else is snoring. Even Father. Especially Father, after spending time with Uncle” He laughed, a sloppy, guilty sound. “They all told me. Father. Uncle Baelor. Valarr when he came back smelling like pool water and your spend. Dragons share, you know. No jealousy. Just… claiming what’s ours.”

Duncan’s cock twitched hard inside his breeches at the raw honesty. His bright blue eyes widened, heat flooding low in his belly. “Your Grace… you look like you’ve been working yourself up for hours. Sit down. Breathe. I’m not going anywhere.”

Daeron surged forward instead, pressing his whole lean body against Duncan’s massive bulk. Gods, he’s so strong, Daeron thought, a hot thrill racing through him. He could pick me up and throw me across the room without breaking a sweat. I want him to. I want him to manhandle me like I weigh nothing.

“I’ve been hard for you since the moment I saw you at Ashford,” Daeron confessed, hands roaming greedily over Duncan’s chest, shoving the fresh tunic up to expose tanned skin and the thick trail of  hair disappearing into his breeches. “Then you saved my uncle. Then you fucked my uncle. Then my father took you like a prize in the armory. Then Valarr marked you under the heart tree. And I’ve been sitting in my rooms every night since, hating myself for being too much of a coward to come sooner. But today… watching you with Egg, seeing how patient and gentle you are with him… it made me brave. I want you, Ser Duncan. I need you.”

Duncan’s breath caught. He could feel Daeron’s erection grinding hot and insistent against his thigh, already leaking through the thin silk of the prince’s hose. Seven hells, he’s pretty, Duncan thought, staring down at the flushed cheeks, the sandy lashes, the elegant line of Daeron’s jaw. So different from his father’s steel and silver, but just as beautiful. Delicate but fierce.

“Gods, Daeron… Prince Daeron… you don’t have to hate yourself. I’m just a hedge knight. If you want me, you only have to ask.”

Daeron laughed, the sound breaking into something almost desperate. “Ask? I’m begging.” He tilted his head up—pale violet eyes locking onto Duncan’s bright blue ones—and kissed him.

It started messy and eager, Daeron’s mouth hot and demanding, tongue sliding everywhere at once, teeth clacking against Duncan’s in his frantic desperation. Duncan chuckled low in his chest — a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through both of them — and took control instantly. One huge, callused hand cupped the back of Daeron’s sandy head, fingers threading through the messy strands to hold him exactly where he wanted him. The other hand slid down to grip the prince’s ass, hauling him flush against his massive body with effortless strength.

Daeron moaned loudly into the kiss, the vibration traveling straight down to Duncan’s cock. Fuck, Daeron thought, knees already weakening as Duncan’s grip tightened. He moves me so easily. Like I weigh nothing. Like I belong in his hands. It’s so hot I could come just from this.

“Fuck, you taste like sunlight,” Daeron gasped when they finally broke apart for air, lips already swollen and shiny. “All that road dust and steel and pure man. I want to choke on you.”

Before Duncan could answer, Daeron dropped to his knees right there on the rug, the movement frantic and eager. His fingers yanked at Duncan’s laces with desperate impatience, nearly tearing the fabric in his haste. The knight’s thick cock sprang free — heavy, veined, flushed dark at the head and already leaking steadily, the sheer size making Daeron’s mouth water.

“Seven hells,” Daeron breathed, eyes wide with hungry reverence as he stared at the monster in front of him. “Look at this thing. Uncle said it split him open. Valarr said it felt like being crowned. I need it in my mouth right now.”

He didn’t wait for permission. His lips stretched wide around the fat head, tongue swirling greedily over the slit to taste the salty precome as he sucked down the first thick inches. Duncan’s head fell back with a deep, guttural groan, one big hand gently threading through sandy hair, the other resting on Daeron’s shoulder to steady him.

“Easy, my prince—you’ll choke yourself—”

Daeron pulled off just long enough to glare up with shining violet eyes, spit already glistening on his lips. “I want to choke. I want to gag on the cock that saved my family and fucked every dragon who matters.” Then he dove back down, forcing more inside until his throat convulsed around the girth. Spit ran down his chin in shiny trails, dripping onto the rug. He bobbed messily, humming around the thickness, one hand jerking the base he couldn’t swallow while the other reached between his own legs to palm his leaking cock through his hose.

Duncan’s hips jerked despite himself. “Gods, Daeron—your mouth—fuck, you’re so eager. Look at you, royal prince on your knees for a hedge knight. Sucking like you were born for it.” He’s different from his father, Duncan thought, mesmerized by the sandy head bobbing, the pale throat bulging. Maekar was all power and growl. Daeron is… pretty. Desperate. So fucking pretty when he cries around my cock.

Daeron moaned around him, the vibration making Duncan’s balls tighten. Tears leaked from the corners of his pale violet eyes — not from shame, but from the delicious stretch and the sheer filthy joy of it. He sucked harder, faster, throat working convulsively, spit dripping in long strings onto the rug. His own cock throbbed untouched in his hose, leaking steadily and soaking the fabric.

After long minutes of wet, obscene sounds — gagging, slurping, desperate humming, the wet pop of lips pulling off and diving back down — Daeron pulled off with a gasping breath, strings of spit connecting his swollen, shiny lips to Duncan’s glistening cock.

“Not enough,” he panted, voice wrecked and hoarse. “Need you inside me. Need you to fuck the guilt out. The fear. The shame that I stood there and did nothing.”

He scrambled to his feet, shoving his hose down and kicking them away. His cock sprang free — long and slender, flushed dark and dripping steadily. “Bend me over something. Anything. Please, Ser Duncan. Wreck me.”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes blazed with lust and protective hunger. He spun Daeron around with careful strength, guiding the slimmer prince to the heavy traveling chest at the foot of the bed. Daeron bent willingly, bracing his forearms on the lid, ass presented high, back arched like an offering.

“Like this?” Duncan growled, voice rough with restraint. He slicked his cock quickly with oil from the vial on the bedside table, but he didn’t rush. Despite Daeron’s desperate “Harder — now — please,” Duncan took his time preparing him — two thick fingers first, scissoring gently, curling to find that spot until Daeron was whimpering and pushing back. A third finger joined, stretching carefully, patiently, even as Daeron begged.

“Easy, my prince,” Duncan murmured, free hand stroking Daeron’s back in soothing circles. “I’m big. I won’t hurt you.”

When Daeron was trembling and open, hole slick and fluttering, Duncan gripped the prince’s narrow hips — tanned fingers digging into pale skin — and pushed inside in one long, relentless slide.

Daeron’s cry echoed off the stone walls. “Yes — fuck — yes — so big — so fucking full —” His hole clenched greedily around the invasion, fluttering wildly. Duncan didn’t pause. He started thrusting — deep, powerful strokes that rocked the heavy chest forward with every slap of hips against ass. The chamber filled with wet skin-on-skin sounds, Daeron’s broken moans, Duncan’s low grunts.

“Feel that, Your Grace?” Duncan rasped, leaning over the prince’s back. One hand slid up to tangle in sandy hair, pulling Daeron’s head back just enough to arch his spine beautifully. Daeron moaned loudly at the tug, hips pushing back harder. Duncan’s other hand reached around from behind, sliding up to rest gently but possessively on Daeron’s throat — not squeezing, just holding, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his palm as he fucked him hard but controlled.

Daeron’s legs shook. “Don’t stop — please — harder — make me forget the tourney — make me forget everything except your cock splitting me open —”

Duncan obliged, hips snapping deeper, the angle grinding relentlessly against that spot inside Daeron. Every thrust punched a new raw cry from the prince’s throat. Duncan’s hand on Daeron’s cock — huge, callused — wrapped around the slender length completely, swallowing it in one warm fist. Daeron gasped at the sight, the sheer size difference making his cock look small and delicate in Duncan’s grip.

“Fuck — your hand — it fits entirely — gods, that’s so hot —” Daeron whimpered, hips stuttering.

Duncan stroked firmly at first, then softer, slower, thumb circling the leaking head while his cock kept pounding deep. After Daeron’s shattering orgasm — body convulsing, hole clamping like a vice, spilling thick ropes over Duncan’s fist and the chest — Duncan didn’t stop. He kept thrusting through it, drawing it out, while his hand gentled to feather-light caresses: slow strokes along the oversensitive shaft, thumb rubbing the frenulum in tiny circles, fingers lightly teasing the slit.

“Too much — too much — please — fuck — I can’t — ” Daeron sobbed, tears streaming, body writhing.

Duncan growled against his ear, hips still snapping. “You can. You will. You’re a dragon.” He kept the soft, relentless stroking and thrusting for long, torturous minutes until Daeron’s second orgasm hit — dry, wrung-out, body convulsing so violently his knees buckled. Only Duncan’s massive arms and the hand still gently milking his spent cock kept him upright through the endless, shaking waves.

Duncan finally came with a roar, burying himself to the hilt and flooding Daeron’s insides with pulse after hot pulse. He stayed buried deep, holding the trembling prince through every aftershock.

They stayed locked together for long minutes, Duncan’s cock still twitching inside him. Duncan pressed gentle kisses to the nape of Daeron’s sweaty neck, stroking sandy hair back from his tear-streaked face.

“You’re all right,” he murmured, voice soft now. “No more guilt. No more fear. I’m yours. The dragons share, remember?”

Daeron laughed wetly, still trembling. “Share… yeah. And I’m going to tell Aerion exactly how good it feels so he stops pretending he doesn’t want you next.” He twisted his head for a sloppy, sated kiss. “Thank you, my knight. For saving my uncle… and for fucking the shame out of me.”

Duncan carefully pulled out, watching his seed trickle down Daeron’s pale thighs with dark satisfaction. He turned the prince around, lifting him easily onto the bed and pulling him into his lap like a child.

“Stay a while,” he said, bright blue eyes warm. “The others can wait their turn. You’re safe here.”

Daeron curled against the massive chest, sandy head tucked under Duncan’s chin, already drifting. “Safe with the knight who belongs to all of us,” he mumbled, smiling. “Lucky dragons.”

Early morning light filtered through the half-drawn curtains of Ser Duncan’s modest chamber at Summerhall, painting the stone walls in soft rose and gold. The heavy traveling chest still sat shoved against the far wall from the night before, its iron bands gleaming faintly. The air smelled of sweat, oil, and the faint musk of spent pleasure that had lingered long after the candles burned out.

Ser Duncan the Tall lay on his back in the narrow bed, one massive arm curled protectively around the young prince nestled against his chest. Daeron Targaryen was completely naked, sandy hair a wild tangle across Duncan’s tanned skin, one slender leg thrown possessively over the knight’s thick thigh. Fresh hickeys bloomed like dark petals along his pale throat and collarbones; fingerprint-shaped bruises marked the sharp lines of his hips where Duncan’s hands had gripped him the night before. Even in sleep Daeron looked small and peaceful against the giant’s bulk—his long, elegant cock half-hard and resting warm against Duncan’s side, a thin trail of dried spend still glistening on his stomach, and a slow, steady trickle of Duncan’s seed leaking from between his pale cheeks onto the sheets.

Duncan’s bright blue eyes were open, watching the slow rise and fall of Daeron’s chest. He looks so pretty like this, he thought, one huge hand gently stroking up and down the prince’s spine. Nineteen years old and already carrying the weight of a dragon house on his shoulders. I fucked the guilt out of him last night… but I still feel like I should guard him from everything. Even from his own family sometimes. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of Daeron’s sandy head, careful not to wake him yet, his thumb tracing one of the fresh bruises on the boy’s hip with tender reverence.

The door opened without a knock. Again.

Maekar Targaryen stepped inside, broad shoulders filling the frame. He had been searching for his eldest son for the last half hour—Daeron had missed the morning meal, and worry had gnawed at Maekar’s gut. He’s been distant since the tourney. But the moment his pale violet eyes landed on the bed, every thought froze.

His son was curled naked and marked in the hedge knight’s arms, still leaking faintly between his thighs, cock half-hard against Duncan’s hip, pale skin flushed and covered in the evidence of a long night of being thoroughly claimed.

Maekar’s breath caught. His hand tightened on the doorframe until the wood creaked. For one long heartbeat pure paternal concern flashed across his face. Then it burned away, replaced by raw, possessive hunger. My boy… my firstborn… spent and sated in the arms of the man who saved us all. His cock thickened instantly inside his breeches. The sight of it is making me harder than the armory.

Daeron stirred first. Pale violet eyes fluttered open, still hazy with sleep and the afterglow of last night. He registered his father standing there and blushed a deep, mortified crimson from chest to hairline. But he didn’t pull away. Instead he pressed closer to Duncan’s chest, one hand curling possessively over the knight’s thick pectoral, his half-hard cock twitching against the giant’s side. “Father…” he whispered, voice hoarse from screaming the night before.

Duncan’s blue eyes snapped to Maekar, wide with surprise but not fear. Gods. His father. I just spent half the night buried inside Maekar’s son and now he’s staring at us like he wants to devour us both. Duncan’s arm tightened instinctively around Daeron, protective even now his big hand still gently stroking the prince’s back.

Maekar closed the door behind him with a quiet click, the sound final and heavy. He crossed the room in three slow strides, boots soft on the rug, and sat on the edge of the bed. His large hand reached out and stroked through Daeron’s messy sandy hair with surprising gentleness.

“You missed breakfast, son,” Maekar said, voice low and rough. “I was worried.” His thumb brushed a fresh hickey on Daeron’s throat. “Now I see why.”

Daeron shivered under the touch, half-hard cock twitching against Duncan’s side. “I… I couldn’t leave him. Not after last night.”

Maekar’s pale violet eyes lifted to meet Duncan’s. “You took good care of him?”

Duncan swallowed, voice steady despite the heat flooding his groin. “As gently as I could, Your Grace. He asked me to wreck him… so I did. But I held him after.”

Maekar’s hand slid lower, tracing the fingerprint bruises on Daeron’s hip. “Good.” He leaned down and kissed his son’s temple, then turned his head to capture Duncan’s mouth in a slow, claiming kiss over Daeron’s body. When he pulled back, his voice was dark velvet. “Don’t pull out of him yet, Ser Duncan. Keep him full.”

Maekar climbed onto the bed behind Daeron, fully clothed but already freeing his thick cock from his breeches. He pressed the hot, hard length against his son’s ass, right beside where Duncan was still buried deep. Daeron whimpered, overwhelmed, pushing back against both men.

“Father—please—both of you—”

“Shh, pretty prince,” Maekar murmured, one arm wrapping around Daeron’s waist while his other hand stroked through the boy’s hair again. “Let our knight fuck you slow while I watch. Then I’ll take your mouth.”

Duncan began to move—lazy, gentle morning thrusts, hips rolling in a slow grind that kept him buried deep inside Daeron. The angle made Daeron’s cock slide against his own stomach with every push. Maekar sat on the edge of the bed, one hand still in his son’s hair, the other reaching down to cup Daeron’s balls gently while he watched Duncan’s thick length disappear and reappear. 

Maekar’s free hand wrapped around Daeron’s half-hard cock from behind, stroking him with slow, firm pulls. “Look at you,” Maekar praised softly, voice thick. “Taking our knight so beautifully. Such a pretty prince for us.” His fingers teased the head, thumb circling the leaking slit while he pressed his own cock harder against Daeron’s ass. “I’m going to open you up even more, son. Two cocks inside this tight little hole… you’ll be so full you’ll feel us for days.”

He reached for the vial of oil on the bedside table, slicked his fingers, and began to tease one digit alongside Duncan’s thick cock—pressing gently, stretching the rim while Duncan continued the slow thrusts. Daeron gasped sharply, body shuddering.

“Father—oh gods—it’s too much—too full—your finger—”

Maekar added a second finger, working them carefully beside Duncan’s cock, scissoring gently. “That’s it… breathe for us, my son. You can take it.”

Daeron moaned, eyes fluttering. “Father… Duncan… it’s too much—too full—”

Duncan kept one massive hand on Daeron’s throat—gentle pressure, thumb stroking the racing pulse—while the other tangled in sandy hair and pulled just enough to arch the boy’s back for Maekar’s view. “You’re doing so well, Daeron,” he murmured against the prince’s ear. “Taking me so well. So perfect.”

Maekar finally leaned forward and claimed his son’s mouth in a deep, filthy kiss while Duncan continued the slow, lazy thrusts. Daeron whimpered into his father’s mouth, tongue sliding desperately, hips rocking between the two men. Maekar’s fingers kept working alongside Duncan’s cock, stretching Daeron wider, while his other hand stroked Daeron’s cock in firm, twisting pulls.

They kept him like that for long, luxurious minutes—Duncan fucking him slow and deep from beneath, Maekar devouring his mouth and stretching him, both men whispering praise.

“You’re ours,” Maekar growled between kisses. “Our pretty prince. Come for us again.”

Daeron’s first orgasm hit hard—body convulsing, hole clamping around Duncan and Maekar’s fingers, cock spurting untouched between them in thick ropes that painted Duncan’s stomach. But they didn’t stop. Duncan kept the gentle rhythm, hand still on Daeron’s throat, while Maekar stroked his son’s oversensitive cock with slow, firm pulls—thumb circling the head on every upstroke, fingers tightening just enough on the downstroke.

“Again,” Maekar ordered softly, voice rough. “One more for us, Daeron. We want to feel you shake.”

Maekar rutted harder against Daeron’s ass, his own cock sliding alongside Duncan’s with every thrust, fingers still stretching the boy open. “Come on, son—let us feel that tight hole milk us.”

Daeron sobbed—actual tears of overwhelming pleasure—as the second orgasm crashed through him. This one was dry, wrung-out, his whole body shaking violently, hole fluttering helplessly around Duncan’s cock and Maekar’s fingers. His legs kicked weakly, back arching so hard Duncan had to hold him steady with the hand on his throat and the grip in his hair. “Father—Duncan—too much—please—can’t—oh gods—”

Only then did Duncan finally let go. With a low groan he spilled deep inside Daeron again, flooding him until it leaked out around his shaft and Maekar’s fingers. Maekar kissed his son through every aftershock, murmuring “Good boy… such a good boy for your father and our knight.”

They stayed tangled together for long minutes—Daeron limp and trembling between them, Duncan’s hand now gently stroking his back, Maekar pressing soft kisses to his son’s sweaty forehead.

When Daeron could finally speak, he laughed breathlessly. “Breakfast… we should… go to breakfast.”

Maekar smiled, rare and soft. “We will. Together.”

But first, it was Maekar’s turn.

Daeron, still trembling, twisted in Duncan’s arms and reached for his father. His elegant hands slid under Maekar’s tunic, fingers tracing the strong planes of his chest, thumbs circling the flat silver-dusted nipples until they pebbled. He leaned in and kissed Maekar softly, teasingly—slow, open-mouthed kisses that tasted of salt and love.

“You’re so beautiful, Father,” Daeron whispered, pinching one nipple lightly. “Let us have you now.”

Duncan’s blue eyes darkened. He gently eased Daeron aside, then pushed Maekar down onto the bed with one large hand on his chest. When Maekar tried to sit up, Duncan’s huge hand slid to his throat—gentle pressure, the same way he had held Daeron. Maekar’s pale violet eyes widened, then softened with surrender. He’s handling me the same way he handled my son… and I’m letting him, Maekar thought, cock throbbing.

Duncan grinned. “Stay down, Your Grace. Let us worship you.”

While Duncan leaned down and took Maekar’s thick cock into his mouth—sucking slow and deep, throat relaxing around the girth—his free hand slicked with oil and began fingering Maekar open. One thick finger, then two, curling until he found the prostate and rubbed it in firm, relentless circles.

Maekar groaned around the pleasure, hips bucking. “Duncan—fuck—your mouth—your fingers—right there—”

Daeron continued kissing his father, hands teasing his nipples, while Duncan edged him mercilessly—one hand around the base of Maekar’s cock to keep him from coming too soon, the other working his prostate until Maekar was begging.

“Please—Duncan—let me come—”

Only when Maekar was shaking and pleading did Duncan release the base and suck him harder, fingers pressing harder on that spot. Maekar came with a broken moan, flooding Duncan’s throat while Daeron kissed him through it.

They collapsed together—two dragons, sated and tangled—before finally rising to dress.

Daeron limped just a little as they walked toward the door—hips sore, thighs trembling—but he leaned into both men with a sated, happy smile.

Maekar’s hand settled possessively on the small of his son’s back. The three of them stepped out into the sunlit corridor together—father, son, and knight—moving toward the breakfast hall as if nothing at all had happened.

Chapter Text

The days had slipped by at Summerhall like warm honey. The ancient castle had settled into a rhythm that felt almost domestic—something none of the dragons had known in years. Servants moved with lighter steps, guards smiled more freely in the corridors, and even the stableboys whispered that the Targaryens seemed calmer, less likely to snap or brood. Prince Baelor Breakspear had healed enough that the maesters no longer hovered like anxious crows; the bandages were gone, replaced by faint pink lines across his chest that he traced absently with his fingers. He walked without wincing now, his mismatched eyes bright with quiet determination. Soon — very soon — the family would ride for King’s Landing so Baelor could resume his duties as Hand of the King. The Red Keep awaited, heavy with politics and expectation.

Aerion had healed too, though he had refused every stitch for the two long scratches Duncan’s own hand had left across his cheek during the trial. The scars were now thin, silvery lines that cut diagonally from cheekbone to jaw — sharp, deliberate reminders that pulled slightly when he smirked. He wore them like badges of honor, refusing to let the maesters cover them with salves or powders.

Ser Duncan the Tall, for his part, had never lived better. Hot meals appeared without him lifting a finger. A real bed waited every night, piled high with furs and silk. And the dragon princes… gods, the dragon princes. Their attention was constant, hungry, and strangely tender — a claiming that left him sore, sated, and strangely content. Egg still hated knowing about the “moments” his family had with Duncan — the boy would turn bright red, stomp away muttering “gross,” and refuse to look anyone in the eye for an hour — but even Egg was having the time of his life, training with his giant knight and giggling in the gardens.

Tonight, though, Duncan was alone in his chambers.

The meeting with Baelor had ended only an hour ago. The prince had come to him late, slipping through the door with that slow, crooked smile and those little touches—fingers brushing Duncan’s wrist, palm resting warm on his chest, thumb tracing the scar along his ribs as if to remind him who had put it there. Baelor had asked, softly, persuasively, whether Duncan would come to King’s Landing with him. “If you want,” Baelor had said, voice low, leaning close enough that Duncan could smell sandalwood and the faint trace of healing salve. “Aegon can come too—to continue as your squire, of course. Did you know my brother Maekar refuses to part with me? He will bring all his family to the Red Keep.” Baelor’s mismatched eyes had sparkled. “As if you would not follow me anyway, my knight.”

Duncan had said yes before Baelor even finished the sentence. Because Baelor was Baelor. The others might share him—Maekar’s rough hands, Valarr’s elegant commands, Daeron’s desperate moans—but Baelor was the first, the one who had looked at a bleeding hedge knight and seen something worth keeping.

Duncan sat on the edge of his bed now, pulling a clean tunic over his massive frame. The fabric stretched tight across his chest. His golden-red hair was loose and still damp from a quick wash. He was smiling faintly at the memory of Baelor’s fingers on his skin when—

The door burst inward with a crack of splintering wood. Again.

A figure slipped through like smoke—tall, lean, silver-haired, eyes blazing purple in the dim light. Aerion Targaryen, second son of Maekar, moved with the grace of a predator and the madness of wildfire. The two thin scars on his cheek caught the candlelight like fresh silver.

He kicked the door shut behind him with a sharp thud. In his right hand gleamed a slim dagger, its blade catching the flame like a promise of pain and pleasure. His smirk was sharp enough to cut.

Duncan rose slowly, towering over the prince. His bright blue eyes narrowed, but there was no fear in them—only the calm readiness of a man who had already been claimed by half the dragon house. Seven hells, he’s handsome, Duncan thought, a flicker of reluctant admiration cutting through the frustration. Those scars, that silver hair, those eyes… he looks like a god carved from moonlight and madness. But he’s also a spoiled little brat who thinks he can just kick doors in and wave knives around whenever he feels like it. The frustration was there, sharp but not angry — more the weary exasperation of a man dealing with a beautiful, impossible child who refused to be tamed.

“Prince Aerion,” he said, voice steady but edged with warning. “You could have knocked.”

Aerion laughed—a low, jagged sound that echoed off the stone. “Knocked? For what? Courtesy?” He twirled the dagger lazily between his fingers. “You don’t belong to courtesy, Ser Duncan. You belong to me.”

He crossed the room in three long strides, close enough that Duncan could see the fine tremor of madness in those purple eyes and the way the scars pulled slightly when he smirked. Aerion was breathtaking and terrifying: silver hair framing a sharp, beautiful face, pale skin flushed, body lean and corded where Maekar was broad and Valarr elegant. The dragonblood ran hot in him, crackling like dry tinder ready to ignite.

Duncan held his ground. “I belong to your family,” he said quietly. “Your father. Your uncle. Your brother. Your cousin. I’ve given them what they asked. I’ll give you the same, if that’s what you want.”

Aerion’s smirk vanished. His free hand shot out, fingers tangling viciously in Duncan’s golden-red hair, yanking his head back hard enough to bare the thick column of his throat. “What I want,” Aerion hissed, leaning in until their mouths were a breath apart, hot breath ghosting over Duncan’s lips, “is everything they’ve already taken — and more. You threw yourself in front of my lance. You saved my uncle when my own father might have killed him. That makes you mine first. Mine deepest. Mine to ruin.”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes burned. He did not flinch from the pull on his scalp. Instead he reached up, massive hand closing around Aerion’s wrist—not to stop him, but to hold him there, steady and unafraid. “Then take it,” he growled. “But know this, prince: I match fire with fire.”

Aerion’s eyes flared with dark delight. He shoved Duncan backward onto the bed. The frame groaned loudly under the knight’s weight. Aerion followed like a storm, straddling Duncan’s hips in one fluid motion, dagger still in hand. He pressed the flat of the blade against Duncan’s throat — not cutting yet, just cold enough to remind. The metal kissed skin, sending a shiver through both of them.

Handsome little shit, Duncan thought, a mix of frustration and reluctant heat twisting in his gut. He knows exactly how pretty he is and he uses it like a weapon. Kicking doors, waving knives… he’s a spoiled brat playing at danger, and yet here I am, hard as steel for him.

“You think you can match me?” Aerion whispered, grinding down hard against Duncan’s rapidly hardening cock. The pressure made Duncan’s breath hitch. “I’ve dreamed of this since the tourney. Watching you bleed for my uncle. Imagining how you’d feel bleeding for me.”

He leaned down and bit — hard — into the meat of Duncan’s shoulder. Duncan hissed sharply, hips bucking up involuntarily at the flash of pain and pleasure. Aerion licked the fresh bruise, tongue dragging slow and wet over the teeth marks, tasting salt and skin. Then he dragged his teeth along the knight’s collarbone, leaving red trails that stung beautifully.

Aerion’s purple eyes gleamed as he sat back slightly, dagger still pressed to Duncan’s throat. He dragged the flat of the blade slowly down the center of Duncan’s chest — light, teasing pressure that left a faint red line without breaking skin. “Old Valyrian custom,” he murmured, voice low and thrilled, almost reverent. “Blood for blood. A claiming rite the dragonlords used before the Doom. You wouldn’t know it, hedge knight… and that makes it sweeter. You’re mine to mark, mine to taste, and you don’t even know what it means.”

Duncan’s breath caught. The cold steel, the deliberate slowness, the tiny sting where the edge kissed just hard enough to leave a mark — it should have alarmed him. Instead a dark, unexpected heat coiled low in his belly. Seven hells… I like this, he thought, surprised by the rush of arousal that followed the blade. The little brat is dangerous and I’m letting him cut me open just to watch him enjoy it.

Aerion smiled at the surprise in Duncan’s eyes. He leaned in and bit Duncan’s lower lip — hard — until the skin split and fresh copper bloomed between them. He licked the blood away slowly, tongue sliding into Duncan’s mouth, sharing the metallic taste in a messy, possessive kiss. A thin trickle of red ran down Duncan’s chin.

“Strip,” Aerion ordered, voice cracking with need. He sat back just enough to let Duncan obey, purple eyes burning.

Duncan’s hands moved fast—tunic and smallclothes shoved down, kicked away. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy. Aerion’s gaze locked on it, pupils blown wide.

“Gods,” he breathed, almost reverent. “No wonder they all want you. Wrecked Daeron until he sobbed. And now it’s mine.”

Aerion pressed the sharp edge of the dagger to Duncan’s throat again. The blade kissed skin; two perfect crimson drops welled up and slid down the thick column of muscle in slow, warm trails. Aerion’s eyes darkened with raw hunger. He leaned in and licked the blood away — slow, deliberate, tongue dragging over the small cuts until Duncan’s breath hitched and his cock twitched hard between them.

“Beautiful,” Aerion whispered, tasting copper and salt on his tongue. “Now undress me. Carefully. I want to feel your big hands on every inch of me.”

Duncan obeyed, rising to his knees on the bed. His huge, callused hands moved with surprising gentleness — unlacing Aerion’s tunic, sliding it off narrow shoulders, peeling away the breeches until the prince stood naked and silver-pale in the candlelight. Duncan’s palms mapped every line of lean muscle, thumbs brushing the sharp hipbones, fingers tracing the faint scars on Aerion’s ribs from the tourney. He leaned in and pressed open-mouthed kisses to the scars on Aerion’s cheek, tongue tracing the silvery lines.

Aerion’s breath shuddered. “Good. Now lie back.”

Aerion lunged forward again, grabbing Duncan’s hair once more and yanking him into a brutal kiss. Teeth clashed, tongues fought for dominance. Aerion bit Duncan’s lower lip again, the metallic taste mixing with spit as they kissed deeper.

Duncan growled into the kiss, big hands clamping onto Aerion’s narrow hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “Ride me,” he rasped against Aerion’s mouth, voice thick. “Take what you claim is yours. But know I’ll leave you marked too.”

Aerion laughed — wild, unhinged — and shoved Duncan flat on his back. He reached for the small stoppered vial of oil on the bedside table, slicked his fingers, and pushed two inside himself without preamble. He hissed at the stretch, eyes never leaving Duncan’s face, hips rolling in tiny, filthy circles.

“Watch,” he commanded, voice hoarse. “Watch your prince prepare himself for your cock. Watch how I open for the man who almost died because of me.”

Duncan watched—breath ragged, bright blue eyes dark with lust—as Aerion worked himself open, three fingers now, scissoring roughly, hips rolling in tiny, filthy circles. The prince’s silver hair framing his flushed face like a halo of flame. 

When he was ready — breathless, trembling, hole slick and open — Aerion rose up, positioned the blunt head of Duncan’s cock at his entrance, and sank down in one savage drop.

Both men moaned.

Aerion’s head fell back, purple eyes rolling. “Fuck — yes — ngh — gods — so big —” He clenched hard around the invasion, inner walls fluttering wildly, then began to ride — violent, punishing, hips slamming down again and again with wet, slapping sounds.

Duncan’s hands flew to Aerion’s thighs, gripping hard, helping him rise and fall. “That’s it,” he growled. “Ride me like you mean to break me. Like you’ll kill anyone who touches what’s yours.”

Aerion leaned forward, nails raking bloody trails down Duncan’s chest — four thin red lines blooming instantly. “Mine,” he snarled, biting the knight’s throat hard enough to draw fresh blood. “Mine except my blood. My father can have you. My uncle. Valarr. Daeron. But no one else. No lord, no whore, no fucking smallfolk girl. I’ll burn the world down if they try.”

Duncan surged up, flipping them in one powerful move. Aerion hit the mattress on his back with a grunt, legs splayed wide. Duncan drove back inside — deeper, harder — setting a brutal rhythm that made the bedframe slam against the wall with every thrust.

“You want possessive?” Duncan panted, one hand wrapping around Aerion’s throat—not choking, just holding. “Then feel this.” He thrust deep, grinding, angling to hit that spot inside that made Aerion’s whole body arch off the bed.

Aerion’s nails dug into Duncan’s back, drawing fresh blood that trickled warm down his spine. “Harder — fuck — mark me — leave bruises — bite me —”

Duncan obeyed. He bit down on Aerion’s pale shoulder, sucking a dark purple mark into the skin. Then another — on his collarbone, his throat, the sharp line of his jaw right beside the twin scars. Aerion writhed beneath him, sobbing with pleasure, silver hair plastered to his sweat-slick forehead.

“Mine too,” Duncan growled against Aerion’s ear, hips never slowing. “You claim me? I claim you right back. Every time you look in a mirror you’ll see my teeth. Every time you sit on a horse you’ll feel me inside you.”

Aerion’s purple eyes were glassy, wild. “Yes—gods—yes—fill me—breed me—make me limp tomorrow so they all know—”

Duncan’s rhythm faltered for half a heartbeat, hips stuttering as a white-hot spike of arousal slammed through him. Breed him? The thought alone made his cock throb violently inside Aerion’s clenching heat. The little dragon wants me to fill him up until it takes. Until he’s dripping with me for days. Fuck.

Aerion felt the sudden twitch and moaned louder, hips rolling back desperately to meet every thrust. “Yes—do it—breed me—pump me full—make me swell with it—let them all smell you on me tomorrow—”

Duncan’s breath caught hard. The filthy words sent another rush of heat straight to his balls. He slammed in deeper, grinding against Aerion’s prostate with every punishing stroke, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder, messier.

“You want me to breed you, Brightflame?” Duncan rasped, voice wrecked and dark. His hand tightened on Aerion’s throat, not squeezing, just holding him in place while he fucked him harder. “Want this big cock to flood your guts until you’re leaking me for days? Want everyone at court to see you walking bow-legged because I pumped you so full?”

Aerion sobbed with pleasure, nails raking bloody lines down Duncan’s back. “Yes—yes—fuck—breed me—fill me up—make me take every drop—want to feel it dripping out of me while I sit at the high table—”

Duncan groaned, low and feral, hips snapping forward with new urgency. The thought of Aerion—proud, vicious, silver-haired—walking around with Duncan’s seed still leaking down his thighs made his cock throb painfully inside the tight heat. He reached between their sweat-slick bodies, fisting Aerion’s leaking cock in a rough, tight grip, stroking fast and merciless.

“Come for me, Brightflame,” he ordered, voice hoarse and commanding. “Come while I wreck you. Show me how much you burn for me to breed this pretty hole full.”

Aerion shattered with a broken, keening cry — back bowing clean off the bed, hole clamping down like a vice around Duncan’s cock as he spilled over Duncan’s fist in thick, hot ropes. The orgasm was violent, his whole body convulsing, inner walls fluttering and milking Duncan with desperate, rhythmic squeezes.

Duncan followed seconds later with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt and flooding Aerion deep — pulse after thick, heavy pulse, pumping him so full that it immediately began to leak out around his cock in warm, slick trails.

For long minutes neither spoke. Only ragged breathing and the distant hoot of an owl beyond the window filled the chamber. Their bodies were still locked together, sweat-slick and trembling, the mingled scent of blood, oil, and come thick in the air. Aerion’s silver hair clung to his damp forehead; Duncan’s golden-red strands stuck to Aerion’s pale chest. The bite marks and scratches on both of them burned faintly, a shared map of possession.

Then Aerion lifted his head, purple eyes soft for the first time — almost vulnerable, the wild madness momentarily banked. His voice came out hoarse and quiet.

“You matched my madness,” he whispered, tracing a fresh bite mark on Duncan’s neck with one trembling finger, the touch strangely gentle. “No one’s ever done that.”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes softened. He lifted a big hand to cup the back of Aerion’s head, thumb stroking slowly through the silver strands. He pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to Aerion’s swollen lips, slow and lingering, tasting the faint copper of blood still on them.

“You’re not the only dragon who burns, prince,” Duncan murmured against his mouth, voice low and warm. “And I’m not afraid of fire.”

Aerion’s breath hitched. He stayed there for a moment, forehead pressed to Duncan’s, their noses brushing. Then a small, almost shy smile curved his lips — something tender and raw that made him look younger, almost boyish.

“You know… the old songs say the true dragons could change their sex when they wished,” he whispered, voice barely above a breath, as if sharing a secret meant only for the two of them. “They could lay eggs. Carry life. I’m a dragon… you could get me pregnant, Ser Duncan. You could fill me until I swell with it. Until everyone knows what you did to me.”

The words hung between them, filthy and impossibly tender at the same time.

Duncan’s cock gave a heavy twitch inside Aerion at the image, even as a flicker of surprised affection warmed his chest. He’s mad as wildfire, Duncan thought, but right now he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that could ever make him whole. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t correct him. Instead he wrapped both arms around Aerion’s narrow waist, pulling him closer, holding him like something precious.

“My dragon,” Duncan said softly, the endearment rumbling deep in his chest. He kissed the corner of Aerion’s mouth, then the silvery scar on his cheek, then the other. “My fierce, beautiful dragon. You want me to breed you? Want me to pump you so full you carry my child? I’ll do it. I’ll fill you every night until your belly rounds and everyone at court sees what their Brightflame let his knight do to him.”

Aerion shivered hard, a soft, needy sound escaping him. His purple eyes fluttered half-closed, cheeks flushing darker. “Yes… say it again,” he breathed, voice cracking with something that sounded almost like wonder. “Call me your dragon while you’re still inside me.”

Duncan’s big hands slid down to cup Aerion’s ass, squeezing gently, holding him in place on his cock. “My dragon,” he repeated, slower, warmer, pressing a kiss to Aerion’s temple. “My wild dragon. I’m going to keep you full. Keep you bred. Keep you dripping with me until you can’t walk without feeling how thoroughly I claimed you.”

Aerion made a broken little whimper, burying his face against Duncan’s neck, lips brushing the fresh bite mark there. “I love it when you say that… I love being your dragon. No one else gets to call me that. Only you.”

He rolled them slowly so he was on top again, still impaled on Duncan’s cock, the movement making them both groan softly as the thick length shifted deep inside him. Aerion was already hardening again, his spent cock twitching against Duncan’s stomach.

“Again,” he demanded, voice hoarse but now laced with something softer, almost pleading. “Until neither of us can walk. Until the whole castle hears us and knows the dragon has claimed his knight… and the knight has bred his dragon.”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes gleamed with answering fire and deep affection. His big hands slid down to grip Aerion’s ass, fingers digging in possessively as he pulled him down hard, seating him fully once more.

“As my prince commands,” he rasped, voice rough with tenderness and lust. “My dragon.”

Aerion shivered with pleasure at the words, already beginning to move. The movement made them both groan — wet, filthy sounds as the slick mess of oil, blood, and come shifted deep inside him. 

He braced his hands on Duncan’s broad chest, and began to ride — slow at first, almost reverent. His hips rolled in languid circles, taking Duncan deep and savoring the stretch, the way the knight’s cock dragged against his walls with every lazy rise and fall.

Duncan’s bright blue eyes stayed locked on Aerion’s face. His huge hands slid up the prince’s lean thighs, thumbs stroking the pale skin, then higher — mapping the sharp hipbones, the flat planes of Aerion’s stomach, the faint ridges of his ribs. He gathered a bit of the blood from the fresh scratches on his own chest and smeared it slowly across Aerion’s skin, painting faint crimson streaks over his collarbones, down his sternum, circling one nipple until it stiffened under the warm, sticky touch.

“My dragon,” Duncan murmured, voice low and warm, almost tender. “Look at you… riding me so sweetly. So beautiful like this. My fierce, wild dragon taking every inch.”

Aerion shivered, a soft, needy sound escaping him. He kept the pace slow, grinding down deep, letting Duncan feel how tight and hot he still was.

Duncan’s hands never stopped moving — caressing, spreading the blood in lazy patterns across Aerion’s pale skin, tracing the silvery scars on his cheek, then lower, thumbs pressing gently into the soft flesh just below Aerion’s navel. “Right here,” he whispered, voice rough but kind. “This is where I’m going to breed you. Fill you up until you swell. Until your belly rounds with what I put in you. My dragon carrying my child… everyone will know who ruined you so thoroughly.”

Aerion’s breath hitched. The words sank into him like dragonfire. His hips stuttered, then began to move faster — rising higher, slamming down harder, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder, more frantic. “Yes — talk to me — keep talking — your dragon — I’m your dragon —”

Duncan’s hands tightened on Aerion’s waist, steadying him, guiding the increasingly desperate movements without ever forcing. He was gentle, always gentle, even as Aerion started to lose control — but he wasn’t stupid. He could see the madness flickering brighter in those purple eyes, the way Aerion’s nails dug into his chest again, drawing fresh little beads of blood.

“Easy, my dragon,” Duncan soothed, voice low and steady, one hand sliding up to cup Aerion’s jaw, thumb stroking the scarred cheek. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re mine. I’m not going anywhere.”

Aerion’s rhythm turned wilder, hips snapping down harder, faster, chasing the pleasure with unhinged desperation. “More — harder — breed me — fill me — make me yours —” His voice cracked, almost frantic now, the madness bleeding through.

Duncan kept his touch gentle but firm — one hand on Aerion’s hip, anchoring him, the other sliding down to wrap around Aerion’s cock, but he didn’t stroke yet. Instead he pressed two fingers firmly against the soft skin just below Aerion’s navel, right over that spot he had been teasing earlier.

“Right here,” Duncan murmured, voice warm and reassuring even as he continued the slow, deep thrusts up into Aerion. “Feel that? That’s where I’m going to put it. Deep inside your womb, my dragon. I’m going to pump you so full you’ll feel it for days. You’ll walk around court leaking me, belly already starting to swell with what your knight gave you.”

Aerion moaned brokenly, hips slamming down faster, the wet, obscene sounds of their fucking filling the room. “Yes — yes — touch me — touch my cock — ah—”

Duncan finally gave him what he wanted. His big hand wrapped fully around Aerion’s leaking cock, stroking in firm, steady pulls while his other hand kept pressing and rubbing that spot on Aerion’s lower belly.

“Come on, my dragon,” Duncan coaxed, voice gentle but commanding. “Let me breed you. Come for me while I’m still inside you. Show me how much you need it.”

Aerion came first with a shattered cry — back arching violently, hole clamping down hard around Duncan’s cock as thick ropes of white painted Duncan’s stomach and chest. His whole body convulsed, purple eyes rolling back, silver hair sticking to his sweat-slick face.

He collapsed forward onto Duncan’s chest, trembling, panting, completely spent. But Duncan didn’t stop. He wrapped both arms around Aerion’s slender frame, holding him close, and kept fucking up into him — slow, deep, steady thrusts that dragged against his oversensitive prostate.

“Shh, my dragon,” Duncan whispered against Aerion’s temple, pressing soft kisses to the silver hair. “I’ve got you. Just feel me. I’m still breeding you… still filling you… just like you wanted.”

Aerion whimpered softly against Duncan’s neck, boneless and trembling, but he didn’t pull away. He simply clung tighter, legs wrapped around Duncan’s hips, silver hair sticking to his sweat-slick face as the knight continued to move inside him — slow, deep, relentless thrusts that dragged over his oversensitive prostate with every roll of those powerful hips.

Duncan held him like something precious, big hands stroking soothingly up and down Aerion’s back, thumbs pressing gently into the tense muscles. His voice stayed low and warm, a steady anchor against the madness still flickering at the edges of Aerion’s mind.

“That’s it, my dragon,” Duncan murmured, “You're taking me so well. So perfect.”

Aerion made a broken little sound, half-moan, half-sob, and pressed his face harder into Duncan’s neck. “Don’t stop… keep talking… keep calling me yours…”

Duncan’s rhythm never faltered. He kept the slow, deep fucking going, hips rolling in long, powerful strokes.

Aerion’s breathing grew ragged again, his hole fluttering and clenching around Duncan’s thick cock. “Duncan… I’m… I can’t… it’s too much… but don’t stop…”

“I won’t,” Duncan promised, voice steady and kind. “I’ve got you. Just let me breed you a little longer, my dragon. Let me give you everything.”

He kept the slow, deep rhythm for minutes, hands never stopping their gentle caresses — one stroking Aerion’s back, the other rubbing slow circles over that spot on his belly. Aerion clung to him like a lifeline, whimpering and moaning softly with every thrust, the madness in his eyes softening into something almost reverent.

Duncan’s own climax built slowly, a deep, coiling heat low in his spine. His hips stuttered once, twice, then picked up the pace just enough — still controlled, still careful, but deeper now, grinding hard on every inward stroke.

“I’m close,” Duncan rasped against Aerion’s ear, voice hoarse. “Gonna fill you again, my dragon. Gonna breed you so full you’ll drip with me tomorrow. You want that?”

“Yes — yes — please — breed me — fill me — make me yours —” Aerion’s voice cracked, desperate and unhinged and strangely sweet at the same time.

Duncan groaned deeply, hips snapping forward one final time as he buried himself to the hilt. His cock pulsed hard inside Aerion. Duncan kept moving through it, slow, shallow thrusts, milking every last drop deep into Aerion’s body while his arms wrapped tighter around the trembling prince.

Aerion moaned brokenly at the feeling of being filled again, his hole clenching greedily around the pulsing length, trying to keep every drop inside.

They stayed locked together like that for long minutes — Aerion collapsed on Duncan’s chest, panting, Duncan’s arms wrapped protectively around him, both of them breathing hard. Duncan pressed soft kisses to Aerion’s silver hair, his temple, the scarred cheek, murmuring quiet praise between each one.

“You did so well… my beautiful dragon… so perfect for me…”

Aerion finally lifted his head, purple eyes still glassy but now sharp with that familiar possessive edge. His voice came out hoarse, almost threatening, but there was a vulnerable tremble underneath it.

“If you tell anyone… if you breathe a word of what I said tonight — about breeding, about carrying — I’ll cut your throat in your sleep. I swear it on the Fourteen Flames.”

Duncan didn’t flinch. He simply cupped Aerion’s face with one huge, gentle hand, thumb stroking slowly over his cheek. His bright blue eyes were calm and steady, full of quiet affection.

“I won’t say anything,” he promised, voice low and sincere. “Not to your father, not to your uncle, not to anyone. This is ours. What you want, what you need… it stays between us. I’m not here to shame you, Aerion. I’m here to give you what you ask for. Even the mad parts. Especially the mad parts.”

Aerion stared at him for a long moment, searching his face. Then something in his expression cracked — the wildness softening just a fraction. He leaned down and kissed Duncan slowly, almost tenderly, tongue sliding against his in a lazy, sated glide.

“Good,” he whispered against Duncan’s lips. “Because you’re mine now. All of you. And I don’t share my secrets… or my knight.”

Duncan smiled, small and warm, and pulled him closer, pressing another gentle kiss to Aerion’s forehead.

“Your knight,” he agreed softly. “My dragon. Yours.”

They stayed tangled together like that — blood, come, and sweat drying on their skin — while the candle burned lower and the night stretched on around them.

Chapter Text

Late morning light crept through the narrow windows of Ser Duncan’s chamber at Summerhall, turning the rumpled sheets into a battlefield of silk, sweat, and dried blood. The air hung thick and heavy with the scent of last night’s frenzy — sweat, oil, come, and the sharp copper tang that still clung to skin and sheets. Duncan the Tall lay sprawled on his back, one massive arm curled possessively around the silver-haired prince tucked against his chest. Aerion Targaryen slept like a predator at rest — lean body draped half over the knight, silver hair fanned across tanned skin, one leg thrown over Duncan’s thick thigh. Fresh bite marks and bruises decorated both of them: Duncan’s throat bore two small, clean cuts from Aerion’s dagger, now scabbed over but still faintly red; dark purple fingerprints and teeth marks bloomed across Aerion’s shoulders and hips; thin bloody scratches from Aerion’s nails criss-crossed Duncan’s chest and back.

Duncan’s breathing was deep and even, one huge hand resting on the small of Aerion’s back. Gods, this one is wild, he thought even in sleep, the corner of his mouth twitching. He cut me… and I let him. And I’d let him again. For the first time in his life he felt truly sated, truly wanted, and the knowledge that the entire dragon family seemed to have claimed him made something warm and terrifying bloom in his chest.

Aegon Targaryen—Egg—had been waiting in the training yard for almost an hour. The nine-year-old paced back and forth with his wooden sword, kicking at the dirt. Duncan was never late. Never. They had a routine: morning training, then Egg got to ride on the giant’s shoulders while the servants pretended not to smile. But today the knight had not appeared. Egg’s violet eyes narrowed. He’s probably still with one of them, he thought, cheeks already heating. But he promised he’d train me today. He promised.

The boy marched straight to Duncan’s chamber, small fists clenched. He didn’t knock—Duncan never minded when Egg just walked in. He pushed the door open and froze.

The bed was a disaster. Duncan lay naked, massive and tanned, with Aerion curled against him like a silver cat. The dagger glinted on the bedside table, blade still faintly stained. Lines of dried blood marked Duncan’s throat and chest. Bruises and bite marks covered both men. The sheets were stained and twisted.

Egg’s face went scarlet. Fury—pure, protective, nine-year-old fury—exploded in his chest.

“You hurt him!” he yelled, storming forward. He snatched the nearest pillow and swung it at Aerion’s head with all his small strength. Thwack. “You cut him with your stupid dagger! Get off him!”

Aerion woke with a startled snarl, silver hair flying as the pillow smacked him across the face again. “What the—Egg?!”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes snapped open. For one mortified second he simply stared—huge knight, naked, with a dragon prince draped over him and a furious child beating the dragon with a pillow. Seven hells, he thought, face burning. The boy. Of all the ways he could find out…

Egg kept swinging. “You’re mean! You always hurt people! Duncan’s nice and you cut him and—and—and you’re gross!” Thwack. Thwack.

Aerion sat up, silver hair wild, purple eyes flashing with equal parts amusement and irritation. “Egg, stop—seven hells, it’s just a scratch! He liked it!” He tried to grab the pillow, but Egg dodged and whacked him again.

“Did not! Duncan would never like your stupid dagger!” Egg’s voice cracked with righteous anger. “You’re always mean! You almost killed him before and now you’re hurting him again!”

Aerion lunged for the pillow. “I did not hurt him, you little—give me that!”

The two brothers tumbled across the bed in a flurry of silver hair, limbs, and flying feathers. Aerion was trying to pin Egg; Aegon was swinging the pillow like a battle-axe, shouting every insult a nine-year-old could invent. “Stupid scar-face! Idiot dragon! I hate you!”

Duncan sat up, rubbing his face, cheeks still flaming with embarrassment. This is not how I wanted the morning to go. But watching the two of them—wild Aerion and furious little Egg—something warm and protective swelled in his chest. He swung his legs off the bed, stood to his full towering height, and simply reached out.

One huge hand closed gently but firmly around the back of Egg’s tunic, lifting the boy clear off the bed. The other hand caught Aerion by the shoulder, holding him in place.

“Enough,” Duncan said, voice calm but carrying the weight of a man who had faced down lances and dragons alike. “If you two want to fight, you’ll do it properly. With wooden swords. In the training yard. Right now.”

Egg dangled in his grip, pillow still clutched like a weapon, cheeks puffed out. “But he cut you!”

Aerion smirked, though he didn’t try to pull away from Duncan’s hand. “He liked it, Egg. Ask him.”

Duncan’s face burned darker. “We are not discussing that. Get dressed, both of you. Training yard. Five minutes. Or I’ll carry you there myself.”

Aerion dressed quickly—tunic, breeches, boots—still smirking. Egg grumbled the whole time. Duncan threw on his own clothes, grabbed two wooden practice swords from the corner, and herded them both out the door like wayward pups—one small hand in his left, one older but still slender shoulder under his right.

The training yard was already busy. Servants paused mid-step. Guards leaned on their spears. Everyone turned to watch the spectacle: the giant hedge knight marching between the two Targaryen brothers, Egg still muttering threats, Aerion grinning like a cat who had eaten the canary.

Duncan set them ten paces apart and handed each a wooden sword. “You want to fight? Fine. But you do it my way. No real blades. No blood. You swing, you block, you listen to me. If either of you actually tries to hurt the other, I’ll make you run laps until sunset.”

Egg swung first—wild, angry arcs aimed at Aerion’s legs. Aerion parried lazily, laughing. “Careful, little brother. You’ll trip over your own feet.”

“Shut up, scar-face!”

Duncan stepped between them every few exchanges, correcting grips, adjusting stances, gently pushing Egg’s elbow higher or tapping Aerion’s shoulder to remind him to slow down. “Easy, Egg—watch his feet. Aerion—don’t toy with him, teach him.”

The servants and guards watched openly now, grinning. One stableboy whispered to another, “Better than the old days. At least they’re hitting each other with wood instead of real steel.” A guard chuckled. “Dragons bickering instead of hating each other. I’ll take it.”

From the balcony overlooking the yard, two figures appeared.

Maekar and Baelor had been drawn by the noise. Maekar’s pale violet eyes narrowed at first, then softened into something hotter as he watched Duncan—massive, patient, gently guiding both his sons. Look at him, Maekar thought. Managing my wild boy and my little one like they’re precious. Those big hands on their shoulders… gods, I want them on me.

Baelor’s mismatched eyes darkened with the same hunger. He leaned against the stone railing, one hand resting on Maekar’s arm. “Our knight is good with them,” he murmured. “Very good.”

Maekar’s voice was rough. “Too good. I should go down there and… talk to my sons.”

Baelor’s lips curved. “You do that. I’ll go find our knight once training ends. He deserves a reward for keeping the peace.”

Training finally wound down when both boys were panting and sweaty. Egg was grinning despite himself; Aerion looked almost proud. Duncan ruffled both their heads—huge hand gentle on Egg’s bald scalp, careful on Aerion’s silver hair.

“Better,” he said. “Now go wash up. And no more pillow fights or daggers in my room.”

As the boys trotted off, Maekar descended the stairs, silver hair catching the sun. He clapped Duncan on the shoulder, voice low. “I need to speak with my sons. Aerion especially.” His hand lingered a second too long, thumb brushing Duncan’s neck where the small cuts still showed. “Until later, Ser Duncan.”

Baelor appeared at Duncan’s side the moment Maekar walked away. His mismatched eyes were warm and hungry. “You handled them beautifully,” he said softly, fingers brushing Duncan’s wrist. “Come with me. I think you’ve earned some time alone… with your prince.”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes met Baelor’s and he smiled—tired, fond, already hardening at the promise in that voice.

“As my prince commands,” he answered.

The yard emptied. The dragons scattered. And somewhere in the castle, a tall hedge knight followed his first prince toward private chambers, ready for whatever reward the Hand of the King had in mind.

The training yard had emptied by the time Duncan followed Prince Baelor Breakspear through the winding corridors of Summerhall. The giant knight walked half a step behind his prince, huge frame casting a long shadow on the stone floor. Every few paces Baelor would glance back, mismatched eyes warm and knowing, one hand brushing Duncan’s wrist or resting lightly on the small of his back as if to say, You’re mine. You chose me first. Duncan felt that touch like a brand. He doesn’t have to ask me twice, he thought, chest tight with fierce loyalty. I’d follow him to the Wall if he wanted. I’d follow him into fire. He looked at a bleeding hedge knight and decided I was worth keeping. I’d die for that look.

Baelor pushed open the door to his private solar and stepped inside. The room smelled of sandalwood and fresh linen, the wide bed still rumpled from the morning. Late afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, turning the air golden. Baelor turned, smiling that slow, crooked smile that always made Duncan’s heart stutter.

“You’re covered in sweat and dust from the yard,” Baelor said softly. He picked up a clean cloth from the washstand, dipped it in the basin of cool water, and stepped close. “Let me.”

Duncan stood perfectly still as Baelor wiped his face first—gentle strokes across his brow, down the line of his jaw, along the thick column of his throat where Aerion’s small cuts had scabbed. The prince’s touch was reverent, almost worshipful. Duncan’s bright blue eyes never left Baelor’s mismatched ones. He’s touching me like I’m precious, Duncan thought, throat tight. A prince of the blood, Hand of the King, wiping sweat from a hedge knight’s face. I don’t deserve him. But I’d burn the world to keep earning this.

Duncan removed his tunic and Baelor moved lower, cloth sliding over Duncan’s broad chest, tracing every ridge of muscle. “You were magnificent out there,” he murmured. “Managing both my brother’s sons like they were glass. So patient. So strong.” His free hand followed the cloth, palm spreading wide across Duncan’s chest as if measuring how much of the giant he could hold. “I watched you and thought… this man belongs to me. To all of us. But mostly to me.”

Duncan’s breath hitched. The adoration in Baelor’s voice undid him. He reached out, huge hands settling on Baelor’s waist—his fingers nearly met at the small of the prince’s back, thumbs spanning the entire width of Baelor’s torso. They both froze at the realization.

“Look at that,” Baelor breathed, eyes darkening with heat. “Your hands can almost hold my whole waist. Gods, Duncan… that’s so…” He pressed closer, letting Duncan feel how perfectly those massive palms fit around him. “You could lift me with one arm if you wanted, my knight. I’d let you.”

Duncan’s voice came out rough. “I could lift if you wanted, my prince. I’d carry you anywhere.” He pressed Baelor gently backward until the prince’s hips met the heavy oak table. “But right now… let me take care of you. You’ve been healing, you’ve been working, you’ve been carrying the realm on your shoulders. Just… take your pleasure. Let me give it to you.”

Baelor’s mismatched eyes fluttered. “Duncan—”

“Please,” Duncan whispered, already sinking to his knees with a soft thud. His hands never left Baelor’s waist, thumbs stroking the sharp hipbones while his fingers spanned almost the entire width of the prince’s back. The sheer size difference made both of them breathe harder. Duncan’s palms slid lower, groping the firm curves of Baelor’s ass, then the backs of his thighs, squeezing the muscle there with open hunger. “I want to taste you. I want to worship you.”

He tugged Baelor’s breeches open with careful reverence, freeing the prince’s cock—already half-hard. Duncan leaned in and dragged his tongue in one long, slow lick from base to tip, savoring the salt and heat. Not sucking yet—just licking. Broad, flat strokes of his tongue along the underside, circling the head, teasing the slit where a bead of fluid already welled.

Baelor’s hands flew to the edge of the table, gripping white-knuckled. “Duncan—” A low moan escaped him as Duncan licked again, slower, wetter, dragging the flat of his tongue over the sensitive length. Baelor’s head fell back, short dark hair catching the light, mismatched eyes half-closed in bliss.

Duncan kept the torture going — long, deliberate licks, tongue swirling around the head, then sliding down to lap at the base and the heavy balls beneath. His huge hands never stopped moving: one still spanning Baelor’s waist like a living corset, the other kneading the firm ass cheek, fingers dipping teasingly between them to brush the sensitive skin behind the balls.

“You taste so good,” Duncan murmured against wet skin, voice shy but reverent. “Like everything I’ve ever wanted. Let me hear you, my prince. Don’t hold back.”

Baelor moaned louder, one hand flying to his own mouth to muffle the sound. “I—I can’t—someone might hear—”

Duncan looked up, bright blue eyes dark with lust and a touch of shy pride. “I like it when you make noise for me. Please. Let me hear how good I’m making you feel.”

Baelor’s hand dropped. The next lick drew a broken, shameless moan from his throat. Duncan finally took mercy. He wrapped his lips around the head and sucked—slow at first, then deeper, throat relaxing to take more and more until his nose brushed the dark curls at Baelor’s base.

Baelor’s moans turned desperate. “Duncan—fuck—your mouth—so hot—so deep—gods, I’m—”

Duncan hummed around him, the vibration making Baelor’s hips jerk. He sucked harder, head bobbing, one hand still gripping that impossibly small waist while the other rolled Baelor’s balls gently.

“I’m—Duncan—I’m going to come—”

Duncan pulled off just long enough to growl, “Come in my mouth, my prince. Give it to me.”

He swallowed Baelor down again, sucking with single-minded devotion. Baelor came with a strangled cry, cock pulsing hot and thick across Duncan’s tongue. Duncan kept sucking through every pulse, milking him gently, until Baelor was shaking and oversensitive.

“Enough—Duncan—please—” Baelor’s hand pushed weakly at Duncan’s shoulder, legs trembling.

Duncan pulled off carefully, licking his lips, then rose to his full height and simply wrapped Baelor in his arms. He held the prince against his chest, one big hand stroking his dark hair, the other still spanning his waist. “Breathe, my prince,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. Take all the time you need.”

Baelor leaned into him, still catching his breath, forehead pressed to Duncan’s collarbone. “I wanted to give you pleasure… and instead you gave it all to me.”

Duncan’s voice was soft, almost shy. “Pleasuring you is pleasure for me, Your Grace. Watching you fall apart because of my mouth… knowing I can make the Hand of the King moan like that… there’s nothing better.”

Baelor laughed breathlessly, then reached down and wrapped his elegant hand around Duncan’s still-hard, leaking cock. “Then let me return the favor.”

His strokes were slow and perfect—firm twists at the head, thumb spreading the steady leak of fluid. While he worked Duncan’s thick length, Baelor leaned up and whispered filthy promises against the knight’s ear.

“When we reach King’s Landing… I’m going to bend you over the table in my solar and fuck you while the city sleeps below us. I want to hear you try to stay quiet while I’m buried inside you. And one day… when we have time. You in the middle. Me and Maekar taking turns until you can’t remember your own name.”

Duncan’s hips jerked, a low groan rumbling in his chest. “Baelor—gods—yes—”

Baelor smiled against his throat. “Come for me, my gentle knight. Paint my tongue and my face. I want to wear you.”

When Duncan warned he was close, voice cracking, Baelor dropped gracefully to his knees. He opened his mouth, tongue out, mismatched eyes locked on Duncan’s bright blue ones.

Duncan came with a broken moan—thick ropes of white landing across Baelor’s tongue, his lips, his cheek. Some dripped down to his chin. Duncan stared, mortified and awed.

Baelor laughed softly, still on his knees, tongue darting out to catch another drop. “Help me up, my knight.”

Duncan lifted him easily, one arm under his knees, the other around his back. Baelor wrapped his arms around Duncan’s neck and kissed him, slow and filthy, sharing the taste.

“It was my pleasure too,” Baelor whispered against swollen lips. “Every single drop.”

They stayed like that for long minutes—giant knight holding his prince, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in—while outside the chamber the castle moved on, unaware that the Hand of the King and his loyal hedge knight had just sealed another quiet vow of devotion.

Finally, Baelor spoke, voice low and warm, almost reluctant to break the peaceful moment.

“King’s Landing,” he murmured, the words hanging between them like a quiet promise and a quiet warning. “It will be different there, my knight. Summerhall is Maekar’s home — private, safe, ours. We can be… less careful with our affections. But the Red Keep is a nest of vipers. Whispers travel faster than ravens. Even if what we share is already something of an open secret among the family, we must be cautious. Enemies would love nothing more than to use it against us.”

Duncan’s hand paused its gentle stroking, then resumed, a little slower, a little more thoughtful. He tilted his head down to look at Baelor, bright blue eyes steady and serious.

“I know,” he said quietly, voice a deep rumble that vibrated through his chest. “I’ve seen enough of lords and their games on the tourney circuit. I won’t do anything that puts you or Egg or any of you in danger. I’ll be careful. I swear it.”

Baelor lifted his head, mismatched eyes meeting Duncan’s with that quiet, steady warmth that had first drawn the hedge knight to him. He reached up and brushed a stray lock of golden-red hair from Duncan’s forehead, fingers lingering on the knight’s temple.

“You will still be Egg’s knight,” he said softly. “And Aegon will still be your squire. That much is simple — no one will question it. The boy adores you, and it gives you a rightful place at our side.” A small, fond smile curved Baelor’s lips. “But we both know that won’t be enough for the rest of us. Maekar, Valarr, Daeron, Aerion… they will want you close. I will want you close. Every day. Every night, if we can manage it.”

Duncan’s cheeks warmed slightly, but his expression stayed open and earnest. “I want that too,” he admitted, voice low. “More than I can say. But I don’t want to cause trouble for you in King’s Landing. You’re the Hand. You carry the realm on your shoulders. I won’t be the one who makes it heavier.”

Baelor’s smile deepened, tender and a little mischievous. He shifted closer, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Duncan’s mouth before pulling back just enough to look at him properly.

“Then we give them an excuse,” he said simply. “A good, honorable, believable one. You will be sworn sword to the royal family — specifically to the princes. My sworn sword. Maekar’s. Valarr’s. The younger ones as well. It is not unusual for a knight of proven loyalty to be given such a role, especially after what you did at the trial. You saved my life. You protected my nephew. You have already proven yourself to House Targaryen a dozen times over.”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes widened slightly, then softened with understanding and a quiet surge of emotion. “A sworn sword,” he repeated, tasting the words. “To all of you.”

Baelor nodded, his hand sliding down to rest over Duncan’s heart. “It gives you reason to be near us at all times. In the Red Keep, in the halls, in the gardens, in our chambers when the doors are closed and the spies are looking the other way. It is an open secret,— but one we can defend with honor. No one will dare question it openly. Not after the trial. Not after you stood between me and death.”

Duncan was quiet for a moment, his huge hand gently covering Baelor’s smaller one where it rested on his chest. His thumb stroked the back of Baelor’s knuckles, slow and reverent.

“I like it,” he said at last, voice thick with feeling. “Being yours — all of yours — in a way that lets me protect you. Not just in the yard or on the road. Every day. Even in that nest of vipers you speak of.” He leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to Baelor’s forehead, then to the bridge of his nose, then to his lips — soft, lingering, full of quiet devotion. “I’ll be the shield you need. For you. For Maekar. For the boys. For all of them.”

Baelor’s mismatched eyes shone with something deep and warm. He cupped Duncan’s jaw with both hands, thumbs stroking there.

“You already are,” he whispered. “You have been since the moment you took that blow meant for me. But this… this lets the world see it without giving our enemies the weapon they want. And at night, when the doors are barred and the candles are low…” He kissed Duncan again, slower this time, deeper, a promise in the slide of tongue and the gentle press of lips. “Then you can be ours completely. No excuses needed.”

Duncan let out a soft, contented sound against Baelor’s mouth, his arms tightening around the prince, pulling him closer until their bodies pressed together from chest to thigh. “I like the sound of that,” he murmured when they parted, forehead resting against Baelor’s. “Being your sworn sword by day… and your knight by night. Yours and Maekar’s and the rest. All of you.”

Baelor smiled, a small, private smile full of love and mischief. “And Egg’s, of course. The boy would never forgive us if we took his Ser away.”

Duncan chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Egg comes first. Always. I promised him I’d be his knight and his teacher. I won’t break that promise.”

“I’m not afraid of the Red Keep,” Duncan said eventually, voice steady. “Not with you there. Not with all of you. I’ll learn the ways of it. I’ll keep my head down when I must and stand tall when you need me to.”

Baelor’s expression melted into something achingly tender. He leaned in and kissed Duncan again — slow, deep, full of quiet promise.

“You will always be my knight, Duncan.,” he whispered against the knight’s lips. “In King’s Landing or anywhere else. My gentle giant. My loyal heart. Mine.”

“Then I’m ready,” Duncan said simply, pressing one last kiss to Baelor’s silver-streaked temple. “Take me to King’s Landing, my prince. I’ll stand at your side — at all your sides — for as long as you’ll have me.”

“We’ll have you forever, my knight,” he murmured. “Forever and a day.”

Chapter Text

The private solar off Maekar’s chambers was bathed in the soft gold of midday light streaming through the tall arched windows. A small table had been set for two near the hearth — fresh bread still warm from the ovens, soft cheeses, cold sliced meats, bowls of honeyed fruits, and a pitcher of light Dornish wine. Servants had been dismissed with a quiet word; this meal was for the brothers alone.

Baelor Breakspear sat at one end of the table, growing dark hair with its silver streaks catching the light, mismatched eyes warm as he watched his younger brother. He wore a simple tunic the color of deep wine, the fabric loose enough to reveal his chest. Maekar Targaryen sat across from him, silver hair tied back neatly, pale violet eyes soft in the quiet intimacy of the room. He had rolled up the sleeves of his black tunic, revealing corded forearms dusted with fine silver hair.

They ate slowly, affectionately. Maekar reached across the table to brush a stray crumb from Baelor’s lower lip with his thumb, the touch lingering. Baelor caught the hand and pressed a soft kiss to the palm before releasing it. Their feet brushed under the table, knees pressing together — small, constant points of contact that spoke of years of shared love and quiet devotion.

“You’re thinking about King’s Landing again,” Maekar said, voice low and gruff but fond. He speared a piece of fruit and offered it to Baelor on the tip of his knife. Baelor leaned forward and took it between his lips, eyes never leaving his brother’s.

“I am,” Baelor admitted after swallowing. He set his cup down and reached over to lace their fingers together on the table. “I spoke with Duncan last night. About how we’ll make room for him in the Red Keep.”

Maekar’s pale violet eyes sharpened with interest, but he didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, his thumb stroked slowly over the back of Baelor’s knuckles. “And?”

Baelor smiled, small and fond. “He’ll still be Egg’s knight, of course. And Egg will still be his squire. That part is simple — no one will question it. The boy adores him, and it gives Duncan a rightful place at our side every day.”

Maekar nodded, squeezing Baelor’s hand gently. “Good. The boy needs him. But we both know that won’t be enough for the rest of us.”

“Exactly,” Baelor said, voice warm. “I told him as much. We’ll all want him close. And I want him close too. So I gave him the title. Sworn sword to the princes. My sworn sword. Yours. The boys’. It’s believable. Honorable. After what he did at the trial — saving my life, protecting Aegon — no one can openly question why he’s constantly at our sides.”

Maekar’s expression softened into something deep and satisfied. He lifted their joined hands and pressed a slow kiss to Baelor’s knuckles, lips lingering against the warm skin. “I like it. It gives him a shield in the Red Keep. A reason to be near us without handing our enemies a weapon.”

Baelor nodded, leaning forward to steal a gentle kiss from Maekar’s lips, tasting wine and warmth. When they parted, he rested their foreheads together for a moment. “Duncan understands. He said he’s seen enough of lords and their games. He won’t do anything that puts us in danger. He’ll be careful. And he likes the idea — being ours in a way that lets him protect us. Not just in the yard or on the road. Every day. Even in that nest of vipers.”

Maekar’s pale violet eyes were full of quiet wonder as he brushed a stray lock of dark hair from Baelor’s forehead. “I never expected this. One hedge knight stumbling into our lives… and suddenly the whole family is softer for it. Even the little ones. Daella and Rhae treat him like their personal giant. Aegon follows him like a shadow. I never thought a hedge knight would become… this important to all of us.”

Baelor’s mismatched eyes crinkled with quiet amusement. “Neither did I. I thought it would be fleeting — gratitude that turned into lust. But it’s become more. Much more. He calms us. He steadies us. Even Aerion seems… less volatile when Duncan is near. And the children… they’ve all claimed him in their own way. I didn’t think the infatuation would evolve into this. Into something real. Something we all feel.”

Maekar pulled him closer for another kiss — slower, deeper, full of the quiet, unbreakable love that had always existed between them. When they parted, he rested his forehead against Baelor’s again, silver hair mingling with dark.

“He’s part of us now,” Maekar said softly, voice thick with emotion. “And I don’t want to imagine the Red Keep without him. Sworn sword or not, he belongs with us. With you. With me. With all of them.”

Baelor smiled against his brother’s lips, thumb stroking Maekar’s bearded jaw. “Then we make sure he stays. Our sworn sword. Our knight.”

Baelor’s expression grew softer, almost wistful, his mismatched eyes distant for a moment as he thought of his youngest son. “And Matarys… I miss him more than I can say,” he admitted quietly, thumb still stroking the back of Maekar’s hand. “He’s still in Dragonstone. Valarr is leaving to fetch him, but I want him near me in King’s Landing. Summerhall has been good for healing, but it will feel right once all the children are with us again.” He carefully did not mention Aemon to his brother —his son's absence a sore point that must be resolved soon.

They stayed like that for a long while — hands linked, foreheads pressed together, sharing soft kisses and quiet words — two brothers who had loved each other longer than either could remember, now making room in their lives for the gentle hedge knight who had somehow become the heart of their family.

Ten days remained before the royal household would leave Summerhall for King’s Landing. The castle had taken on a quiet energy—servants polishing armor, maesters packing herbs, grooms checking every strap on the wagons. Prince Baelor was nearly healed, moving with only the faintest stiffness; Maekar had already begun dictating letters to the small council; Aerion sparred daily in the yard to regain his strength; Daella and Rhae both were trying to decide which dresses were worthy enough to be taken to King’s Landing, and Aegon followed Duncan everywhere like a shadow, sword in hand.

Valarr Targaryen, however, was leaving earlier.

He would ride ahead to Dragonstone to collect his twelve-year-old brother Matarys and escort him safely to the Red Keep. The journey would be long, the saddle unforgiving. Valarr had accepted it with the calm certainty of a future king, but tonight he wanted one last taste of the man who had become the center of every dragon’s hunger.

Duncan had spent the afternoon in the training yard with the Summerhall master-at-arms. The grizzled old knight had been drilling him relentlessly—footwork, shield work, how to turn a hedge knight’s raw strength into something refined enough for the prince's knight. Duncan had listened, learned, and then spent another hour teaching Aegon the same moves. The boy refused to train with anyone else. “Only you, Ser Duncan,” Egg always said, stubborn and proud. Duncan didn’t mind. He liked the way the child’s violet eyes lit up when he got a strike right.

Now, sweat still drying on his tanned skin, tunic clinging to his chest, Duncan was walking back toward the eastern wing when Valarr stepped out from behind a pillar.

The heir was already dressed for travel — dark riding leathers that hugged his lean, elegant frame, a heavy travelling cloak draped over one shoulder. His mismatched eyes sparkled with mischief as he fell into step beside Duncan, close enough that their arms brushed.

“You’re angry,” Valarr teased, voice low and velvet-smooth, a hint of laughter threading through it. “I saw you glaring at the master-at-arms when he corrected your stance. Or was that glare for me, because I’m leaving you behind?”

Duncan stopped, towering over the prince. His bright blue eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re leaving early. And you didn’t even say goodbye properly.”

Valarr’s smirk widened. “I’m saying it now.”

Duncan moved before Valarr could react. One huge arm hooked around the heir’s waist with effortless strength, the other scooped under his thighs, and suddenly Valarr was slung over Duncan’s broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Valarr let out a startled laugh that quickly turned into a sharp, breathless gasp when Duncan’s big hand came down in a firm, loud slap on his leather-clad ass.

The sound echoed down the corridor.

Valarr’s face went bright red. He froze completely for a second, breath catching hard in his throat. Gods, he thought, heat flooding his groin. I like that. I like that far too much. His cock twitched violently inside his leathers from the simple thrill of being manhandled.

Duncan kept walking, long, powerful strides carrying them both out of the main keep and down the shaded path toward the godswood. The secluded grove behind the heart tree was private enough that no one would stumble upon them, yet still open to the sky and the soft rustle of leaves.

“Put me down,” Valarr finally managed, voice hoarse and a little breathless.

“Not yet.” Duncan’s hand landed another light, playful slap on the firm curve of Valarr’s ass, the sound sharp and satisfying. “You teased. You get carried.”

Valarr’s legs kicked weakly, but he was grinning now, cheeks still flushed dark. When they reached the small clearing — soft grass underfoot, dappled sunlight filtering through the red leaves of the weirwood, the distant murmur of the hot spring bubbling nearby — Duncan finally set him on his feet with surprising gentleness.

Valarr immediately rose on tiptoes, hands sliding up Duncan’s broad, sweat-damp chest to fist in the front of his tunic. Duncan had to crouch slightly so their mouths could meet. The kiss started slow — Valarr’s tongue sliding against Duncan’s, tasting salt and sunlight and the faint metallic edge of exertion — then deepened until both men were breathing hard, tongues tangling wetly, teeth grazing lips.

They pressed together, grinding slowly. Duncan’s thick cock was already hard and heavy against Valarr’s hip; Valarr’s own erection strained painfully against his tight leathers. A low, needy moan escaped the heir’s throat.

Duncan kissed him harder to muffle the sound, one big hand cupping the back of Valarr’s head. “Quiet, my prince,” he growled against swollen lips, voice rough with lust. “Unless you want the whole castle to hear the prince whimpering for a hedge knight.”

Valarr laughed breathlessly, hips rolling against Duncan’s. “I can’t let you fuck me properly. The ride to Dragonstone would be… uncomfortable.” His mismatched eyes sparkled with pure mischief and heat. “Even if I’m tempted. Very, very tempted.”

Duncan’s hands roamed greedily — big palms sliding under Valarr’s tunic to caress the smooth, warm skin of his chest, thumbs brushing over dark nipples until they pebbled tight under the touch. “Then we’ll find another way,” he murmured, kissing down the elegant line of Valarr’s neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “I want to feel you. All of you. Before you leave.”

He turned Valarr gently but firmly, pressing the heir’s back flush against his own broad chest. Duncan’s hands never stopped moving — one massive palm spanning almost the entire width of Valarr’s waist, the other sliding up to caress the smooth column of his throat and jaw. Valarr leaned back heavily against the solid wall of muscle behind him, letting Duncan set the rhythm completely.

Duncan’s fingers worked Valarr’s laces open with practiced ease, then his own. He freed both cocks — his own thick, heavy, and veined, already leaking steadily at the flushed head; Valarr’s elegant and elegant, curving upward, the tip glistening. He wrapped one huge hand around Valarr’s length and stroked slowly, thumb circling the sensitive head, spreading the slick fluid.

“Put your thighs together for me,” Duncan whispered hotly against his ear, breath warm and ragged. “Nice and tight, my prince.”

Valarr obeyed instantly, pressing his legs together. Duncan slid his thick, heavy cock between the smooth, warm press of Valarr’s thighs, the hot length nestling perfectly against the underside of Valarr’s own cock and his tight balls. The sensation was filthy, intimate, and perfect — skin on skin, slick with precome.

Duncan started to move — slow, deep thrusts between Valarr’s thighs while his hand kept stroking the heir’s cock in the same unhurried rhythm. Valarr grabbed Duncan’s thick wrist with both hands, breathing hard, hips rocking helplessly.

“Fuck—Duncan—your cock between my legs—your hand—gods—”

Duncan’s free hand slid up to Valarr’s throat. He squeezed gently—just enough to cut off a little air. Valarr’s eyes widened, then fluttered with raw pleasure. I like this too, he realized, a fresh wave of heat flooding him. He reached up and pressed his own hand over Duncan’s, silently asking for more pressure.

They moved faster. Duncan’s powerful hips snapped forward, cock sliding slickly and wetly between Valarr’s pressed thighs; his big hand stroked the heir’s cock in firm, twisting pulls, thumb pressing into the leaking slit on every stroke. Valarr’s breaths came in short, desperate gasps, little whimpers escaping despite his efforts to stay quiet.

“Come for me, my prince,” Duncan growled low in his ear, voice dark and commanding. “Let me feel you shake. Let me feel how much you need this before you ride away.”

Valarr came first — body locking up tight, a choked, broken moan tearing from his throat as he spilled hard over Duncan’s fist and his own thighs in thick, pulsing ropes. His legs trembled violently, hole clenching around nothing as the orgasm ripped through him.

The sight and the tight clench of Valarr’s thighs dragged Duncan over the edge seconds later. He thrust once, twice, deep between the prince’s legs, and came with a low, guttural groan — thick ropes of white coating Valarr’s inner thighs, his balls, and the underside of his spent cock.

They stood there for a long moment, breathing hard, Duncan’s hand slowly easing off Valarr’s throat. The heir turned in his arms, rose on tiptoes again, and kissed him — slow, soft, almost tender this time, tongues sliding lazily.

“I’m going to miss you,” Valarr whispered against his lips. “More than I thought I would.” He brushed a thumb over one of the small scabs on Duncan’s throat. “And when we meet again in King’s Landing… I want you to meet my little brother Matarys. He’s twelve. He needs a friend. Like you are with Egg. I think you’ll like him. He’s quiet and clever.”

Duncan smiled, big hands gentle on Valarr’s waist. “I’d like that. Anything you want, Your Grace.”

They kissed again—slow, gentle, lingering—foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in.

Duncan straightened his tunic, then pulled a clean cloth from his pocket. With careful, unhurried movements he wiped Valarr’s spend from his own thighs and cock, then cleaned the prince’s inner thighs and softening length as best he could with the dampened cloth. Valarr stood still, letting him, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips as Duncan’s big hands moved with surprising gentleness over his skin. Once they were both reasonably clean and presentable, Duncan tucked the cloth away and straightened Valarr’s cloak, smoothing it over his shoulders with one last lingering touch.

Valarr stepped back, lacing his breeches with steady fingers. “Ten days. Then King’s Landing. Don’t let the others wear you out too much before I get there.”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes were warm. “I’ll save some strength for you.”

Valarr’s smirk returned, but softer now. He turned and walked away. The godswood was quiet again. Somewhere in the distance, the castle bells rang for the evening meal.

Duncan straightened his tunic, and headed back toward the main keep—already wondering how many more quiet, stolen moments he would steal before the road to King’s Landing claimed them all.

Chapter Text

Only a week was left until the household traded the halls of Summerhall for the bustle of King’s Landing. The castle hummed with the focused, restless energy that precedes a great journey: hallways were cluttered with packed chests, tables vanished under unrolled maps, and the stablehands labored by candlelight to ensure every harness and carriage was fit for the trek.

Maekar Targaryen was the one carrying the weight of the preparations. His days were consumed by the logistics of the move—tallying provisions, sending dispatches to the capital, and finalizing travel plans with the household guards. However, his most exhausting task was the daily combat training with Aerion. Maekar hoped to beat the boy’s arrogance out of him before they reached the treacherous politics of the Red Keep, but the bouts only left him bruised and irritable. Beneath his stern exterior, he also nursed a growing concern for Baelor, wondering if his brother was strong enough to endure the grueling weeks of travel.

He snapped at servants over trifles. He cut Daeron short during dinner when the boy tried to speak. Even Egg kept his distance, sensing the storm brewing in his father.

Duncan noticed.

During the afternoon training session, while Maekar watched from the yard’s edge with arms crossed, Duncan had caught the way the prince rolled his shoulders as though they carried the weight of the Iron Throne itself. After the lesson ended and the yard emptied, Duncan approached quietly—boots soft on the packed dirt, hair still damp with sweat.

“Your Grace,” he said, voice low enough not to carry. “If you’ll forgive the presumption… I know a few tricks from the road. For tight muscles. Knots that won’t let go. They’ve helped me after long days in the saddle.”

Maekar’s pale violet eyes flicked to him, sharp at first—then softened, just a fraction. He rubbed the back of his neck, wincing slightly. “You think you can fix what a week of sparring and worry has done?”

“I think I can try,” Duncan answered simply. “If you’ll let me.”

Maekar studied him for a long moment. Then he gave a single, curt nod. “Tonight. My chambers. After the last bell.”

Duncan bowed his head. “As you command.”

The room was dim when Duncan arrived. Only a few beeswax candles burned on the mantel, and the hearth held a low, steady fire that cast flickering gold across the stone walls and heavy tapestries. The air smelled of cedar smoke, leather, and the faint trace of Maekar’s soap—clean, sharp.

Maekar stood near the bed, already shirtless. His silver hair was loose for once, falling to his face. The lines of tension around his pale violet eyes were stark. Broad shoulders, thick arms from years of war, a chest dusted with silver hair that trailed down to a flat stomach scarred from old battles. He wore only dark breeches, belt unbuckled but still fastened.

He looked exhausted.

Duncan closed the door behind him with a soft click. “Lie down, Your Grace. Face-down. I’ll start with your shoulders.”

Maekar grunted, but obeyed—lowering himself onto the wide bed, arms folded beneath his head. The mattress dipped under his weight. Duncan rolled up his sleeves, poured a small amount of scented oil into his palms—warm, rosemary and cedar—and rubbed his hands together until they were slick and hot.

He started at the shoulders.

His huge, callused hands settled on Maekar’s tense muscles, thumbs digging into the knots with slow, firm pressure. Maekar let out a low groan—half relief, half pain—as Duncan worked the muscles in deep circles, kneading out the tightness that had lived there for days. The prince’s breathing slowed, deepened. Duncan moved methodically: down the spine, along the sides, thumbs pressing into the thick bands of muscle beside the vertebrae. Every press drew another rough sound from Maekar’s throat.

“Seven hells,” Maekar muttered into the pillow, voice muffled but thick. “Your hands are weapons.”

Duncan smiled faintly, continuing the slow, methodical work — palms spreading wide, fingers splaying across the thick bands of muscle beside Maekar’s spine. “They’ve had practice on sore horses and sorer men,” he replied quietly. His thumbs slid lower, working the small of Maekar’s back, digging into the stubborn knots above the hips. Maekar’s breath hitched again — this time sharper, different.

Duncan noticed the subtle shift in Maekar’s hips, the way the prince’s powerful body tensed and then relaxed under his touch. He didn’t comment. Instead, he kept going — palms gliding lower, thumbs pressing firmly into the dimples just above the curve of Maekar’s ass. The oil made everything slick and warm, the scent of rosemary filling the air as Duncan’s big hands worked the tension out of the warrior’s lower back.

Maekar’s groan was deeper now, almost a growl. His hips pushed back instinctively into Duncan’s hands. A low, involuntary groan escaped him when Duncan’s thumbs dug especially deep, releasing a particularly tight knot. The sound went straight to Duncan’s cock. Maekar’s breathing grew heavier, rougher. 

Duncan’s voice stayed calm, but his own cock was already thickening inside his breeches. “Still tense here, Your Grace,” he murmured, kneading the firm, muscled globes of Maekar’s ass through the thin fabric of his breeches with possessive strokes. His thumbs dipped teasingly between the cheeks, brushing the sensitive skin hidden there, pressing just enough to make Maekar’s breath stutter.

“Fuck…” Maekar hissed, face half-buried in the pillow. His voice came out gruff, edged with raw need. “Your hands are dangerous, hedge knight. They’re… too good.”

Duncan leaned down slightly, his breath warm against the back of Maekar’s neck. “I can stop.”

“Don’t you dare,” Maekar growled, the command rough but laced with unmistakable need. He lifted his hips just enough for Duncan to slide the breeches down, exposing the powerful curve of his ass and the thick, heavy cock already hardening against the sheets.

The sight made Duncan’s mouth go dry. Maekar’s ass was firm and muscled, dusted with fine silver hair, the tight furl of his entrance visible between the cheeks. His cock lay heavy and flushed, the head dark and glistening with precome.

Duncan poured more oil into his hands, letting it warm, then returned them to Maekar’s bare skin. He kneaded the bare ass with firm, possessive strokes — big hands spreading the cheeks slightly, thumbs circling closer and closer to the sensitive entrance. One thumb brushed directly over the tight ring of muscle, pressing lightly, teasing without entering.

Maekar groaned loudly, hips pushing back hard into the touch. “There — fuck, right there…”

Duncan’s voice dropped lower, rougher. “You’re getting so hard just from my hands on your ass, Your Grace. Look at you leaking all over the sheets.” He let one slick thumb press more firmly against Maekar’s entrance, circling the rim with slow, teasing pressure, dipping just the tip inside before pulling back.

Maekar’s groan turned into a deep, needy growl. “Don’t tease, Duncan… your hands feel too fucking good. Keep going.”

Duncan smiled against the back of Maekar’s neck, breath hot. He obeyed, sliding one thick, oil-slick finger inside the tight heat in one smooth push. The wet, obscene sound of oil and clenching muscle filled the room. Maekar’s hole gripped him hard, hot and silky. Duncan curled the finger slowly, stroking the inner walls while his other hand reached underneath to wrap around the base of Maekar’s thick, leaking cock.

“Gods — yes —” Maekar hissed, hips rocking back onto the invading finger and forward into Duncan’s fist.

Duncan added a second finger, scissoring them open with slow, filthy twists, stretching Maekar wider while he stroked the prince’s cock in long, twisting pulls. The wet, slick sounds grew louder — obscene squelching from Maekar’s ass mixed with the rhythmic slap of Duncan’s hand on the leaking shaft.

Duncan’s cock was fully hard now, straining against his own breeches as he watched the proud, gruff prince come undone under his hands. He leaned down and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the base of Maekar’s spine, tongue flicking out to taste salt, oil and skin.

He leaned over Maekar’s back, broad chest brushing the prince’s spine, warm breath ghosting over the shell of his ear. “Then turn over,” Duncan murmured, voice low and rough with barely contained hunger. “Let me see you.”

Maekar rolled slowly onto his back with a shaky breath. His silver hair fanned across the pillow like molten moonlight. Pale violet eyes were blown wide with lust, pupils dark and glassy. The firelight painted every inch of his powerful body — broad chest heaving, silver-dusted nipples tight and pebbled, the trail of fine silver hair leading down to where his cock stood flushed and rigid, thick veins pulsing, the head dark and glistening with steady leaks of precome.

Duncan straddled his thick thighs with careful control, knees bracketing Maekar’s hips so the prince could feel the heavy weight of him without being crushed. His oil-slick hands spread wide over Maekar’s chest, thumbs circling the flat nipples in slow, firm strokes until they pebbled into hard peaks under his touch.

Maekar groaned low in his throat — a deep, gravelly sound that went straight to Duncan’s own aching cock. His hips lifted instinctively, seeking friction.

Duncan leaned down and took one sensitive nipple into his mouth — sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue flicking rapidly over the stiff bud while his teeth grazed just enough to make Maekar’s back arch clean off the bed with a sharp hiss.

“Fuck—”

The knight switched to the other nipple, sucking harder, tongue swirling wetly while one hand slid down Maekar’s stomach, tracing the silver trail of hair with callused fingertips. He palmed the thick, heavy cock, feeling the heat beneath his hand.

Maekar’s hips bucked hard into the touch, a rough groan tearing from his chest. “Gods — your mouth —”

“Ask for it,” Duncan whispered against the wet, reddened nipple, voice dark and commanding but still gentle. “Tell me what you need.”

Maekar’s voice cracked, raw and desperate. “Fuck… touch me. Properly. I want your hand on my cock — shit— stop teasing.”

Duncan wrapped one huge, oil-slick hand around it — his fingers easily encircling the girth — and gave one long, firm stroke from base to tip, thumb smearing the slick precome over the sensitive crown in slow circles.

Maekar groaned loudly, head falling back against the pillow, silver hair spilling everywhere. “Gods —  feels so fucking good —”

Duncan kept the strokes slow and torturous at first — long, twisting pulls that made wet, slick sounds fill the room, his thumb pressing firmly into the leaking slit on every stroke. He removed some of his weight and positioned himself between Maekar’s spread knees. His other hand slid between the prince’s powerful thighs, two thick fingers pressing against the tight, oil-slick entrance, circling the rim before pushing inside with steady pressure.

Maekar’s hips jerked hard, a guttural moan ripping from his throat as Duncan’s fingers curled immediately to find that sensitive spot inside him.

“There—fuck—right there—”

Duncan rubbed slow, firm circles over the prostate while his hand on Maekar’s cock sped up just enough to keep him teetering on the edge — never quite letting him fall. The wet, rhythmic sounds of stroking and fingering filled the room, obscene and loud. Maekar’s breathing turned ragged and desperate, hands fisting the sheets tightly, hips bucking up into Duncan’s fist and down onto his fingers.

“I’m close—Duncan—don’t stop—”

Duncan leaned down, lips brushing Maekar’s ear, voice low and filthy. “Come for me, Your Grace. Let me see you fall apart on my fingers and my hand. Show me how much you need this. Come all over yourself like a good prince.”

Maekar came hard — a broken, guttural roar tearing from his chest as his cock pulsed violently in Duncan’s fist. The first thick rope of white shot hard enough to splatter across his own chest and collarbone, followed by a second, even stronger spurt that painted the silver trail of hair on his stomach. His hole clenched rhythmically around Duncan’s fingers, squeezing them in tight, fluttering spasms that tried to pull the thick digits deeper. His powerful thighs shook uncontrollably, hips stuttering up into Duncan’s hand in desperate, erratic thrusts as wave after wave crashed through him.

Duncan didn’t stop. He kept his huge hand wrapped tight around Maekar’s throbbing cock, stroking through every single pulsing spurt with firm, relentless pulls — twisting at the head on every stroke so his thumb could grind hard into the oversensitive slit. At the same time, the two thick fingers buried in Maekar’s ass curled mercilessly against his prostate, rubbing firm, merciless circles that dragged the orgasm out longer and harder than Maekar could handle.

“F-fuck — Duncan —” Maekar’s voice cracked into a raw, broken sob as another heavy rope of come erupted, weaker this time but still messy, dripping down over Duncan’s knuckles and onto the sheets. His body convulsed, back arching clean off the bed, silver hair sticking to his sweat-slick forehead. “I’m still — ahh — coming — too much —”

Duncan leaned in closer, chest pressed to Maekar’s heaving side, voice low and filthy against his ear. “That’s it, Your Grace. Keep coming for me. Look at how much you’re giving me — all that royal seed spilling because of my hand and my fingers. I’m not stopping until you’re empty.”

He sped up the strokes on Maekar’s cock just enough to keep the pleasure bordering on pain, thumb never leaving the sensitive head, smearing every fresh spurt back down the shaft to make the strokes even wetter and slicker. His fingers inside Maekar’s ass pressed harder against the prostate, rubbing in tight, fast circles that made wet, obscene squelching sounds echo through the room with every thrust.

Maekar’s hips jerked wildly, trying to escape the overwhelming sensation, but Duncan’s arms pinned him down gently but firmly across the chest, holding the prince in place while he milked him through the aftershocks.

A fourth spurt — thinner, almost dry — leaked out in a weak pulse, and Maekar let out a high, broken whimper, tears gathering at the corners of his pale violet eyes. “Duncan — please  — I can’t — I’m empty — stop —”

Duncan only growled softly, voice dark with hunger. “Not yet. I can still feel you twitching. One more. Give me one more, my prince. Let me wring every last drop out of this beautiful cock.”

He twisted his hand on the stroke, thumb pressing down hard on the frenulum while his fingers curled and rubbed the prostate with ruthless precision. Maekar’s entire body seized again — a fifth, almost painful dry orgasm ripping through him. His cock jerked weakly in Duncan’s fist, hole clamping down so hard around the fingers that Duncan groaned at the pressure. Maekar’s thighs trembled violently, a raw, sobbing moan tearing from his throat as the overstimulation turned into white-hot, blinding pleasure.

Only when Maekar’s cock finally stopped twitching and his body went completely limp — chest heaving, tears slipping down his temples, soft broken whimpers still falling from his lips — did Duncan finally ease off.

He withdrew his fingers with a slow, wet glide, the slick sound loud in the sudden quiet. His hand on Maekar’s cock gave one last gentle, milking stroke from base to tip, squeezing out the final weak bead of come before releasing him. Maekar shuddered hard at the touch, oversensitive and wrecked.

Duncan reached for the warm, damp cloth again and began wiping Maekar clean with careful, almost reverent strokes — first the thick, messy ropes of come across the prince’s chest and stomach, then gently around his softening, twitching cock and between his slick, trembling thighs.

Maekar’s breathing was still ragged, his powerful chest rising and falling heavily. He looked up at Duncan with heavy-lidded pale violet eyes, voice hoarse and rough.

“Let me return the favor,” he muttered, already starting to push himself up on one elbow. “You’ve been hard as iron this whole time. Let me use my mouth on you… or ride you. Whatever you want. I’m not lying here like some spoiled lord while you do all the work.”

Duncan smiled softly, a gentle but undeniable firmness in his expression. He placed one huge hand on Maekar’s chest and eased him back down onto the pillows with effortless strength.

“There’s no need, Your Grace,” he said quietly, voice warm and steady. “The whole point tonight was to make you relax. To take some of that weight off your shoulders. You don’t have to give anything back right now.”

Maekar’s brow furrowed, stubborn pride flickering in his eyes even through the haze of pleasure. “I’m not some fragile lord who needs coddling,” he grumbled, trying to sit up again. “I’ve taken worse beatings in the yard than this. Let me suck you off at least — or are you going to tell me the big strong hedge knight is too shy to let a prince swallow his cock?”

Duncan chuckled low in his chest, the sound warm and amused. He gently pushed Maekar back down once more, thumb brushing over one silver-dusted nipple. “Shy? No. But I like seeing you like this — all relaxed and taken care of for once. You growl and snap at everyone else. It’s nice to be the one making you melt instead.”

Maekar snorted, a reluctant half-smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “Melt? I’m a Targaryen, not a candle. If you keep talking like that I’ll start thinking you’re the one who needs coddling.”

Duncan leaned down and silenced him with a slow, deep kiss, tongue sliding against Maekar’s in a lazy, possessive glide. When he pulled back, his bright blue eyes were dark with lust but still gentle.

“I know you can,” he murmured against Maekar’s lips, nipping the bottom one lightly. “But tonight I want to take care of you. Let me.”

Maekar exhaled shakily, clearly torn between his usual gruff independence and the undeniable comfort of being looked after. Finally, he gave a small, reluctant nod, muttering under his breath, “Damm hedge knight… fine. But only because my back still feels like butter.”

Duncan’s smile widened, just a little wicked now. “Though… if you really want to use that mouth of yours…”

He shifted upward on the bed, straddling Maekar’s broad chest. His thick, heavy cock — rock-hard, flushed dark, and leaking steadily — bobbed just above the prince’s lips, the heavy weight of it casting a shadow across Maekar’s silver beard.

Maekar’s eyes darkened instantly, hunger replacing the momentary resistance. “Finally,” he growled, already licking his lips.

Without another word, Maekar opened his mouth, tongue sliding out to lick a long, slow, wet stripe from the base of Duncan’s cock all the way up to the leaking head. He swirled his tongue around the sensitive crown, lapping up the steady bead of precome with a hungry hum.

Duncan groaned low in his throat, one big hand gently threading through Maekar’s silver hair, not forcing, just guiding. “Fuck… that’s it. Just like that, Your Grace. Use that pretty royal mouth on me.”

Maekar took him in deeper — lips stretching wide around the thick head, then sinking down with surprising eagerness until the fat crown bumped the back of his throat. Spit glistened on his lips and chin, dripping messily down onto his chest as he sucked with steady, hungry pulls. His tongue flattened along the thick vein on the underside, working it relentlessly while he hollowed his cheeks.

The wet, obscene sounds of slurping and gagging filled the solar — loud, filthy, and perfect. Maekar’s throat tightened around the head every time he took Duncan deeper, eyes watering but never breaking eye contact.

Duncan’s head fell back with a deep groan, hips rocking slowly, carefully fucking Maekar’s mouth while still supporting most of his own weight on his knees so he wouldn’t overwhelm the prince.

Duncan’s head fell back with a deep groan, hips rocking slowly, carefully fucking Maekar’s mouth while still supporting most of his own weight on his knees so he wouldn’t overwhelm the prince. “You look so good like this,” he rasped, voice rough with pleasure. “My strong, proud prince… taking my cock so deep. So perfect. Look at you — spit running down your chin like you can’t get enough.”

Maekar moaned around the thick length, the vibration shooting straight through Duncan’s cock. He sucked harder, one hand coming up to stroke the base he couldn’t fit, twisting on every upstroke while his throat worked greedily around the head. More spit dripped down, messy and slick, coating Maekar’s beard and chest as he bobbed faster, eyes locked on Duncan’s bright blue ones the whole time.

Duncan’s rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as the pleasure coiled tight in his gut. “I’m close,” he warned, voice strained. “Can I—?”

Maekar answered by sucking him even deeper, throat relaxing to take the last inch until his nose pressed against Duncan’s pelvis. He swallowed around the head, milking him with rhythmic contractions.

Duncan came with a deep, guttural groan, pulsing thick and hot across Maekar’s tongue in heavy, endless spurts. Maekar swallowed every drop, humming softly, throat working greedily as he milked the last weak pulses with his tongue and lips. Only when Duncan was trembling and oversensitive did Maekar finally pull off with a wet pop, lips shiny and swollen, a thin string of spit and come still connecting them for a moment before it broke.

When it was over, Duncan carefully slid down beside Maekar, immediately pulling the silver-haired prince into his arms. Maekar rested his head on Duncan’s broad chest, silver hair spilling across tanned skin, one arm draped heavily over the knight’s waist.

“Rest now, Your Grace,” Duncan murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of Maekar’s head. “I’ve got you tonight. Tomorrow you can carry the realm again. Tonight… you’re just mine to take care of.”

Maekar made a low, approving sound and nuzzled closer, his powerful body finally relaxing completely against Duncan’s.

They fell asleep tangled together — giant knight and silver dragon — while outside the solar, Summerhall slept peacefully, and the road to King’s Landing drew ever closer.

But tonight, Maekar dreamed of nothing but warm, strong hands and the rare, precious safety of being completely held.

Chapter Text

The great hall of Summerhall had emptied hours ago. The long trestle tables stood bare, their scarred oak surfaces wiped clean of crumbs and spilled wine. The torches along the walls had guttered low, leaving only a handful of flickering candles and the faint, dying crackle of embers in the massive hearth to mark the passing of another night. Shadows stretched long across the flagstones, and the air felt heavy, cool, and still.

Daeron Targaryen had stayed behind.

He sat alone at the high table, elbows braced on the scarred oak, a half-empty flagon of Arbor red in front of him. His sandy hair was disheveled, pale violet eyes glassy and red-rimmed. The wine had not helped. It never did. Aerion’s mocking voice still rang in his ears from earlier that day—“Still waiting for someone to hand you a spine, brother? Or do you think Ser Duncan will grow one for you?”—followed by that sharp, cruel laugh. Daeron had frozen, cheeks burning. He had said nothing. Again.

He was nineteen. He should be past this. He should be stronger. He should be like them — like his father Maekar, who carried duty like armor, or Uncle Baelor, who bore the realm’s burdens without complaint. Even Aerion, mad as wildfire, had a fire Daeron lacked. Instead he felt small. Weak. Useless. And King’s Landing loomed closer every day.

The dreams were always worse there. In the Red Keep the nightmares came more frequently — dark, twisting visions of failure, of standing frozen while his family needed him, of disappointing his father yet again. He wasn’t a great heir, not in his own eyes. Maekar loved him fiercely, he knew that, but love couldn’t change the truth: Daeron was the eldest son, yet he felt like the weakest link. And now Valarr was gone — riding to Dragonstone to fetch Matarys — leaving an empty space at the table and an ache in Daeron’s chest. He missed his cousin’s steady presence, his teasing smile, the way Valarr could make even the heaviest days feel lighter.

Daeron lifted the flagon and took another long swallow. The wine burned down his throat but did nothing to quiet the storm in his head.

The door at the far end of the hall opened quietly. Duncan’s massive silhouette filled the frame for a moment before he stepped inside, boots soft on the flagstones. He had been checking the horses one last time—his nightly ritual—and had seen the single candle still burning at the high table.

Daeron didn’t look up until Duncan was almost beside him.

The knight stopped a respectful distance away, hands loose at his sides. His bright blue eyes took in the flagon, the slumped shoulders, the glassy look in Daeron’s eyes, and a flicker of worry crossed his face. He did not like when Daeron drank too much. It never solved anything; it only left the prince more lost the next morning.

“My prince,” Duncan said gently, voice low enough not to echo. “It’s late. The hall’s cold.”

Daeron laughed once, bitter and wet. “I’m fine.” His voice cracked on the lie. He lifted the flagon, took another swallow, then set it down too hard. Wine sloshed over the rim. “I’m always fine.”

Duncan didn’t move closer. He simply waited, patient as stone, his huge frame casting a long, protective shadow across the table. He hated seeing his pretty prince like this — drinking to drown the thoughts that haunted him instead of speaking them aloud.

Daeron’s shoulders hunched further. “I’m not like them,” he whispered, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “Not like Father. Not like Uncle Baelor. Not even like Aerion, mad as he is. I freeze. I watch. I do nothing.” He dragged a hand over his face, eyes stinging. “And King’s Landing… the dreams come worse there. Every night. I see myself failing them all over again. I’m supposed to be the heir, but I feel like the weakest of us. Father deserves better. Valarr’s gone, and I… I miss him. I miss how steady he makes everything feel.”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes softened. He took one careful step forward. “May I sit, Your Grace?”

Daeron nodded without looking up.

Duncan lowered himself onto the bench beside him—careful, slow, so the wood wouldn’t groan too loudly. He didn’t touch Daeron yet. He simply sat, close enough that Daeron could feel the warmth radiating from his huge body.

“You’re not weak,” Duncan said simply. “You’re still here. After everything that happened at Ashford. After the trial, after the fear, after watching your family nearly break. That takes strength most men don’t have. I see it every day — the way you keep going even when the dreams haunt you. The way you care so deeply it hurts.”

Daeron laughed again, hollow and tired. “Pretty words. They don’t change the truth. I’m not the heir my father needs. And King’s Landing… it’s going to be worse. The walls there feel like they press in. The dreams come every night. I wake up shaking, and I can’t tell anyone because I’m supposed to be strong.”

Duncan’s hand moved slowly, resting lightly on Daeron’s shoulder — a warm, grounding weight. “Then talk to someone,” he said gently, but firmly. “Don’t drown it in wine. It only makes the dreams louder the next morning. Talk to me, if you want. I may not understand everything — I’m just a hedge knight, not a prince — but I’ll listen. Always. You’re my pretty prince, Daeron. I’ll sit here all night if that’s what you need. And when we reach King’s Landing, I’ll be right there with you. Every night. Every bad dream. I won’t let you face it alone.”

Daeron’s eyes stung. He turned his head slightly, looking at Duncan for the first time — at the steady blue eyes, the kind face, the massive shoulders that seemed capable of carrying the weight of the world.

“You’ll be there?” he whispered, voice small and cracked. “Even when the dreams come every night? Even when I wake up shaking and useless?”

Duncan’s hand squeezed his shoulder gently. “I promised your uncle. I promised Egg. And I promise you. I’m going with all of you. I’ll be your knight, your shield, whatever you need. Even if it’s just sitting in the dark with you until the dreams pass. You don’t have to be strong every second, Daeron. Not with me.”

Daeron let out a shaky breath, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. The flagon sat forgotten on the table. For the first time that night, the ache in his chest felt a little lighter. He leaned into Duncan’s touch, letting the knight’s warmth seep into him.

Daeron swallowed hard, then nodded. “I… I need you tonight,” he whispered, cheeks flushing. “Not just to talk. I need you to have me. To make me forget everything else. Please.”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes darkened with heat, but his voice stayed gentle. “Then let me take you to your chambers, my prince. Let me take care of you properly.”

They rose together. Duncan’s huge hand settled lightly on the small of Daeron’s back as they left the hall, guiding him through the quiet corridors. The walk was silent but comfortable, the only sound their footsteps and the faint crackle of distant torches. When they reached Daeron’s bedchamber, Duncan closed the heavy door behind them with a soft click and bolted it.

The room was warm, lit by a low fire and a single candle on the bedside table. Duncan turned to face Daeron, towering over him, and cupped the prince’s face with both huge hands.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, thumbs stroking Daeron’s cheekbones. “Even when you’re hurting.”

He leaned down and kissed Daeron — slow, deep, and achingly tender. Daeron melted into it, hands coming up to clutch at Duncan’s tunic. When they parted, Duncan’s eyes were dark with want.

“Let me undress you,” Duncan said softly. “Let me worship every inch of you.”

Daeron nodded, breath already quickening.

Duncan started with the tunic. His big hands worked the laces open with surprising gentleness, then slid the fabric off Daeron’s shoulders, letting it pool on the floor. He kissed every new inch of skin he revealed — soft, open-mouthed kisses along Daeron’s collarbones, down the center of his chest, over the flat planes of his stomach. Daeron shivered, hands resting lightly on Duncan’s broad shoulders.

“You’re so pretty,” Duncan whispered, lips brushing a nipple until it pebbled. He sucked gently, tongue flicking, then moved to the other. “So sensitive. Look how you tremble for me.”

Daeron moaned softly, fingers threading into Duncan’s golden-red hair. “Duncan…”

The knight dropped to his knees with a quiet thud, his massive frame still somehow making Daeron feel small and cherished. He unfastened Daeron’s breeches slowly, reverently, tugging them down along with the smallclothes until the prince stood completely naked before him.

Duncan’s hands settled on Daeron’s narrow hips, thumbs stroking the sharp bones. “So beautiful,” he breathed, leaning in to press a slow kiss to  Daeron’s hips. “Look at you… long and elegant and perfect.” His lips trailed lower, kissing along the crease of Daeron’s thigh, then up the other side. He nuzzled the base of Daeron’s cock, already half-hard and twitching, and inhaled deeply. “And you smell so good. Like you were made for this.”

Daeron’s breath hitched as Duncan’s tongue dragged a slow, wet stripe up the underside of his cock. The knight’s hands never left his hips — strong, steady, controlling the subtle movements of Daeron’s body with effortless ease.

Duncan looked up, bright blue eyes dark with lust and adoration. “You like it when I move you, don’t you? When I show you how easily I can hold you?”

Daeron nodded frantically, cheeks flushed. “Yes — gods, yes — you’re so strong — it feels…”

Duncan’s hands tightened on Daeron’s hips, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint marks. He pulled Daeron forward gently, guiding the prince’s cock into his mouth in one smooth motion. His lips stretched wide around the length, tongue swirling around the head before he sank deeper, taking Daeron to the back of his throat with a low, satisfied hum.

Daeron moaned loudly, hips jerking forward instinctively. Duncan’s grip kept him steady — controlling the pace, pulling him in and out with slow, deliberate movements. The wet, obscene sounds of sucking and slurping filled the chamber, mixed with Daeron’s broken whimpers and Duncan’s occasional deep groans of pleasure.

“You taste so good,” Duncan murmured when he pulled off for a breath, lips shiny. “So pretty and hard for me. My perfect prince.” He sucked Daeron down again, deeper this time, throat working around him while his hands guided Daeron’s hips in a slow, controlled rhythm.

Daeron’s fingers tightened in Duncan’s hair. “Duncan — fuck — your mouth — so hot — so wet — I can’t —”

Duncan hummed around him, the vibration making Daeron’s knees buckle. The knight’s hands slid back to cup Daeron’s ass, squeezing the firm cheeks and pulling him even deeper into his throat. He controlled every movement — pulling Daeron in, holding him there for a moment, then easing him back — showing just how easily he could manhandle the prince.

Daeron loved it. He loved how small and safe he felt in Duncan’s grip. “You’re so strong,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “You can move me however you want — gods, I love it —”

Duncan pulled off with a wet pop, lips swollen and shiny, and looked up at Daeron with dark, hungry eyes. “Then let me have you,” he growled softly. “Let me show you how beautiful you are when you fall apart for me.”

He took Daeron back into his mouth — deeper, wetter, faster — while his hands continued to guide the prince’s hips with effortless strength. Daeron’s moans grew louder, more desperate, his body trembling as Duncan worshipped him completely.

While his mouth worked Daeron’s cock — slow, deep bobs of his head, tongue swirling along the underside on every upstroke — Duncan lifted one hand from Daeron’s hip and brought two thick fingers to the prince’s lips.

“Get them wet for me,” he murmured around the cock in his mouth, voice muffled but commanding. “Suck them, my prince. I’m going to need them later when I open you up.”

Daeron’s glassy violet eyes fluttered. He parted his lips obediently, taking Duncan’s thick fingers into his mouth. His tongue swirled around them eagerly, sucking wetly, coating them with spit while Duncan continued to bob on his cock. The dual sensation was overwhelming — the hot, tight suction around his length and the filthy slide of his own tongue on Duncan’s callused fingers.

Duncan groaned around Daeron’s cock at the sight, the vibration making Daeron’s thighs tremble. “That’s it… good boy… get them nice and slick. You’re going to feel these inside you soon, stretching you open while I keep sucking you.”

Daeron moaned loudly around the fingers, sucking harder, tongue flicking between them, spit dripping down his chin. His hips tried to rock forward, but Duncan’s other hand held him firmly in place. Daeron’s moans grew louder, more broken, his body trembling as the pleasure built unbearably.

Duncan’s fingers finally slipped from Daeron’s lips with a wet pop, now glistening with saliva. He brought them down between Daeron’s legs, pressing one thick, slick finger against the tight entrance and circling it teasingly while his mouth never stopped working the prince’s cock.

Daeron cried out, hips jerking. “Duncan — I’m — I’m so close —”

Duncan hummed around him, the vibration intense. He pushed the first finger inside slowly, curling it immediately to rub against that sensitive spot while he sucked Daeron deeper, faster, throat working rhythmically.

Daeron’s legs shook violently. “I’m going to — Duncan — please — don’t stop —”

Duncan’s only answer was a deep, possessive groan. He added a second finger, scissoring gently while his mouth sucked harder, tongue swirling relentlessly around the head. His free hand stayed on Daeron’s hip, holding him steady as the prince’s body began to convulse.

Daeron came with a broken, keening cry — his whole body seizing as thick, hot pulses spilled across Duncan’s tongue. His cock throbbed hard in the knight’s mouth, hips stuttering helplessly against the firm grip on them. Duncan swallowed every drop with a low, satisfied hum, milking him through the long, shuddering aftershocks until Daeron was whimpering, oversensitive, and barely able to stay upright on trembling legs.

Duncan pulled off slowly with a wet pop, lips shiny and swollen. He looked up at Daeron with dark, hungry eyes, fingers still buried deep inside him, moving in slow, gentle circles against that sensitive spot. “So beautiful when you come for me,” he whispered, voice rough with lust. “My perfect, pretty prince.”

Daeron’s breath came in short, shaky gasps, tears of overwhelming pleasure already pricking at the corners of his pale violet eyes. His cock twitched weakly against his stomach, flushed dark and glistening, far too sensitive to touch.

Duncan rose to his feet in one fluid motion, towering over the trembling prince. Without a word he scooped Daeron up into his arms — one thick arm under the prince’s knees, the other around his back — lifting him as if he weighed nothing. Daeron let out a soft, surprised whimper at the effortless strength, his arms automatically wrapping around Duncan’s broad shoulders.

“Easy, my prince,” Duncan murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to Daeron’s temple. “I’ve got you.”

He carried Daeron the few steps to the bed and laid him down with infinite care, arranging the pillows under his head and shoulders so he wouldn’t strain anything. Daeron watched through half-lidded eyes as Duncan straightened up and began to undress. The knight pulled his tunic over his head, revealing the broad, tanned expanse of his chest, the heavy muscle of his shoulders and arms, the faint scars and fresh scratches from previous nights. His golden-red hair fell messily around his face as he shoved his breeches down, freeing his thick, heavy cock.

Daeron’s breath caught at the sight. Even after coming so hard, the sight of Duncan’s powerful body made fresh heat coil low in his belly.

Duncan climbed onto the bed and settled on his side right beside Daeron, their bodies pressed close. One huge hand came up to caress Daeron’s face — thumb stroking gently over his cheekbone, then tracing the line of his jaw. The other hand slid slowly down Daeron’s chest, palm spreading wide, fingertips brushing over sensitive nipples until they pebbled again.

“You’re so pretty like this,” Duncan whispered, voice low and reverent. “All flushed and trembling. My handsome prince.”

Daeron shivered at the praise, a soft moan escaping him. His own hands moved tentatively — one brushing over Duncan’s jaw, the other resting on the solid wall of Duncan’s chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath warm skin.

Duncan leaned in and kissed him — slow, deep, and tender — while his hand continued its gentle exploration, thumb circling one nipple, then the other. He pulled back just enough to reach for the small vial of oil on the bedside table. He slicked two thick fingers generously, then brought them back between Daeron’s legs.

“Still so sensitive,” Duncan murmured as he pressed one slick finger against Daeron’s entrance and pushed inside slowly. Daeron gasped sharply, hips twitching at the renewed stretch. “But you’re going to take it so well for me again, aren’t you?”

With his other hand, Duncan wrapped his fingers loosely around Daeron’s spent, oversensitive cock and began to stroke — slow, gentle pulls, just enough to tease it back to hardness.

Daeron whimpered, back arching off the bed at the dual sensation — the thick finger curling inside him, rubbing firmly against his prostate, and the warm, callused hand stroking his sensitive cock. “Duncan — fuck — it’s too much — I just came —”

“You can take it,” Duncan soothed, voice low and steady. He added a second finger, scissoring gently while his hand on Daeron’s cock sped up just a fraction, thumb circling the head. “Look at you… so pretty when you’re like this. All flushed and needy. My handsome prince, letting me play with him.”

Daeron moaned loudly, trying to arch again, but Duncan’s hand left his cock to press firmly on his chest, holding him down against the mattress with effortless strength.

“Stay still for me,” Duncan whispered, leaning down to kiss the arched column of Daeron’s neck — slow, open-mouthed kisses, tongue dragging along the sensitive skin, teeth grazing lightly. “I love how easily I can hold you down. You’re so strong, yet you let me control you like this… it makes me so hard for you.”

Daeron’s eyes fluttered, tears of overwhelming pleasure slipping from the corners as the dual stimulation built again. His cock was hardening fully in Duncan’s hand despite the sensitivity, leaking steadily as the knight stroked him with slow, firm pulls.

“Gods — Duncan — your fingers — so thick — rubbing right there — and your hand on my cock — I can’t — it feels too good —”

Duncan kissed his neck again, sucking a slow, dark mark into the skin. “You’re doing so well. Such a pretty, perfect prince. Taking my fingers so deep while I stroke you. I love how you tremble for me. Love how easily I can move you and hold you right where I want you.”

Daeron’s hips tried to buck again, but Duncan’s arm on his chest kept him pinned, the display of raw strength making Daeron moan even louder. Tears slipped freely down his flushed cheeks now, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

“Please — Duncan — I’m ready — I need you inside me — please fuck me —”

Duncan’s fingers curled deliberately against his prostate again, stroking his cock a little faster. His voice was low, gentle, but firm. “Not yet, my handsome prince. I want you to come one more time for me first. Just one more. Let me see you fall apart again before I fuck you properly.”

Daeron sobbed softly, tears streaming as the overwhelming pleasure continued to build under Duncan’s relentless, loving touch.

Daeron’s second orgasm crashed through him without warning.

His back tried to arch clean off the bed, but Duncan’s arm stayed firm on his chest, holding him down with effortless strength. A broken, sobbing cry tore from Daeron’s throat as his cock pulsed hard in Duncan’s fist, spilling thick, warm ropes of white across his own stomach and chest in heavy spurts. His hole clenched rhythmically around Duncan’s fingers, fluttering and squeezing as wave after wave of overwhelming pleasure ripped through his oversensitive body.

Duncan never stopped. He kept stroking Daeron through every shuddering pulse, milking him with slow, firm pulls while his fingers continued rubbing firm circles against that sensitive spot inside. “That’s it, my pretty prince,” he murmured, voice low and reverent. “Look at you… coming so beautifully for me. Covering yourself in it. So handsome like this.”

Daeron was shaking violently, tears slipping freely down his flushed cheeks, his pale violet eyes glassy and unfocused. “Duncan — fuck — too much — I can’t —” His voice cracked into a whimper as the last weak spurt dribbled over Duncan’s knuckles.

Duncan finally eased his hand on Daeron’s cock, but he didn’t pull his fingers out yet. He leaned down and kissed Daeron deeply — slow, tender, swallowing every little broken sound the prince made while he trembled through the aftershocks. “Shh, I’ve got you,” Duncan whispered against his lips, kissing him again and again. “You’re doing so well. My beautiful, perfect prince.”

Daeron could barely breathe, chest heaving, body still twitching. But Duncan was already moving — gently withdrawing his fingers with a wet sound, then sliding between Daeron’s spread legs. He settled on his knees, towering over the trembling prince, his thick cock heavy and leaking against Daeron’s thigh.

Daeron’s breath hitched at the sight. He was still so sensitive — every nerve singing, his spent cock twitching weakly against his come-splattered stomach — but the sight of Duncan between his legs made fresh heat coil low in his belly.

“Duncan… I — I’m sensitive —” Daeron whimpered, even as his hips twitched upward instinctively.

Duncan’s huge hands settled on Daeron’s thighs, thumbs stroking soothing circles. “I know, my prince,” he said softly, voice full of gentle reassurance. “You’re still shaking. But you can take a little more for me, can’t you? Just a little. I want to make you feel good.”

He leaned down and dragged the blunt head of his cock slowly along Daeron’s slick, sensitive entrance — teasing, not entering, just rubbing the leaking tip against the fluttering rim. Daeron gasped sharply, hips jerking.

“Too much — wait — I want it — but it’s too much —” Daeron’s voice was wrecked, tears still slipping from the corners of his eyes. He was torn between overwhelming sensitivity and desperate need, his body trying to pull away and push closer at the same time.

Duncan’s voice stayed low and soothing. “Shh. I know, pretty prince. You’re so sensitive right now. But you’re doing so well. Look at you… still so eager for me even after coming twice.” He kept teasing the head of his cock against Daeron’s entrance, pressing just enough to nudge inside the rim before pulling back, over and over.

Daeron sobbed softly, hands fisting the sheets. “Please — Duncan — I need you — don’t stop — but it’s so much —”

Duncan finally pushed inside — slow, careful, inch by thick inch — until he was buried to the hilt. Daeron cried out, back arching again, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks at the overwhelming stretch and fullness.

“Fuck — so big — filling me —” Daeron’s voice broke into a whimper.

Duncan held still for a moment, letting Daeron adjust, his hands braced on the bed on either side of Daeron’s head so he wouldn’t crush him. “You feel so good,” he groaned, voice rough with pleasure. “So hot and tight around me. My pretty, perfect prince. You’re taking me so well even though you’re so sensitive.”

He started to move — slow, deep rolls of his hips, dragging his thick cock along Daeron’s walls with every thrust. Daeron clung to him desperately, arms wrapped around Duncan’s neck, legs hooked around his waist, nails digging into the broad muscles of Duncan’s back.

“You’re so strong,” Daeron gasped between moans, voice shaky. “You could crush me if you wanted… but you’re so gentle — gods, I love it —”

Duncan moaned softly, hips snapping a little deeper. “I’d never hurt you. I just want to make you feel good. My handsome prince… so beautiful when you let me have you like this. I’m so grateful you trust me with this. So grateful you let me inside you.”

Daeron’s cock was hardening again against his stomach, despite the overwhelming sensitivity. Every deep thrust made him whimper and cling tighter.

Duncan noticed and smiled tenderly. “Look at you… getting hard for me again. My pretty prince is so eager.” He kept one hand braced on the bed, the other sliding down to wrap loosely around Daeron’s cock, stroking slowly. “Can you give me one more, my love? Just one more orgasm for me. Touch yourself while I fuck you. I want to watch you come while I’m inside you.”

Daeron sobbed, tears streaming, but he obeyed — his own hand wrapping around his oversensitive cock, stroking in shaky, desperate pulls while Duncan continued to fuck him deep and steady.

“You’re doing so well,” Duncan praised, voice warm and full of awe. “So beautiful. So perfect. My handsome prince… taking my cock so deep even when you’re this sensitive. I’m so lucky you let me have you. So lucky you trust me like this.”

Daeron’s strokes grew faster, more desperate, even as fresh tears fell. His body was shaking violently, caught between too much pleasure and the need for more.

Duncan leaned down and kissed him — deep, loving, swallowing every broken moan and whimper. “Come for me again, pretty prince,” he whispered against Daeron’s lips. “Let me feel you clench around me one more time.”

Daeron came with a shattered sob — dry this time, his cock twitching weakly in his own hand, body convulsing hard as wave after wave of intense, almost painful pleasure ripped through him. His hole clamped down rhythmically around Duncan’s cock, milking him.

Duncan groaned deeply, hips stuttering. “That’s it — good boy — so perfect —” He thrust a few more times, then pulled out with a wet sound. He stroked himself fast, aiming at Daeron’s stomach and chest, and came with a low, guttural moan — thick ropes of white painting Daeron’s flushed skin, mixing with the mess already there.

Daeron was floaty, trembling, tears still slipping down his cheeks from the overwhelming pleasure. He looked completely wrecked — eyes glassy, body limp, chest heaving.

Duncan leaned down and kissed him again — slow, tender, grounding. “I’ve got you,” he whispered against Daeron’s lips. “You did so well, my pretty prince. So beautiful for me.”

He got up briefly to fetch a clean, warm cloth from the washstand. With gentle, careful strokes he wiped Daeron clean — first his stomach and chest, then between his thighs, then his spent cock. Daeron whimpered softly at the touch, still sensitive.

When they were both clean, Duncan climbed back into bed and pulled Daeron into his arms, wrapping the prince against his broad chest. Daeron curled into him immediately, head tucked under Duncan’s chin, legs tangled with the knight’s.

“You’re safe,” Duncan murmured, stroking Daeron’s sandy hair. “I’ve got you. Sleep now, my handsome prince. I’ll be right here when the dreams come.”

Daeron sighed shakily, already drifting. “Thank you… for seeing me. For wanting me even when I’m like this.”

Duncan pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Always. You’re mine to take care of. Rest, Daeron. I’ve got you.”

They lay tangled together — giant knight and trembling prince — breathing in sync as the candle burned lower and the night deepened around them.

Chapter Text

With only six days left until the court abandoned Summerhall for the capital, the castle lingered in a state of transition. It was caught between the tranquil warmth of the Stormlands and the jagged intrigues awaiting them at the Red Keep. Prince Baelor finally walked without the burden of pain, his growing dark hair shimmering in the sun as he shared the battlements with Maekar. Down in the courtyard, Daeron’s training sessions had lost their heavy, joyless edge. Even young Aegon had grown less vocal with his usual grumbles about “disgusting dragons.” A sense of relief permeated the halls; the staff worked with a spring in their step, the sentries traded easy grins, and the entire fortress seemed to finally exhale.

Aerion Targaryen hated all of it.

The second son of Maekar had always been a wildfire — quick to burn, quick to scar, quick to lash out when the world refused to bend to his will. But the past weeks had twisted something deeper in him. Every smile Duncan gave the others felt like a knife sliding between his ribs. He watched the giant knight laugh with Egg in the training yard, lifting the boy onto his shoulders so the child could reach the practice dummy. He saw Duncan carry Baelor’s books without being asked, or share quiet words with Daeron after dinner, or let Daella and Rhae climb all over him like a living tree. Every gentle touch, every patient smile, every moment Duncan gave freely to the rest of the family made the scars on Aerion’s cheek burn hotter.

He said he would share, Aerion thought bitterly, purple eyes narrowing as he spied from a shadowed balcony. He promised I could have him too. But he smiles at them like they’re the only ones who matter.

The jealousy was irrational, he knew that. He had told Duncan he would share him with the family. But the words had tasted like ash even as he spoke them. Duncan was his first — the man who had bled for him, who had matched his madness, who had pinned him down and still called him “my dragon” with such terrifying tenderness. And now the others were taking pieces of him, day after day, and Aerion felt like he was being slowly erased from the center of Duncan’s attention.

So he started to push. It began small.

Aerion “accidentally” tripped Duncan in the corridor outside the great hall. The giant stumbled but caught himself against the wall. Aerion smirked.

“Oaf,” he drawled, loud enough for a passing servant to hear. “Still tripping over your own feet even with all that size?”

Duncan blinked, confused but not angry, bright blue eyes searching Aerion’s face. “Prince Aerion… you all right?”

Aerion stalked away without answering, heart pounding, a sick thrill twisting in his chest. Look at me. Pay attention to me.

Later, while Duncan trained Egg in the yard, Aerion leaned against a pillar and called out loud enough for the whole yard to hear.

“Careful, little brother. Don’t let the hedge knight drop you. He’s only good at dropping to his knees.”

Egg turned bright red and swung his wooden sword wildly at Aerion’s legs. Duncan stepped between them instantly, voice calm but puzzled, one big hand gently catching Egg’s wrist.

“Aerion, what’s gotten into you?”

Aerion spat on the ground and left, fists clenched, the jealousy burning hotter.

He spied on them from the balcony — Duncan training Egg on the yard. The easy laughter between them made something ugly twist in Aerion’s chest. He never smiled at me like that. That night he “bumped” into Duncan hard enough to make the knight drop the clothes he was carrying. The giant caught them before they hit the floor, but Aerion hissed, eyes glittering with malice.

“Clumsy beast,” Aerion hissed, eyes glittering.

Duncan caught his wrist before he could walk away, grip firm but never bruising. “Talk to me. Did I do something wrong after our night together?”

Aerion yanked free and disappeared into the shadows, pulse racing.

The breaking point came in the training yard the next afternoon. Duncan was sparring with the Summerhall master-at-arms under the watchful eyes of Maekar and Aegon. The giant moved with surprising grace for his size — controlled power, perfect footwork, every strike measured and precise. Maekar watched with crossed arms, a faint approving nod on his lips. Egg cheered every time Duncan landed a clean blow.

Aerion strode in, silver hair loose and wild, the twin scars on his cheek stark in the sunlight. He stopped at the edge of the yard and called out, voice sharp and loud enough to carry.

“Still playing at being a real knight, hedge oaf? Or are you just waiting for someone to bend you over something again?”

The yard went dead silent.

Egg’s face flushed scarlet with fury. “You leave him alone!”

Maekar’s pale violet eyes narrowed dangerously. “Aerion. Enough.”

The master-at-arms lowered his sword, looking uncomfortable. Duncan stood there, chest heaving slightly from the spar, bright blue eyes genuinely hurt and confused. I thought we had something real that night. Why is he doing this?

Maekar crossed the yard in long strides and grabbed Aerion by the back of his tunic, marching him out like a misbehaving squire. “Apologize to Ser Duncan,” he growled once they were out of earshot. “Now.”

Aerion only snarled and pulled away, heart hammering with a toxic mix of jealousy, rage, and something dangerously close to fear. He needed Duncan to look at him again. To want only him. To remember who had first drawn blood and fire between them.

The afternoon sun hung heavy over Summerhall, turning the stone corridors golden and warm. But inside Maekar Targaryen’s solar, the air felt thick with tension. The prince paced before the hearth, silver hair loose, pale violet eyes narrowed in frustration. Letters from the small council lay scattered across the table, reminders of the viper pit waiting in King’s Landing. His children were mostly ready — Daeron was quieter these days, Egg was excited, the girls excited — but Aerion…

Aerion was being a nightmare.

His second son had spent the last two days pushing every boundary: sharp comments at meals, “accidental” shoves in the corridors, mocking Duncan in front of the entire training yard. Maekar loved his wild boy more than he could say, but by the gods, the boy was testing every last ounce of his patience.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

“Come,” Maekar growled.

Duncan stepped inside, ducking slightly. He closed the door behind him with a quiet click and offered a respectful nod.

“You wanted to see me, my prince?”

Maekar stopped pacing and rubbed the back of his neck, wincing at the familiar knot of tension there. “It’s Aerion. He’s been… impossible.  Insulting you in front of everyone, acting like a spoiled child who needs to be reminded who he belongs to.” His pale violet eyes met Duncan’s bright blue ones, a flicker of heat and exhaustion in them. “I love the boy. But right now he needs to be put in his place. And I want you there when I do it.”

Duncan’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened with understanding. “As you wish, Your Grace. I’ll follow your lead.”

Maekar nodded once, sharp and decisive. “Good. Go fetch him. Tell him his father and his knight want to see him in his own chambers. Now.”

Duncan bowed his head and left without another word.

Ten minutes later the door opened again. Aerion strode in first, his purple eyes flicked between his father and Duncan, a defiant smirk already curling his lips.

“You summoned me?” he drawled, voice dripping with mockery. “What, have I been a bad little prince again?”

Maekar’s jaw tightened. He stepped forward and grabbed Aerion by the front of his tunic, yanking him closer. “You’ve been a brat,” he said flatly. “Pushing Duncan. Insulting him, making everybody uncomfortable. Acting like the world owes you something because you’re my son. Tonight you’re going to learn what happens to brats in this family.”

Aerion’s smirk faltered for half a second, but the spark of dark delight in his eyes betrayed him. He liked this — the attention, the focus, the promise of being put in his place by the two men he craved most.

Duncan closed the door and bolted it. His voice was calm, but firm. “You’ve been testing us, Aerion. It stops now.”

Maekar pushed Aerion toward the bed. “On your front. Hands above your head.”

Aerion obeyed with a theatrical sigh, but his breathing had already quickened. He stretched out on the wide bed, arms raised. Maekar produced a length of soft silk ribbon from his pocket and quickly bound Aerion’s wrists together, then tied them to the heavy wooden headboard.

Aerion tugged experimentally at the bonds, purple eyes glittering. “You really think this will make me behave?”

Maekar’s hand came down sharply on Aerion’s leather-clad ass in a firm, warning smack. “It’s a start.”

Duncan moved to the head of the bed and sat down, his massive frame making the mattress dip. He gently guided Aerion’s head into his lap, one big hand resting on the prince’s silver hair, stroking slowly.

“Be good for us, my prince,” Duncan said quietly, voice low and steady. “Your father and I are going to take care of you. But you don’t get to touch. Not tonight.”

Aerion’s breath hitched. The humiliation of being tied and positioned like this — head in Duncan’s lap, ass presented for Maekar — sent a dark thrill through him.

Maekar knelt behind him on the bed. His hands slid over Aerion’s leather-clad ass, squeezing firmly. “Count for me, boy.”

The first smack landed — not brutally hard, but sharp enough to sting and leave a warm bloom of heat. Aerion gasped.

“One.”

Another smack, on the other cheek. “Two.”

Maekar kept a steady rhythm, alternating cheeks, each slap firm and deliberate. The sound echoed in the chamber — sharp, rhythmic cracks that made Aerion’s cock throb harder against the bed.

“Three — fuck — four —”

Aerion’s voice started steady, almost defiant, but by the sixth smack it had turned breathy. By the tenth he was squirming, hips twitching, cheeks flushed dark.

“Eleven — ah — twelve —”

Maekar’s hand paused, rubbing soothing circles over the warmed leather. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice rough with arousal. “Already hard from a few smacks. Such a needy little brat.”

Duncan’s big hand stroked through Aerion’s silver hair, gentle but controlling. “You’re doing so well,” he praised softly. “Taking your punishment like a good dragon. Keep counting for your father.”

Maekar resumed — firmer now, each smack making Aerion’s body jolt forward into Duncan’s lap. The prince’s cock was fully hard, trapped uncomfortably against the bed, leaking steadily.

“Fifteen — gods — sixteen — fuck—”

Aerion’s voice cracked. The humiliation burned, but so did the heat pooling low in his belly. Being tied, held down by Duncan’s steady presence, spanked by his own father — it was mortifying and intoxicating all at once.

Maekar’s hand slid lower, cupping Aerion’s ass and squeezing. “You’re not allowed to touch us,” he reminded him, voice dark. “You only get to feel what we give you.”

Duncan’s free hand slid down Aerion’s chest, pinching a nipple through the tunic until the prince whimpered. “That’s right, Aerion. Behave for us. Let us take care of you.”

Aerion was panting now, cheeks flushed, cock aching. Every smack made him jolt, every praise from Duncan made him throb. He was so hard it hurt, and he couldn’t do anything but take it.

Maekar delivered two more firm smacks, then rubbed the warmed flesh soothingly. “Twenty. Good boy.”

Aerion was trembling, breath coming in short gasps, face buried against Duncan’s thigh. His cock was leaking steadily onto the sheets, the front of his breeches dark with it.

Duncan’s voice was gentle but firm as he stroked Aerion’s hair. “You’re so pretty when you’re like this. All flushed and desperate. My wild prince, learning to behave.”

Maekar’s hand slid between Aerion’s legs from behind, palming the hard bulge through the leather. “Look at you. Soaked already. And we’ve barely started.”

Aerion whimpered, hips twitching helplessly. “Touch me properly… I’ll behave — I swear —”

The two men exchanged a look over Aerion’s trembling body — Maekar’s eyes dark with satisfaction, Duncan’s bright blue ones warm with affection.

“Good,” Maekar said, voice low. “Because we’re not finished with you yet.”

Maekar’s hand paused on Aerion’s warmed ass, rubbing slow, soothing circles over the flushed skin. “Strip him,” he ordered, voice low and rough with command. “And strip yourself. I want to see both of you.”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes met Maekar’s for a brief, heated glance, then he nodded. With careful but efficient movements, the giant knight untied the silk ribbon binding Aerion’s wrists, only to immediately re-tie them together in front of the prince’s chest so Aerion could still be positioned the same way. Aerion’s breath hitched as Duncan’s huge hands worked the laces of his tunic, pulling the fabric open and sliding it off his shoulders, revealing the lean, pale chest. Then the breeches were tugged down, Aerion’s hard, leaking cock springing free, flushed dark and twitching against his stomach.

Duncan stripped himself next — tunic pulled over his head in one smooth motion, revealing the broad, tanned expanse of his chest, the heavy muscle of his arms and shoulders. His breeches followed, his thick, heavy cock springing free.

They returned to position without a word. Duncan sat back against the headboard, guiding Aerion’s head into his lap once more, one massive hand resting possessively in the silver hair. Maekar knelt behind Aerion on the bed, powerful thighs bracketing the prince’s hips, his own thick cock hard and heavy against the curve of Aerion’s ass.

Aerion was breathing fast, wrists bound in front of him, completely naked and exposed between the two larger men. His purple eyes were wild, cheeks flushed, cock leaking steadily onto his own stomach.

Maekar poured more oil into his palm, the liquid glistening in the candlelight. He slicked his fingers thoroughly, then pressed two thick digits against Aerion’s entrance, circling the tight rim slowly, teasingly.

“Start talking,” Maekar said to Duncan, voice low and commanding. “Tell him exactly what he did wrong. And keep touching him — but not his cock. Not yet.”

Duncan’s big hand stroked slowly through Aerion’s silver hair, then slid down to caress the prince’s face — thumb tracing the sharp line of his jaw, then brushing over his lower lip. “You’ve been a brat, Aerion,” he said gently but firmly, voice warm and steady. “Tripping me in the corridors. Mocking me in front of everyone. Trying to humiliate me in the yard. You know better than that.”

His fingers slipped between Aerion’s parted lips, pressing two thick digits onto the prince’s tongue. Aerion moaned around them, sucking instinctively, eyes fluttering.

Maekar finally pushed one slick finger inside Aerion’s entrance — slow, deliberate, stretching the tight heat. Aerion gasped sharply around Duncan’s fingers, hips twitching.

Duncan kept talking, voice low and soothing. “You said you’d share me with your family. But you’re acting like a spoiled child who doesn’t want to share his toys. That’s not how this works, my dragon.” His free hand stroked down Aerion’s neck, over his shoulders, then across his chest, thumb circling one pebbled nipple. “You’re going to behave for us tonight. You’re going to apologize properly. And you’re going to take what we give you without acting out.”

Maekar added a second finger, scissoring slowly, curling them to brush that sensitive spot inside. Aerion moaned loudly around Duncan’s fingers, back arching, cock twitching hard against his stomach.

“Behave,” Maekar growled, voice rough. “Promise me you’ll stop this nonsense, or I stop moving.”

Aerion’s eyes were glassy, desperate. He tried to speak around Duncan’s fingers, the words muffled and wet. “I — mmmph — I’ll behave —”

Duncan pulled his fingers from Aerion’s mouth just enough for him to speak clearly. “Say it properly, Aerion.”

“I’m sorry,” Aerion gasped, voice cracking as Maekar’s fingers curled again. “I was — ah — a brat — I’ll behave — please —”

Maekar hummed in approval and continued the slow, thorough preparation — two fingers stretching and scissoring, then a third, all while Duncan’s hands roamed: stroking Aerion’s face, tracing his lips, caressing his throat, rolling his nipples between thumb and forefinger, sliding down to rub slow circles over his stomach.

Aerion was trembling, moaning constantly, cock leaking steadily onto his own skin. Every time he got close — hips stuttering, breath hitching — Duncan’s huge hand slid down and wrapped firmly around the base of his cock, squeezing just enough to stop the orgasm.

“Not yet,” Duncan murmured, voice gentle but unyielding. “You don’t get to come until we say so. Be good for us, my prince.”

Aerion whimpered, tears of frustration and overwhelming pleasure pricking at the corners of his eyes. “Please — I need — it’s not enough —”

Maekar’s fingers kept working him open, slow and relentless, curling against his prostate with every stroke. “You’ll get what you need when you behave. Apologize again. Mean it.”

“I’m sorry — I’m sorry — I’ll be good — please —”

Duncan leaned down and kissed Aerion’s forehead, then his scarred cheek, whispering praise against his skin. “That’s my dragon… so pretty when you’re like this. Taking your punishment so well. You’re doing so good for us.”

Aerion was a mess — flushed, trembling, leaking everywhere, wrists bound, caught between the two men who controlled every inch of his pleasure. Maekar’s fingers stretched him open with wet, obscene sounds, Duncan’s hands worshiped every part of him except the one place he desperately needed.

When Aerion was finally open and ready, shaking and desperate, Maekar pulled his fingers free with a slow, wet glide. He sat back on his heels, cock hard and glistening, and looked down at his son with dark satisfaction.

“Are you going to behave now, Aerion?”

Aerion’s voice was wrecked, but the bratty spark flickered again. He smirked, breathless. “Make me.”

Maekar and Duncan exchanged a look over Aerion’s trembling body. Then Maekar leaned forward, cupping the back of Duncan’s head, and pulled the knight into a deep, filthy kiss right above Aerion’s face. Their tongues slid together, wet and possessive, moaning softly into each other’s mouths while Aerion was forced to watch, cock twitching helplessly between them.

Aerion whined, desperate and humiliated and so, so turned on. “Please — I’ll behave — I swear — I’m sorry — please fuck me —”

Maekar pulled back from the kiss, lips shiny, and looked down at his son with a satisfied smirk.

“Good boy.”

Maekar’s hands gripped Aerion’s hips hard enough to leave fresh bruises as he lined himself up. The thick head of his cock pressed against the slick, stretched entrance, teasing for one heartbeat before he thrust in — hard, fast, and deep, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke.

Aerion cried out sharply, the sound muffled as Duncan’s fingers were again in his mouth. His body jolted forward, wrists pulling uselessly against the silk ribbon binding them. The sudden, overwhelming fullness made his eyes roll back, a broken moan vibrating around Duncan’s digits.

“Fuck — Father — so deep —”

Maekar didn’t give him time to adjust. He pulled back almost to the tip and slammed in again, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm — hard, fast thrusts that made the bedframe creak and the wet slap of skin on skin echo obscenely through the chamber. Every powerful snap of his hips drove his thick cock deep into Aerion’s heat, the angle perfect to grind against his prostate on every stroke.

“You’ve been a little shit all week,” Maekar growled, voice low and rough, one hand sliding up Aerion’s back to grip his silver hair and yank his head back. “Pushing Ser Duncan’s patience. Acting like a spoiled brat who needs to be reminded who he belongs to.”

Aerion moaned loudly around Duncan’s fingers, the sound wet and desperate. His body rocked forward with every brutal thrust, cock leaking steadily onto the sheets beneath him.

Duncan pulled his fingers from Aerion’s mouth with a wet pop, then leaned down and captured his lips in a deep, filthy kiss. His tongue slid against Aerion’s, tasting the prince’s moans as Maekar fucked him harder.

“You want my cock in your mouth, Aerion?” Duncan whispered hotly against his swollen lips, thumb brushing the corner of Aerion’s mouth. “You want to be a good prince for me and suck me while your father fucks you open?”

Aerion nodded frantically, tears of overwhelming pleasure already slipping from the corners of his purple eyes. “Yes — please — give it to me — I’ll be good — I’ll suck you so well —”

Duncan smiled, slow and dark. He shifted slightly, guiding the thick, leaking head of his cock to Aerion’s lips. He teased first — rubbing the flushed crown across Aerion’s cheek, then along his lower lip, smearing precome across the soft skin.

“Open,” Duncan ordered gently.

Aerion parted his lips eagerly, tongue sliding out to taste the head. Duncan pushed forward slowly, letting Aerion’s mouth stretch wide around his girth. The prince moaned loudly around the thick length, eyes fluttering as Maekar continued to fuck him with deep, punishing strokes.

Maekar’s hand slid down Aerion’s back, nails scraping lightly, then moved to pinch and roll one of his nipples. “That’s it,” he growled, hips snapping harder. “Take your knight’s cock while I fuck you. You’ve been such a brat — this is what you get. And you’re lucky Duncan is so gentle and kind with all of us. Don’t ever forget that.”

He delivered a sharp, stinging smack to Aerion’s ass — not as hard as the earlier spanking, but enough to make the prince jolt and moan around Duncan’s cock.

Aerion’s sounds were muffled and wet now — desperate, filthy slurping and gagging noises as he tried to take Duncan deeper. Duncan’s big hand threaded through the silver hair, not forcing, but guiding, holding Aerion’s head steady while he rocked his hips forward in shallow thrusts.

“Easy, my dragon,” Duncan murmured, voice rough with pleasure. “You’re doing so well. Taking both of us like this. My good, pretty prince.”

Aerion’s eyes watered as Duncan’s cock slid deeper into his throat. He swallowed around the thick length, moaning loudly when Maekar’s next thrust hit his prostate perfectly. His own cock was throbbing hard against the sheets, leaking steadily, but neither man touched it yet.

Duncan felt the familiar tightening in Aerion’s throat and pulled back slightly, letting the prince breathe. “You’re so hot inside,” he groaned, thumb stroking Aerion’s cheek. “So tight around my cock. You look beautiful like this — mouth full, getting fucked by your father. Such a good dragon for us.”

Aerion moaned brokenly around him, trying to push forward again, desperate to take more. Duncan obliged, sliding back into his throat with a low groan, feeling the tight heat constrict around him.

Maekar kept the brutal pace, hips slamming forward, one hand gripping Aerion’s hip hard enough to bruise, the other alternating between pinching his nipples and delivering sharp, stinging smacks to his ass.

“You don’t get to come yet,” Maekar growled, voice strained with his own pleasure. “Your father and your knight come first. That’s your punishment, boy. You only get to come when we say so.”

Aerion whimpered desperately around Duncan’s cock, the sound vibrating beautifully along the thick length. His body was trembling, tears slipping down his flushed cheeks from the pleasure and the denial.

Duncan’s hand tightened gently in Aerion’s silver hair as he started to move a little more — shallow, careful thrusts into the prince’s throat, fucking his mouth with slow, controlled strokes. “That’s it… take me deeper… good boy… you’re so perfect like this.”

Maekar’s thrusts grew faster, harder, the wet slap of skin on skin loud and obscene. He leaned forward, one hand bracing on the bed beside Aerion’s head, the other reaching around to pinch and tug at a nipple again.

“Fuck — you feel so good,” Maekar groaned, voice rough. “Tight and hot and desperate. My wild boy… learning to behave for once.”

Duncan and Maekar leaned over Aerion’s trembling body and kissed each other deeply above him — tongues sliding, moans shared — while they continued to use the prince between them. Aerion moaned loudly around Duncan’s cock at the sight, the vibration making Duncan groan into Maekar’s mouth.

Duncan came first — hips stuttering, a deep, guttural moan spilling from his throat as he flooded Aerion’s mouth with thick, hot pulses. Aerion swallowed desperately, some of it leaking from the corners of his lips, eyes watering as he tried to take everything.

Duncan pulled out slowly, breathing hard, and immediately cupped Aerion’s face with both hands, thumbs wiping away the tears and the mess on his chin. “Good boy,” he whispered tenderly. “You took me so well. My perfect dragon.”

Maekar fucked Aerion harder now, hips snapping with punishing force, the bed creaking loudly under them. “Hold him, Duncan. He’s going to fall apart when I come.”

Duncan wrapped his arms around Aerion’s chest, holding him steady, pressing soft kisses to the top of his head and the scars on his cheek. Maekar thrust a few more times, deep and brutal, then pulled out with a low groan. He stroked himself fast, aiming at Aerion’s back, and came hard — thick ropes of white painting the prince’s spine and the curve of his ass.

Aerion was a wreck — trembling violently, cock throbbing painfully hard and untouched, tears streaming down his flushed face. He was so aroused he could barely think, desperate and aching and needy.

Maekar knelt behind Aerion, hands sliding slowly over his back and ass, spreading the warm, thick mess of his own come across the prince’s flushed skin. The sight was obscene — Aerion trembling, bound, covered in his father’s spend, cock throbbing painfully hard and untouched between his legs.

“You’re going to come now,” Maekar said, voice low and commanding but warm with dark satisfaction. “But only when we say. And you’re not allowed to touch yourself. Not tonight. You’re going to grind on Duncan like the desperate little brat you’ve been.”

Aerion whimpered, the sound broken and needy. His wrists were still tied together; Duncan gently guided the bound arms up and around his own thick neck, so Aerion’s hands were now locked behind the knight’s head, fingers linked helplessly. The position forced Aerion’s chest flush against Duncan’s broad torso, his hard, leaking cock trapped between their stomachs.

Duncan’s huge hands settled on Aerion’s waist, thumbs stroking the sharp hipbones. “Go on, my dragon,” he murmured tenderly against Aerion’s ear. “Rut against me. Show us how badly you need it.”

Aerion’s breath hitched. He started to move — slow, hesitant rolls of his hips at first, grinding his aching cock against the firm, warm muscle of Duncan’s stomach. The friction was maddeningly light, not nearly enough, but the sheer humiliation of being made to rut like this made his cock twitch harder, leaking steadily between them.

“Faster,” Maekar ordered from behind, one hand gripping Aerion’s hip and guiding him into a more desperate rhythm. “Don’t be shy. You were so bold when you were insulting Duncan in front of everyone. Now show us how desperate you really are.”

Aerion moaned brokenly, pressing his face into Duncan’s neck as he started to rut harder — hips rolling frantically, cock sliding slickly against Duncan’s abs, the wet, filthy sound of skin on skin filling the room. Every grind sent sparks of pleasure through him, but it wasn’t enough. He was so close, so sensitive, yet the angle and the lack of direct touch kept him teetering on the edge without letting him fall.

“Fuck — please — it’s not enough —” Aerion’s voice was wrecked, desperate. “I need more — let me come — please —”

Duncan’s big hands tightened on Aerion’s waist, controlling the frantic movements, forcing him to keep grinding slow and deliberate instead of the desperate pace Aerion wanted. “Not yet,” he whispered gently against Aerion’s temple. “You’re going to earn it, my pretty dragon. Keep moving for me. Show me how much you need us.”

Aerion whimpered in frustration, hips rolling faster despite Duncan’s controlling grip. Tears of overwhelming need pricked at the corners of his purple eyes. “I’m sorry — I’ll behave — please — I’m so close —”

Maekar leaned forward from behind, one hand sliding up Aerion’s spine, the other reaching around to cup his son’s jaw. He turned Aerion’s face toward him and kissed him slowly, deeply — tongue sliding against Aerion’s in a lazy, possessive glide, swallowing every desperate moan.

At the same time, Duncan’s huge hand finally wrapped around Aerion’s throbbing cock, stroking with slow, firm pulls, thumb circling the sensitive head and spreading the mess of precome.

Aerion sobbed into Maekar’s mouth, hips stuttering wildly between them. The dual sensation — Maekar’s deep, claiming kiss and Duncan’s perfect, steady strokes — was too much. He came hard, cock pulsing violently in Duncan’s fist, thick ropes of white spilling over the knight’s hand and across both their stomachs and chests.

Duncan kept stroking him through it, milking every last shuddering spurt while Maekar continued the slow, filthy kiss, swallowing every broken cry.

When the last weak pulse faded, Aerion collapsed forward against Duncan’s chest, trembling violently, tears slipping down his flushed cheeks. He was completely wrecked — floaty, oversensitive, and quietly crying from the intensity of it all.

Duncan held him close with both arms, one hand stroking through his silver hair, the other rubbing soothing circles on his back. “Shh, my dragon. You did so well. So perfect for us.”

Maekar pulled back from the kiss and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of Aerion’s neck. “Good boy,” he murmured, voice warm. “You took your punishment beautifully.”

They stayed like that for long minutes — Aerion safely held between them, still trembling, while Duncan and Maekar murmured soft praise and stroked him gently and untied his wrists.

Eventually Maekar stood, stretching his powerful frame. He leaned down and kissed Aerion’s forehead, then Duncan’s lips — slow and tender.

“I’ll leave you two,” he said quietly, a small, satisfied smile on his lips. “Take care of him, Duncan. He needs it tonight.”

Duncan nodded, arms tightening protectively around the trembling prince. “I’ve got him.”

Maekar dressed quietly and left the chamber, the door closing softly behind him.

Duncan gently laid Aerion down on the bed, then fetched a clean, warm cloth and a cup of water. He wiped Aerion clean with careful, loving strokes — first the mess on his stomach and chest, then between his thighs, then his spent, oversensitive cock. Aerion whimpered softly at the touch, still too sensitive, but he leaned into it, trusting completely.

“Drink,” Duncan said softly, holding the cup to Aerion’s lips. The prince obeyed, sipping slowly, eyes half-lidded and glassy.

Once Aerion was clean and hydrated, Duncan climbed back into bed and pulled him close, wrapping the silver-haired prince securely against his broad chest. Aerion curled into him, head tucked under Duncan’s chin.

Duncan stroked his hair slowly, pressing soft kisses to the top of his head. “You can come find me anytime, Aerion,” he whispered tenderly. “For talking. For sparring. For fucking. Whenever you need me. But no more of the cruel, bratty behavior. I won’t let you push me or the others away like that again. I’m here for you — all of you — but you have to let me in. You have to trust me to take care of you, even when you’re jealous or scared.”

Aerion made a small, shaky sound against Duncan’s neck, clinging tighter. “I… I was scared you’d forget me,” he admitted, voice small and raw. “That they’d take all of you and I’d be left with nothing.”

Duncan held him closer, one big hand rubbing slow circles on Aerion’s back. “Never. You’re my dragon. My wild, beautiful dragon. I’m not going anywhere. But you have to stop hurting the people who love you to get my attention. Understand?”

Aerion nodded against his chest, tears slipping silently. “I understand.”

Duncan kissed the top of his head again, voice warm and full of quiet promise. “Good. Now rest, my dragon. I’ve got you.”

They stayed tangled together like that — giant knight and trembling prince — breathing in sync as the candle burned lower and the night deepened around them.

Chapter Text

Ser Duncan the Tall woke early, as always. He dressed quickly in a simple tunic and breeches, golden-red hair still tousled from sleep, and made his way through the quiet eastern wing toward Aegon’s chambers. Today Duncan had decided to change the routine. He wanted Egg to feel special — to know that the giant knight was choosing him first, especially with King’s Landing drawing closer and the attention of the older princes pulling Duncan in so many directions.

He pushed open the door to Aegon’s room gently, the heavy oak creaking softly. The chamber was still dim, morning light only just beginning to filter through the narrow windows. Egg was buried under a pile of furs and silk sheets, only the top of his  head — with a faint silver dust of hair growing — visible, one small hand clutching the edge of the blanket.

Duncan smiled, the expression warm and fond. He crossed the room on quiet feet and sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping noticeably under his massive weight. He reached out and gently ruffled the boy’s head.

“Time to wake up, little prince,” he said softly, voice low and affectionate. “We have a very busy day ahead. You and me. No one else.”

Egg stirred, blinking sleepily, violet eyes slowly focusing on the giant knight sitting beside him. A slow, delighted grin spread across his face.

“Ser Duncan?” he mumbled, voice still thick with sleep. “You came to my room?”

“I did,” Duncan chuckled, giving the boy’s head another gentle ruffle. “Figured it was about time I woke you up for once. Come on, Egg. Breakfast first, then we’ve got plans. Real plans. Just you and me.”

Egg sat up quickly, rubbing his eyes, the grin widening. “Plans? What kind of plans?”

“You’ll see,” Duncan said mysteriously, standing up and offering one huge hand. “But first, food. You’re going to need your strength today.”

Egg took the offered hand without hesitation, letting Duncan pull him out of bed and onto his feet. The boy dressed quickly and followed. He clung to Duncan’s hand as they left the chamber, small feet pattering beside the knight’s long strides.

They made their way to the small family solar where breakfast was usually laid out. The room was quiet, only one figure already there. Prince Baelor Breakspear sat at the table, dark hair tousled, mismatched eyes still heavy with sleep as he read through a stack of letters from King’s Landing. He wore a loose robe the color of deep wine, one hand absently cradling a cup of hot tea while the other turned a page.

Baelor looked up as they entered, a slow, warm smile spreading across his face. “Good morning, you two. You’re up early.”

“Ser Duncan woke me,” Egg announced proudly, climbing into his usual seat. “We have plans today. Just us.”

Baelor’s mismatched eyes sparkled with quiet amusement as he glanced at Duncan. “Is that so? Well, I won’t keep you. Eat well, Aegon. And Duncan… thank you. For everything.”

Duncan gave a respectful nod, his bright blue eyes soft. “Always, Your Grace.”

Breakfast was simple but plentiful: warm bread with butter and honey, soft-boiled eggs, fresh fruit, and cold meats. Egg ate with enthusiasm, chattering between bites. Duncan listened patiently, nodding and asking questions, his huge frame making the bench creak slightly whenever he shifted. Baelor watched them over the rim of his cup, a small, contented smile on his lips, occasionally offering a quiet comment or passing Egg another piece of bread.

When they finished, Duncan stood and offered Egg his hand again. “Ready, little prince?”

Egg nodded eagerly, slipping his small hand into the giant’s. “Ready!”

They left the solar together, Duncan’s long strides matched by Egg’s excited skipping. Baelor watched them go, his mismatched eyes warm with affection, before turning back to his letters with a quiet sigh of contentment.

Outside, the morning air was crisp and cool. Duncan led Egg straight to the stables, where Thunder and Chestnut waited in their stalls. The two horses nickered softly as they approached — Thunder, the big black destrier, and Chestnut, the steady, reliable brown mare Duncan had taken a liking to for Egg’s lessons.

Egg’s eyes lit up. “Are we riding today?”

“Better,” Duncan said, a mischievous glint in his bright blue eyes. He opened Thunder’s stall and began saddling the big horse with practiced ease. “We’re going to work on your horseriding. Proper work. Out in the forest surrounding Summerhall. No practice rings today. Real terrain. Real challenges. You ready for that, Egg?”

Egg’s face split into a huge grin. “Yes! Can I ride Chestnut? She’s nice and steady.”

Duncan chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “She’s yours today. I’ll take Thunder and keep an eye on you. But you’re going to do most of the work yourself. I’ll be right beside you the whole time.”

They led the horses out into the yard, the morning sun warming their backs. Duncan helped Egg mount Chestnut, making sure the boy’s stirrups were the right length and his seat was secure. Then he swung up onto Thunder with effortless grace, the big black horse barely shifting under his considerable weight.

“Ready?” Duncan asked, looking over at the small prince.

Egg nodded, gripping the reins tightly, violet eyes bright with excitement. “Ready!”

They rode out together through the gates and into the forest paths surrounding Summerhall. The trees were a mix of oak and beech, their leaves just beginning to turn gold at the edges. Sunlight dappled the ground, birds sang overhead, and the air smelled of pine and earth.

Duncan kept Thunder at a steady walk beside Chestnut, giving Egg quiet instructions as they went. “Heels down. Back straight. Let her feel your legs, not just the reins. Good — just like that.”

Egg listened intently, cheeks flushed with concentration and joy. Every time he managed a correct adjustment, Duncan praised him warmly: “There you go, Egg. You’re a natural. Look at you guiding her so well.”

They spent the entire morning like that — riding deeper into the forest, practicing turns, stops, and gentle trots on the softer paths. 

By the time the sun climbed higher and their stomachs began to rumble, they had covered a good stretch of the surrounding woods. Duncan reined Thunder in beside a small clearing with a stream bubbling nearby.

“Midday meal soon,” he said, smiling at the boy. “But first, let’s let the horses drink and rest a bit. You did well today, Egg. Really well.”

Egg beamed, patting Chestnut’s neck. “I like riding with you. It’s better than just the yard. Can we do this again in King’s Landing?”

Duncan’s expression softened. “We’ll find places to ride there too. I promise. You and me. Always.”

They dismounted, letting the horses drink from the stream while Duncan and Egg sat on a fallen log, sharing a quiet moment under the trees. The forest was peaceful around them — birds calling, leaves rustling, the gentle sound of water over stones.

The forest paths had been kind to them that morning, the dappled sunlight filtering through the turning leaves like scattered gold coins. By the time the sun climbed high and their stomachs began to rumble in earnest, Duncan and Aegon turned the horses back toward the castle. Thunder walked at a steady, powerful pace beside Chestnut, the big black destrier occasionally nudging the smaller mare with his nose as if checking on his smaller companion. Egg sat tall in the saddle, cheeks flushed with sun and excitement, his small hands confident on the reins after hours of patient guidance.

“You did really well today, Egg,” Duncan said, his deep voice warm with genuine pride. “You kept your heels down even on the uneven ground, and you listened to Chestnut when she told you she needed to slow down. That’s important. A good rider listens to his horse.”

Egg beamed, sitting up straighter.

They rode through the gates just as the midday bells began to ring across Summerhall. Grooms hurried forward to take the horses, offering respectful nods to Duncan and bright smiles to the young prince. Duncan helped Egg dismount, then the two of them walked side by side toward the family solar where lunch was already being laid out.

The solar was bright and airy, the long table set with fresh bread, roasted meats, soft cheeses, bowls of early autumn fruits, and pitchers of cool water and light wine. Most of the family was already there. Maekar sat at the head, silver hair tied back, pale violet eyes softening as he saw his youngest son enter with Duncan. Baelor was beside him, eyes warm and amused as he looked up from a letter. Aerion lounged further down the table. Daeron sat quietly beside him, sandy hair neat, pale violet eyes calm for once. Daella and Rhae were already bouncing in their seats, dark and silver braids swinging.

Egg practically skipped to the table, still buzzing with energy. “We went riding in the forest! Real riding! Not just the yard! Ser Duncan let me guide Chestnut on the paths and we saw a deer  and we practiced turning and stopping and everything!”

The words tumbled out in an excited rush. Maekar’s lips curved into a rare, genuine smile. “Did you now? And how did Chestnut behave?”

“She was perfect,” Egg said proudly, climbing into his seat. “Duncan said I listened to her really well. He said I’m getting stronger with my seat.”

Baelor chuckled softly, setting his letter aside. “High praise from Ser Duncan. I’m glad you had a good morning, Egg.”

Daella leaned forward, dark braids swinging. “Did you see any rabbits? Or foxes?”

Rhae’s silver curls bounced as she nodded eagerly. “Or birds? Big ones?”

Egg launched into an animated retelling, waving his hands as he described the forest paths, the stream they crossed, and the way Duncan had lifted him onto Thunder’s back for a few moments so he could see the world from even higher up. Duncan sat quietly beside him, eating steadily but listening with a small, fond smile, occasionally adding a detail or correcting a minor exaggeration with gentle humor.

Aerion watched the interaction with a faint smirk, but there was no sharp edge to it today — only a quiet, almost thoughtful expression as his purple eyes flicked between Egg and Duncan. Daeron, for his part, seemed calmer than he had been in days, his shoulders relaxed as he listened to his little brother’s excited chatter.

Lunch passed in warm, familial conversation. Maekar asked Egg questions about his riding form, offering quiet advice. Baelor listened with genuine interest, occasionally glancing at Duncan with that soft, appreciative look that always made the knight’s chest feel full. The girls peppered Duncan with questions about the horses and whether they could ride with him one day soon. Even Aerion contributed a dry comment about “not letting the hedge knight drop you on your head,” but it lacked its usual bite and earned a small laugh from the table.

When the meal ended, Duncan and Egg headed straight for the training yard for their mock-battles. The sun was warm on their backs as they walked across the grass, wooden swords in hand. Duncan had removed his tunic, fighting in just his breeches so he could move freely; the sight of his broad, scarred, sweat-glistened torso drew more than a few appreciative glances from the servants and guards nearby.

They started slowly — Duncan demonstrating forms, then letting Egg attack him with wild enthusiasm. The boy’s wooden sword clacked against Duncan’s practice blade again and again, the sounds sharp and rhythmic in the open air. Duncan corrected gently, praising every improvement, his deep voice carrying across the yard.

“Good — watch your footwork, Egg. There. Much better.”

After a while, Daeron wandered over. He carried a small stack of papers under one arm — letters or reports for his father, no doubt — and settled quietly beneath a nearby tree, back against the trunk. He didn’t say much, simply watched the training with calm violet eyes. Duncan’s presence, as always, seemed to ease something in him; his shoulders relaxed, his breathing slowed, and the constant tension that usually lined his face softened.

When Duncan and Egg finally paused for a break, both breathing hard and grinning, they joined Daeron under the tree. Duncan handed Egg a waterskin, then took one for himself, drinking deeply before passing it to Daeron.

“Thirsty work,” Duncan said with a warm smile, wiping sweat from his brow. “You’re getting faster every day, Egg.”

Egg beamed, taking a long drink. “I want to be as good as you one day.”

Daeron’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile as he accepted the waterskin. “You’re already better than I was at your age,” he said quietly, voice calm. “Keep practicing with Ser Duncan. He’s the best teacher for you.”

The peaceful moment was interrupted by the sound of running feet and high, excited voices.

Daella and Rhae came sprinting across the grass, dark and silver braids flying, laughing brightly. Behind them, looking thoroughly put-upon but carrying a large wicker basket, was Aerion.

“We brought a picnic!” Daella announced, skidding to a stop in front of them. “Cheese and bread and fruits and honey cakes!”

Rhae nodded eagerly, silver curls bouncing. “Aerion had to carry it because we made him!”

Aerion set the basket down with a dramatic sigh, but the corner of his mouth twitched in reluctant amusement. “Yes, yes, I’m the pack mule for the day. You’re welcome.”

Duncan chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “Looks like a fine feast. Thank you, little ladies. And thank you for carrying it, Aerion.”

Aerion’s purple eyes flicked to Duncan for a brief moment. When no one else was looking or listening, Duncan leaned in slightly and murmured, low enough for only Aerion to hear:

“My good dragon.”

Aerion’s cheeks flushed a faint pink, the compliment hitting him like a secret spark. He quickly looked away, but the small, pleased smirk that tugged at his lips betrayed him.

They spread the picnic right there under the tree — bread torn into pieces, cheese sliced with a small knife, fruits passed around, honey cakes shared with sticky fingers. Egg chattered happily, Daella and Rhae asked a hundred questions, Daeron listened with a rare, peaceful smile, and Aerion… Aerion watched Duncan with a quieter intensity, the earlier jealousy muted for now, replaced by something softer, almost hopeful.

Duncan sat in the middle of it all, massive frame relaxed against the tree trunk, one arm casually draped behind Egg, the other occasionally passing food or answering questions. The afternoon sun warmed their skin, the grass was soft beneath them, and for a little while the coming journey to King’s Landing felt far away.

It was a simple, perfect moment — a giant knight surrounded by the dragons who had claimed him, sharing bread and laughter under the trees of Summerhall.

The picnic under the tree had stretched lazily into the late afternoon. The basket was emptied of bread, cheese, and honey cakes, the last crumbs brushed from small fingers and tunics. Laughter and chatter had filled the clearing until the sun dipped lower and the air grew cooler. One by one the family began to drift back toward the castle — Daella and Rhae skipping ahead, holding hands and already planning what dresses they would wear in King’s Landing; Daeron gathering his papers with a rare, peaceful expression; Aerion trailing behind with a faint, satisfied smirk after Duncan had managed to steal a quick, secret brush of lips against his scarred cheek when no one was looking, whispering “Good boy” so softly only Aerion could hear. The prince had flushed with pleasure and walked a little taller the rest of the way.

Eventually only Duncan and Aegon remained in the quiet clearing. The horses had been led back earlier, and the two of them sat on the soft grass, the late afternoon light turning everything golden and warm.

Egg leaned against Duncan’s massive side, small shoulder pressed to the knight’s arm, wooden sword resting across his lap. “Can we keep practicing? I want to try the new footwork again before supper.”

Duncan looked down at the boy, his bright blue eyes soft with affection. He ruffled Egg’s smooth scalp gently, then let his big hand rest on the child’s shoulder. “We can practice a little more tomorrow, Egg. But right now… I think we need to talk. Just you and me. Come on.”

He stood, offering his huge hand. Egg took it without hesitation, though a small frown creased his brow. They walked together through the trees and back into the castle grounds, the late sunlight stretching their shadows long across the grass. Duncan led them to a quiet corner of the gardens near the heart tree — a stone bench tucked behind a low hedge where they could speak privately. He sat first, the bench creaking softly under his weight, then patted the space beside him.

Egg climbed up and sat close, legs swinging slightly, violet eyes curious but already a little wary. “What’s wrong? Did I do something bad today?”

Duncan shook his head immediately, turning so he could look the boy in the eye. His voice was low, warm, and very gentle. “No, Egg. You were wonderful today. You listened, you tried hard, and you had fun. I’m really proud of you.” He reached out and gently squeezed the boy’s small shoulder. “But we need to talk about what’s going to happen when we get to King’s Landing. Things are going to change a little bit there.”

Egg’s swinging legs stilled. His small face grew serious. “Change how?”

Duncan took a slow breath, choosing his words carefully. “I’m still going to be your knight, Egg. That part doesn’t change. I promised you I’d teach you, I’d protect you, and I’d be your Ser. And I’m going to keep that promise every single day. You’ll still be my squire. We’ll still train together. We’ll still have mornings like today when we can ride or practice or just talk.”

Egg nodded slowly, but his violet eyes were already clouding with worry. “But…?”

“But to be near the whole family — your father, Prince Baelor, Valarr, Daeron, Aerion, the girls — I’m also going to be their sworn sword. That’s the official title your uncle Baelor gave me. It means I have a reason to be close to all of them, all the time. In the Red Keep, in the halls, in the gardens. It’s a good, honorable position. It lets me protect everyone without people asking too many questions.”

Egg’s small hands tightened around the wooden sword in his lap. “So… you’re not just mine anymore?”

Duncan’s expression softened further. He shifted closer, wrapping one massive arm around Egg’s shoulders and pulling the boy gently against his side. “I’m still yours, Egg. First and always. You’re my squire. My first squire. That’s special. That’s ours. But yes… I’m going to have to spend time with the rest of your family too. And you’re going to have more lessons in King’s Landing. Maesters, history, politics, all the things a prince needs to learn. You won’t be able to spend every hour with me like we can here in Summerhall.”

Egg was quiet for a long moment. His lower lip trembled just a little. “I don’t want things to change,” he muttered, voice small and angry. “I like it here. I like having you all to myself sometimes. In King’s Landing there are going to be so many people and… and you’ll be busy with Father and Uncle Baelor and Aerion and everyone.”

Duncan’s arm tightened around him, big hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on the boy’s back. “I know it feels unfair. And it’s okay to be angry about it. I’d be disappointed too if I had to share you with everyone. But listen to me, Egg.” He tilted the boy’s chin up gently so their eyes met. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m still going to be right there with you. Training in the mornings, riding when we can. And when you have to go to lessons, I’ll be waiting for you afterward, and you can even teach me things too. I’m not leaving you behind. I promised, remember?”

Egg’s eyes were shiny, but he nodded slowly. “I remember.”

Duncan smiled, warm and reassuring. “And you know what? I’m really happy I met you. Even if I have to share a little bit of my time with the rest of your family… I wouldn’t trade meeting you for anything. You’re my favorite little dragon, Egg. My first squire. That’s never going to change.”

Egg sniffled once, then leaned harder into Duncan’s side, small arms wrapping as far around the knight’s broad torso as they could reach. “I’m happy I met you too,” he mumbled against Duncan’s tunic. “Even if I have to share you… you’re still my Ser. And I still get to be your squire.”

Duncan hugged him back, one huge hand gently stroking the boy’s bald head. “Always. No matter what happens in King’s Landing. You and me, Egg. We’ll figure it out together.”

They stayed like that for a long while, the late afternoon sun warming their backs, the distant sounds of the castle drifting on the breeze. When Egg finally pulled back, his violet eyes were clearer, though still a little sad.

“Can we still have secret mornings sometimes? Just us?”

Duncan smiled, bright blue eyes full of affection. “We’ll make sure of it. I promise.”

Egg nodded, satisfied for now. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and stood up, wooden sword in hand once more. “Then let’s go practice one more time before supper. I want to show you the new move I thought of.”

Duncan laughed softly and rose to his feet, offering the boy his hand again. “Lead the way, my squire.”

As they walked back toward the training yard, hand in small hand, the giant knight and the little prince looked like they belonged exactly where they were — together, no matter what the future in King’s Landing might bring.

The sun had long since dipped below the hills when Duncan finally left Egg at the door of the boy’s chambers. The little prince was yawning hugely, wooden sword still clutched in one small hand, but his eyes were bright with the memory of the whole perfect day they had shared. Duncan ruffled the growing hair gently, voice soft.

“Sleep well, little prince.”

Egg nodded, already half-asleep. “Goodnight, Ser Duncan. You’re… you’re the best knight. Even if I have to share you.”

Duncan’s chest tightened at the words. He watched the door close, then stood alone in the quiet corridor for a long moment, heart hammering like it had before his first tourney. The day with Egg had been easy — laughter, horses, wooden swords, simple joy. But now the weight of everything else pressed down on him.

He needed to see them. Just for a moment. Not to ask for anything. Just… to say it.

He found Baelor in the small private solar off the royal apartments. A single candle burned low on the table, casting warm light across the prince’s face. Baelor sat with a half-finished cup of wine, looking tired but peaceful. Maekar was there too, leaning against the window frame, silver hair loose, watching his brother with that quiet, protective fondness he only ever showed family.

Both men looked up when Duncan stepped in. Their expressions softened instantly.

“Ser Duncan,” Baelor said, voice warm. “Come in. You look like you’ve had a long day with Aegon.”

Duncan closed the door behind him, suddenly aware of how large he felt in the small room. His hands flexed at his sides. He had faced Aerion’s dagger, Maekar’s temper, the eyes of half the realm at the trial— yet right now his stomach was a knot of nerves.

“I… I wanted to speak with you both,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “If you’re not too tired.”

Maekar straightened, brow furrowing slightly. “Of course. Sit. You look like you’re about to face a dragon in single combat.”

Duncan managed a weak smile and lowered himself onto the bench opposite them. The candlelight caught on Baelor’s mismatched eyes and Maekar’s pale violet ones, and for a moment Duncan just looked at them — the first dragon he had ever loved, and the hard, surprising one who had stolen his heart anyway.

He swallowed hard. His fingers twisted together in his lap.

“I’ve been thinking all day,” he began, the words coming out rough. “About… about all of you. About what this is. What I feel.” He let out a shaky breath. “I’m not good with words. I’m just a hedge knight. No lands, no titles, no blood worth mentioning. And yet… you all chose me. All of you. And I keep waiting for the moment you realise I’m not… enough.”

Baelor’s expression softened instantly. He reached across the table and covered one of Duncan’s huge hands with his own. “Duncan—”

“Please,” Duncan interrupted gently, eyes flicking between them. “Let me say it first. Before I lose my nerve.”

He took another breath, chest tight.

“I love you,” he said, the words tumbling out like they had been waiting years to escape. “All of you. In different ways, but… gods, I love you.”

His gaze settled on Baelor first. “You were the first, my prince. The one who looked at me like I mattered when I was nothing but a hedge knight with a simple horse. I would have died for you in that trial without a second thought. It’s loyalty, yes… but it’s more. It’s the kind of love that makes me want to stand at your side for the rest of my life, no matter what the realm throws at us.”

Baelor’s mismatched eyes shone. He squeezed Duncan’s hand tighter, thumb stroking the scarred knuckles.

Duncan turned to Maekar, voice softening. “And you… you surprised me, Your Grace. You’re a hard man, a warrior, a father who carries the whole world on his shoulders. I never expected to feel this for you. But I do. I love how you protect your family, how you growl and grumble but still let me take care of you. I love the man behind the temper. I love you.”

Maekar’s pale violet eyes widened, something raw and stunned flickering across his face. He looked almost speechless for a moment — the gruff prince who rarely heard such open tenderness.

Duncan kept going, the words coming easier now, though his voice still shook. “Valarr… I’m very fond of him. He’s the future, bright and sharp and kind in ways people don’t always see. I love how he looks at the world like he already knows how to rule it, but still lets me carry him in the godswood pool like he’s just a man. Daeron… he needs protecting, even if he pretends he doesn’t. I love him with that same fierce, gentle feeling I have for Egg — the kind that makes me want to shield him from his own dreams and his own doubts.”

He swallowed again, cheeks flushing darker. “And Aerion… he’s wild, unpredictable, sometimes cruel. But I love him too. My love for him is possessive and fierce, like trying to hold lightning in my hands. He burns, but I can calm him. I want to keep calming him, even when he bites.”

Finally, his voice grew softer, almost reverent. “And Egg… he’s like a little brother to me. I’d die before I let anything touch that boy.”

Duncan fell quiet, staring at the table, heart pounding so hard he was sure they could hear it. His hands trembled slightly where Baelor still held one.

“I agonise over it every night,” he admitted, voice cracking. “Whether I’m good enough. Whether one day you’ll wake up and realise a hedge knight from nowhere isn’t enough for princes. Whether you’ll get bored of me. I don’t want anything from you except… this. Just to be allowed to love you. All of you.”

The silence that followed was gentle.

Baelor was the first to speak, voice thick with emotion. “Duncan… my gentle knight.” He stood, walked around the table, and cupped Duncan’s face in both hands. “Any other man in the Seven Kingdoms would be scheming right now — asking for titles, gold, lands, power. They would use the fact that half the House of the Dragon is besotted with them. But you… you sit here worrying only whether you are worthy of us.”

He leaned in and kissed Duncan — slow, deep, full of love and reassurance. Duncan’s eyes fluttered shut, a shaky breath escaping against Baelor’s lips.

“Duncan,” he whispered, voice thick. “My gentle knight. Do you truly think we could ever tire of you?”

When they parted, Maekar was there too. The silver-haired prince pulled Duncan into a fierce embrace, one hand at the back of his neck, the other pressed to the knight’s broad back.

“You honourable fool,” Maekar muttered, voice rough but warm. “The rest of the realm would be counting their future rewards. You’re counting whether you deserve to be here at all.” He kissed Duncan then — hard, claiming, but laced with the same deep affection he showed only to family. “We love you precisely because you are nothing like them.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, Duncan caught between the two princes he loved most, their hands stroking his hair, his shoulders, his arms. Gentle touches, soft kisses pressed to his temple, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

Baelor rested his forehead against Duncan’s. “You are more than enough. You are everything.”

Maekar’s voice was quieter, almost reverent. “A man who worries only whether he is worthy of us… when the rest of the world would be demanding crowns. That is why we love you, Duncan. That is why we will never let you go.”

Duncan’s bright blue eyes were wet when he finally looked up at them. A single tear slipped down his tanned cheek.

“I just… I needed you to know,” he whispered. “Before King’s Landing. Before everything gets harder.”

Baelor smiled, soft and radiant. “We know. And we love you too. Every single part of you.”

Maekar pressed one last kiss to Duncan’s forehead. “Now come to bed, hedge knight. Let us hold you tonight. No more agonising. Just us.”

They led him from the solar, arms around him, gentle hands never leaving his body. Duncan walked between them — the giant knight who had once been nothing, now wrapped in the love of dragons — heart full, insecurities quiet for the first time in weeks.

And for the rest of that night, in the warm tangle of sheets and bodies and soft kisses, Duncan let himself believe he was exactly where he belonged.

Chapter Text

The solar was quiet after dinner, the heavy oak door bolted and the world outside forgotten. Only the low crackle of the hearth and the occasional pop of sap in the wood broke the silence. Two days remained before the royal household would leave Summerhall for King’s Landing.

In the private solar attached to Baelor’s and Maekar’s chambers, the evening light had faded to a deep amber glow. Only a few candles burned on the heavy oak table, their flames flickering over stacks of letters, scrolls, and reports that had arrived by raven throughout the day. Prince Baelor Breakspear sat at the center of it all, hair slightly disheveled from running his fingers through it. His mismatched eyes  were focused on the parchment before him, but the tension in his shoulders and the faint lines of strain around his mouth betrayed him. The Hand of the King was quietly, deeply stressed.

While he had been healing and resting after the trial, his uncle Brynden Rivers had stepped in to handle much of the small council’s business. The Bloodraven had kept things running with his usual unnerving efficiency, but now the weight of the Red Keep was falling back onto Baelor’s shoulders. Letters about taxes, alliances — they all demanded his attention, his decisions, his careful balancing of power. He had not complained once. He never did. But the exhaustion was there, hidden beneath the calm, steady mask he wore for his family.

Maekar Targaryen stood near the window, arms crossed over his broad chest watching his brother with quiet concern. He had rolled up the sleeves of his black tunic, revealing forearms dusted with fine silver hair. Beside him, Ser Duncan the Tall leaned against the wall. His bright blue eyes flicked between the two princes, reading the tension in Baelor’s posture as clearly as Maekar did.

Baelor sighed softly and set down the letter he had been reading for the third time, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Maekar’s voice broke the quiet, low and gruff but laced with affection. “You’ve been staring at that same page for nearly half an hour, brother.”

Baelor offered a small, tired smile without looking up. “There’s a lot to prepare. The small council expects answers the moment we arrive. Uncle Brynden kept everything running while I was healing, but now it’s my duty again. I can’t afford to be… distracted.”

Duncan pushed off the wall and crossed the room in two long strides. He stopped behind Baelor’s chair, huge hands settling gently on the prince’s shoulders. His thumbs began to knead the tight knots there with slow, firm pressure.

“You’re carrying the realm on your shoulders,” Duncan said quietly, voice deep and warm. “But you don’t have to do it alone tonight. Not here. Not yet.”

Baelor let out a shaky breath, leaning back into the touch despite himself. “I know. I just… King’s Landing is going to be different. The whispers, the eyes, the expectations. I need to be ready. For all of you.”

Maekar moved closer, pulling up a chair so he sat directly in front of Baelor. He reached out and took one of his brother’s hands, lacing their fingers together on the table. “You are ready,” he said, voice rough but tender. “Let us take care of you tonight. One last night in Summerhall where you don’t have to be the Hand. Just… Baelor.”

Baelor’s eyes met Maekar’s, then flicked up to Duncan’s face behind him. The knight’s hands never stopped their gentle, soothing work on his shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tight muscles with perfect pressure.

Maekar squeezed Baelor’s hand, his pale violet eyes warm and full of love. “One last night before the Red Keep. Before the politics and the letters and the endless meetings. Let us give you that, brother. Please.”

Baelor was quiet for a long moment, the weight of the coming days pressing on him. Then he let out a slow, shaky breath, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction under Duncan’s hands.

“All right,” he whispered. “One last night. Just… us.”

Maekar’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. He brought Baelor’s hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckles gently. “Good. Then let’s start by getting you away from this table. No more letters tonight.”

Duncan’s hands slid down Baelor’s arms in a slow, comforting caress. “We’ve got you, my prince. Tonight, you don’t have to carry anything. Not the realm. Not the worry. Just let us hold you.”

Baelor closed his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to lean fully into the warmth and strength surrounding him. For the first time in days, the knot of stress in his chest loosened.

Then, after a long, quiet breath, Baelor spoke again — voice low, steady, and vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed.

“I want more than that tonight,” he admitted softly. “I need… to be pushed. Past my limits. Until I can’t think, can’t move, can’t do anything but feel. I need you both to take me apart completely. Until my body gives out.”

Duncan’s hands paused on Baelor’s shoulders, bright blue eyes darkening with heat and understanding. Maekar’s grip on his brother’s hand tightened, pale violet eyes flashing with protective hunger and desire.

“If that’s what you need,” Duncan said quietly, voice rough but gentle, “then we’ll give it to you. Both of us.”

Maekar leaned forward, pressing a slow kiss to Baelor’s knuckles before looking up at him with dark, intent eyes. “Then we’ll both take care of you tonight. No holding back.”

Baelor’s mismatched eyes shone with relief and trust as he nodded, the last of the day’s tension finally beginning to melt away under their combined care.

Now Duncan sat on the edge of the wide bed, massive frame making the wood creak softly beneath him. He had removed his tunic, leaving only his breeches, his tanned chest broad, golden-red hair shining in the candlelight. He crooked one thick finger.

“Come here, my prince.”

Baelor rose and crossed the space between them on slightly unsteady legs. He turned and lowered himself onto Duncan’s thick, powerful thighs, back pressed flush to the knight’s broad chest, legs spread wide on either side of Duncan’s hips. The size difference was overwhelming and intoxicating — Baelor’s leaner, elegant frame nestled perfectly against the knight’s bulk, Duncan’s strong arms easily wrapping around him from behind, one hand already splaying possessively across Baelor’s stomach.

Duncan’s huge, warm hands began to move immediately — slow, deliberate palms sliding over Baelor’s chest on top of the thin tunic, thumbs brushing over his nipples through the fabric until they stiffened into tight peaks. He leaned in, lips pressing to the side of Baelor’s neck, kissing softly at first, then sucking lightly, tongue flicking against the warm skin in teasing little strokes.

Baelor’s breath hitched sharply, a soft, needy sound escaping him. “Duncan…”

“Shh,” Duncan murmured against his throat, voice low and rough with restrained hunger. “Just feel. You asked for this. We’re going to give it to you until you can’t take any more.”

Maekar moved closer, silver hair catching the firelight, pale violet eyes dark as he watched his brother melt under Duncan’s touch. He knelt on the bed beside them, one hand sliding up Baelor’s thigh while the other cupped his brother’s jaw, turning his face gently for a deep, slow kiss. Their tongues slid together, wet and intimate, Maekar’s beard brushing Baelor’s skin as he kissed him with quiet, possessive devotion.

Duncan’s hands continued their slow exploration — one sliding down Baelor’s stomach, the other staying on his chest, pinching and rolling a nipple through the linen until Baelor moaned into Maekar’s mouth. Baelor’s head fell back against Duncan’s shoulder with a soft, broken groan, the first real sound of pleasure escaping him as Maekar’s tongue stroked deeper.

That was Duncan’s cue.

His right hand moved lower, slipping beneath the waistband of Baelor’s breeches but not gripping yet. Instead, he let his fingertips ghost teasingly over the hard, throbbing length — light, maddening touches up and down the shaft, barely there, then brushing over the heavy balls, rolling them gently before returning to the cock. The touches were maddeningly soft, never enough pressure, just enough to make Baelor’s hips twitch and his breathing grow ragged and desperate.

“Fuck… Duncan… more…” Baelor gasped against Maekar’s lips, voice already wrecked.

Maekar pulled back just enough to watch, one hand still cradling Baelor’s face, thumb stroking his lower lip. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice rough with arousal. “Already trembling and we’ve barely started. So beautiful when you let go, brother.”

Duncan’s lips stayed on Baelor’s neck, sucking a slow, dark mark into the sensitive skin while his fingers continued the torture — light strokes along the shaft, thumb barely brushing the leaking slit, fingers rolling the balls until they felt tight and heavy. Baelor was breathing hard now, hips rolling helplessly into the teasing touch, cock throbbing and leaking steadily against Duncan’s fingertips.

“Duncan — please — I’m aching — wrap your hand around me —” Baelor’s voice cracked, desperate.

Duncan hummed against his throat, the vibration sending another shiver through Baelor. “Not yet. You’re going to beg for it first. Let your brother hear how much you need it.”

Maekar’s hand slid down Baelor’s chest, pinching a nipple hard while Duncan kept the maddeningly light touches going. Baelor whimpered, head falling back harder against Duncan’s shoulder.

“Please… just touch me properly — I need your hand — I need both of you —”

Duncan finally gave in, but only partially. His big hand closed around just the head of Baelor’s cock — thick fingers encircling the sensitive crown, thumb rubbing slow, firm circles over the slit, spreading the precome. He stroked only the head, tight and deliberate, while his other hand stayed on Baelor’s chest, pinching the other nipple in time with Maekar’s touch.

Baelor gasped sharply, back arching between them. “Fuck — yes — like that — harder on the head — please —”

Duncan kept the torment going — slow, tight strokes around the head only, thumb pressing into the slit on every pass, while his mouth sucked and bit at Baelor’s neck and shoulders. Maekar leaned in again, kissing Baelor deeply, tongue sliding against his brother’s in wet, filthy strokes, swallowing every desperate moan.

Baelor’s moans grew louder, more broken, his hands gripping Duncan’s thick forearms so tightly his knuckles were white. “Gods — Duncan — Maekar — you’re driving me mad — please — the whole cock — I need it —”

Duncan finally relented. His huge hand wrapped fully around Baelor’s entire length — thick fingers easily encircling it — and began to stroke properly: long, firm pulls from base to tip, twisting at the head. The wet, slick sounds of skin on skin filled the room as precome coated Duncan’s palm.

Baelor’s head fell back harder against Duncan’s shoulder, a deep, broken moan tearing from his throat. “Yes — f-fuck — just like that — your hand is so big — it feels so good — Maekar, kiss me again —”

Maekar obliged instantly, capturing Baelor’s mouth in a deep, hungry kiss while Duncan varied the pace deliberately — slow, torturous strokes that made Baelor whimper into his brother’s mouth, then suddenly faster, firmer pulls that had the prince gasping and bucking between them.

“You’re so hard for us,” Duncan murmured against Baelor’s ear, voice rough with lust. “Leaking all over my hand. Listen to those sounds — wet and desperate. You’re close already, aren’t you, my prince?”

Baelor nodded frantically against Maekar’s lips, hips rolling desperately into Duncan’s fist. “Yes — so close — don’t stop — please —”

Duncan slowed again, torturing him with long, deliberate strokes, thumb pressing firmly into the slit on every pass. Maekar’s hand slid down to pinch and tug at Baelor’s nipples, adding another layer of sensation. Baelor’s moans turned into needy, broken whines, his body trembling violently between them.

“Faster — Duncan — Maekar — please — I need to come —”

Duncan sped up again — firm, quick strokes, hand flying over Baelor’s cock while Maekar kissed him harder, swallowing every gasp and moan. The wet slapping sounds grew louder, obscene in the quiet solar.

Baelor was shaking now, breath coming in short, desperate gasps. “I’m — I’m going to —”

When Baelor was right on the edge, cock pulsing and leaking heavily, Duncan suddenly changed tactics. He wrapped his fingers tightly around just the head again, applying firm, steady pressure while his other hand slid down to fondle Baelor’s balls — rolling them, tugging gently, thumb pressing behind them.

Baelor came with a broken, guttural cry — body convulsing hard between them, cock spurting thick ropes of white over Duncan’s hand and his own stomach. The orgasm was intense, almost violent, his hips jerking wildly as Duncan kept the pressure on the head and continued fondling his balls through every pulsing spurt.

Maekar kept kissing him through it, swallowing every broken moan, hands still tugging at his nipples to draw the pleasure out longer.

Duncan didn’t stop immediately. He kept the tight grip on the head and the gentle rolling of the balls, milking every last tremor out of Baelor until the prince was shaking and whimpering, oversensitive and breathless, tears of overwhelming pleasure slipping from the corners of his mismatched eyes.

Only then did Duncan ease his grip, his hand still wrapped loosely around the spent cock as Baelor slumped back against his chest, breathing ragged.

Baelor was still trembling in the aftermath of his first orgasm, chest heaving, mismatched eyes half-lidded and glassy as he slumped forward. His cock lay heavy and spent against his stomach, still twitching with aftershocks, the head glistening with the last traces of come. Duncan watched him for a long moment, blue eyes dark with hunger and something deeper — pure, protective adoration.

Then he stood, scooped Baelor up in his arms as if the prince weighed nothing, and carried him the few steps to the bed. Baelor’s breath hitched at the effortless strength, his hands resting on Duncan’s broad shoulders.

Duncan laid him down gently on his stomach, then guided him up onto his hands and knees. The position left Baelor exposed — back arched, ass raised, legs spread. Baelor’s arms trembled slightly as he braced himself, still sensitive and shaky from coming so hard moments earlier.

Duncan knelt behind him on the bed, the mattress dipping under his massive weight. His huge hands settled on Baelor’s hips first, thumbs stroking the warm skin in soothing circles.

“You’re still trembling,” Duncan murmured, voice low and rough. “Good. That’s exactly how we want you.”

He leaned in and dragged his tongue slowly over Baelor’s entrance — a long, wet, filthy lick to the tight ring of muscle. Baelor gasped sharply, hips jerking forward. The sensation was overwhelming on his oversensitive body, every nerve still singing from the first orgasm.

“Fuck — Duncan — too soon — I’m still — ah —”

Duncan didn’t stop. His tongue circled Baelor’s rim in slow, deliberate strokes, pressing flat and warm against the sensitive, still-fluttering skin before dipping inside just enough to make the prince moan brokenly. At the same time, Maekar moved with graceful purpose underneath Baelor, sliding between his spread arms and trembling thighs until he was lying on his back beneath his brother, face directly under Baelor’s soft, oversensitive cock and stomach.

Maekar’s pale violet eyes were dark with lust as he looked up at Baelor’s flushed, trembling body. “Let me have you too, brother,” he growled softly, voice rough with hunger. “You’re still soft… but not for long. I’m going to get you hard again while Duncan licks that pretty hole open.”

Baelor’s breath hitched sharply as Maekar’s hands slid up his thighs, strong fingers gripping the muscle to steady him. Maekar tilted his head and took the soft, sensitive head of Baelor’s cock between his lips, sucking gently at first — just warm, wet pressure and the slow swirl of his tongue around the oversensitive crown. Baelor whimpered, the sensation almost too much after his previous orgasm, but Maekar didn’t pull away. He sucked with deliberate, loving hunger, tongue lapping at the slit, coaxing the spent flesh back to life with wet, rhythmic pulls.

“Maekar…” Baelor gasped, voice cracking. “It’s — gods, it’s too sensitive — I just came —”

Maekar hummed around him, the vibration traveling straight down Baelor’s cock and making his hips jerk. He sucked harder, cheeks hollowing, taking more of the softening length into his hot mouth while his tongue worked relentlessly along the underside. Slowly, inexorably, Baelor’s cock began to thicken and harden again under the relentless wet heat and suction. Maekar groaned in approval when he felt it swell against his tongue, sucking deeper, throat relaxing to take him further even as Baelor trembled above him.

At the same time, Duncan’s tongue continued its slow, torturous exploration from behind — long, filthy licks from Baelor’s balls all the way up to his hole, then focused, wet circles around the rim, occasionally pushing inside with gentle but insistent pressure. His huge hands gripped Baelor’s hips firmly, holding him steady while Maekar sucked him back to full, aching hardness with wet, hungry sounds.

Baelor moaned loudly, arms shaking as he struggled to hold himself up. “Gods — both of you — it’s too much — I’m still so sensitive — Maekar — Duncan — I can’t —”

Maekar pulled off just long enough to speak, lips shiny with saliva and the first beads of fresh precome. His voice was low and commanding. “Touch me, Baelor. Hands on me. Prepare me while Duncan licks you open. I want to feel how badly you need this.”

Baelor obeyed shakily. One trembling hand slid down Maekar’s body, wrapping around his brother’s thick, hard cock. He stroked him with unsteady fingers at first, then firmer, thumb brushing over the leaking head and spreading the slick precome. At the same time, his other hand moved lower, fingers slick with oil that Duncan had left nearby. Baelor found Maekar’s entrance and pressed one finger inside slowly, then two, scissoring gently while continuing to stroke his brother’s cock with desperate, uneven pulls.

Maekar groaned deeply around Baelor’s now fully hard cock, the sound vibrating through him. He took Baelor back into his mouth, sucking deeper and wetter, tongue working the underside while his throat tightened rhythmically.

The dual sensation hit Baelor like lightning: the hot, wet suction of Maekar’s mouth around his cock combined with Duncan’s tongue licking and probing his entrance from behind. Baelor’s arms shook harder, his head dropping forward as a low, broken moan tore from his throat.

“Duncan… your tongue — it’s so hot — so wet — pushing inside me — Maekar — your mouth feels so good — gods, I’m still sensitive but I’m getting hard again —”

Duncan hummed against him, the deep vibration traveling straight through Baelor’s body and making his hole flutter around the invading tongue. His tongue pressed deeper now, licking inside with slow, filthy strokes while Maekar sucked him with steady, hungry rhythm, cheeks hollowing and throat working.

Baelor’s hand on Maekar’s cock tightened, stroking faster, while his fingers inside Maekar curled and thrust gently, searching for that spot that made his brother moan around his length. Maekar’s hips bucked up into Baelor’s hand, a muffled groan escaping around the cock in his mouth.

“Please — more — Duncan, your tongue feels so good inside me — Maekar, suck harder — I can’t — it’s too much but don’t stop —”

Maekar’s hands roamed up Baelor’s thighs, squeezing the muscle, encouraging him to rock between them — tongue from behind, mouth from below.

Baelor was shaking violently now, caught perfectly between the two men he loved most, every nerve alight. His strokes on Maekar’s cock grew erratic and desperate as Duncan’s tongue fucked into him deeper and Maekar sucked him with filthy, wet sounds that filled the room.

After several long minutes of this exquisite torture, Duncan pulled his mouth away just long enough to murmur against the wet, glistening skin, “Not yet. I want you shaking first. I want you begging for both of us.”

He dove back in — tongue pressing deeper, licking inside Baelor with slow, filthy strokes while Maekar continued sucking him harder, throat working around the head. Baelor’s moans grew louder, more broken, his thighs trembling violently as the pleasure built higher and higher.

Maekar’s hands gripped Baelor’s thighs tighter, pulling him down slightly so he could take him even deeper. Baelor’s fingers inside Maekar thrust faster, stroking his cock in time, thumb circling the slick head.

“I’m close — Duncan — Maekar — please — I need to come —”

Baelor’s second orgasm hit hard and fast — a broken, sobbing cry tearing from his throat as his cock pulsed violently between Maekar’s mouth and Duncan’s, spurting thick ropes across Maekar’s tongue and lips. His hole clenched rhythmically around Duncan’s tongue and fingers, body convulsing with the intensity of it.

But neither man stopped.

Maekar kept sucking through every pulsing spurt, swallowing greedily with wet, hungry sounds, while Duncan’s fingers curled relentlessly against Baelor’s prostate. Baelor’s moans turned into sobs of overstimulation, his arms finally giving out as he collapsed forward onto his elbows, face pressed against Maekar’s stomach, tears of overwhelming pleasure slipping from his mismatched eyes.

“Too much — Duncan — Maekar — please — I can’t take any more — it’s too sensitive —”

They finally slowed — Duncan’s tongue giving one last slow, gentle lick before pulling back, Maekar’s mouth pulling off with a wet pop, lips shiny and swollen with Baelor’s release. Baelor was a trembling, whimpering mess, completely wrecked between them.

Duncan leaned over Baelor’s back, chest brushing his spine, and kissed the nape of his neck tenderly. “You’re not done yet, my prince. Not even close.”

Maekar slid out from underneath Baelor, his own cock hard and glistening, and pressed a slow, deep kiss to his brother’s lips, sharing the taste of Baelor’s release.

Baelor’s body had gone completely limp between them, arms shaking so badly they could no longer hold him up. His mismatched eyes were glassy and unfocused, tears still clinging to his lashes from the overwhelming second orgasm. His cock hung heavy and spent between his legs, still twitching with aftershocks, the head flushed dark and sensitive. Every breath came in short, ragged gasps, his body still clenching around nothing after Duncan had pulled his fingers free.

Duncan knelt behind him, massive frame towering over the prince, his own thick cock hard and leaking heavily against Baelor’s ass. He ran one huge, warm hand slowly down Baelor’s spine, feeling the tremors that still ran through his brother’s body.

“You’re shaking so beautifully,” Duncan murmured, voice low and rough with lust. “But I’m not finished with you yet, my prince. You asked for this. You wanted us to push you until you couldn’t take any more.”

Baelor’s voice was hoarse and broken. “Duncan… I — I can’t… I’m still so sensitive…”

Duncan leaned down and kissed the back of Baelor’s neck, lips soft against sweat-damp skin. “You can. And you will.”

He reached for the vial of oil again, slicking his thick fingers generously. With slow, careful movements he pressed two fingers back inside Baelor’s slick, fluttering entrance, scissoring gently to finish opening him up. Baelor moaned weakly, hips twitching forward in instinctive protest, but Duncan held him steady with one big hand on his hip.

“Easy,” Duncan whispered, curling his fingers slowly. “Just a little more. I need you ready for me.”

He added a third finger, stretching Baelor open with deliberate patience, the wet, slick sounds of oil and stretched muscle filling the room. Baelor’s arms trembled harder, a broken whimper escaping him as the overstimulation built again.

Maekar, still kneeling in front of them, watched with dark, hungry eyes. His silver hair fell forward as he leaned in, one hand sliding up Baelor’s chest to pinch and roll a nipple, the other cupping his brother’s jaw.

“You’re doing so well, brother,” Maekar murmured, voice rough with arousal. “Letting Duncan open you up while I watch. So pretty when you’re like this — trembling and needy.”

Baelor whimpered, leaning into Maekar’s touch even as Duncan’s fingers continued their slow, thorough work. Maekar’s free hand drifted lower, wrapping around Baelor’s still-soft, oversensitive cock. He stroked it with slow, firm pulls, thumb circling the head, coaxing it back to hardness despite Baelor’s broken sounds.

“Maekar… please… it’s too much…” Baelor gasped, but his cock was already twitching and thickening in his brother’s hand, responding helplessly to the relentless stimulation.

Maekar leaned closer, voice low and filthy. “I know it’s sensitive, brother. But I need you hard. I need you to fuck me while Duncan fucks you. So get hard for me… that’s it… feel how I’m stroking you back to full strength.”

Duncan finally withdrew his fingers, lined up the blunt head of his massive cock, and began to tease — rubbing the leaking tip against Baelor’s stretched entrance, pressing just enough to nudge inside the rim before pulling back. He did this over and over, slow and torturous, while his other hand reached underneath to lightly touch Baelor’s cock alongside Maekar’s strokes — fingertips ghosting up and down the shaft, brushing the balls, never gripping fully.

Baelor’s breath hitched sharply. “Duncan — please — stop teasing — I can’t — it’s too much —”

Duncan’s voice was dark and steady. “You can. You asked us not to stop, remember? Even if you say stop… I won’t. Not until you’re completely ruined.”

He continued the teasing — cock rubbing against the entrance, fingers and Maekar’s hand working Baelor’s cock until it stood fully hard again, flushed dark and leaking steadily despite Baelor’s whimpers. Baelor’s hips jerked helplessly, torn between pushing back for more and trying to escape the overwhelming sensitivity.

“Fuck — Duncan — your cock is so big — I feel it teasing me — Maekar, your hand — please just put it in —”

Duncan finally pushed inside — one long, slow thrust that buried him to the hilt. Baelor moaned loudly, back arching, hole clenching hard around the thick intrusion. Duncan managed only four deep, powerful thrusts — hips snapping forward, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the room — before Maekar moved.

Maekar lay back on the bed, silver hair fanning across the sheets, and pulled Baelor down with him so the older prince was now positioned between his spread legs. “Come here, brother,” Maekar growled, voice thick with need. “Fuck me while Duncan fucks you. I want to feel every thrust.”

Baelor moaned helplessly as he settled between Maekar’s thighs, his own hard cock pressing against Maekar’s entrance. Maekar had already prepared himself earlier with oil and fingers, but he reached down anyway, guiding Baelor’s cock and rubbing the head against his slick hole, teasing himself with it.

The moment Baelor pushed inside his brother, Maekar let out a deep, guttural groan of pure pleasure. “Gods — Baelor — so thick — fill me —” His pale violet eyes rolled back slightly as Baelor sank in deep, the tight heat gripping him perfectly. Maekar’s hands flew to Baelor’s hips, pulling him deeper, his own cock twitching hard against his stomach from the intense stretch and pleasure.

Duncan never stopped. He pressed closer from behind, sliding even deeper into Baelor with every forward rock, effectively fucking Baelor into Maekar. The chain reaction was devastating — every powerful thrust from Duncan drove Baelor’s cock deeper into Maekar, making the prince moan loudly, legs wrapping around Baelor’s waist to pull him in harder.

“Look at you,” Maekar panted, voice wrecked with pleasure as Baelor fucked him in deep, steady strokes. “Fucking your own brother while our knight ruins you from behind. You feel so good inside me — so hot — so hard —”

Baelor could only moan brokenly, caught between the overwhelming pleasure of Duncan’s massive cock stretching him open and the tight, slick heat of Maekar’s body clenching around him. Every thrust made Maekar’s cock leak steadily onto his own stomach, the silver-haired prince writhing in ecstasy beneath him.

Duncan and Maekar leaned over Baelor and kissed each other above his back — deep, filthy kisses, tongues sliding wetly while they continued to move in perfect rhythm, using Baelor completely between them.

Maekar came first. His body tensed violently, hole clenching hard around Baelor’s cock as pleasure crashed through him. “Baelor — fuck — I’m coming —” He groaned loudly into Duncan’s mouth, his thick cock pulsing untouched between their bodies, painting his own stomach and chest with thick, hot ropes of white. His inner walls fluttered and squeezed rhythmically around Baelor, milking him with every spurt, the wet, messy sounds of skin slapping and come splattering filling the room. Maekar’s legs tightened around Baelor’s waist, hips bucking up desperately to take every inch as he rode out the intense orgasm, moaning and gasping through it.

The sight and feel of his brother coming so hard beneath him pushed Baelor dangerously close to the edge, but Duncan kept thrusting deep and steady, not letting him tip over yet.

Maekar — gasping — teased Baelor with light torturous touches for long minutes while Duncan fucked Baelor from behind — deep, rolling thrusts that made the bed creak. Baelor was shaking violently between them, moaning brokenly.

Maekar finally moved forward, guiding Baelor’s head up with one hand in his short dark hair. “Open your mouth.”

Baelor obeyed, lips parting. Maekar kissed him — deep, filthy —kisses, he was shaking between them.

Baelor came — a violent, shattering orgasm that made his whole body seize. He cried out, the sound raw and broken, as his cock pulsed hard inside Maekar, flooding his brother with thick, hot ropes of come. His hole clamped down viciously around Duncan’s massive cock, milking him with rhythmic, desperate squeezes. The pleasure was so intense that Baelor’s vision whited out for a moment; he trembled violently between them, tears streaming down his flushed face, mismatched eyes glassy and unfocused.

Duncan lasted only a few more deep thrusts — hips slamming forward with wet, heavy slaps of skin on skin — before he buried himself to the hilt and came with a deep, guttural groan. Pulse after thick pulse flooded Baelor’s insides until come leaked out around his cock, slick and warm, dripping down Baelor’s thighs and onto Maekar beneath him.

They stayed locked like that for long moments — Baelor a trembling, ruined mess trapped between them, still buried deep inside Maekar, Duncan’s thick length still pulsing inside him. The room was heavy with the scent of sex, sweat, and oil. Baelor’s body had gone almost completely limp, arms shaking so badly they could no longer hold him up. His chest heaved with shallow, ragged breaths, the faint pink lines of his healing scars standing out against sweat-slick skin.

But Maekar wasn’t done with him yet.

Even as Baelor whimpered from overstimulation, Maekar’s hands slid up his brother’s back and pulled him down harder, keeping Baelor’s spent cock buried inside him. Maekar’s inner walls clenched deliberately around the softening length, milking every last drop while he rocked his hips in slow, filthy circles.

“Stay inside me,” Maekar growled softly against Baelor’s ear, voice thick with lust and affection. “I can feel you twitching. You’re not finished yet, brother. Not until I say so.”

Baelor let out a broken sob, oversensitive and overwhelmed. “Maekar… please… I can’t… I just came so hard…”

“You can,” Maekar whispered, kissing along Baelor’s jaw, then capturing his mouth in a deep, hungry kiss. His tongue slid against Baelor’s, tasting him, claiming him, while one hand reached between their bodies to wrap around Baelor’s spent cock where it was still nestled inside him. Maekar stroked him slowly at first — gentle, slick pulls with come and oil as lubricant — coaxing the sensitive flesh back toward hardness even as Baelor shuddered and whimpered into the kiss.

Duncan stayed buried deep behind Baelor, his massive chest pressed to the prince’s back, one huge arm wrapped around his waist to hold him in place. He kissed the nape of Baelor’s neck and murmured praise against his skin. “That’s it… let Maekar take care of you. You’re doing so well, my prince. So beautiful when you’re trapped between us like this.”

Maekar broke the kiss only to trail his lips down Baelor’s throat, sucking lightly at the pulse point while his hand continued its relentless, slick stroking. “Feel how tight I am around you? You’re still inside me… still leaking into me. I want you to come again. One more time. Fill your brother properly.”

Baelor’s cock, despite the overstimulation, began to thicken again under Maekar’s skilled hand and the constant clenching heat around it. Every slow rock of Maekar’s hips made Baelor’s spent length slide deeper, drawing broken, desperate sounds from the older prince.

“Maekar… gods… it hurts so good… I’m too sensitive —” Baelor gasped, tears slipping down his cheeks, but his hips started moving on their own, shallow little thrusts into his brother’s body.

Maekar kissed him again — slower this time, deeper, tongue fucking into Baelor’s mouth in time with the way he was working Baelor’s cock. “Come for me, brother. Come inside me while Duncan holds you open. I want to feel you spill again. I want you to ruin me too.”

Duncan’s free hand slid around to join Maekar’s, both of them stroking Baelor’s cock together where it disappeared into Maekar’s slick, come-filled hole. The dual sensation — tight heat around his length, two hands stroking him, and Duncan’s thick cock still buried deep behind him — pushed Baelor over the edge a final time.

His last orgasm was weaker but no less devastating — a long, shuddering cry tore from his throat as his cock pulsed inside Maekar, spurting what little he had left in weak, trembling bursts. Baelor’s whole body convulsed between them, hole fluttering wildly around Duncan, tears streaming freely as the overstimulation bordered on too much.

Only then did Maekar and Duncan finally ease off.

Duncan slowly pulled out with a wet sound, a thick trickle of his come following. He immediately wrapped both arms around Baelor, holding him gently against his chest so he wouldn’t collapse. Maekar carefully guided Baelor’s softening cock out of him, then rolled them slightly so Baelor was lying on his back between the two larger men.

Baelor was a trembling, ruined mess. His mismatched eyes were glassy and unfocused, lips parted on soft, broken whimpers. His chest heaved with every shallow breath, the faint pink lines of his healing scars standing out against flushed, sweat-slick skin. Come — his own, Maekar’s, and Duncan’s — leaked slowly from both his hole and Maekar’s, warm and messy.

Duncan stayed close, one huge arm draped over Baelor’s waist, his other hand stroking slow, soothing circles over the prince’s stomach. “Easy, my prince,” he whispered against the nape of Baelor’s neck, voice low and incredibly tender. “I’ve got you. Breathe for me.”

Maekar knelt up just enough to reach for the basin of warm water and clean cloths. “Stay still, brother. Let us take care of you now.”

Together they cleaned him with infinite gentleness — warm cloths wiping away sweat, oil, and come from Baelor’s chest, stomach, thighs, and spent cock. Duncan tended to his entrance with careful strokes, murmuring soft praise the whole time.

“You were so beautiful,” Duncan said quietly, full of awe. “Taking everything we gave you. Coming so hard for us… I’ve never seen anyone so perfect when they fall apart.”

Baelor managed a weak, breathless laugh that turned into a shaky whimper. “I… I asked for it… but gods… I think you two actually broke me.”

Maekar laughed softly, the sound warm and fond as he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Baelor’s forehead, then to the corner of his mouth. “You did ask us not to stop. Even when you begged for mercy.” He wiped a final streak of come from Baelor’s hip. “But you’re safe now. We’ve got you.”

They pulled the sheet up over Baelor’s lower body, then sandwiched him between their larger frames — Duncan’s massive arm draped protectively over his waist, Maekar’s hand resting on his brother’s chest, right over his heart, feeling the steady beat.

Baelor sighed deeply, the last of the tension draining from his body as he nestled between them. “I’m not as young as I used to be,” he admitted with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I think you two might have actually killed me.”

Maekar snorted, pressing a kiss to Baelor’s silver-streaked temple. “You’re still the strongest man I know. But next time we’ll be gentler… maybe.”

Baelor hummed contentedly, turning his face into Maekar’s shoulder. “I love you both… idiots though you are.”

Duncan chuckled, his big hand stroking slow circles over Baelor’s stomach. “Only the good kind of death, my prince. The kind that leaves you smiling and boneless.”

Maekar’s voice was soft and warm. “And we love you. More than anything.”

They stayed like that for long minutes — tangled together in a warm pile of limbs and quiet breathing. Duncan kept one arm wrapped protectively around Baelor’s waist, his thumb tracing lazy patterns on the prince’s skin. Maekar’s fingers threaded through Baelor’s dark hair, stroking gently, while his other hand rested over Baelor’s heart, feeling the steady beat.

Baelor’s voice was sleepy and teasing when he finally spoke again. “You know… if the small council could see the Hand of the King right now — naked, ruined, and cuddling between his brother and his knight — they’d have a collective heart attack.”

Maekar laughed quietly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Let them. You’re ours. And right now you’re exactly where you should be — safe, warm, and too tired to argue with anyone.”

Duncan pressed a kiss to the top of Baelor’s head. “Including us. Especially us.”

Baelor smiled against Maekar’s shoulder, eyes drifting shut. “I could get used to this… being taken apart and then put back together by the two of you.”

Maekar’s hand slid down to rest on Baelor’s hip, thumb stroking the skin there. “Good. Because we’re not letting you go anywhere tonight. Or any night.”

The fire crackled softly in the hearth. The three of them lay tangled together, their bodies warm and close, breaths slowing into the steady rhythm of sleep.

Chapter Text

The morning of departure dawned clear and cool over Summerhall, the kind of crisp light that made the hills look like they had been painted in gold and rust. Servants hurried between wagons and saddled horses, grooms checked every strap twice, and the royal party buzzed with the low, purposeful energy of a household finally moving toward the capital. The journey to King’s Landing would take nearly three weeks at a measured pace — time enough for the younger children to grow restless, and for the dragons to steal whatever private moments they could along the way.

But first, there was one quiet ritual before the column formed.

Baelor had sent a servant with a simple message: Come to my chambers, Ser Duncan.

Duncan arrived still in his old traveling leathers, boots dusty from helping load the last chests, blond-red hair tousled by the morning wind. He stepped into Baelor’s private solar and stopped short at the sight waiting for him.

Laid across the wide bed were garments far finer than anything a hedge knight had ever owned: a heavy black wool tunic edged in deep crimson, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen embroidered in silver thread across the chest; matching black breeches of soft, supple leather reinforced at the knees for riding; a cloak of the same black wool lined with crimson silk, its clasp shaped like a tiny silver dragon; even a new belt of black leather with a silver buckle worked into the shape of flames. The clothes were rich but practical — made for a knight who would ride at the side of princes, not for a lord who sat in tourneys.

Baelor stood beside the bed, dark hair neatly combed, mismatched eyes warm with something almost shy. He wore his own traveling blacks and reds, the Hand’s pin on his chest, but his expression was soft.

“I had these made for you,” Baelor said quietly. “You cannot ride into King’s Landing looking like you just came off the hedge. You are ours now. Let the realm see it.”

Duncan’s face flushed a deep, embarrassed red. He rubbed the back of his neck with one huge hand, bright blue eyes flicking from the fine clothes to Baelor and back again.

“Your Grace… this is too much,” he muttered, voice rough with discomfort and pleasure all at once. “I’m still just a hedge knight. These look like something a lord’s son would wear. I don’t — I don’t deserve —”

Baelor crossed the space between them in two steps and cupped Duncan’s face in both hands, thumbs stroking the knight’s tanned cheeks.

“You deserve them,” he said firmly, voice low and warm. “You saved my life. You have given yourself to every one of us without asking for a single thing in return. Let us give you this. Let the whole Red Keep see that the dragon princes have claimed their knight.”

Duncan’s ears burned. He looked down at the clothes again, fingers twitching as if he wanted to touch the fine embroidery but didn’t dare. “I… I’ll feel like I’m pretending to be something I’m not,” he admitted, shy and pleased in equal measure. “But… if it pleases you, my prince… I’ll wear them.”

Baelor’s smile was radiant. He leaned up and kissed Duncan — slow, deep, full of quiet possession. One hand slid down to rest possessively on the small of the knight’s back, pulling their bodies flush. Duncan melted into the kiss with a soft, embarrassed sound, big hands settling gently on Baelor’s hips.

The moment was tender and intimate, the kind of private claiming that made Duncan’s heart ache in the best way.

The door opened and Maekar strode in, already dressed for the road in black and red. He stopped short at the sight of them — Baelor still kissing Duncan, the new clothes laid out like a silent declaration — and one eyebrow rose.

“Well,” Maekar said dryly, though his pale violet eyes were warm with amusement, “I see I’m interrupting a very important fitting.”

Baelor pulled back with a soft laugh, not stepping away from Duncan. “You have perfect timing, brother. As always.”

Maekar crossed the room and stopped in front of Duncan. His gaze swept over the knight — the broad shoulders, the tanned skin still flushed from Baelor’s kiss — then dropped to the clothes on the bed. A slow, approving smile curved his mouth.

“You’ll look the part now,” he said gruffly, but there was real affection beneath the words. “A proper sworn sword to the princes. In King’s Landing we’ll have the master armorer make you a new suit of plate — black steel with crimson accents, dragon sigil on the breastplate. Something worthy of the man who stands at our side.”

Duncan’s flush deepened. He shifted on his feet, suddenly awkward under the combined attention of both princes.

“Your Graces… it’s too much,” he protested quietly. “I’ve never worn anything finer than boiled leather and second-hand clothes. I don’t need —”

Baelor silenced him with a finger pressed to his lips. “You said you loved the dragons, Duncan. All of us. Then accept what we give you. A knight who protects princes should look the part. No arguments.”

Maekar stepped closer, one big hand settling on Duncan’s shoulder, squeezing. “Listen to my brother. You’re not some nameless hedge anymore. You’re ours.”

Duncan swallowed, eyes flicking between them, heart full and embarrassed and impossibly happy all at once. “If it pleases you both… I’ll wear them. Gladly.”

The princes helped him dress.

Baelor fastened the crimson-edged tunic himself, fingers lingering on Duncan’s chest as he smoothed the fabric over the knight’s broad pectorals. Maekar adjusted the belt, buckling it with deliberate care, then stepped back to admire the way the black and red made Duncan’s golden-red hair and bright blue eyes stand out even more.

When Duncan was fully dressed — cloak clasped at the shoulder, new boots polished — he looked every inch the sworn sword of House Targaryen. Tall, powerful, unmistakably theirs.

They led him out into the courtyard where the rest of the family waited.

Daeron was the first to react openly. The young prince had been adjusting the straps on his saddle when he looked up and froze. His pale violet eyes widened, hair ruffled by the morning breeze, a slow flush creeping up his neck and across his cheeks.

“Seven hells, Ser Duncan,” Daeron breathed, voice soft with genuine awe. He took an unconscious step closer, gaze roaming over the fine black-and-crimson tunic that stretched across Duncan’s broad chest, the silver dragon embroidery catching the light, the way the new cloak fell perfectly over those massive shoulders. “You look… very handsome. Gallant. Like a true knight from the songs.”

Duncan’s flush returned full force, the tips of his ears burning. He stepped closer to Daeron, away from the main bustle of the courtyard, and cupped the younger man’s cheek with one huge, gentle hand. His thumb stroked slowly over the soft, warm skin.

“You’re the pretty one, my prince,” Duncan murmured, voice low enough that only Daeron could hear, bright blue eyes warm and sincere. “Always have been. Soft eyes, that shy smile… you make my chest feel tight just looking at you.”

Daeron turned bright crimson, flustered and pleased all at once. His breath hitched, and for a moment he leaned into the big, warm palm like he couldn’t help himself. He bit his lower lip, trying and failing to hide the shy, delighted smile tugging at his mouth.

“I… thank you,” Daeron managed, voice barely above a whisper, eyes flicking up to meet Duncan’s. “But truly, Ser Duncan… you look like you belong with us now.”

Duncan’s thumb brushed Daeron’s cheek one last time before he reluctantly let go, heart full and warm. “Thank you my prince”.

Egg looked up from where he was near his horse. His eyes went round. “You look very good, Ser Duncan,” he said seriously, then added in a whisper only Duncan could hear, “Like a real dragon knight now. Even if it’s still a bit gross that everyone keeps… you know.”

Duncan chuckled softly and ruffled the boy’s short hair. “Thank you, little prince.”

Aerion’s reaction was immediate and possessive. The silver-haired prince’s purple eyes darkened the moment they landed on Duncan in Targaryen colors. A slow, hungry smirk curved his mouth, sharp and dangerous.

He didn’t even try to hide it. Aerion stepped straight up to Duncan, grabbed his wrist, and tugged him a few paces away from the main group — just far enough behind a loaded wagon that the servants and the rest of the family couldn’t see them clearly.

“Mine,” Aerion breathed, voice low and feral, pressing Duncan back against the side of the wagon. His hands were already sliding possessively over the knight’s hips, fingers digging hard into the fine new fabric, then slipping lower to grope the firm curve of Duncan’s ass through the breeches. “Look at you… wrapped in our black and crimson like you were born to be claimed by dragons. I want to drag you behind this wagon right now, shove you against the wood, rip these pretty new breeches down to your knees and suck that thick cock until you’re spilling down my throat and the whole column hears you moaning my name. Or better — bend you over one of the chests, spread you open and fuck you raw while everyone wonders where their precious knight disappeared to.”

Aerion’s hand boldly palmed the front of Duncan’s breeches, rubbing the growing bulge with shameless hunger, purple eyes glittering. “I’m already hard just looking at you in our colors. Tell me I can have five minutes. Tell me you’ll let me choke on you before we ride out.”

Duncan caught both of Aerion’s wrists gently but firmly, pinning them against the wagon on either side of his own hips. His voice was low, warm, and steady against Aerion’s ear, though his own cock twitched hard at the filthy words.

“Not here, my wild dragon,” he whispered, pressing a quick, secret kiss to the corner of Aerion’s jaw, then another to the sensitive spot just below his ear. “We don’t have time. The column is waiting. But I’ll remember every single word of that promise.” He pulled back just enough to meet those burning purple eyes, thumb stroking soothingly over Aerion’s racing pulse. “Behave today. Find me whenever you need me — I’m yours. But wait until we’re settled if you can. For me.”

Aerion pouted — actually pouted — silver hair falling into his eyes as he glared up at Duncan with pure, unfiltered frustration and dark delight.

“You’re cruel,” he muttered, voice still husky and needy. “Fine. Because I’m such a good dragon… I’ll wait. Barely. But when I can I’m going to remind you exactly what I wanted to do to you against that wagon.”

Duncan laughed quietly, warm and fond, and kissed the top of Aerion’s head once more before stepping back, heart full and nerves finally settling.

The column began to form. Baelor and Maekar rode at the front, Duncan now proudly beside them in his new black-and-crimson finery, cloak stirring in the breeze. The rest of the family fell in behind — Daeron still flushed, Egg grinning, Aerion shooting Duncan heated glances every few minutes.

The road to King’s Landing stretched ahead — three long weeks of travel, stolen moments, and the slow, inevitable pull of the Red Keep waiting at the end.

But for now, in the bright morning light, Ser Duncan the Tall rode openly as the sworn sword of the dragon princes, claimed, loved, and finally dressed like the man he had become.

The great column finally moved out of Summerhall just after mid-morning, the long line of horses, wagons, guards, and servants stretching like a black-and-crimson ribbon along the dusty road north. The air smelled of turned earth, horse sweat, and the faint sweetness of late-autumn wildflowers crushed under hooves. Sunlight glinted off polished helms and the silver embroidery on Duncan’s new cloak, turning the three-headed dragon on his chest into something almost alive.

Baelor and Maekar rode at the very front, side by side, their stallions matching stride for stride. Baelor sat straight, his mismatched eyes scanning the horizon. Maekar rode a half-step behind, pale violet eyes flicking protectively between his brother and the rest of the column. They spoke in low voices, shoulders brushing now and then in that easy, wordless way only brothers who had loved each other for decades could manage.

Behind them came the carriage for the little girls. It was a sturdy, well-padded thing drawn by two placid grey horses, its sides painted with the Targaryen dragon in crimson and black. Inside, Daella and Rhae bounced on the cushioned bench, silver hair and dark curls tumbling loose from their riding hoods. Their personal maid, Mira — a quiet, efficient Dornish woman in her thirties with warm brown skin and a quick smile — sat opposite them, trying to keep the girls from climbing the seats.

“Sit properly, my ladies,” Mira said gently, though her eyes sparkled with fondness. “We have three weeks of travel ahead. You’ll wear yourselves out before we even reach the Kingsroad.”

“But Mira,” Daella protested, leaning out the window to wave at the riders, “Ser Duncan looks so tall on his horse! Like a giant from the stories! Can we ride with him tomorrow?”

Rhae clapped her hands. “Giant knight! Giant knight!”

Mira laughed softly and pulled the girls back inside. “Perhaps if your father and uncle allow it. For now, wave nicely and behave.”

Further back, Aerion and Aegon were already engaged in their favorite new game: competing for the spot directly to Duncan’s right.

Egg, perched on his horse with his wooden sword strapped to the saddle, glared up at his older brother. “I was here first! Ser Duncan promised I could ride beside him today!”

Aerion smirked, silver hair whipping in the breeze, purple eyes flashing with wicked delight. “You’re nine, Aegon. Your legs don’t even reach the stirrups properly. Move aside before you fall off and embarrass the family.”

Egg puffed out his chest. “I’m almost ten! And Duncan likes riding with me more. I don’t try to bite him!”

Duncan rode between them on his big chestnut destrier, new black-and-crimson cloak stirring behind him, looking every inch the sworn sword he now was. He sighed, half-amused, half-exasperated, and reached down to ruffle Egg’s silver hair with one huge hand.

“Easy, little prince,” he said warmly. “There’s room for both of you. Aerion, stop teasing your brother. Egg, stop poking your brother with your sword. We’ll take turns — one on each side. Fair?”

Egg beamed. Aerion rolled his eyes but still maneuvered his horse to Duncan’s left, close enough that their knees brushed.

“Fine,” Aerion muttered, voice dropping so only Duncan could hear. “But tonight in camp I’m claiming the spot between your legs instead.”

Duncan’s ears went pink, but he kept his face steady, giving Aerion a gentle warning look. “Behave, my wild dragon.”

Daeron rode a little further back, sometimes falling in beside his father Maekar for quiet conversation, sometimes drifting over to the carriage to ride beside his sisters when the road grew dusty. He looked more at peace than he had in weeks, pale violet eyes occasionally drifting toward Duncan with a soft, lingering smile.

The royal guards rode in formation around the column. Their captain, a man named Ser Harwin Rivers, eventually nudged his horse closer to Duncan during a stretch of flat road.

“Ser Duncan,” Harwin said respectfully, eyes flicking over the knight’s fine new clothes and the dragon on his chest. “Forgive the question, but… we’ve all been wondering. What exactly is your role now? You ride with the princes like one of the family. Aegon’s knight, yes, but the clothes… the cloak… you look like you belong at the Hand’s right hand.”

Duncan kept his expression calm and pleasant, though his stomach tightened for a moment. He would never reveal the truth — never speak of silk sheets, whispered confessions, or the way the dragons had claimed every inch of him. Some things belonged only to them.

“I am Prince Aegon’s knight, and he my squire,” he answered steadily, voice carrying just enough to be heard by the nearest guards without inviting gossip. “And I have been named sworn sword to the princes — to Prince Baelor, Prince Maekar, and their sons. I protect the blood of the dragon. That is all.”

Ser Harwin studied him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod of respect. “A heavy duty, Ser. But you wear it well. The realm will talk when we reach the Red Keep.”

“Let them talk,” Duncan said quietly, eyes fixed on the road ahead where Baelor and Maekar rode. “My sword is theirs. My loyalty is theirs. Nothing else matters.”

The guard captain fell back with a thoughtful look, and Duncan let out a slow breath. He glanced sideways at Egg, who was chattering happily about the next night’s camp, then at Aerion, who was still shooting him heated, possessive glances. Further ahead, Baelor turned in his saddle and caught Duncan’s eye for a brief, warm moment — a silent promise that they were all in this together.

The road stretched long before them, three weeks of dust and distance and stolen glances, but Duncan rode with his heart strangely light. He was no longer just a hedge knight. He was theirs — publicly, proudly, and completely.

The first ten days of travel passed in a steady, rhythmic blur of dust, hoofbeats, and open sky. The column wound northward along the Roseroad, through rolling hills that slowly flattened into wider fields and scattered villages. Mornings were crisp with autumn chill, afternoons warm under a pale sun, and evenings brought the low crackle of campfires, the distant call of night birds, and the comforting scent of woodsmoke and roasting meat.

Duncan rode near the front most days. He felt both proud and painfully self-conscious in the fine clothes, but the way Baelor’s mismatched eyes would linger on him each morning, or the way Maekar’s hand would brush his shoulder in passing, made the discomfort worth it.

The household knights of House Targaryen gradually warmed to him. Ser Harwin Rivers, the captain with a scar across his cheek, began riding beside Duncan on the third day, asking quiet questions about the trial at Ashford. By the fifth day, Ser Olyvar and Ser Perwyn had joined them, sharing wineskins around the evening fire and swapping stories of old tourneys. They asked about his exact role, and Duncan gave the same steady answer he had given before: “I am Prince Aegon’s knight, and sworn sword to the princes. My sword is theirs. That is all.”

The knights respected the simplicity of it. No boasting, no demands for rank or reward. By the end of the first week they were clapping him on the shoulder, calling him “Ser Duncan” with genuine warmth, and inviting him to spar with them when the column stopped for the night. Duncan found himself laughing more easily among them, the easy camaraderie of fighting men settling over him like a well-worn cloak.

Interactions with the family were quieter but constant. Baelor and Maekar rode together at the head, their voices low as they discussed letters and preparations for the small council. Egg stuck to Duncan’s side like a shadow, chattering about everything from the birds overhead to the proper way to hold a lance. Daeron drifted between his father’s side and the girls’ carriage, offering Duncan shy, pleased smiles whenever their eyes met. Aerion rode on Duncan’s left most days, shooting him heated, possessive glances that promised trouble the moment they stopped for the night.

Daella and Rhae rode in the carriage with their maid Mira, the two little girls waving wildly at Duncan and their brothers every time the column slowed. Mira would laugh and pull them back inside.

There was no time for anything more than stolen glances and quick brushes of hands along the road. The road was too public, the nights too short and crowded with guards and servants. Duncan kept his longing tightly leashed, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of the journey and the growing sense of belonging that came with every mile.

By the tenth day they reached a prosperous inn at the crossroads near the headwaters of the Mander — The Silver Dragon, a large, well-kept establishment with a wide courtyard, stables, and enough rooms to house the royal party in relative comfort. Baelor declared they would stop for the night; the children were tired, the horses needed proper rest, and a hot meal and real beds would do everyone good.

The royal family took the inn’s best chambers on the upper floor. The knights and most of the servants pitched tents in the large field behind the inn. Duncan helped set up the camp, then joined the household knights for a quiet supper of stew and ale around their fire. He was just finishing his bowl when a small hand tugged his cloak.

Egg stood there, annoyed at being used to carry this message. “Daeron and Aerion say that you can sleep in their room.”

Duncan’s heart gave a sudden, heavy thud. He glanced toward the lit windows of the inn and saw two familiar figures waiting in the shadows of the back door — Daeron’s sandy hair and Aerion’s silver gleam unmistakable even in the dark.

He excused himself from the knights with a quiet word and followed the princes up the narrow back stairs.

The room they had claimed was modest but comfortable — a large bed, a hearth with a low fire, heavy shutters already closed against the night. The moment the door clicked shut behind them, Aerion was on him.

The silver-haired prince shoved Duncan back against the wall with surprising force, the rough wood digging into the knight’s back through the fine tunic. Aerion’s hands fisted hard in the black-and-crimson fabric, mouth crashing against the knight’s in a possessive, devouring kiss. His tongue pushed inside immediately, hot and demanding, tasting of the spiced wine he had drunk at dinner. He bit Duncan’s lower lip hard enough to sting, the sharp metallic tang of blood blooming between them as he ground his already-hard cock against Duncan’s thigh through their clothes.

“Finally,” Aerion growled against his mouth, voice low and feral, breath hot and ragged. “Ten fucking days of watching you ride in our colors, looking like you belong to us, and not being able to touch you. I’ve been hard since the crossroads. I want you right now — against this wall, on the floor, I don’t care. I want to feel that thick cock stretching my throat until I can’t breathe.”

Duncan groaned softly into the kiss, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. His big hands settled on Aerion’s hips, feeling the heat of the younger man’s skin even through the layers of clothing. He kissed back, slow and deep, but kept it controlled, one hand sliding up to thread gently through silver hair that felt like cool silk against his callused fingers. “Easy, my wild dragon,” he murmured when they broke for air, voice low and warm against Aerion’s swollen, spit-slick lips. “We’re inside now. But we ride again at dawn. I won’t have you or your brother sore on horseback tomorrow. Breathe for me.”

Aerion made a frustrated, needy sound, hips grinding harder, the thick ridge of his cock pressing insistently against Duncan’s thigh. The scent of his arousal was already sharp and musky in the warm room. He nodded, eyes still dark with hunger.

Duncan gently pushed him back a step. As they moved toward the bed, he looked at Daeron, who stood a pace away, cheeks already flushed a deep pink, breathing quick and shallow. The younger prince’s pale violet eyes were wide and glassy with want.

“Come here, my pretty prince,” Duncan said softly, reaching out to cup Daeron’s cheek. His thumb stroked over the warm, smooth skin. “Sit on my face while your brother sucks me. Let me taste you. You’ve been so good and patient on the road.”

Daeron whimpered at the praise, the words hitting him like a spark to dry tinder. “Yes… please… I want to be your pretty prince,” he whispered, voice trembling with need as he quickly shed his breeches and smallclothes, the fabric whispering against his skin. He climbed onto the bed, straddling Duncan’s face as the knight lay back on the mattress. Duncan’s huge hands gripped Daeron’s pale thighs, fingers sinking into soft flesh as he pulled him down until the younger prince’s tight, pink hole was pressed flush to his mouth. He licked a long, slow, wet stripe from Daeron’s balls all the way up to his entrance, tasting the faint salt of sweat and skin. His tongue pressed inside with filthy, hungry strokes, the wet heat and tight clench making Daeron cry out sharply.

At the same time, Aerion dropped to his knees between Duncan’s spread legs, fingers yanking open the laces of the knight’s fine new breeches. He freed Duncan’s thick, heavy cock and swallowed him down in one eager, greedy motion. Lips stretched wide around the fat head, throat relaxing as he took the length to the root. The wet, obscene sounds of slurping and gagging filled the room immediately.

“Fuck… that’s it,” Duncan groaned against Daeron’s hole, the vibration traveling straight through the younger prince and making him cry out and grind down harder. The taste of Daeron on his tongue was sweet and musky, addictive. “Such a good dragon, choking on my cock like you were made for it. And you, Daeron… so pretty riding my face. You taste so sweet, my prince. So soft and tight on my tongue. You’re doing so well for me.”

Daeron moaned loudly, hands fisting the sheets, hips rocking desperately as Duncan’s tongue fucked deep into him in wet, thorough strokes. The slick, filthy sounds of tongue and spit echoed obscenely. “Duncan… gods… your tongue feels so good inside me… I’m — I’m your pretty prince, aren’t I? Tell me again… please…”

“You’re my pretty prince,” Duncan rasped, voice muffled but fervent, tongue curling and thrusting inside Daeron’s clenching heat. “The prettiest. So soft and sweet and perfect. Come for me, Daeron. Let me taste how pretty you are when you fall apart.”

Aerion pulled off just long enough to growl possessively around the thick cock, spit dripping down his chin. “Brother, don't forget who claimed him first.” Then he dove back down, sucking harder, throat convulsing around the head while one hand stroked the base in tight, twisting pulls. His purple eyes flicked up, dark and burning, watching his brother ride Duncan’s face while he worshipped the knight’s cock with wet, filthy sounds.

The room filled with obscene noises — slurping, gagging, desperate moans, the wet slap of Daeron’s thighs against Duncan’s cheeks. Duncan ate Daeron out with slow, hungry licks, tongue driving deep, nose pressed to his balls, while Aerion bobbed fast and greedy on his cock.

Daeron’s moans grew higher, more desperate, his thighs trembling around Duncan’s head. “Duncan — I’m close — so close — please —”

Duncan didn’t hesitate. He pulled his tongue out of Daeron’s hole, gripped the younger prince’s hips firmly, and guided his leaking cock straight into his mouth. His lips sealed tight around the head, sucking hard as he took Daeron deep in one smooth motion. The taste of precome burst hot and salty-sweet across his tongue. Daeron cried out sharply, hips jerking as Duncan’s throat worked around him, tongue swirling relentlessly along the underside.

“Yes — Duncan — your mouth — so hot — so wet — I’m — I’m going to —”

Daeron came hard with a broken, keening cry, spilling thick and hot across Duncan’s tongue in pulsing spurts. Duncan swallowed every drop greedily, humming around the length, milking Daeron through every shuddering wave until the younger prince was trembling and whimpering, oversensitive and spent.

Only then did Duncan gently release Daeron’s cock with a wet pop, pressing one last soft kiss to the head before guiding the shaky prince to lie beside him.

Aerion sucked harder, throat working greedily until Duncan’s rhythm faltered. With a deep, guttural groan Duncan came, pulsing thick and hot across Aerion’s tongue in heavy, endless spurts. Aerion swallowed every drop, humming possessively around the length.

But Aerion was still hard and aching, cock flushed dark and leaking against his own stomach, a frustrated growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled off with a wet pop.

Duncan sat up slowly, breathing hard, and gathered the silver-haired prince into his arms — chest to back, Aerion’s back pressed firmly to Duncan’s broad, warm front. “Easy, my wild dragon,” he murmured, kissing the side of Aerion’s neck, then the sensitive spot just below his ear. “I’ve got you. Let me take care of you now.”

Daeron, still flushed and breathing hard, crawled closer immediately. He kissed his brother first — slow, deep, and loving — tongues sliding lazily together, wet and filthy. Then he leaned up and kissed Duncan too, sharing the taste of himself between them, moaning softly into the knight’s mouth.

While they kissed, Daeron’s hands found Aerion’s sensitive nipples, pinching and rolling the stiff buds between his fingers, tugging lightly until Aerion arched and whimpered. Daeron leaned down and sucked one nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking rapidly over the peaked flesh, teeth grazing just hard enough to make Aerion hiss and shudder.

Duncan’s big hand wrapped fully around Aerion’s aching, leaking cock, stroking him with slow, deliberate pulls — thumb circling the slick, swollen head on every upstroke, spreading the steady leak of precome until it dripped messily over his fingers and down the shaft.

Aerion’s hips jerked helplessly into Duncan’s fist, his back pressed tight against the knight’s broad chest. “Fuck — Duncan — harder,” he gasped, voice wrecked and needy. “I’ve been hard for days thinking about you — don’t tease me like this —”

Duncan’s free arm tightened around Aerion’s waist, holding him firmly in place, chest to back. His breath was hot against Aerion’s ear as he whispered, low and filthy, “Look at you, my wild dragon… so desperate already. Leaking all over my hand while your brother sucks on these pretty nipples. You’re dripping for us. Such a good, fierce little dragon… but you’re going to wait until I say you can come.”

Daeron switched to the other nipple, sucking harder, tongue swirling wetly as his hand slid down to cup Aerion’s balls, rolling them gently. Aerion’s head fell back against Duncan’s shoulder with a broken moan, silver hair sticking to his sweat-damp forehead, hips stuttering desperately into Duncan’s fist.

“P-please —” Aerion whined, voice cracking, “Duncan… I need it — I’ve been aching for weeks —”

Duncan chuckled against his ear, stroking him faster now, thumb pressing firmly into the sensitive slit on every pass. “Not yet, Aerion. Feel how hard you are? How much you’re throbbing? I want you shaking before you paint that pretty stomach for us.”

Aerion’s thighs trembled violently, his whole body tense and strung tight between them. Precome dripped steadily over Duncan’s fingers, making the strokes louder and wetter. He was right on the edge, cock pulsing hard in Duncan’s grip, hole clenching around nothing as he gasped and whimpered.

“Come for us, Aerion,” Duncan finally growled, voice rough and commanding. 

Aerion came with a broken, sobbing moan — cock pulsing hard in Duncan’s fist, thick ropes of white spilling over his own stomach and chest in messy, shaking spurts. His body convulsed between them, hole clenching around nothing, as he gasped. “F-fuck…”

Duncan kept stroking him through every spurt, milking him until Aerion was limp and whimpering, sensitive and wrecked. Daeron kissed the tears from his brother’s cheeks, whispering soft praise, while Duncan held them both close, big arms wrapped around them like he would never let go.

They stayed tangled together for long minutes, breathing slowing, gentle hands stroking sweat-damp skin, soft kisses pressed to temples and shoulders.

“Sleep,” Duncan murmured finally, pressing a kiss to Aerion’s temple and then to Daeron’s forehead. “We ride again at dawn. I’ve got you both.”

They fell asleep like that — Duncan in the middle, the two princes curled against his chest — the fire crackling low and the distant sounds of the camp fading into peaceful silence.

The final week and a half of the journey passed in much the same rhythm — long days on the road, quiet nights in camp, growing camaraderie among the knights, and the steady, comforting presence of the family around Duncan. The landscape changed gradually: wider fields gave way to the bustling small towns of the Crownlands, the air growing thicker with the scent of the sea and the distant smoke of King’s Landing.

On the morning of the twenty-first day, the great spires and walls of the Red Keep finally came into view, rising above the city like a crown of stone and iron.

Duncan rode beside Baelor and Maekar, cloak stirring in the breeze, heart full and steady. The journey was over. King’s Landing waited.

But the dragons were with him, and for the first time in his life, Duncan the Tall felt truly home.

The last stretch of the journey felt both endless and far too short. The Crownlands unfolded in a tapestry of golden fields, tidy villages, and the distant shimmer of Blackwater Bay. By the final morning the air had changed — thicker, saltier, carrying the faint tang of fish markets, woodsmoke, and the constant murmur of a city that never truly slept. The column crested the last rise, and King’s Landing sprawled before them like a living beast: a chaotic sprawl of red roofs, crooked alleys, and the towering silhouette of the Red Keep rising above Aegon’s High Hill like a crown of blood and stone.

Duncan rode in the middle of the royal group, flanked by Aegon on his right and Aerion on his left, with Daeron just behind them. He had grown used to the finery over the three weeks, but today it felt heavier, more noticeable. Every guard, servant, and passing merchant seemed to stare.

Egg was practically bouncing in his saddle, eyes wide with excitement. “Look, Ser Duncan! That’s the Street of the Sisters down there — and the Great Sept! You can see the seven towers from here. And over there, that’s the Dragonpit — well, what’s left of it.”

Aerion smirked, silver hair whipping in the breeze, purple eyes gleaming with possessive pride as he glanced sideways at Duncan. “The whole city is ours, hedge knight. Every alley, every rooftop, every whore and cutpurse in Flea Bottom bows to the dragons. You’ll see. They’ll bow to you too now that you wear our colors.”

Daeron, riding a little behind, smiled softly, though his pale violet eyes held a touch of nervousness about returning to the Red Keep. “The Red Keep itself is… impressive. The throne room alone could swallow half of Summerhall. You’ll get used to it, Duncan. We’ll make sure of it.”

The three young princes kept up a steady stream of proud chatter as the column descended toward the city gates. Egg pointed out the Mud Gate and the Fishmonger’s Square, Aerion bragged about the tourneys held in the lists beneath the Red Keep, and Daeron described the library in the Tower of the Hand where he had once spent an entire summer reading.

Duncan listened with a small, fond smile, his bright blue eyes sweeping over the sprawling city he had not seen in more than a decade. The familiar stink of King’s Landing — sewage, smoke, spices, and the sea — rolled up the hill to meet them. He could already pick out the narrow alleys of Flea Bottom snaking between the taller buildings, the same crooked streets he had run through as a barefoot boy.

When Egg started pointing out the Street of Flour and bragging about how the whole city would tremble when the dragons rode in, Duncan gently cut them off, voice quiet but warm.

“I know King’s Landing, my princes,” he said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “I was born here.”

The three young Targaryens fell silent for a heartbeat, surprise flickering across their faces.

Egg blinked up at him, mouth open. “You… you were? You never said!”