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    Summary

    “Well, what you said was –  a hundred gold. To the man who sticks you best.”

    That peaked Ser Lyonel’s interest at last. He had a wild look about him, gazing up at Dunk through a cascade of salt-and-pepper curls, skin blushed from drink and glistening with sweat.

    “Man. Beast. God. A giant, perhaps.” 

    "Yes, but –" Dunk tried to swallow down the nerves in his throat, “What’d I have to do for that? To stick you best.”

    Lyonel’s lips split into a grin that bared his teeth, a flash of white in the dark.

    “You think you can take the likes of me, lad?” 

    Dunk is completely oblivious to Lyonel coming onto him, until he isn’t.

    Or: many metaphors fit both fighting and fucking in somewhat equal measure.

    Language:
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