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1.
There were some nights when Dunk still missed Rafe, Ferret, and the others. Ser Arlan and his nephew Roger were riverlanders, and Dunk didn’t really know what that meant outside of his survey pool of two. Ser Arlan was a good storyteller, but tended to talk over anyone else who tried to spin a yarn. Roger was a little more mannered, but there were still times when he and his uncle seemed to speak another language entirely, forgetting Dunk was even there. It wasn’t like Dunk couldn’t understand a language born of familiarity; he remembered talking in an indecipherable cant with the other little monsters who ran around Flea Bottom, a language of their own that gave them a sense of pride when they saw the confused faces of those around them.
Now, Dunk knew what those people felt. He tried not to think about the crushing loneliness weighing on his skinny shoulders, which was why he took heart in the tasks assigned to him. He scrubbed rust off the chainmail, mended the clothes, maintained campfires, and brushed down the horses. He did all these things alone (with the exception of the horses) and tried not to hear the amiable chatter between uncle and nephew some yards away.
But he knew he couldn’t go back to King’s Landing. He’d not told Ser Arlan or Roger, but he secretly hoped their travels would take them down to the Free Cities, on the off chance they met a very tall woman who shared his features, or perhaps even a regular woman who almost looked like him. Every day, Dunk’s criteria for who his mother might be grew shorter and shorter. One of these days, any woman in want of a child might do, and his time as a squire would be contained to one single year when he was a boy of just 13.
“I heard some interesting news,” Roger said as Dunk returned to their table carrying their dinner. Dunk didn’t quite care what the news was; he was more interested in the stew and bread the tavern had made up. The tavernkeeper’s wife seemed to take a shine to him, and had given him half a bowl of it for free before sending him off with their fare. She could be my mother, Dunk decided. If she wanted to be.
“What’s that?” Ser Arlan said, already two tankards of ale deep into the evening.
“It seems Lord Baratheon is hosting a tourney at Storm’s End; his eldest daughter just had a grandson.”
Dunk snuck a look up at the tavern woman, who was smiling as she wiped down the bar. From here, he could almost hear the song she hummed. He almost asked Ser Arlan and Roger to keep it down.
“Ha! And what would we do at Storm’s End?”
“Compete, of course! Could win a prize. Meet some ladies. Earn some glory. Let the jobs come to us for a while, instead of the other way ‘round. What do you say?”
Ser Arlan gave a long-suffering groan. “Boy, I am well past my tournament years. The Gray Lion was a good last hurrah.”
“Well, that means you’ll be selected to go up against a prince, probably. They always put princes against the knights who’ve gone old and gray.”
“You’re not exactly selling it, Roger.”
Roger kicked Dunk’s leg, which startled him out of his staring. “C’mon, Dunk, back me up here. Don’t you want to go see a tourney? Watch the jousting and the melee, stand at the lists and hand off lances during the charge? Thunder of hooves, cheer of the crowd?”
Dunk couldn’t quite imagine it. He’d heard of tourneys coming to King’s Landing but had never seen the events themselves. For street trash like him, tourneys were a time when you followed around a few drunken nobles and hoped they’d spill out some coin behind them, or give you a chance to take their food off their hands when they’d forgotten they were eating it. He’d only distantly heard the crash of lance and shield, the clang of steel, the cheers from the crowd—not seen them. Squiring for Ser Arlan didn’t bring him in front of too much action, aside from the occasional standoff between the old man and some brigands, but Dunk had seen worse in Flea Bottom. Much worse.
But the prospect sounded nice when Roger said it like that. He wouldn’t have to steal to eat, nor would he have to hide his face from cruel and bloodthirsty goldcloaks. He blushed when he realized Roger and Ser Arlan were both staring at him—he’d been quiet for quite a while.
“Um. Yes?”
Both of them laughed, which made the blush all the worse. “Dunk the lunk,” Ser Arlan sang, grinning at him.
“Thick as a castle wall,” finished Roger, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Alright, we’ll go. Even if we don’t finish as champions, we’ll have at least shown our faces—you’ve no idea how important that sort of thing is for a hedge knight, boys.”
They’d been in the lower crownlands, so it was no issue to get to the kingsroad and follow it south toward the stormlands. Dunk hadn’t been there yet. Almost a year, he’d been squiring for Ser Arlan, and they’d mostly traveled east, not south. His initial hopes about getting to the Free Cities were tenuous at best, but now they were heading proper south, Dunk was excited.
When they were about two days from Storm’s End, Ser Arlan turned around in his saddle to wink right at Dunk before abruptly veering left off the kingsroad and over a large green hill. “Now Dunk, take a deep breath, because this view is about to steal it from your very lungs.”
Dunk had no idea what he was talking about until they crossed over the highest point of the hill, and he forgot how to breathe at all.
The impossible beauty of the stormlands hit Dunk in breathless stages.
First, in colors—
The layered gray of the sky looked like the many shades of metal Dunk had once seen on the Street of Steel. Beneath Thunder’s hooves was grass so green his eyes ached to look at it even in his periphery. Great black cliffs lined the corners of his vision, slate-dark and sharp like a wolf’s claws. The sea, the sprawling sea, was an inconceivable shade of blue he’d not seen in nature before, just in the rich dyes of nobles. A stand of trees was to one side, their trunks a deep, rich red-brown, like they’d been hewn from the very stones of the Red Keep.
Then, in the things that moved—
A ship was sailing through that impossibly blue water, white sails puffed and proud by the wind. The trees swayed together in a heathen dance, bending but well used to the temperament of the skies. A small herd of deer dashed into the treeline, their backs glinting brightly from the barest glint of the sun overhead. Mist threatened the horizon, waiting to encroach upon the scene the moment the sun wasn’t looking. Further south, Dunk could see waves as tall as houses stretching above the rest and crashing down again. A flock of white-breasted seabirds swooped low across the surface of the sea and fought for what one of their number caught.
And finally, in senses beyond sight—
The smell of the sea here was entirely different than the nasty smell off Blackwater Bay. It was fresh and heavy with salt, even from where they sat, hundreds of feet above it all. The hint of mist on the air promised adventure to the curious, and doom to the careless. The grass smelled of rain, and the nearby forest smelled of evergreen and dust. The cry of the seabirds finally reached them from across the distance, having fought the wind to get there. The trees shushed them from above, but the birds paid them no mind.
“Aw, Dunk.”
Things became naught but colors again when he realized he’d started to cry. This was the freshest air he’d ever breathed, the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen, and he never would have known it had he not left King’s Landing. He’d have believed that the ocean was a disappointment his whole life, and that storms brought no beauty to the sky. He sniffled, and even that was a better breath than he’d ever taken in Flea Bottom. Roger clapped a hand on his shoulder and shook him a little.
“C’mon, lad. We’d best keep moving. Perhaps the old man’ll take us back up this way when the tourney’s over.”
Dunk had kept his head turned over his shoulder, looking at the vista, until he could no longer see it.
Storm’s End was a different sight to behold. They didn’t get particularly close to it, what with the tourney grounds being set in the fields leading up to the outer castle town, but even from a distance, Dunk was still extremely impressed by the imposing drum tower and curtain wall. Ser Arlan had explained the myths surrounding its enduring construction, and Dunk had taken it all in with open-mouthed fascination.
They made their camp on the outskirts before heading into the market stalls. Dunk kept his hands in his pockets. There were still occasions when it was too easy to reach out and take something his eyes thought he needed. The beatings he’d gotten after the first few times had taught him well enough. Still, there was a barely-leashed sense of wonder to it all, the glittering wares of the jewelry stalls, the tantalizing scents from food and flower carts, the songs bleeding out of every ale tent. The very air buzzed with a rich, effervescent energy that Dunk thought he could bite into if asked.
When they reached the tourney grounds, Roger had to practically drag Dunk along by the sleeve to keep him from getting left behind. But Roger was more amused than annoyed, and they eventually made it through to the Master of Games. Dunk didn’t know what was going on, but Ser Arlan signed his name in some book and walked away, grimacing.
Around evenfall, Dunk found himself wandering the stalls again, slower this time. Ser Arlan and Roger had found some other riverlanders to talk to, and instead of sitting around feeling awkward and alone, Dunk chose to walk around.
One of the ale tents seemed in an uproar, and Dunk approached it hesitantly. However, the uproar here seemed to be borne of mirth and not madness. Dunk ducked in to see what was going on.
Amid the shaking, swaying folk spilling drinks and wheezing with laughter sat a boy, probably a little older than Dunk himself. He sprawled sideways across a large chair near the center of the tent, conducting the crowd in its hysterics as he told a tale. Dunk could hardly hear it over the raucous shouting and gasps for air.
The boy gestured dramatically with the cup in his hand, making wine slosh out of it and over his beringed fingers. He grinned and laughed at his clumsiness. That noise, his laughter, carried above the cacophony to hit Dunk’s ears, where it echoed like a bucket dropped down a very deep well.
Dunk stood transfixed as he watched the boy laugh, all sharp white teeth and reddened lips. He turned his hand to swipe a perfect pink tongue across his dripping fingers, even wrapping his lips around the fattest ring on his hand. Some of his thick black curls flopped into his eyes, and he shook them away with a practiced flip of his head.
Instantly, Dunk hated him. That was the only explanation he could come up with to describe the sudden tightness in his chest, the burning in his cheeks. He… how dare he! Whoever this boy was, with his wine and his fine doublet and his-his laughter.
The boy looked up at him, and his expression morphed into one of shock. It was a softer expression than he’d made so far, and not what Dunk expected to see. He expected affront, or offense—the usual response to finding a stranger glaring daggers at you. The expression held for a few beats before his brows furrowed, a pout forming on his lips. The boy sat up, as if to ask Dunk a question from across the tent. Dunk turned on his heel in a sudden surge of anxiety and ran out of the tent. His ears were burning. He regretted coming in here. He regretted wandering. He regretted agreeing to come to the stormlands.
Dunk walked and walked until things were quiet again, and the dull roar of blood in his ears had settled, taken over by the distant sounds of waves crashing against the seawall. He took a few deep breaths, clenching and unclenching his fists as he stared out at the foggy, moonlit sea. The cloudbanks moved lazily across the surface of Shipbreaker Bay, little dancing puffs of silver that Dunk envied for their grace.
He was still a gangly boy, growing into a body that seemed keen on sprouting inches wherever they pleased. He’d sometimes feel overcome with emotion, whether anger or sadness or heartache; he could not predict the next. Right now, he felt just the singed edges of what-had-to-be-hatred flooding his veins. It made the darkness darker, the moonlight brighter, and every breath of wind against his skin burned intensely.
“—fucking hells, there you are,” a voice shot through the night. It was lyrical and pleasant, but for the cursing. Dunk turned to look, and his heart dropped through his stomach.
It was the boy. Of course it was. He was the unluckiest person alive. He tried to take deep breaths through his nose and exhale through his mouth, but his heart was suddenly racing too fast to think about numbers and all those useful things Roger had taught him while training. The boy was wandering closer now, and there was no way he couldn’t see Dunk, the moon was too bright, and they were the only ones out here at the edge of the cliff—
“You ran off so quickly,” the boy said, tilting his face toward Dunk. Oh no, he’s talking to me. He was a few inches taller than him. Not too many, but enough to make his heart pound. Dunk was glad for the darkness; it hid his flush of anger. “Didn’t even stay to the end of my tale. Was it so bad?”
“What’s it to you?” Dunk fired back, heat underscoring his words. His fists hadn’t unwound since he heard the boy’s voice. Anger, fury, this had to be something like that.
A snide little smirk crossed the boy’s face. Dunk wanted—he wanted to—“You’re the only one I didn’t see laughing. A man can take offense to such things.”
I didn’t even hear your stupid story, Dunk wanted to say. He didn’t, because such articulation was beyond his grasp at present. Instead, he said, “Well, it wasn’t funny. So I wasn’t laughing.”
The boy tilted his head to the side like a bird of prey. Dunk had seen falcons here and there, and they often looked at mice like that. Like they were sizing up just how much effort it’d take to kill them. But Dunk stood his ground. The smirk faltered, confusion flickering in the furrow of the boy’s brow. “What about it wasn’t funny?” he demanded, taking a half step closer.
“You.” Oh, fuck, this is a bad idea, he’s got rings on his hands, he looks like a prince from a song, he’s probably some important man’s son somewhere—
Again, the boy laughed, crowing his mirth to the open skies this time. Dunk’s breath hitched, and he reached up to rub at his chest. There was something wrong with him. He couldn’t breathe right. He’d never been this—angry in his life.
So when the boy brought his head down, back to smirking, Dunk brought his fist up.
The thing about scraps and fights is that the first punch always hurts both ways. The shock of pain took him by surprise, as did the instant pit of cold regret in his gut. The anger in his blood chilled to something like fear, and a fleet of one thousand apologies awaited launch from his mouth.
“What the f—” The boy didn’t finish his sentence, instead rearing back to throw a wild punch at Dunk. It missed his face, connecting instead with his shoulder. The rings on his hand scratched him deeply, even through his threadbare old shirt.
Both of them cried out, meeting each other’s gaze in open shock. In the silence, their eyes asked, do we keep going? What are we doing?
They couldn’t answer the second, but they certainly answered the first.
They leapt at one another like hissing cats, falling to the ground and rolling through the grass and mud as they jabbed and kicked at one another for reasons neither of them could name. Dunk was all heaving breaths and hot blood, breathing through the blood in his mouth and the grit in his teeth from faceplanting in the dirt. Neither shouted for help nor called for aid; this was between them.
And neither really had a clue why.
There was a tipping point somewhere between the fourth switch in position and the fifth, where knuckles on mouths became clumsy lips on lips, smearing together through blood and spit and dirt. It was a completely uncoordinated dance of mouths and tongues, each of them eager for something they couldn’t name. The taste of the other’s blood seemed only to incense them further, turning what could have been sweetness into something harsher, darker. It felt like they were trying to eat one another. Dunk sucked on his lower lip, gasping into his mouth at the lingering taste of fine wine—his first sip of the stuff. He’d only ever taste blood when he drank a red after this.
And even this came to a stop, both of them scrambling apart and laying face-up on the crushed grass. Dunk’s entire face radiated with a throbbing feeling—the pressure in his bloody nose, the aching tell of a black eye, the pulse of blood in his swollen lips. He reached a shaking hand up to touch them, and was shocked at how sensitive they were. Was that even kissing? he wondered. They were both still breathing hard.
He heard the other boy swallow and clear his throat. His voice carried with it a bubbling brook of humor. “I can’t tell if all that means you liked my story or not.”
Dunk very nearly laughed as well.
Instead, he scrambled to his feet and ran, full-tilt, back to camp.
When he arrived, Ser Arlan and Roger were quite drunk, nearer to passed out than awake. Dunk hid his bruised face and bloody knuckles by taking his time brushing down the horses. Every few minutes, he’d check over his shoulder, sure that the boy would return with guards, or a sword, and just gut him where he stood. Gods, even the thought of the last one thrilled him. There was something wrong with him.
Dunk pressed his face against Sweetfoot’s neck, hiding from the world in her soft warmth. When he pulled back, he was mortified to see he’d bled on her pure white coat. He frantically cleaned her off before searching for some water to do the same for himself.
He curled tightly in a ball that night and hardly slept.
2.
When dawn arrived, the camp as a whole woke slowly, awareness stretching itself across the tents with the same pale fingers of sunlight bleeding in from the east. No guards had come. Ser Arlan and Roger were still asleep in their own bedrolls, and the fire was just embers. It was like any other night he’d had since serving Ser Arlan of Pennytree.
Perhaps there’d be nothing to worry about. Perhaps that boy with his bloody kisses and his stupid fucking rings on his fingers and his irritatingly pretty laugh had just… forgotten about him.
He nearly shit his pants when a page trotted up to the edge of their little camp. Dunk was the only one awake. “Are you for Ser Arlan of Pennytree?” the page said, not even out of breath.
Dunk nodded dumbly.
“Good. Get him ready, he’s to ride against Prince Baelor this morn in the lists. You’ve an hour.” He ran off without another word.
Oh.
He scrambled to wake the others. They tried raising the alarm at Dunk’s half-swollen, battered face, but when Dunk interrupted them to announce Ser Arlan’s matchup, it was bumped very far down the line in priority. They worked quickly to ready Thunder and gather all Ser Arlan needed for the tilt, and Roger left at one point to inquire where in the seven hells they were meant to even go.
At the first lull in the chaos, Roger cornered him.
“What the hell’d you get up to?” he demanded. “Who’ve you been fighting?”
“Nobody!” Dunk protested, hiding his scraped-to-hell knuckles behind his back. “I don’t know!”
Only one of those things was true.
He got a clout on the ear for his troubles, and a stern glare. Dunk’s squire livery was just a padded tabard with a leather belt—Roger’s old set. It didn’t bear the Pennytree winged chalice, but then again, he wasn’t their blood. Hardly anyone looked at the squires as they directed Thunder through the crowd, but Dunk purposefully kept his head down, all the same.
Onward they trotted through the stables, the pavilions, the viewing stands, until they were at the rail of a massive arena. It’d been built specific to the occasion, all new-smelling wood and paint. Even the dirt smelled new—from what Dunk could tell, with his poor nose still stuffed with blood and phlegm from the night before. Already, hundreds of onlookers had gathered in the stands or on the hill angled up and away from the grounds. It was a dangerous place to put an arena, what with the whole thing acting like a basin, but the weather was mild and promised a sunny morning.
Roger quickly ran through what Dunk would be expected to do as a squire for the event. They’d talked about it a little bit on the journey here, but none of them had been expected to be called for the first tilt of the bloody tourney. “You’ll get Thunder turned ‘round, hand off the next lance to Arlan, get him a replacement shield if he needs it. The other squires shouldn’t give you a hard time, just stay out of their way. Give young Thunder a slap on the arse if he doesn’t charge when spurred, too.”
Dunk bobbed his head, clenching his teeth together against the throbbing headache that had bloomed into life on the way over. He had to squint against the sun just to see, and it only made the nausea worse. He’d taken a few kicks to the head in his younger years when they got into scraps, but he’d not gotten his bell rung quite like this before.
He was also still a little dazed from the kissing, but that was another matter.
They waited in halting moments as their time drew closer, and eventually, Dunk let himself look around. Everything was spectacular; Baratheon yellow and black banners decorated every inch of the place, and flags bearing the champions’ standards fluttered in the high morning breeze. It was just how Dunk always imagined it would look. He couldn’t help smiling—which was a mistake, as it reopened his bloody lip.
“What happened to him?” another squire asked down the line. Dunk's ears flamed red until he saw he wasn’t looking at Dunk, but at the guest box at the center of the viewing stands.
“Oh, you know Lyonel. Always getting into scrapes with that fat mouth of his.”
Dunk directed his vision to the stands and tried to see who they were looking at. His breath caught in his throat when he recognized—that idiot from last night! Flushing hot fury warred with gut-spinning shame and heart-pounding thrills as he snuck glances at the bruised but regal face from on high. He tried his best to keep his face hidden, but at his growing height, he wasn’t sure it’d work.
“Please, for the love of the Seven, tell me that’s not who you fought last night,” Roger seethed from beside him, his voice just a hissed whisper.
“Why? Who is he?” Dunk said. It was easy to play dumb when everyone already thought you were stupid.
“That’s Lord Baratheon’s heir, you stupid—” Dunk got another clout on the ear but kept his yelp to himself. “I can’t believe this.”
“There a problem, boys?” Ser Arlan said from atop Thunder, adjusting his seat a little. They were all still waking up, and Arlan’s bones tended to ache in cooler weather.
“None, ser,” Roger said, straightening up. “Just discussing… strategy.”
Ser Arlan huffed. “I’m certain.”
That boy—Lyonel Baratheon—looked quite different in the day. Beneath the light of the moon, he’d been an otherworldly beauty, enragingly so. In the candlelit ale tent, he’d looked like a dark, glinting young god, a king amid his laughing subjects. But here, he brooded. He now wore a mantle of gold around his shoulders to ward off the morning chill, and a broad circlet affixed to which was a small pair of antlers, reaching over the top of his black, curly hair. His hair looked like an angry stormcloud that matched his scowling expression.
Beside him sat his family, all sharing a measure of similarity in their features—a prominent chin and jaw, dark hair, and an inner radiance made more pronounced by the gold surrounding them. They were a beautiful family, the Baratheons, and it twisted Dunk’s gut to come to terms with the fact that the cuts on his face and shoulders came from rings bearing the sigil of one of the Great Houses.
He really deserved that clout in the ear.
“Prince Baelor of House Targaryen, against Ser Arlan of Pennytree!” the barker called from the corner of the gallery. Dunk’s stomach flipped, and he stepped back with Roger to the side while Ser Arlan went to ride about and present himself to Lord Baratheon and the others.
Prince Baelor, on a great black stallion, came galloping down the lane, lance raised to the cheers of all around to hear it. He’d been given the name Breakspear some years earlier, for his prowess in this very event. It set Dunk’s teeth on edge with worry for his ser. When he came close, Dunk held his breath, eyes wide as he watched the prince expertly stop and turn his mount without the help of any of the squires in Targaryen livery.
“Go! To the other end, Dunk!” Roger hissed, shoving his shoulder to get him going. Dunk put his head down and took off at a dead run along the gutter at the end of the lanes, heart pounding in his chest. As he passed the middlepoint of the lists, he felt a burning gaze upon his back and knew he’d been seen. He kept running, anticipating the call to the guards and his arrest.
But… none of that happened. Dunk turned his head when he neared the end, looking back at the viewing box.
Lyonel Baratheon, heir to Storm’s End, was staring at him through a black eye of Dunk’s making. His expression was cool for all it was fiery, a convection current passing through his gaze like a storm could be born from eyes alone. Dunk slowed to a jog, turning around to finish his run backwards before coming to a stop. He hadn’t yet looked away. For all the hundreds of people around them, it felt like they were the only ones present. A strange feeling—not the confusing rage of last night—bubbled in his chest and stole his breath. Dunk couldn’t tell what it meant. It didn’t feel right to call it anger.
“Best to focus, squire,” a voice said from not too far away. He turned his head to see Prince Baelor himself looking over at him, already fitted with shield, lance, helmet—
“Y-yes, Your Grace,” Dunk stuttered, heading to the rack of ash lances with his ears burning red. The Targaryen squires hanging around snickered at him a little, but he paid them no mind. He could remember what Roger told him. Gods, the joust hadn’t even begun, and here he was, near to passing out from how hard his heart pounded.
The horns sounded, and Prince Baelor took off in an explosive burst of motion. The crowd cheered loudly, and from the center of it all, the noise hit Dunk like a wall. He peered down the line at Ser Arlan, keeping his eye on the winged chalice, unsure where else he should be looking.
The clash of steel and wood at the center was so loud it made him jump. Both lances shattered in their riders’ hands, and each of them swayed back in their saddles as they recovered. Dunk hoisted the lance aloft in his left hand, ready to catch and turn Thunder around with his right. When Ser Arlan galloped close, Dunk squared his shoulders and held up his hands at Thunder to get him to stop. The horse came within a foot of him, making some of the closest onlookers gasp at his nerve. Dunk trusted the horse, though, and swiftly turned him around to face down the lane again.
“Alright, ser?” Dunk asked, his voice shaking with nerves.
“That prince is quite the lance,” Ser Arlan said, coughing once. Dunk handed the new lance off to him and took a few steps back, waiting for him to reset and charge again. “Let’s go!”
Dunk gave Thunder a swat, and off they went again.
The next three courses went so fast that Dunk hardly remembered them, but he did remember Ser Arlan flying off his mount into the dirt at the fourth and final charge. Prince Baelor nearly ran Dunk over, the stallion not wishing to slow down even at the end of the list. The team of squires ran around to control the beast, but Dunk was only looking at Ser Arlan. He saw Roger run to catch Thunder, so he ran to Ser Arlan’s side, breath coming like a bellows. “Ser?” Dunk said, standing over him.
“By the gods!” Ser Arlan guffawed, coughing like he’d gotten the wind knocked out of him—he likely had. “What a tilt. Move out the way, boy—” Dunk skittered away so Ser Arlan could signal his yield to the king-at-arms. The crowd’s cheers drowned out the sound of the horn marking the end of the joust. Dunk helped Ser Arlan to his feet, stepping back once he had his footing. He waved to the crowd before turning to bow his head at Prince Baelor and Lord Baratheon each.
Dunk kept his head down, watching Ser Arlan’s ankles the whole time.
He felt that burning gaze on him the entire rest of the time they were in the arena, and the ghost of it the remainder of their time in the stormlands.
Dunk soon understood why Ser Arlan was grimacing when he’d signed up for the tourney: he had to forfeit his horse, arms, and armor to the winner of his joust. Dunk’s heart sank. Would he have to walk around the realm behind Ser Arlan and Roger? Carry all that Thunder usually bore? What use was a knight without a warhorse in the first place?
However, Ser Arlan and Roger were called away by a page wearing Targaryen livery, leaving Dunk in the stables with Thunder. He brushed the destrier down, sadness palpable throughout.
“So you’re a squire,” a voice said from the end of the stalls. A moment later, Dunk heard the door to the stables shut.
Dunk poked his head out of Thunder’s stall and wished he hadn’t. Lyonel leaned on the door, arms crossed over his chest. The yellow mantle was gone, but the fine, glittering doublet screamed wealth and luxury and privilege all the same.
I could run, Dunk thought to himself. I could take off, and I could probably get a fair distance before they caught me. But his feet wouldn’t move.
Lyonel sauntered forward until nothing but the stall door separated them. “Come out.”
“No,” said Dunk, heart racing. He felt cornered, he felt—
The door started to open. Dunk pulled it shut. The pair of them fought over it for a few seconds, but ultimately, the other boy was stronger and bigger than he was, and at a particularly hard yank, Dunk went sprawling forward onto the floor. Two hands hauled him up and pinned him by the shoulders against the opposite wall.
“Imagine my surprise when the ungrateful little imp who bloodied my face appeared as a squire for a hedge knight.”
Dunk scowled. He had nothing to say for all of two seconds, and then he forgot every single minute of manners he’d learned in the last year. “Yeah, well, I’m not surprised you’re a spoiled little lordling. Punch like one, too.”
“What the fuck is your name, I swear—”
“What’d’you want it for?”
“To put on a fucking gravestone—”
Words lost their importance after that. They were kissing again, up against the stable doors with horses huffing all around them. And this was another sense robbed by the insufferable idiot before him: he could no longer go into a stable without thinking of this, them, here, now. Dunk kissed him back furiously, pushing his hands into that stupid curly hair and making a soft noise in his mouth at how soft it was. He’d not had the chance to touch it yestereve.
“What’s your name—” Lyonel asked, gasping against his mouth.
“Not telling,” Dunk breathed.
“Tell me.”
“No.”
Dunk shoved him back three steps, breathing hard. There was a trembling magnetic pull between them, as confounding and natural as sunset. They glared at one another while they caught their breath.
“Why haven’t you called the guards?” Dunk asked.
“I was raised to take care of my problems on my own.”
Pompous arse.
“What are you going to do?”
That drew Lyonel up short. He blinked, long lashes distracting Dunk from his disdain for a few moments. Lyonel swallowed again. Gods, he looked rough. Dunk felt a measure of remorse for what he’d done, but based on Ser Arlan and Roger’s reactions, he likely didn’t look any better. Dunk thought he saw a flicker of that same guilt rise in Lyonel’s face, but they didn’t know each other well enough for him to say one way or another.
Then, Lyonel laughed.
Dunk tackled him to the floor, both of them tussling again—and weren’t they doing it backwards, this time? Sometimes, rituals made you do things in reverse to undo a mistake. Maybe by the time they’re done here, they’ll never have kissed and fought in the first place. Both of them got a few good hits in before they froze.
Ser Arlan’s voice filtered in from the stable doors, oddly jovial. “—someone’s closed the doors, what?”
The boys scrambled apart, both covered in hay and each other’s bloody kisses. Lyonel checked his shoulder against Dunk’s as he strode past, making him grunt and spin in place.
When the doors opened, Lyonel breezed through the opening without a word, making Ser Arlan and Roger stumble back a step. Dunk was left, dumbfounded, in the center of the stables.
Roger came closer, looking between Dunk, his bleeding lip, his red-raw knuckles, and the retreating form of Lyonel Baratheon. Then, he smacked the back of Dunk’s head.
3.
Dunk had entertained the thought of returning to King’s Landing one day. But now, with the Red Keep peeking between clouds of billowing black smoke and tattered banners, he wished he’d stayed away.
He had lost track of Roger and Ser Arlan an hour ago. Maybe a minute ago. Only the gods knew. The battle raged on all around them, the screams of the dying filtering in through the rush of black dread in his veins. He was all fast-twitch reactions now—that’s how his ser had trained him, to be fast first, and then strong. He held a simple maul in his hand and the scrap of a shield he’d liberated from the blood and mud.
Things had gone so very wrong. They’d marched out with House Hayford, who were mostly part of Prince Maekar’s efforts to hold back the Blackfyre forces from the south. Far down the flank were battalions of stormlords, but Dunk couldn’t see them now. He could hardly see anything through the smoke. He ran anyway.
An arrow whizzed by his head, making him trip and roll down a ditch. He shouted and had the breath knocked out of him when he made impact with another person at the bottom. He turned and felt a rolling wave of relief hit him when he recognized Roger’s blue tabard and mail. “Roger—“ Dunk coughed, then froze when he saw the mess that had become of his friend’s face. There was hardly anything left of it.
Dunk couldn’t move. He remained frozen, hands curled into Roger’s tabard and shaking. He’d seen dead bodies before, plenty of times growing up in Flea Bottom and then on the few battlefields he’d followed Ser Arlan onto. But Roger had always been there to keep him safe or tell him to run to the backlines when things got serious.
“You! Who do you fight for?!” a voice came from the top of the muddy ditch. Dunk cast his eyes up to see a warrior limned in gold against the smoky sunshine. He held a sword aloft, helmet gone somewhere in the horror all around them, but Dunk couldn’t see his face through his streaming eyes.
“I—I’m not—”
“Which side! Red or black?” he barked.
“I don’t, I don’t know—”
The knight gave a jump and slid down the ditch on both feet, staying upright as he came to a stop in front of Dunk. Dunk shielded Roger’s body with his own, glaring up at the oncomer. “Hayford, we’re. We’re sworn to House Hayford,” he said, voice rising in pitch. Something wet and red was seeping across his hand, already cold. Dunk looked away, down at Roger again. He didn’t know what to do next in a moment like this. It was likely his death would be swift to follow, depending on this angry knight’s affiliation.
But the knight did not raise his sword to strike him down. He paused, uncannily quiet in the midst of war.
“It can’t possibly be—” the knight said under his breath, before reaching down to push at Dunk’s shoulder.
A cloud had shifted over the sun. Dunk looked into the eyes of Lyonel Baratheon. They’d both grown now, two years gone since Storm’s End. But Dunk was still a squire, and Lyonel was clearly now a knight of some kind, his armor painted with Baratheon antlers as well as mud and blood. Dunk wore it across his face, hands, and body.
For a moment, neither of them said a damned thing.
Then, Lyonel laughed. Dunk couldn’t tell what for. It honestly didn’t matter. But the laughter was loud and long and poured oil directly on the burning rage and grief smothering Dunk’s heart. In an instant, Dunk launched himself at the knight’s middle, jarring the hell out of his shoulder. Dunk was matched to him in height now, if not bulk, but he still had that spark of Flea Bottom scrappiness that drove him onward.
“You’re laughing at a time like this?!” Dunk roared, bringing them both to the ground and straddling Lyonel’s middle, throwing punch after punch at his face. It took him a second to respond, but two armored forearms put themselves in Dunk’s path, and he heard something snap in his hand—didn’t feel it, no, he didn’t feel anything. Nothing but the bleeding chaos in his heart. “Still laughing?!”
His words were hardly coherent through the thickly accented voice of fury. Lyonel turned his hand and grabbed at Dunk’s wrist, firmly enough to drag him off and to the side.
“Stop it!” Lyonel shouted, angry now. “We’re not boys, you idiot!”
“Laughing, and laughing—there’s people dead here—!”
“—it’s a fucking war!”
Dunk struggled, but the position brought them too close together to take another swing. He screamed his fury, trying to use his legs, anything, to get the edge again. These attempts, too, were batted away by cuisses that did more damage to Dunk's knees than the other way around.
What Dunk had gained in height didn’t matter when Lyonel flipped them over. He had the bulk and strength to carry around a full set of armor. With all that added weight, Dunk was immobilized the moment he was pinned beneath him, one wrist pinned to the grass and the other trapped beneath his own body.
Dunk thrashed, breathing fast and shallow. Darkness crept in on the corners of his vision, smoke and death—
And chapped lips, tasting of blood and a little bit of bile, pressing against his. They were firm, unyielding, and patient. It was so familiar, and so foreign in the fog of panic he’d been thrown into. Dunk whined, and very nearly kissed him back.
Instead he snapped his head up, connecting his forehead right to Lyonel’s and making stars burst behind his eyes. Time reset itself in long, warping seconds.
“—believe this, I’m trying to save your life and here you—aough, you fucker!”
Dunk thrashed again, snarling like a feral animal. Roger was dead, Ser Arlan likely too, he was back to what he was—lonely and nothing. He didn’t know when his cries of fury turned to cries of anguish, but they eventually did, and he was trapped beneath them as surely as he was trapped beneath Lyonel Baratheon.
“Stop that, st—you stop that,” Lyonel said, awkwardly. His mouth was now glazed with spit and blood from Dunk's attacks, but that was secondary to the sheen of mist in his eyes. “Stop, we’re—there’s no time for that, come on.”
Dunk’s lip trembled as he stifled the rest of his grief, eyes burning as he looked to the oily-black skies above. How could the sun still shine on a day like this? It ought to be raining; the gods ought to weep as he did.
Lyonel kind of collapsed on top of him, trying to bear the brunt of his weight on his forearms. He was making little hushing noises, his breath hitching whenever Dunk gave a particularly loud sob against his neck. They shook together, grief and fear binding them together. Lyonel pressed a bloody kiss to Dunk’s poor forehead and pulled back again.
“I’m going to get off you now. Don’t hit me again.” Slowly, he rose up, releasing his wrist and sitting back inasmuch as his armor would allow.
Dunk’s free hand went to cover his face, but when he saw the streaks of black mud and red blood across it, he thought better. His chest hiccupped, and the world faded back in from the red haze he’d been trapped in—the screams of the dying, arrows whizzing overhead, shouted orders coming from far away. The main battle had shifted further away; where they sat now was naught but a grave.
“Why the fuck are you here?” Lyonel spat, sending flecks of red into the air. He had a large cut on his cheek, but it looked to be the work of something else, not Dunk’s fists. His forehead was already purpling from the headbutt.
“Told you, we’re servin’ House Hayford,” Dunk said, his voice coming out hollow. “Can’t—can’t find Ser Arlan. Other squire’s—” he couldn’t finish, eyes lolling in Roger’s direction. Lyonel tilted his body between Dunk and the corpse, shaking his head.
“Don’t.”
Dunk glared. Anger, that was simple. Anger, he could cleave to. Lyonel seemed to understand that. He gave a solemn nod and got to his feet, not even blinking so they wouldn’t break their stare. He held a hand out. “Come with me. Battles like this can’t be survived alone.”
Dunk didn’t hesitate to take his hand, but once on his feet, he paused, unsure. “I should—”
“The dead will not thank you for joining them. You will find him again when the trumpets call. Now come on. Fuck, you hit harder than last time…” Lyonel strode off, picking up his sword and a random shield on his way. “Don’t look back,” he said, sensing Dunk was about to turn to look back at Roger. He was deeply grateful for it.
They alternated sprinting and creeping through the field to reach the other knights gathered beneath banners of black. When they were about half a mile out, he asked where Dunk’s armor was.
“This is my armor. I’m a squire.”
“I’m a squire, ser,” Lyonel said, reigniting Dunk’s urge to deck him all over again. Or kiss him. He didn’t rightly know at present.
Regardless, Dunk wasn’t going to call him ser.
“Why do you laugh all the time?” Dunk said, slightly seething.
“Because this is all a great fucking joke.”
The urge to deck him, just once, won out.
They were separated almost at once when Lyonel approached a group of what seemed to be commanders. Dunk was hauled off with the rest of the squires, all of whom were enlisted to mind horses, armor, arms, and triage the wounded brought in off the frontlines. Dunk was gladder for the task, and fell into the training he’d received from Ser Arlan and Roger. Perhaps if he worked hard enough, this whole thing would be proven a nightmare, and Roger would be brought in, just injured and not—
Several hours passed before the horns were blown. A great cheer went up through the ranks, but Dunk did not join them. The knight he was trying to keep alive had died just a second before. Dunk let his hands fall to his sides, exhaustion weighing on him.
What was the point of it all? To reach victory, but to die a second before attaining it? Dunk felt dead from where he sat on his heels in the bloody grass. He was covered in gore up to his fucking shoulders. One dying man had spat in his face, coughing blood in the last throes of his life. That blood was only warm for being on Dunk’s face, now. What was the point?
He sat back in numb shock for all of five seconds before a hand came down on his shoulder. He didn’t have the energy to flinch, and barely had any to look up.
It was Ser Arlan. Dunk gaped at him like he was a ghost. He looked battered and bloody, though certainly not as much as Dunk did. Between knight and squire, Dunk was the one who looked like he’d faced greater horrors. “C’mon, Dunk. Let the dead lie.”
“Ser—” Dunk choked out, tears rising in his eyes again. “I saw—”
“I know, boy. I was there to see it.” Dunk had not seen his ser so solemn before. It only made the situation harder to handle. “Dry those eyes. There’s still much to do.”
They trawled the fields together, looking for any other wounded to send off to the maesters, or Blackfyre prisoners to send to the captains. In another life, I’d be thieving these bodies for anything I could sell, Dunk thought to himself. It’d been years since he had to steal. They still had leaner days while on the road, but the urge to take from others had been thoroughly stamped out. Now, looking at the shining helms, the rich cloth, the armor… none of it was worth anything.
Dunk fell to his knees and vomited up what felt like everything he’d ever eaten in his life. Ser Arlan had simply stood watch, waiting for his squire to finish before carrying on.
They found Roger. Dunk was sent to retrieve Thunder from the temporary paddock for the rest of the living horses while Ser Arlan shrouded his nephew’s body.
On the wind, he heard laughter. He set his jaw and turned the other direction.
4.
The stormlands weren’t as beautiful this time around. Ser Arlan had withdrawn into himself over the four years following Roger’s death. Dunk was now nearly twenty—they’d long ago decided his nameday would be whenever it was convenient to celebrate in the warmer months. There hadn’t been any celebrations in the last few years. Dunk supposed that meant was perpetually the age he was at the Redgrass. Roger certainly never saw any years past that day. It felt fitting.
“You cried the first time you saw Shipbreaker Bay,” Ser Arlan said when they passed through a stretch of coastal forest. He’d turned to look at him in the saddle. “Do you remember?”
Dunk nodded, clenching his jaw. That had been a good memory with Roger. They still hadn’t figured out how to talk about him, even after all this time. Some conversations ended with both of them reaching for whatever spirit was available, and others ended in furious silence. Arlan waited for another few seconds, but Dunk didn’t have anything else to say, so he carried on.
After another mile, he spoke up again. “You looked like a thrice-dropped peach the morning of that joust. Roger knew what happened, but he never told me. Said it was squire business.”
Dunk’s foul mood contributed to his harsh honesty. “I got in a fight with Lyonel Baratheon. Twice.”
Ser Arlan choked on his drink, wheezing for a long time before laughing to the heavens above. The sound only served to remind Dunk of Lyonel’s laughter, soaring through the rafters of stables and across ale tents and above bloody fucking battlefields alike. Despite the churning revulsion he felt for the last memory, all served to remind him of the mouth that laughter had come from, how it kissed like it only knew to devour. He hid his blush in the folds of his cloak, which was permissible, given the chill in the air.
“Well? Who won?”
Dunk didn’t know how to answer that. After a moment, he said, “I think we both lost.”
That only made Arlan laugh harder.
They came to a stop in Durran’s Point, just a stop on their journey to the Red Mountains. There were always marchlords who needed hedge knights these days. Dunk hoped there was no resurgence of rebellion in the marches—one battle had been quite enough for him. There were nights he still awoke to the sound of his own screams. Arlan had said nothing those nights, only sitting up to keep watch against darknesses within and without.
Storm’s End loomed ominously in the gray skies, the air too misty to make out as many details as he could the last time they were here. Arlan kept catching him looking at the keep, then chuckling to himself. “Didn’t know you were capable of getting lost in thought, Dunk,” Ser Arlan teased. “Perhaps we should go a-knocking on Lord Baratheon’s door, see if you can get a rematch.”
“Don’t,” Dunk said, eyes going wide. “Please.”
“C’mon, you’re a man grown now! You think the Laughing Storm will stand a chance against you?”
“The what?”
“Oh, yes, that’s what they’re calling his heir these days. Says he rides into battle laughing like a fox, and fights with the same Baratheon fury as his father. On second thought, perhaps he may stand a chance against you.”
Ser Arlan made good on his threat, turning them east down the well-treaded road that connected Durran’s Point to Storm’s End proper. Dunk complained as politely as he could, but his ser said he wished to visit the blacksmiths before they continued on their journeys.
“Come on, Dunk, it’s a few hours—you’re not bloody likely to run into him.”
The castle itself was, admittedly, very impressive. It held the same thread of twisting, eerie charm that the bay had, once upon a time. The great stone Storm’s End was hewn from had purportedly been placed there by the Children of the Forest to protect its inhabitants from the screaming rage of the wind and sea made godly. Dunk couldn’t claim to agree one way or another, but he certainly felt safe while within the curtain wall. Magically? He had no idea.
They stabled their horses before entering the indoor market area. Dunk expected it to be smoky and malodorous, but the air here smelled just as fresh as outside. It was bright, too, with braziers raised aloft in great dishes, reflecting golden light along polished veins all over the ceiling. They were styled to look like antlers in some places, and bolts of lightning in others. Dunk was so mesmerized by the sight of them that he lost track of Ser Arlan almost instantly.
A little anxious, he gulped and attempted to backtrack to the stables, but got turned around more than once. He took a set of stairs, then remembered he’d not taken any stairs to begin with, and returned back down, but had gone too far. The next door he found took him back into the open air.
It was like a forest, but unlike any forest Dunk had ever seen before. He could still see the rising curtain wall around the edge of it. The trees that grew there were large, each of them larger than he was wide. He’d heard some castles had gardens and groves within them, but this felt immediately different. Curious feet pulled him further into the wood.
An all-encompassing hush fell over the air around him as he set foot past the first of the trees. He looked over his shoulder and saw the door to the marketplace still ajar, but its bustle didn’t carry more than a few feet into this place. Dunk swallowed nervously but kept going, looking his fill. He nearly jumped out of his skin to find a face looking back at him from a great broad swath of white. He almost thought it was a corpse caught in the snow, but it wasn’t cold enough for that right now. No, the face seemed to be carved directly into a tree—somber and pensive, to Dunk’s eye.
He did flinch when a blood-red leaf fell onto his shoulder, yelping loud enough to make the ravens in the boughs titter and laugh down at him. He held the leaf between his fingers, examining its five points and spinning it round on the stem.
A voice cut smoothly through the barely settled silence. “I do wonder what you think you’re doing.”
Dunk whirled around, dropping the leaf to face who’d spoken. It took ten breathless seconds to recognize who was leaning against the tree. His legs were long, encased in tight leather breeches and fine black boots. His shirt, made of a billowing dark gray material, was cinched at the waist by a series of thick belts. He had an arming sword at his side, the pommel ending in a gnarled claw of antlers. But the clothes weren’t what helped Dunk recognize the man.
It was the man’s smirk.
Well, Ser Arlan was wrong.
Dunk said nothing, just straightening his shoulders and fighting down the burning irritation in his chest. The Laughing Storm’s smirk only grew into an amused, infuriating grin. “Ah, so he does remember me. The weirwood works wonders.”
Dunk didn’t know the word, but he supposed so strange a tree would naturally bear a strange name. “I wouldn’t call it wonders,” Dunk said. He knew he was supposed to bow his head, call him ser and genuflect to his betters, but theirs was a story of mutual irritation and confusion and—best not think of anything but those things. In any case, he’d decided long ago not to give Lyonel Baratheon any undue respect. At this juncture, all respect was undue.
Lyonel put a hand over his heart. “I’m wounded, really.” Dunk saw his hand was wrapped in silk, like he’d suffered some sort of injury on his palm. “But still—wonders are at play. For I am still, in fact, wondering what you’re doing here.”
Dunk glanced at the door that led back to the market. It was now shut. The small wood felt even smaller, even quieter.
“I was looking for the blacksmith,” Dunk said.
“There’s a thousand bloody blacksmiths in Storm’s End, none of them on this side of the castle.” Lyonel raised one thick eyebrow.
Last time he saw the man, they’d both been barely beyond boyhood. Too young for war, by anybody’s account. Four years’ perspective made that abundantly clear. They’d both been terrified, fighting and kissing like they’d die in the next second. After several long hours regrettably (and drunkenly) spent ruminating on the subject, Dunk had concluded that Lyonel had asked him to come with him not because he was rescuing him, but because he feared for his own life, and didn’t wish go alone.
He hated that he couldn’t blame him for such a thing.
The man who stood before him now was cocksure, radiating experience. Dunk wasn’t sure how he could tell. He looked much more settled in his skin, less jumpy. He had years etched on his face and in his eyes. Though Dunk knew how young the man was—no more than two years his senior—there was a bit of silver cutting through his curls. Gods, but he’d become handsome. There were parts of him that were still pretty, so pretty it made Dunk’s guts twist in conflict, but the distinguished tilt to his chin was—Dunk wanted to punch him. Sure. That was a simple conclusion.
Dunk looked at his hands briefly. He’d broken the knuckles in both of them after his tussle with Lyonel in that bloody ditch. He still had scars from where he’d pinched his skin between the plates of his armor. He bore signs of him on his body, inescapable except when wearing gloves. Did Lyonel bear scars from him?
Why did he want the answer to be yes?
Lyonel pushed himself off the tree he’d been leaning on. Dunk had waited too long for a response. When he got closer, Dunk noted that he’d finally gained a few inches on him. They’d been of a height, last time. He wondered if next time, the difference would be even greater.
But for now, they were close enough. Dunk could make out the amber chips of light in his eyes, glowing golden even beneath the overcast skies strangling Storm’s End. “Answer me.”
Dunk’s eye twitched, and he balled his hands into fists at his side. “What business of yours is my own?”
“This is my home, ser,” Lyonel said, gesturing up at the great drum tower that loomed above them. “You can’t expect me not to want to know the hearts of those within it.”
“We’re not in your home, we’re in—” Shit, what is this place—
“The godswood,” Lyonel smirked, smug. “I suppose you’re right, if you look at it like that. All the same. I’m rather surprised to see your face around here.”
So am I. “We had to take a detour.”
His eyes flashed. “Ah, so you’re still just a squire, aren’t you? There a reason for that, or…?”
“Why the fuck would I tell you?” Dunk said, backing away a step when Lyonel swayed into his space. His body had changed lots in the intervening years, but it certainly hadn’t forgotten the feeling of Lyonel’s pressed against his own, nor did his dreams let him forget the desperate kisses and violent touches they shared.
“Because we’re making conversation.”
“You are,” Dunk scoffed, making to move around him and leave, but a hand on his bicep kept him in place. He could have broken free from the hold, but something about the exact warmth of his hand arrested him. Just as I remembered. Dunk looked down at the hand, the one wrapped in white silk. The question leapt off his tongue before he could stop it. “What happened?”
“Dangers of a life at sea,” Lyonel said. “Could tell you about it.” It was a piece of himself, a peace offering, but Dunk wasn’t level-headed enough to recognize it as one.
“Rather you fuck off back to sea.” He shook his arm to dislodge Lyonel’s grasp, but his grip only redoubled.
“You hate me,” Lyonel said, fascinated. “You’ve hated me since the second you saw me. Why?” Baratheon fury bubbled like molten gold in Lyonel’s eyes. His jaw was set, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Dunk could sense the question had been eating at him for a long time. The best thing he could do would be to deny him an answer, or even lie.
But the godswood seemed to have unmoored him from any falseness.
“I don’t know,” Dunk breathed, heart pounding. “I don’t know.”
His answer seemed to floor Lyonel, whose hand fell from his arm a second later. “That’s ridiculous,” he said a moment later.
Dunk rolled his eyes and set off again. A second later, a great weight slammed into his back, arms wrapping around his broad shoulders. “—can’t walk away and leave me like that—!”
Dunk shouted, trying to keep his balance while clawing at Lyonel’s arms. He wasn’t choking him, but one slip might end with a forearm over his throat. He lowered himself into a crouch and tried to hurl Lyonel up and off his shoulder like a sack of grain, but Lyonel’s full-body grip was too powerful. It felt like he was trying to bite him—no, he was just shouting in his ear, and sometimes talking with his ear in his mouth. Dunk shouted, “Get off me—”
“No! Not until you give me some real fucking answers, like what’s your fucking name and—”
Dunk did the next best thing besides throwing him off, which was taking both of them to the ground. Noble lords and knights didn’t fight in the dirt, and had little experience with it, but Dunk wasn’t a noble lord or a knight. He was a squire, which was a step up from nothing. So he could play as dirty as he wanted, with no risk to his reputation.
Lyonel grunted as Dunk squished him beneath his bulk. Here, the size difference was made abundantly clear. “You big oaf, what are you—”
The punch was unexpected, but Dunk should have known better. He threw the first punch last time. It was only fair that Lyonel did it now. His ears rang for a moment before he looked down. Lyonel had hit him with his injured hand, and was making a big deal about it, groaning in pain. He almost didn’t hit him back.
Almost.
Lyonel seemed to refocus at the blow, snapping his hips around to lever the entire bulk of Dunk up and away before the next hit came. Dunk, a little uncoordinated after getting hit in the jaw, grunted when his shoulder jammed into the ground. They grappled together on the roots of the strange tree with the face, each of them biting out insults between clenched teeth.
“—laugh at everything, just a fucking joke to you—”
“—rip your fucking spine out with my teeth—”
“—sack of shit—”
“—the Maiden herself teach you how to fight—”
Dunk was stunned when one of Lyonel’s elbows actually connected, snapping his head back in a time-splitting arc that felt like the whole world had held its breath at once. He fell to the side, sprawling across some of the thicker roots of the tree. Something in his nose had gone crunch, and by the time his head hit the root, it was already gushing blood.
“—shit, fuck, are you dead—”
Blood spilled across the bone-white roots of the tree.
When Dunk came back to himself, he could still taste blood, but it was a far second to the taste of Lyonel's tongue in his mouth. He moaned weakly into his mouth. Their hands were wrapped around one another, arms straining to get closer and closer. They kissed hungrily, each demanding the right of first consumption. Dunk drew back an inch.
Gods, but Lyonel was covered in his blood. Dunk’s nose was still dripping like a spring thaw, but Lyonel didn’t seem to give one particular fuck. Lyonel’s face was red from nose to collarbone. It glistened in the weak overcast light, and its hue was breathtakingly sharp against the white of the tree. Lyonel looked up at him with a silly, dazed grin that dropped by degrees when he realized what they’d been doing.
“Fuck, you look terrible.”
“You look worse,” Dunk slurred, his nose making it difficult to round the words how he normally did. At least it was cold, and he couldn’t quite feel the throbbing pain in his nose.
Lyonel gave a hum and a light laugh. He ran a hand over his face and sneered at the red that came back with his palm before snickering at that, too. “Got you good.”
“Everything really is a joke to you,” Dunk sighed. “Glad to know little’s changed.” He got to his feet, feeling awfully cold now, for whatever reason.
“You don’t know a thing about me,” Lyonel said, an edge forming in his words. Defensive, bitter, cold.
“I don’t. Just like you don’t know anything about me.” Dunk found a spare bit of his cloak and used it to staunch the blood from his nose.
Lyonel worked his jaw a little, rubbing at the hinge of it before glaring up at Dunk. Already, bruises bloomed beneath his lovely tanned skin. He gave Dunk a long look up and down. “Clearly not.”
With all the enmity built between them, he had to wonder if this would be it. The moment where the bratty little lordling called the guards, threw him in irons, and dashed him on the rocks of Shipbreaker Bay like Dunk thought he’d do more than six years ago. But all Lyonel did was glare, and all Dunk did was glare back.
He broke first, and spared a last look toward the somber face of the weirwood before stumbled toward the door without a goodbye.
He returned to and stayed in the stables, knowing Ser Arlan had to come back this way eventually. When he did, he was a bit drunker for it, but not too drunk to keep from remarking on Dunk’s face, which had darkened considerably in the last few hours.
“Who won this time?”
“Let’s just get out of here.”
Interlude.
Dunk’s dreams that night were strange. They’d found room in an inn in Durran’s Point, a cramped place where Dunk had to choose between sleeping half-sitting up or with his legs half-off the bed. He nodded off in the former, knowing he’d eventually slump into the latter.
He dreamed he walked through a wood. It was not unlike the godswood he’d seen that day, which wasn’t outside the realm of possibility for dreams—he often dreamed of things that had just happened. Even asleep, even dreaming, however, he knew he didn’t want to revisit all the things that had taken place there, so while he walked, he looked for a way out.
An old woman bearing a golden lantern crossed the path before him, chuckling to herself. Her eyes glowed as gold as the candle in her lantern. “Ah, so you’re the one who bleedin’ woke me up,” she said, when she alighted on Dunk.
“Yes,” he said, unsure why. “Sorry.”
She just laughed, a crackling little noise that made his hair stand on end. “Say your fortune?” she offered.
“Yes,” Dunk said. This time, he knew why.
In Flea Bottom, there was scarce time for fortune—on some days, he used to seek out the dreamtellers and would clean up around their homes in exchange for just a few kind (if empty) words about his future. Most would feed him silly fantasies—you’ll be warm, you’ll have a home, you’ll start coughing in two weeks—but one of them had paused and looked deep in his eyes, and gotten a strange flicker in the back of her pupils. It was gold, like candlelight at nightfall. She had turned to him, an odd look on her face, and said: you’re going to get punched in the face a lot. It had felt like the truest fortune he’d ever heard. He hadn’t thought of that woman in years. But looking at this old woman here and now, he could see the connection between the two in the glint of her eyes.
The old woman winked. “Come and have a walk. Walking’s important, Ser Duncan the Tall.”
“Who’s that?”
“You’ll see.”
She took him down a darker path in the woods, and he was gladder for her lantern, though the range of its light only stretched a few feet before him. A twig snapped in the woods to their left, and there, she stopped and turned them toward it.
Within the wood danced two strange beasts: one a stag of gold, the other a twisting mess of green branches. The second shone like starlight, but just for a moment. It made the stag all the brighter. The pair danced and reflected light upon each other, trying to stomp on one anothers’ feet. There’s love there, he thought.
“Yes, there is. Beneath everything else.” The old woman tugged him onward. It could have been miles, or perhaps minutes. Things moved differently in dreams.
She showed him other things. Impossible things charging at each other all at once: gigantic fish and the sun and lions and actual towers and even three-headed dragons—and still, that golden stag. Each time it appeared, Dunk felt he knew who it was.
“A knight should heed a call to war,” she said after the next bout finished.
The stag appeared again, this time crowned, antlers gleaming with golden velvet. He pulled with all his might on a rope against a rosebush. He did this three times before the twisting, starry, green-boughed creature from before appeared, helping it pull.
The last thing she showed him was a harrowing image of the greenbough beast collapsed on its side in a sad little slump, starlight bleeding from its mouth with one eye open but dimming. The golden stag was there, throwing its antlers against a dragon but bleating in fear and panic at the sight of the unmoving beast.
The old woman sighed from beside him. “Always a chore, you knights.” Her voice had changed, losing its raspiness and gaining a lyrical quality that twisted Dunk’s heart something fierce. “Hold this for me.” She handed off the lantern to Dunk and walked toward the beast.
Her hair was no longer gray; instead, it was a deep golden brown, braided thickly down her back. Her shoulders were squarer, and she stood much taller than before despite her rounded figure. The barest glimpse of her hands showed her wrinkles had gone, too, but Dunk couldn’t see her face yet. I know her, I know her first, I know her, Dunk thought frantically. Found her, finally.
“Alright, get up,” the woman said to the beast in a chiding voice.
The beast gasped back to life, as if it were only sleeping. It looked around in shock, leaves trembling as it pushed itself to stand. Did it see her? Did it see Dunk?
“What’s—I don’t understand,” Dunk said, shaking his head. “What is all this? What does it mean?”
When the woman turned around again, she was in a pale orange gown, littered with golden sunlight all over. There were flowers in her hair. She looked to be about twelve. “You’re big and stupid,” she said with petulance, suddenly raising a hand to smack him—
And then he woke.
5.
They were in Dorne. Or, well. Near enough to Dorne to count. They’d cut straight through the stormlands from the Reach, answering to the call of Lord Dondarrion, one of the marchlords abutting the Red Mountains. Some fool calling himself the Vulture King had taken up residence in the mountain pass, attempting to raise an army made up of the poor souls who’d tried crossing hither and thither.
Dunk was now two-and-twenty, by Ser Arlan’s reckoning. Older now than Roger ever got to be. Dunk was older and more experienced as a squire than Roger ever had been. He was a hard worker who never got into any trouble (aside from the one, recurring trouble) and never sought to bloody another person without cause (again, aside from the one). Ser Arlan’s refusal to even discuss knighthood with Dunk was becoming a point of tension between them.
But they were going to war again, called to aid another house in battle. This was nothing like the organized chaos of the Blackfyre Rebellion. This was 800 men and their squires riding into the mountains in hopes that the old fool would just give up upon seeing the size of their host.
The Vulture King didn’t do as hoped.
Ser Arlan had taken a crossbow bolt to the side for his troubles, and with nobody else around, it was Dunk’s job to take it out and keep him steady. Outside, distantly, the sound of battle raged on. Dunk felt a little upset with it all. They’d been out there no more than ten minutes before Arlan had gone down. Dunk had hoped he would prove himself better now than he had seven years ago at the Redgrass.
But he was stuck in the fucking maester’s tent instead, at his ser’s side. Ser Arlan had passed out from milk of the poppy and some dark wine, and duty-bound Dunk was by his side.
From the rousing cheer outside, the battle was done. Dunk tried not to scowl.
A head poked in. It was one of the pages. “You busy?”
He glanced at the unconscious Ser Arlan. “Not really.”
“Good. Wipe off that blood and come with me. Smile, the Vulture King’s dead.”
The page didn’t have to slow down much for Dunk to follow—he was quick, and had his legs to make up for where he wasn’t. He was nearly six and a half feet tall by now, a fact that’d drawn way too many eyes over time. But now, men were cheering and carousing with alcohol that had been produced from somewhere. Dunk hadn’t seen it come in with them, so he assumed it had to have come from the Vulture King’s stores. When they stopped, they were near the command tents, and Dunk’s heart sank sharply when he saw a familiar black-stag sigil on a yellow banner.
“What exactly did you need me for?” Dunk asked, pitching his voice low.
“We’re tryna move the cots out into the open to use for the triaging—or the celebrating. Need all hands to help. And you’re the biggest guy in camp.”
Dunk sighed and followed the page into the Baratheon tent on tenterhooks. Upon finding the tent empty, he felt a wave of disappointment. He didn’t want to examine it. “I didn’t know House Baratheon had come along as well,” Dunk said to the page, helping first to move several chairs into the open.
“Oh, yes, the Stag Knights were the vanguard, riding cavalry up the pass like a bunch of maniacs, from what they’re saying.”
That sounded right. Dunk bit his tongue against any follow-up questions. Together, they moved a trestle table out of the tent, before the page pointed back at it. “Just go bring the couch in there out here and you’ll be good.”
“What, by myself?”
“I believe in you.”
Dunk rolled his eyes and went back. He considered simply dragging the couch out through the gravel, but its feet looked nicely carved, and he didn’t want to risk breaking any of the antlers adorning the backrest. So he hoisted it up onto a shoulder and strode out.
“Oh, great buggering fuck—!”
Dunk couldn’t see who he’d just hit, but—who was he kidding? He knew this was going to come.
He stumbled back a step, but couldn’t see much with the couch in the way. For a moment, he considered pitching his voice up to conceal his identity, but that was stupid, even for him. Dunk instead carried on, moving the couch outside as gently as possible.
When he finally came face-to-face with Lyonel Baratheon, the knight had one hand raised to his nose, but a bit of blood had escaped onto his pretty golden armor with its painted antlers. His hair was shorter at first glance, but when Dunk looked closer, he saw it was actually loosely braided back at the sides and top. He’d seen some men do that to keep their longer hair out of their eyes when wearing helmets. It was… a surprisingly comely look on him.
Aside from the bloody nose.
Through streaming eyes, Lyonel glared up at him, eyes bright as gemstones in the Dornish sun. Dunk grimaced.
“You.”
“Yeah.” He wasn’t proud of it.
“Is this—is this actually happening?” Lyonel said, straightening up and looking around for the mastermind behind this cosmic joke. “How are you—”
“We’re sworn to Lord Dondarrion.” Dunk was still holding the couch aloft.
His eyebrows went up, and he forgot about his nose for a bit. “You’re still a squire?” Lyonel said, aghast.
Dunk cast a wary glance back down the line of tents. “I don’t think now’s the best—”
The page from before interrupted him, bounding up like a mountain sheep. “There you are! Come, bring that over h—oh, hello, Ser Lyonel.”
Lyonel turned to give Dunk a look that said, See, I am a ser, where’s my respect, you great lout?
Dunk rolled his eyes. “Where do you want this?” he asked the page, ignoring Lyonel. Turning toward him had swung the couch around, almost braining Lyonel again.
The knight hissed at him. “You’re stealing my settee. I demand to know why.” Lyonel said, looking between the slowly building outdoor triage and the tent again.
“Need it for the wounded, milord.”
“Well. If the wounded need it.” He breezed past Dunk into the tent. He immediately left. “You’re stealing all of my furniture,” he complained.
Dunk only shrugged. The page watched on in fascination, but Dunk took a second to look Lyonel over a little closer. He noticed now how exhausted he looked. His curls, a bit longer than the last time, were matted down with sweat, and aside from the fresh stuff from his nose, there were spatters of dried blood up his greaves and gauntlets. There was a thin layer of dust over all of him. It made sense he’d wish to sprawl out on a settee before letting the squires take off his armor.
“Quit your complaining. Just—go wait a moment.”
What are you doing, Dunk?
Lyonel was as stunned as Dunk to hear the command given. All the same, he only raised his eyebrows and shrugged, heading back into the barren tent. Dunk adjusted his hold on the couch and followed the page to where he waited. Several other couches, tables, and chairs were scattered around the open space, and many were already filling up with the wounded or wassailing.
“You seem awfully familiar with Ser Lyonel,” the page said, in the tones of one eager to feed the rumor mill.
Yes, the familiarity is awful, thanks for noticing.
“Who?” Dunk muttered, setting down the couch with a grunt.
The page sputtered.
“Need anything else?” Dunk said, but left before he could get an answer. He snagged a wooden stool off the ground as he went, returning to the Baratheon tent with his shoulders hunched.
Lyonel was fiddling with his gauntlet, teeth gritted in frustration when his unwieldy gloves didn’t allow him to get at the buckles. Dunk sighed. “Stop that.” He plunked down the stool in the center of the tent and batted away Lyonel’s hands from where he was making things worse and got to work.
They were quiet but for the sound of buckles and metal plates clinking together. They’d left alone the armor stand in the corner, so Dunk was able to place the removed pieces there instead of the sandy gravel beneath their feet. Lyonel’s armor was sunbaked and almost hot to the touch in some places. His cloak had been ripped to shreds, and its fine velvet pile had collected what must have been five pounds of dust and dirt.
“You weren’t injured?” Dunk said after a while. He was working at the clasps holding Lyonel’s breastplate in place. “Heard you might have been in the vanguard.”
Lyonel grunted. “I had managed to make it through the whole thing unscathed, but for one moment after the bugles called, when some great lumbering cunt hit me in the face with my own couch.”
“An unusual wartime injury,” Dunk said, glad he was at Lyonel’s back so he couldn’t catch him grinning. “I’m sure your admirers will spin songs of your valor.”
That earned him a scoff and a glance backward. “Admirers.”
“Oh, does the Laughing Storm not have admirers?” Dunk said, removing the backplate and gently lifting it off his body. Plate armor was no light thing to wear, and the first charge had gone into the mountains before dawn that day. Lyonel’s retort was interrupted by his groan of relief. At the sound of it, Dunk only blushed.
He’d come to terms with the rather mortifying fact that the anger and confusion he felt toward Lyonel was a thin veneer over what was at the core: an attraction, a longing, so deep that Dunk found it difficult to remember a time when he wasn’t completely infatuated with the man. That wasn’t to say he didn’t find him utterly infuriating, rude, irreverent, and ridiculous. In fact, those qualities seemed to only stoke the flames in his heart.
He also had examined what Lyonel had told him at the Redgrass.
Why do you laugh all the time?
—Because this is all a great fucking joke.
War was pointless. If you couldn’t laugh at it, you’d weep, and if you couldn’t do either, it was because you were dead. Lyonel had made the choice to laugh, and for that, Dunk couldn’t blame him.
Standing here in the tent with him, gently removing his armor, Dunk allowed himself to let go of their past conflicts and clashes. Losing Roger at the Redgrass and almost losing Ser Arlan today had put into perspective just how fleeting life could be for those who lived by the sword.
Lyonel remained quiet as the rest of his sweaty, dusty armor pieces were removed. After his leg armor and mail were set aside, he swayed on the spot, relief hitting him like a physical weight. “Sit,” Dunk said, pointing to the stool.
He all but collapsed onto it with a groan. He bent his body double, stretching out his back with a few telling pops. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a good squire?” he said faintly, words directed at his ankles.
Dunk blushed harder, busying himself with the task of balancing all the armor onto one stand. Lyonel’s sword had to lean against the tentpole for now. “Once or twice,” Dunk said quietly.
“Well, hear it a third.”
“I’m not going to be cleaning your things for you, if that’s what you’re wondering.” There it was, the defensive edge that wanted to rise between them, an impenetrable curtain wall of buzzing stone. Dunk winced, wishing he hadn’t said it. But the rest of the day’s irritation had bled in.
“I never would have asked,” Lyonel grunted, sitting up again. He was moving the rest of his body around, stretching out limbs held hostage by the armor. The sweaty underclothes he still had on stuck to his skin, showing off the smooth planes of his muscles. What skin did show had a soft, glowing sheen, and Dunk found himself utterly distracted by it. Lyonel pinned him with a deep stare to break him from his heat-addled daydream. “Why are you still a squire? You must be at least twenty by now.”
“I’m not that much younger than you,” Dunk said, flexing his jaw a little and busying himself with the sword and scabbard. He didn’t respond to the rest of the question, which Lyonel honed in on.
“You were in the thick of things at the Redgrass. But I didn’t see you up in the peaks today.”
“I was there,” Dunk said lightly, though his enunciation was getting a tad sharper. “We were in the third charge. My ser took an injury early on. I had to carry him to the backlines to tend to it.”
“You’ve been his squire for… hells, man, it’s been almost ten years since that tourney for my nephew, and you were his squire then. Why aren’t you—”
“It’s not for want of asking, alright?” Dunk snapped. “And what do you care? I’d just be a hedge knight, anyway. What’s that to a lord?”
Lyonel peered up at Dunk with a serious set to his jaw. “We’ve seen each other grow, you and I. Don’t deny it. I know you’ve grown as I have.”
“You don’t know a thing about me,” Dunk said, breath getting shakier. He’d said it last time, in the godswood. But it’d been a lie, hadn’t it? He knew things about Lyonel that nobody else alive likely knew, and the feeling was mutual. He felt flayed open at the simple observation.
“Can’t a man wish kindness upon a stranger, then?” Lyonel shot back. “A stranger who was under no obligation to help me, who helped free me from my armor, and—”
“Oh, don’t start that, I’ve been bored out of my bleedin’ skull since we got here—”
“That why you were walking around stealing people’s furniture--”
“I didn’t particularly want to go about hauling couches—”
“Don’t you get defensive with me, I was just—”
“Because he thinks I’ll die the moment he knights me, alright? He’s got no fucking faith in me, and he’s the one who raised me, taught me to be a knight. Been teaching me more’n half my life. But it’s still one man’s fucking pride keeping me from the only thing I’ve ever fucking wanted, and he’ll probably go to his grave before even considering giving it to me,” Dunk said, nearly shouting by the end. His accent had thickened considerably as he spoke. He held Lyonel’s sword in a white-knuckle grip around the hilt and scabbard. It was a nice sword. Too nice for his hands. He set it down before he could do something stupid with it.
Silence rang like a struck bell between them. They waited, glancing at the entrance to the tent, but the celebration and triage outside continued without pause. Nobody had heard them. Dunk felt silly all of a sudden, pressing a hand to his forehead. His skin felt hot, sun-touched.
“I shouldn’t have said all that. Sorry.”
Lyonel didn’t scoff, didn’t laugh. He stood instead. They were, the two of them, nearly finished growing, and both had settled into the general shape of the man they were to be remembered as. Lyonel tilted his head up, stepping close. “Any knight can make a knight, you know.”
Dunk’s heart gave a great, flipping lurch in his chest. His tongue nearly sparkled with the impulse to say yes, to accept what was being offered to him. To accept all of what Lyonel was offering. What was worse, Lyonel looked earnest.
“I…” Dunk’s head finally cooled off, and he realized the scope of it all. He glanced at the tent entrance, but his thoughts carried him another few hundred yards back to the tent where Ser Arlan rested. He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have said all that. The old man’s been good to me. I can’t… it’d break his heart.”
Lyonel gave a little noise, disapproving. “You said yourself that he likely won’t ever call you to kneel.”
“Then that’s his judgment to make.”
“I’d not see a treasure such as you left to rot on the vine.” This, too, was in earnest. But he sensed Dunk’s resolve as well. Within his amber brown eyes, Dunk saw the conflict there, a young commander choosing his battles wisely. Resolution bloomed, and his lips twitched into a familiar smirk that pulled at Dunk’s heartstrings. “Well. I’ll make you a deal: if next we meet, whenever and wherever that may be, and you’re still not a knight, I’ll do it for you. No questions asked.”
Dunk’s face flared with heat, so much that he was almost lightheaded with it. “And what do you want in return?”
“I already told you. I’ll not see potential wasted. I’ve a good eye for it.” He gave a wink, and this time, Dunk laughed. For the first time since they’d locked eyes, he’d finally laughed, smiling down at him. Lyonel beamed up at him. “Good. Nearly settled, then.”
“Nearly—?”
Lyonel reached up to grip the back of Dunk’s neck, dragging him down those final few inches to seal their agreement with a kiss. It was the sweetest and most devastating blow they’d exchanged by far. Even the hazy, intoxicating kiss in the godswood paled in comparison to the promise made here. And Dunk let himself sink into it, his hands going to Lyonel’s sides and gripping the sweaty tunic at his waist.
This is going to make everything so much worse, isn’t it?
A flicker of golden sunlight from the entrance of the tent warned of another’s approach, and they sprang apart. Neither man looked or felt particularly guilty, though Dunk was certainly abashed to have been nearly caught. Lyonel was his regular brand of smug about it all, which was to be expected.
“My lord, are you within?” a voice called. Two long shadows stepped into the sunlight streaming on the ground between Dunk and Lyonel. “They’ve taken the couches—”
“Yes, yes, I’ll be out in a bloodydamn second,” Lyonel drawled, keeping his eyes locked on Dunk. With just a look, he said, until we meet again.
Dunk watched him go, and felt the ache in his chest redouble.
+1.
Ser Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm, heir to Storm’s End, was extremely disappointed with his gathered guests. Were it not an offense to the gods, he’d have them all at least a little thrashed for not daring to engage with his riddles, even a little. Ashford Meadow was a droll little place, made droller by the company.
He wished something interesting would happen. A fight, a scandalous romance, literally anything to liven the place up. Manfred had at least invited Beesbury to the feast, and he was always a hoot. A buzz. Either or.
Lyonel had started throwing these parties years ago. It was the best- and worst-kept secret at tourneys. The serving staff and squires all knew to invite any interesting hedge knights, squires, or pages to the feasts, but none of the noble fools had cottoned on. To what end? a manservant once asked him.
He’d not answered.
The mysterious squire never showed up. He hadn’t seen him in three years, not since Dorne.
After the fight against the Vulture King, he’d finally hunted for answers, after so long keeping himself from doing so. He asked Manfred about the hedge knights in his father’s service, but he did not share Lyonel’s propensity for remembering names and histories. He’d sought the records of his nephew’s nameday tournament and gotten one answer: Ser Arlan of Pennytree. The squire’s ser.
Pennytree was further north than Lyonel ever liked to go. He’d sailed East, been to the Free Cities, all over the stormlands, the Reach, Dorne—but he’d put off traveling to the riverlands. It just seemed… dull. Yet, when he found Pennytree on an obscure map buried deep in the library at Storm’s End, Lyonel considered visiting.
Considered, and quickly decided against. Ser Arlan was a hedge knight; he wouldn’t return home unless it were to die, and perhaps not even then.
So here he was, casting lines out to sea, a romantic fool to the end.
He’d shared this story with none but his sister. It was a glorious day, not long after they’d outgrown their long-held sibling rivalry and finally spoken to one another as adults. She’d listened to his tale of the squire who kept showing up to punch him and kiss him and leave him, and she’d laughed for an hour. When she’d finally gotten the chance to breathe again, she’d ruffled his hair like he was a boy and smiled. “You kissed him in the godswood, in front of the weirwood tree. You’re practically married, you know.”
Lyonel had never turned such a shade of red before in his life.
Ugh, why was he ruminating on this? He scratched at his beard and shook his head. Maybe it was time to give it up. To return to Storm’s End and submit himself to a solemn life of duty, and let his father rest.
But I made that promise to him. If I see him again and he’s not a knight, then it’s my duty to fix that.
So he knew he couldn’t give up.
Regardless of such a noble burden, this party was fucking dull.
“Now eat your birds, so we can dance!” Lyonel called, offering a smile to the crowd before returning to his scowling and pouting. He was the Laughing Storm; he was allowed some measure of mercuriality. And it was his own damn party, his own damn coin paying for it all. If he wished to brood, he would brood.
And brood he did, until a flicker of gold in the corner of his vision turned his head. His heart stopped in his chest.
He’d grown, again, somehow. He’d been tall before, and the last few befores. But now, he was practically a giant, towering over the rest of the crowd by a few inches, even slouching. His shoulders had broadened even further, muscles pressing against the simple roughspun shirt beneath his vest. But he was lean in places, too, lean as hedge knights often were. It was no surprise to find him eating as voraciously as he was.
Lyonel hid his delight in his cup and tried to control himself; there were too many courtiers and sycophants around to allow for any kind of personal, overly familiar greeting. But his blatant staring had not gone unnoticed, for the next time he looked up at the man, he was gawping right back at him.
How dare he; he knew whose party this was, whom this pavilion belonged to. How long had he been here? Was he one of the disappointing crowd who’d held their tongue to his question?
The answer didn’t matter. Lyonel raised an eyebrow and squashed down the memory of his sister calling them married. The lingering flutter in his heart remained, however.
“Who is that?” one of the sycophants whispered loudly, when they saw Lyonel’s attention directed thus.
“Looking so boldly at our lord,” another added, tutting.
“How impertinent of him, and what poor manner of dress—!”
“There are worse-dressed guests here, I’ll thank you to notice,” Lyonel said, turning toward the man who’d spoken last.
The fool cowered and bowed his head, a thousand apologies falling in a practiced tumble off his tongue. Lyonel’s hands itched at his sides. Were we anywhere else…
“Call him over, please,” Lyonel said instead, going for the knife Lord Cafferen had left before him.
Step-step-step, came the man’s approach. The floorboards were rudimentary and uneven in places around the tent, necessitating dances with higher steps, lest someone trip and kill themselves for scuffing their feet. The boards creaked obediently beneath the man’s footsteps, not once daring to trip him up.
Lyonel flicked his eyes up to the mysterious squire who’d haunted him and his dreams for more than a decade. Hello again, he tried to convey with just his eyes.
The great lumbering man didn’t dress like a knight—even a hedge knight, by Lyonel’s reckoning. Was it possible that their struck-and-kissed deal would come to fruition? You kissed him in the godswood, in front of the weirwood tree.
“You ever been punched in the face before?” Husband, his mind added, unhelpfully.
Delight sparkled in the man’s eyes. “Here and there, Ser Lyonel.”
Lyonel sucked in a short breath. Oh, you fucking cunt. How long had he longed to hear such a form of address from the man? And the fucker was hiding a grin from him. Nevermind the ducking around his attendance at the party, that was a crime against the gods.
“That why you slouch? So you don’t get punched?” Lyonel fired back, a fiery edge in his tone. This time, the verbal spar didn’t feel like they were trying to draw blood. They’d done that, too many times to count. It was time for something new.
“I don’t slouch,” the man said, frowning and flicking his eyes to the hungry stares of the other courtiers who wished to join in Lyonel’s teasing. A wave of possessiveness rose inside him; this was his… squire. Fool. Knight? Ugh.
“You’ve been cowering all evening like a maiden on her wedding night,” Lyonel drawled.
“I meant no disrespect, ser, honest.” Ser, again! This fucking shithead! I can’t believe I dream of him!
He brandished the knife. “The Seven above gave you tallness. So, be tall.”
A flash of that usual indignant disrespect flickered through the man’s gaze, but it was withheld for the sake of the others around them. As much as Lyonel wanted to hear what absurd jeer he wanted to throw his way, Lyonel grinned at him, catching him in the trap.
“So, why the fuck are you in my tent, then?” Lyonel said, leaning forward a little.
Oh, he wants to punch me so badly. I love that look on him. Like a leashed wolf, or somesuch.
The man, this infuriating man, held up the little half-eaten pastry in his hand, lip twitching. “Supper.”
They’d been sparring, playful until now, but this strike hurt. Supper. Not you. Didn’t come here for you. How banal, how stupid. Why does that hurt?
Lyonel let out a breathy laugh, surprised. He couldn’t help the incredulous glare he shot at the pastry. Fuck you pastry. I’m never bringing you to a party again. Fuck you.
“—and.”
Lyonel looked up sharply, breath caught in his throat, heart held to the edge of a knife. He couldn’t help the hope that surged up in him. Hope was a bleeding headwound, hot and dizzying.
“Yes?” Lyonel asked softly.
“To, erm, to let you know that. Our-our deal needn’t be fulfilled. Not anymore.”
It should have been another dagger to the heart, but Lyonel remembered those bleeding, frustrated words: the only thing I’ve ever fucking wanted. His grin split his face to the point of pain. “I’m glad to hear it, ser.”
The man grinned at him, giving a little laugh of his own.
“Shame, though. That I couldn’t see you on your knees for me.”
The courtiers gasped.
“Oh, fuck off with you. All of you,” Lyonel said with a wave of his hand, dismissing them like mayflies. He stood, beckoning the knight (the knight!) closer.
He had a hazy, teasing sort of look in his eyes. “The night’s still young.”
“Suppose it is,” Lyonel agreed. “Answer me this, though. Since you denied me the pleasure of your dubbing.”
“Hm?”
“What is your fucking name? It’s been twelve fucking years.”
The man threw his head back and laughed, catching the eye and ear of many in attendance around them. Surely, the gossip had already started—the uncouth hedge knight, propositioned by the Laughing Storm himself. Lyonel couldn’t give a single care. He just wanted the name.
“It’s, er, Dunk. Ser Dunk.”
What.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You’d know.”
“Yes, I would, you barmy fuck. Now, for the love of the gods, answer me this: do you like dancing?”