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Duncan finds it’s rather enjoyable to be part of such merriment. Quietly eating, enjoying himself, as he watches the festivities. He’s with a crowd of people watching a man dance when he catches someone at the Baratheon’s table staring at him, ushering him over.
‘Me?’ He silently questions, motioning towards himself. It seems it is him. Dunk takes a deep breath, trying to steel his nerves. Heading over towards the table, feeling as if he might be walking into a situation he won’t be seeing himself out of.
The main attraction of the table, Lyonel Baratheon, doesn’t spare him a single glance during his pursuit, attention focused on the table before him as he picks up a knife, playing with it in his hands.
He’s heard a thing or two about the man. Lyonel has traveled all over the seven kingdoms. A trueborn stag and heir to the Stormlands. Upon his head is a crown, adorning antlers, and a golden cloak rests upon his shoulders.
Dunk stands before him, holding a pastry in one hand. Trying his best not to awkwardly fidget his other hand. The question of why exactly he might have been called to this table tries its best, but is unsuccessful at making its way out of his mouth.
Eventually, the man sighs and asks, “You ever been punched in the face before?”
He didn’t have the faintest idea of what was going to be asked of him when he made his way to the table, but he definitely hadn’t expected that line of questioning. “I- I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”
“Big men get punched more than little men.” Finally, the stag’s eyes left the knife and met Dunk’s. “Did you know that?”
Dunk’s stomach does a little flip, and he tears his gaze away quickly. “No, but I- I believe it.” He responds, meeting the man’s gaze for a brief moment before looking away once again.
“That's why you slouch?” Lyonel questions, motioning a punch to his own face, “So you don’t get punched?”
“I don’t slouch.”
“Oh-ohh,” Lyonel coos, “You’ve been cowering all evening like a maiden on her wedding night. You’re cowering now, look at me when I’m speaking.”
“I meant no disrespect Ser, honest.” He says, eyes snapping back to the lord before him. Truthfully, unable to see where this conversation might be going, “Where I grew up, you learn to go unnoticed is all.”
“The seven above gave you tallness, so be tall.” Lyonel grins, before motioning his knife towards Dunk, “Or I will name you a heretic and burn you. Drown you. Drop you off a tall pl-”
The stag stops turning to a man beside him, “I don't know. What do they do to heretics?”
“Burn them, my lord.” One of his men answers.
“Fine,” He throws down the knife and gestures to Dunk, “What have you brought me?”
The question startles Dunk, “Uh, Ser I- beggin’ your pardon. I didn’t realize-”
“You wish to curry my favor, some?” The man's dark brows furrow slightly, “Yet you come with an empty hand?”
Dunk has no choice but to stand there. Feeling as if all thought has left him under the man’s scrutiny.
“Lord Cafferen, the smug cunt in red.” He points towards the crowd, Dunk following it obediently to the man dancing.
“He is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinied up this-” grabbing the knife again, he continues, “Bauble from his family’s cellars for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head.”
The stag’s fixs him with a serious look as he asks monotonously, “You’ve come for my head then?”
“Wha- what?” Dunk’s brows shoot up, and his eyes widen, slightly bewildered by the suggestion before it quickly dawns on him the severity of the situation. His brows furrow as he says as authentically as he can, “No. No!”
“Then why the fuck are you in my tent?”
The tone sends a shiver down Dunk's spine as he quickly fills with fear. In truth, he hadn’t expected to be noticed at all. The farthest thought in the man’s mind was what he might be having for his next meal. Duncan knows very little of the rules of court. What may be appropriate, or inappropriate, to lords and ladies. Any offense he might cause could cost him his hand. He swallows, trying to collect himself, “S-Su-Supper.”
The Baratheon levels him with a blank stare. Dunk holds eye contact, determined not to break his gaze now that he’s been ordered not to. With each passing moment, his fear spikes higher.
For a split second, Lyonel's eyes flicker down Dunk’s frame before looking back into his eyes. The lord smirks and starts laughing, turning to the men surrounding him. “Alright. Actually makes sense.”
“Supper.” Dunk restates, easing slightly.
“What is your name, man?” Lyonel questions.
“Dunk- Ser Dunk.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Dunk glances away for a moment, unable to disagree. Quickly remembering the command from earlier and returns his gaze to the man before him. Lyonel smiles, motions him closer, and clears his throat before asking, “Do you like dancing?”
Dunk huffs a very small laugh, smiling, “Doesn’t everyone?”
The stag’s face slowly spread into a large smile.
-
The next thing he knew, he was in the middle of the tent moving every which way. Spinning in circles with those who’ve joined the dance.
Eventually, he spins into Lyonel. The man was quick. One moment, he was atop a table, and the next, he was across the dance floor. Then he’s upon Dunk, looking at him as if he had committed some grave offense. The stag stomps on Dunk’s foot, and he has to suppress a small groan of pain. When the man tries again, Dunk whips his foot back. It happens again and again. It feels like dancing in its own way, no doubt that’s what it seems like to anyone watching as they make their way through the crowd. Until eventually Dunk's excitement gets the better of him and he stomps back, slamming down upon Lyonel’s foot.
The Baratheon lets out a low groan before falling forward into his shoulder. Grabbing onto the larger man’s arm, then farther down with his face flushing to the side of Dunk’s hip. Dunk instinctively puts a hand to the man’s chest to steady him.
Even under layers of clothing, he can feel the heat radiating from the man below the span of his palm. No doubt a result of all the dancing and drinking.
Duncan takes it in a sharp breath, realizing the grave mistake he might have just made. His nose fills with the smell of wine and sweat. With an underlying tone of honey and damp earth.
Lyonel moves up from his position, looking wild. Leveling him with a gaze so intense it makes Dunk shiver once again. This time, however, fear is not the only thing starting to build inside him. Never has he had a look like that being directed toward him before.
The man steps just a bit closer, and for a split second, Dunk swears he is looking down at his lips, before he is once again met with those intense eyes. A stupid, traitorous thought crosses his mind.
Maybe Lyonel wasn’t mad, maybe he was going to-
The stag smiles and sticks out his tongue. Dunk’s mind comes back to him, and he laughs, pushing the man away.
-
Dunk doesn’t know how it happens. How he manages to find himself sitting at Lyonel Baratheon’s table, wearing his crown. He does know, however, that the wine the stag drinks is much finer than the cheap ale he’s used to. And that the drinking and dancing has worked to loosen up the usual ball of nerves he carries with him.
He listens intently to Lyonel speak. The man tells story after story, and still, the hedge knight couldn’t pull his attention away. Duncan loves a good story, but something about the man before him drew him even farther in. Finding himself entranced by every word.
“So I drove I on into the storm.”
“Weren’t you afraid?” Duncan questions.
“Ahh.” He sighs, turning his head towards Dunk, “Within every man, there are many men. But that I had to do, Stormlanders had always done, and if they had done it, I could do it too. You know it’s best not to agonize.”
“Yeah, I agonize a lot,” Duncan admits. Lyonel hums, motioning for Dunk to refill his cup. “Sometimes, I think I agonize too much, and I just end up agonizing over that. I’m quick and strong, sure-”
“Sure.” The stag agrees, using his grub axe to grab a piece of Venison.
“But so are you.”
“Sure.” He says again, shrugging.
“Plus, you’ve trained sword and lance with the finest masters at arms in the realm. I mean, what chance do I have? Truly?”
“Oh, you have no chance.” He huffs out a laugh. Dunk huffs as well, but it’s not amusement he feels. Lyonel grabs him by the shoulder, stressing, “But it’s a great honor to test oneself against a worthy foe.”
“No disrespect, Ser. That’s easy for you to say. You have a name, an inheritance. One loss, and I won’t be able to ransom back my own horse.” Dunk admits, dread lacing his voice. Why must everything feel like life or death? His entire life has felt like standing on a ledge, waiting for the final push that knocks him over the side.
Lyonel wheezes, laughing in Dunk’s face, and for whatever reason, the tension eases inside of him a little at the sound. He finds himself laughing as well.
“A knight without a horse is no knight at all.”
“Aye.” Dunk agrees a bit crazed. What an absurd situation he’s put himself in. “So what should I do?”
Lyonel grabs him by the shoulder once again, leaning in towards the larger man. Then he moves his hand down to Dunc’s knee, squeezing it slightly before admitting, “I don’t know.”
His eyes cast down as the lord moves his hand to spread across the meat of the hedge knight’s thigh. “I’m really quite drunk.”
The stag squeezes his thigh, finger digging deep into the flesh underneath. Something warm pulls at Duncan’s stomach.
Then Lyonel moves his hand back to Dunk’s shoulder, bracing himself to stand upon his chair, taking his crown from Dunk’s head before leaving.
Dunk stays seated to stew in his thoughts. Until he sees Ser Manford making his way out of the tent. The man refuses to vouch for him in the tourney, leaving Dunk feeling hopeless as he makes his way to the elm tree he’s set up camp at.
-
When he arrives, he finds the young stable boy from the night past sitting there beside a fire. “You! What are you doing?!”
“Cooking a fish, do you want some?” The young boy questions.
“No, I mean, how did you get here? Did you steal a horse?”
“I rode in the back of a lamb cart.”
The hedge knight scoffs, making his way past the boy, “Lamb cart. Well, you'd best find another one.”
“You can’t make me go. I’d had enough of that Inn.”
Duncan turns back around to him, irritated, “Now listen, I’ll have no more insolence from you, boy. I should throw you over my horse and take you home.”
“You’d need to ride all the way to kings landing, you’d miss the tourney.”
“Kings Landing? You’re from Flea Bottom?” Duncan questions wonder how a young boy like him managed to escape that wretched place on his own. The gods know he would have never left if it hadn’t been for Ser Arlan.
“No.”
“Aye.” Duncan notices his clothes on a line connected to the tree. “What are those doing there?”
“I washed them. I made the fire, caught the fish, and groomed the horses. I would have raised your pavilion, but I couldn't find one.”
“There’s my pavilion.” He motions to the tree behind him.
“That’s a tree.”
“Yes, and it’s all the pavilion a true knight needs. I’d sooner sleep under the stars than in some smoky tent.”
The boy tilts his head, “What if it rains?”
“The tree will shelter me.”
“Tree’s leak.” He states, matter of fact.
“So they do.”
“What’s your name?” The young boy questions.
“Dunk.”
“Ser Dunk.” He moves the fish over the fire, “That’s no name for a knight. Is it short for Duncan?”
“Yeah, yes. Ser Duncan of-” He stops thinking for a moment, a certain pair of dark eyes crossing his mind. ‘The seven above gave you tallness, so be tall.’
“-Ser Duncan the Tall.” He finishes off.
“Never heard of him.”
“Do you know every knight in the seven kingdoms, then?”
“The good ones,” The boy shrugs.
Duncan scoffs again, “You got a name, thief?”
“Egg.”
“Well, Egg, by rights I should beat you bloody, send you on your way.” He takes a glance at Egg. The boy reminds him much of himself when he was younger. Though he’s already proven to be more useful than Duncan was to Ser Arlan. He sighs, “But you look as though you don’t eat much. And if you’ll swear to do as you’re told, I’ll let you serve me for the tourney. After that, well, we’ll see. I don’t have much, but if you prove worth your keep, you’ll have clothes on your back and food in your belly. I promise not to beat you, except when you deserve it.”
Egg gives him a small smile, “Yes, my lord.”
“Ser,” Duncan corrects. "I’m only a hedge knight.”
That night, they lay beneath the elm tree. Making a wish together on their own shooting star.
-
The next time Dunk sees Lyonel is shortly after asking Tanselle to paint an elm tree over the chalice on his shield. Now that Prince Baleor has given his blessing for Ser Duncan to enter the list, he must find proper accommodations.
He finds himself stumbling over his words when he sees the puppeteer. He couldn’t help but see the young girl from his childhood. Tanselle is a living example of what could have been his friend if her dreams hadn’t died with her. If she had managed to leave Fleabottom, and why she was so desperate to get away in the first place.
He’s taking a sip from his ale and speaking to Egg when he notices Lyonel leaving his endeavors to stomp towards him.
“Yes, hedge knight you!” The man shouts as he makes his way closer, ripping the drink out of Duncan’s hand and throwing it to the ground, “What is this piss froth? I need muscle.”
Lyonel clasps his hand to the back of his neck, brushing his thumb over Dunk’s cheek, “Will you heed my call to war?” Dunk spares a glance towards Egg before receiving a light smack on the face. “Ah, good!”
Next thing he knew, he was at the back of a line with a rope tied around his waist.
“Go!”
He’s utterly focused on pulling the rope and planting his feet hard into the ground. His size meant he was acting as a weight against the other team. As long as he could keep his stability, they could win.
Then the stag is leaving in the middle of the rope pulling. “I’ll be back, I’ll be back!”
“Lyonel, what are you doing?!” Dunk yells, bewildered.
“I’m thirsty!”
“Lyonel!” He chastises as his feet begin to slip. Now, having to increase his efforts, having lost one of his men.
He manages a step or two back before Lyonel returns, smacking him on his arse, “Looking good!”
Did he just? He shakes his head. It was camaraderie, at the most a taunt. It well- it couldn't be anything more. So Duncan focuses back on the angle at which he is pulling the rope back.
The Baratheon stumbles his way back to the front before tugging hard, “Fucking pull!”
Duncan takes a few more steps back, and the other team's men fall forward onto the ground. Everyone begins to cheer, surrounding him with loud shouts and hard smacks on his back. Egg runs over, and he lifts the boy into his arms, smiling and yelling loudly.
Lyonel jumps up on his back, yelling fiercely into his ear, “Fucking knew a giant like you was exactly what I needed!”
Dunk throws the boy into the air before catching him and placing him back with the group to run off with the rest to celebrate. He turns his head slightly so he can see Lyonel's face as he grasps onto Duncan’s back, “I’m glad I could be of service, Ser.”
The man jumps down, rounding on him, “It’s time to celebrate. Tonight will mark another victory for the stag. Come on, hedge knight.”
“But m’lord, my squire, I must accompany him, and I would prefer to find armor for the tourney sooner rather than-”
“You need to learn to bask in the joy of life, Ser.” he says with an undertone of sarcasm. “Only the gods know how long we will get to enjoy the spoils.”
“Go on, Ser.” Eggs says, startling Dunk slightly. When had the boy returned to his side? “I’ll return with the horses. It’s good for the soul to celebrate before a battle.”
“But the armor If I don’t get it-”
“Bloody hells, it’ll be fine.” Lyonel states exasperated before tugging on Duncan’s arm, “Come now, I won’t be asking again.”
The hedge knight looks down to where the hand is clasped to his forearm. All sense seems to leave him. The warmth of the man before him at the forefront of his mind.
The other night was, well- he can’t remember having that much fun ever. Duncan’s not sure if he’ll get another chance to celebrate the way he’s done so with the lord. Maybe he could indulge a little bit for tonight.
The lord’s hand began to loosen, allowing him to slip away. Instead, Duncan grasped the man’s forearm in return. The stag smiles, “Atta boy.”
-
The last couple of hours have been nothing but celebrating, much like the first night. When the sun begins to set, it seems Lyonel is ready to take a break. The stag pushes a cup into his hand, motioning for Ducan to sit beside him behind his table. “Feeling a bit better now that you’ve had some fun?”
He smiles, though the knot in his stomach still takes hold of his voice. “I suppose.”
“You suppose?”
“It’s just-” He sighs, “I’d hate to sour the mood.”
“It can’t be helped,” The stag shrugs. Taking a long drink of his wine, “Go on.”
Duncan sucks in a deep breath, letting it out slowly, as he thinks of the best way to word his inner turmoil. “It’s hard to enjoy life when doing so could prevent me from actually living in the foreseeable future.”
Lyonel tilts his head, “The future is unforeseeable, it's why we relish in the now.”
Duncan turns to fully look at the man next to him. Eyes bright and searching, hoping that maybe he can compel Lyonel to understand. “Ser, you are a wonderful lord, and I know you’ve faced many hardships and trials throughout your life.” He states, before quietly adding, “But have you ever had to think about when you will have drinking water, that doesn’t force you to spill your guts out? Wondered how many morrows you’ll see before your next meal?”
Lyonel stares back into his eyes. The stag takes in his words, going over them before answering, “Fortunately, I have not.”
“You’ve done things I would never dream of doing. Live through hardships I will never understand the extremities of. But you’ve always had a choice in the matter, and a home to return to. This is the first time in my life that I’ve had a choice, and I’m betting my entire well-being on it.”
The two of them sit in silence for a while, until Lyonel breaks it by reaching for his cup of wine, “I can see how that might dampen the mood.”
Turning forward in his seat, a small laugh escapes Duncan, “That is why I worry the way I do. I’ve been shaped this way.”
Lyonel hums, taking a sip before lowly adding, “Fighting for survival is not living. Here with me, you should feel safe. I hope that I can help release some of which burdens you.”
The sweet words snake their way through Duncan’s mind. Lyonel Baratheon was a force of nature. Speaking to the man reminds Dunk of a wave. It’s force rushing over him, as he shivers and tries his best to stay above the water.
But in this moment, it feels like the calm after a surge. Emboldening Duncan to step out of turn, to ask something more tender. “Ser, when you performed in your first tourney-” He pauses for a moment, trying to stomp down the fear threatening to spill out, “Were you afraid?”
Duncan glances towards him from the corner of his eye, trying to gauge his response. Expecting a laugh for his question, maybe a reprimand for masking his own insecurity under a veil of curiosity.
Lyonel sits beside him, gaze far off as if he’s reliving a memory. Staying quiet for a long moment before saying, “More than I thought possible.” The admission isn’t a timid thing, nor is it laced with humor. It’s stated with quiet acceptance.
“What did you do to stop it?”
The stag hums, thinking, “Well, the night before I drank and fucked anyone I could get my hands on.”
“Did it help?” The hedge knight questions.
“No,” he admits, throwing an arm around Duncan’s back, “No, not really. I threw up on my bedmate the morning of, terrible business.”
Dunc can’t help the small smile that crosses his face, ”Ah.”
“The next thing I knew, I was out there, blood rushing so fast the only thing I could hear was my heartbeat, and my own breathing. Then, it was done, and I had won.”
“Do you still, sometimes-?” Feel afraid. The question lingers in the air.
“I’d be a fool not to.”
The admission startles Dunk, “Really? I mean, you never seem-”
“Are you suggesting I’m a fool?”
“No! It’s just the way you carry yourself is well-” Dunk stammers, holding his breath for a moment before continuing “-captivating. Like The Seven were bickering over who was to provide you with the most blessings.”
“The Seven, huh?” The man turns more into Dunk, his other hand slips onto his thigh, squeezing. Duncan can feel the heat pool in his stomach. Why does Lyonel keep doing that? They aren't nearly as drunk as they were on the first night. “Go on.”
“Ser?”
Grinning ear to ear, the stag says, “Enlighten me in what ways I’ve been blessed.”
Duncan internally curses his pale features as he feels the heat in his ear begin to rise. “I’d rather not embarrass myself.”
“Come on-“ The stag drags the words out, trying to convince him to supply his reasonings.
“It’s ridiculous.” He says, scoffing.
Lyonel sighs good-naturedly and begins to rub small circles into the meat of his thigh. Quietly, he says, “There’s no shame in being afraid.”
Dunk turns his eyes forward once more, feeling his emotions getting the better of him.
Then, gentler than he has any right to be, Lyonel is lifting his hand to Dunk’s face. Grabbing his jaw and turning his attention back to him. “Shame comes from letting all that fear control you.”
The hedge knight takes in a deep breath. “Ser.”
For a moment, he thinks, maybe-
“Lord, Lyonel.”
Dunk jerks away, the new member of their party, startling him back to his original position.
The newcomer glances at the two of them. Then refocuses his attention to Lyonel, “It’s time, my lord.”
Lyonel sighs, removes his hand from around Duncan's shoulder, and stands up. “It’s show time, I suppose.” He squeezes the shoulder closest to him, “Wish me luck.”
“All my blessings, Ser.”
-
Watching Lyonel during the tourney was a different experience entirely. He’s never seen a true tourney. It’s as astounding as it’s frightening. The other knights are, of course, interesting and courageous in their own right.
But Lyonel, Gods Lyonel.
For a man at least a head below Dunk himself, he stands larger than life. Ser Lyonel is breathtaking. Upon his horse, he seems straight out of a storybook. Not that Duncan has had an opportunity to read such stories, but he’s been told tales.
Even over the crowds shouting, he could hear the distinct sound of the Baratheon laughing loudly. Lance after lance he took, the antler upon his head a beacon of hope for Dunk.
As he continues to watch, Duncan begins to feel sick. For himself mostly, scared of what was to become of his future. But also for the man who he couldn’t seem to get out of his mind.
-
Not very long after the tourney, Dunk excuses Egg to go tend to the horse, in hopes of finding someone who would provide him with armor.
Dunk walks around the pavilions, searching for someone who may still be attending to their stations, regret fills him. He should have found a suit while he had the chance. Now he’s racing against the moon.
Suddenly, an armored body is knocking into him, pressing flush to his side.
He grabs the newcomer roughly, preparing himself for an altercation. All of his previous turmoil is pushed to the back of his mind. Realizing who exactly is invading his personal space. “M’lord?” Duncan questions.
The man grins. “Hedge knight.”
“Congratulations, you were amazing out there, Ser.”
“I’ll feel even more amazing once I get out of this wretched armor.” The man stretches a little, wincing slightly, “And a flagon in my hand.”
“M’lord, be careful, you’ll aggravate your injuries.”
“I suppose you’re right.” The stag sighs, then, with a hint of mischief, “Unfortunately, it can’t be helped. This armor won’t be coming off on its own.”
“Ser, if you’re in need of assistance, perhaps I could he-“
“That sounds wonderful,” He sighs with relief. Wrapping an arm around Dunk’s backside and using him to walk towards his pavilion. Dunk allows him, placing an arm around the man’s shoulder, helping to guide his way.
Entering the flaps of the tent, two servants run towards them. One holding a bowl and the other a wet rag. “M’lord.” They say in unison.
He waves them off, extracting himself from Duncan’s side, “Begone.”
The two glance at one another before placing the items on the table beside his bed. Both give a small dip of the head and leave.
“Are you sure you don’t want them to assist you, Ser. They might be of more service.”
“You're just fine.” He shrugs his shoulder toward Dunk, “Would you be so kind?”
Lyonel wants him to help.
“Of course, m’lord,” Dunk says, quickly working to undo the straps and laces of the pauldron on his left shoulder. Then steps away to place it farther into the tent.
Lyonel makes a low groan, rotating his arm a little and turning to allow Dunk to remove the other side. The stag fills the silence with idle chatter.
Duncan removes piece after piece. Being as careful as possible, not wanting to aggravate the man’s injuries. Dunk presses into the spots he’s uncovered as he does so. Feeling the relaxed muscles under the different parts of his small clothes. Eventually, the only thing left are the pieces below the knee, so Lyonel moves to sit down upon the bench in front of his bed.
Loynel huffs a small laugh, “I’m no lance, I won’t break.”
But Dunk doesn’t register his words. Kneeling before him, unlacing where the poleyn and greave connect. The armor clatters beside him as he sets it down. Continuing to remove the greaves, he presses into the soft give behind Lyonel's knee and the hard muscles of his calves. Moving his hand up and down soothingly before trailing lower to remove the different parts of the metal covering his foot.
He stays focused and does the same to the other leg. Adamant on showing his devotion to the task. So relieved to be of some help to someone, to be chosen.
When he finishes, he realizes he can’t remember the last time Lyonel spoke. He looks up to check on the man.
Lyonel's striking brown eyes are boring down upon him. The candlelight and gold he adorns reflect off his eyes, casting them in an amber colored glow. Dunk finds himself stunned.
The man’s usually charismatic features are shed of any humor. Lyonel leans lower towards him. And all Duncan can think is, gods, I need him.
The thought snaps him out of his daze. Quickly, he backs up, standing to retrieve the rag and water bowl. What is he doing? This is Ser Lyonel, the heir to the Stormlands. He can’t think of the man that way. The lord wouldn’t want him, a lowly hedge knight, thinking of him like that.
He’s no stranger to attraction here and there. He finds both women and men enticing in their own ways. Just a simple understanding of the beauty The Mother made. Always appreciative, always innocent.
Never in his twenty or so years has he felt such desire. Nothing like this.
Duncan takes a deep breath to steady himself. He still had a duty to serve. It wasn’t the lord’s fault his mind decided to betray him so. Picking up what he needs and returning to sit beside Lyonel on the bench.
The stag goes to reach for the rag and winces. Duncan pulls it out of his reach. “I can do it.”
Lyonel tilts his head, confusion written across his face. It seems like something is on the tip of his tongue. However, whatever it was, he decided not to say. Instead, he huffs and returns his hand to the seat of the bench. Turning to face Duncan so he can clean him.
The hedge knight dunks the rag in the water and then wrings it out. Careful, he begins to wipe the dirt and dried blood off Lyonel’s face, starting with his forehead.
Pushing his hair back, Dunk wipes the rag from his hairline, over the curve of his eyebrow, and to the side of his face. Once it’s been rather dirtied, he returns it to the bowl, repeating the process and continuing. He finds himself taking in the small detail of the man’s face. The wrinkles that crease his eyes, the light bags that lie under them, and the curve of his nose.
At some point, he stumbles upon a rather tough piece of grit on his cheek, so he moves his hand to the back of Lyonel’s head, just above his neck. Stabilizing it so he can apply more pressure. Delicately lacing his fingers in the short curls that rest there.
They’re so close Dunk can feel the light puffs of breath hitting his face. But he pays it no mind, his attention focused on taking care of the man before him.
It seems he’s done, so he moves his hand to Lyonel's cheek, holding his face so he can gently turn it and inspect his work. The lord presses into the hand cupping his face, “You’re much sweeter than anyone your size outta be.”
The admission makes Duncan feel as if his face has been set ablaze. Dumbly, he states, “Horses.”
The stag quirks an eyebrow, amused, “Horses?”
“I mean-” He clears his voice, “I’ve dealt with horses, grooming them, learned to be careful.”
“Horses are rather large animals to worry about coddling.”
“Rather not get kicked by a horse, best to not antagonize them.” Then he adds a bit quieter, “I believe even the biggest of us deserve tenderness.”
Lynoel smiles at him endearingly before placing his hand atop the one on his face. Slowly removing it and placing it on the hem of his shirt. “Think you could help with this?” He questions, loosening the lace before lifting his arm slightly above his head.
Duncan grips the hem and begins to lift it, “Of course, Ser.”
“Lyonel.” He states, then once the garment is over his head, he reiterates, “You may call me Lyonel. I think we are familiar enough, now that you’ve undressed me, Ser Dunk.”
“It’s Ser Ducan the Tall now.”
“Is it really?” His grin widens, then with a hint of sarcasm, he says, “Now I wonder why you would choose that?”
“Because I’m tall.”
The man before him begins to laugh, sighing adoringly, “My dear hedge knight. You are truly brilliant.”
Dunk knows Lyonel is taking a jab at him, but his tone is filled with such warmth, he knows he only means it in good fun. Laughing himself, he says, “Well, it was your idea.”
The stag stops, “Excuse me?”
“You told me to be tall, or you would burn me, so here I am, being tall.” This sends him into a fit of laughter, and Dunk follows right along with him.
Lyonel clutches the left side of his chest, his face grimacing slightly, as he tries to stop. That’s when Duncan notices the deep bruise that spans across his side.
“Bloody hells!” Ducan exclaims, steadying Lyonel and moving to gently brush his hand across the bloody, abraded skin.
His laughing dies out, but delight is still apparent in his voice, “That Ashford cunt cracked my shield down the middle. My armor did its duty, but as you can see, I didn’t go unscaved.”
Duncan grabs the rag once again to clean the bloodied skin. “Do you have something to put on this?”
“My servants usually have jars of poultice ready after a tourney.” He motions to the other side of the tent, “Check the crates over there, and while you're at it, bring me something to drink.”
Duncan finishes wiping the blood and then does what he’s told, returning with the items he sought out. Handing Lyonel a cup and a pitcher of wine.
The man grabs the pitcher, taking a large swish of it, and throws the unused cup to the side.
Dunk chuckles and returns to his spot beside Lyonel. Opening the aliment and applying it to the battered skin on his side. Once he’s done, he wraps a bandage around Lyonel's chest. He moves to the other side of the bench to work on his shoulder. A deep purple bruise is beginning to form. The skin here is also abraded, most likely from the force of his lance. Duncan cleans the grim off, repeating the process from before, and wrapping his shoulder up.
Other bruises litter Lyonel’s sides, but only time can assist them in their recovery. Done, he stands up, “Anything else I can do for you, m’lord?”
“Lyonel.”
“Lyonel,” He corrects, “Apologies.”
“Somewhere to be?”
“My squire is awaiting me, and I still have to find armor for the tourney.”
Lyonel hums, “Well then, I’ll keep you no longer. Thank you for your service.”
“Of course, Se- Lyonel.” He pauses at the tent flaps, “If you’re ever in need of my service again.”
The laughing storm smiles, “I’ll find you.”
-
The next morning is spent in a sick daze. Dunk has yet to find armor, but he knows he must enlist in the tourney.
Well, that’s what he believed until Egg enlightened him of the rule of first challenge. It feels like a huge weight off his shoulders, another day. He has at least another day to find the armor.
They end up going to the next joust. An unfortunate and ugly thing to watch. Duncan tries to wrap his mind around how Prince Aerion could have taken such a dirty blow. Convincing himself It must have been an accident.
Egg begs to differ.
Afterwards, they join Ser Manford's pavilion in celebration of the first day of the lists. Watching as the group sings songs and cheers. Lyonel is upon a table, leading the chorus. Making a spectacle of himself as he kneels to arch upon it.
Duncan looks away quickly, heat rising to his face. He takes a swig of ale to cool himself. Thankful for being distracted by Egg as he discusses the history of a song they're singing.
“If it isn’t Ser Duncan the Tall!” Lyonel shouts from where he’s on the table. A few people turn to glance towards the hedge knight for a brief second before returning to their singing or conversation. The stag removes his crown, rolling off the table to stand up. Making his way over and half haphazardly throwing it onto Duncan's head. He grabs Dunk’s arm, pulling him from his seat, “I have something for you!”
“For me?”
Lyonel rolls his eyes, “Yes, for you. Come on.”
He gives Egg a look of distress as he’s pulled out of the tent. The boy just smiles and shakes his head, following the pair outside.
Lyonel leads the pair to one of the smaller tents outside of his pavilion. Inside is filled with maces, lances, and shields, all of which adorn the sigil of the stag in some way or another. Except for a suit of armor standing alone in the middle of the space. Upon the stand is a plain steel helmet. A chain mail vest, and attached at the top was a gorget for his neck. As well as splint arms and legs attached by their laces. “It’s rather simple, but it’ll do its job.”
Dunk gets caught on a lump on his throat, “Ser.”
“Lyonel.”
“Lyonel,” He corrects, “is this…supposed to be for me?”
“Well, who else would it be for?”
“This is very generous, Lyonel.” He takes a deep breath, trying to find the best way to explain himself, “But, I couldn’t take this from you.”
“You can and you will.”
“I don’t deserve-”
Lyonel cuts him off, teasingly saying, “Refusing a gift from a lord is a high offense, Ser Duncan.”
“You don’t understand, I can’t-”
“It’s just some bloody armor,” Lyonel says, his affectionate tone slightly laced with aggravation. “Take it.”
“I haven’t earned it!” Duncan all but shouts, recoiling on himself when he realizes he’s just yelled at a lord. He glances at Egg. The boy stares at him with a strained expression. Refocusing his attention to Lyonel, “I apologize for my outburst, it’s just- I’ve yet to prove myself worthy of a gift this grand.”
Lyonel stays quiet for a long moment before coming to stand before Dunk. Looking up at him, eyes sharp, “I will not fault you for refusing my gift if you do not want it.” He steps closer, their chests less than an inch from touching, “But I will not allow you to discredit yourself in such a way. You are worthy of much more than this, and men lesser have been granted far more than you. You, Ser Ducan the Tall, are deserving of this.”
Duncan stares at the shorter man. In the face of such certainty, he’s unable to form any words to rebut him.
“Go on, Ser, at least try it on,” Egg speaks from beside the two. He whips his head towards his squire. Dunk’s going to wring that boy's neck. He’ll be lucky if he eats anything but hard salt beef for a week.
Eventually, under the watchful eyes of the two, he relents, “I suppose I could try it on.”
Lyonel grins, moving to grab Egg by the shoulder, and bending down to whisper, “Good job, lad.” dragging him over to help dismount Ducan’s armor.
-
Despite himself, he does end up taking the armor Lyonel provided him. Later, visiting Raymun, “I suppose Ser Androw and I are quite equally matched,” Dunk says hesitantly. The steward of Lord Ashford, Plummer was his name, requested his assistance in rigging the joust. Duncan is stuck in a battle of morality. It is a very tempting offer, and it would ease most, if not all, his worries.
Though Duncan still doesn’t believe he can go through with it.
“A local favorite. You mean to play the villain?” Raymun questions, amused. “I heard Aerion was in a spittin’ rage at Lord Ashford for giving away his horse.”
“Little comfort that will be to Ser Humfrey. It looked as if he was going to carry the day.”
“Now his leg’s shattered like a baking dish.”
“My squire thinks Aerion meant to kill the horse.” He laughs lightly at his own statement, but Raymun doesn't seem to find it quite as amusing. Ducan straightens, “Just hard to accept that a knight might be so dishonorable, let alone a prince.”
“Why is that hard?”
“No, I-”
“They’re incestuous aliens, Ducan. Blood- magickers and tyrants who’ve burned our lands, envslaved our people. Dragged us into their wars without a mote of respect for our history or our customs. Every pale-haired brat they saddled on us has been madder than the last, gods know how. The only honorable thing a Targaryen can do for this realm is finish on his wife’s tits.” He spits, “So aye, I think he meant to kill the fucking horse.”
Duncan sits dumbfounded. He thought his squire's comment was just a bit of scepticism from an unruly boy. But it seems that it might have more backing than he previously thought. Could the prince be as dishonorable as Raymun suggests?
The truth is revealed to him later that night. When Egg comes shouting for his help, and he walks in on Aerion snapping Tanselle’s finger.
The sight fills him with rage. Mind flashing to the men who killed his friend all those years ago. He was too young and small to do much other than jump, bite, and scratch. Desperately fighting in retaliation for Rafe’s limp, dead body on the dirty pavement of flea bottom.
But he wasn’t that young boy anymore.
He charges the prince, grabbing his shoulder and punching him in the face, once, and again with his other hand. Then he grabs his arms and throws him over his shoulder onto the floor, away from the puppeteer. Aerion’s guards grab him and hold him back, as the prince slides a dagger from it’s seeth. Ducan pulls against the men, kicking Aerion in the face and knocking him flat on his back. Duncan fights and thrashes every which way, trying to get out of the hold the three men have on him.
Aerion rises to his feet, spitting out the blood from his mouth, leveling Ducan with a glare. “Why did you throw your life away for this whore? She’s scarcely worth it.”
Duncan looks behind him to the woman sitting on the floor, clutching her hand. She’s alive, and that alone is worth whatever punishment might be directed his way.
“She’s a traitor. The dragon ought never lose.” Duncan's anger rises more, all of this over a play about slaying a dragon? That justified breaking her fingers?
The prince questions, “Nothing more to say?”
But Duncan doesn’t want to speak to him. Filled with disgust for the man before him.
“You’ve loosened one of my teeth. So, we’ll start with breaking out all of yours.”
Duncean snarls, pushing and trashing once again, trying to get out of the grip the men have on him. They push him onto his knees, readying his jaw on the stage platform to get stomped.
“No! Don’t touch him!” He can hear his squire yelling from behind.
“You stupid boy! Hold your tongue, or they’ll hurt you!” He screams, pleading for Egg to leave.
“No, they won’t, if they do, they’ll answer to my father. Let go of him, Wate, Yorkel, do as I say.” The guard releases their hold on Duncan. He flips around, looking around wide eyed and confused.
“You impudent little rat. What happened to your hair?” Aerion sneers.
“I cut it off, brother. I didn’t want to look like you.” Boring daggered eyes at his brother before turning his attention to Dunk. Dunk stares right back, distressed and floored by the revelation.
Egg’s a Targaryen.
-
A trial of seven. He’ll be competing in a trial of seven. Where on the gods’ green land is he supposed to find seven knights who will stand with him?
Once he’s released, he returns to his horses to find Raymun waiting for him out in the rain. The man takes him back to the Fossoway’s tent to eat. Ser Steffon promises his service and leaves to find others to fight.
“Do you think your cousin can bring the men he speaks of?”
“I don’t know.” Raymun pauses, “You may be wise to run.”
“Won’t they kill me if I run?”
“Won’t they kill you anyway?”
In the company of his friend, he admits, “Maybe the Gods figured this is what I deserved.”
“For doing what you were supposed to do?”
“For not knowing my place,” Duncan says bitterly.
Egg enters the tent not long after holding Dunk's shield “Ser.”
“Egg!” He turns to look at the boy, “What are you doing?”
“I’m your squire, Ser, you need someone to arm you.” He lifts the shield in his hand. It seems Tanselle managed to finish it. Now adorns a sigil with an elm tree, alongside Dunk and Egg’s shooting star.
At least he’ll be carrying some luck with him. “Does your father know you’ve left the castle?”
“I hope not.” Daeron answers, stepping into the tent, “I don’t think I could bear another foot whipping tonight.”
“You!” Duncan shouts, unsheathing his knife and pressing the man against a table. This was Egg’s brother, who accused him of stealing Egg from the inn four nights passed. Duncan might lose his head for the man's deception.
Daeron begins to flounder, “No, No Duncan No!”
“Ser, stop please!” Egg yells from behind, as Raymun grabs him to stop him from interfering.
“Are you mad coming here?! I should drive this through your neck!”
Daeron raises his hands in defeat, “I’d sooner you pour me a cup of wine.”
“Fuck your wine. You lied about me.”
“Well, I had to say something when my father demanded to know where Egg had gotten to.”
“Please don’t hurt him.” Egg begs from behind. Duncan grimaces before relenting. “My father’s going to join the seven accusers, Ser.”
“Yeah, of course he will. He must redeem his sons’ honor.”
“Not that I ever asked to have my honor redeemed.” Daeron states, “Whoever has it can keep it, so far as I’m concerned.”
“I begged him not to, Ser. I begged him.” Egg says soldomly.
“For what it’s worth, you have little to fear from me. I’ll do my best to look gallant in the first charge. But after that, perhaps you could strike me a nice blow to the side of the helm? Make it ring? Not too loud.”
Duncan can’t believe it, The weasel, “Is that all you came here to say?”
Egg speaks up from the silence, “My father has commanded the king's guard to fight as well.”
“Only the three that are here.” Daeron supplies.
“Who do you have, Ser?”
“I-” Dunk is cut off as someone bursts through the tent flaps.
Lyonel enters looking frantic. When he spots Dunk, he’s on him in a moment. “Thank the gods you're alive!” He wraps Duncan in a tight embrace.
“Lyonel.” The taller man breathes, gripping back onto him. The weight is a much-needed anchor at the moment.
“What happened?” Pulling back, he scans the man before him for injuries, “Are the rumors true? Did you bloody up a dragon?”
“Aye, he sure did.” Raymun supplies from the side, “Even loosened a tooth.”
The stag looks at Dunk for confirmation. A crooked grin slips onto the hedge knight's face. Lyonel laughs delighted, “You mad fucking beast! How did you get out? Surely they planned to hang you.”
“Aerion invoked a trial of seven.”
“A fucking trial of seven?!” He questions, looking around the room at those who are occupying it.
“My father and the Kingsguard planned to stand for my brothers. Duncan requires men. Ser. If you could-” Egg begins
Lyonel cuts him off, “Of course I’ll stand for him.”
“Lyonel, please, you don’t have to do this,” Dunk says, startling the others in the room. But he pays it no mind to anyone other than Lyonel, as a familiar type of fear washes over. Of causing pain to someone he holds in high standing. The fear he felt when Rafe and Ser Arlan died. people he admired, people he loved.
“There hasn’t been a trail of seven for a hundred years!” Lyonel smiles, lowly adding, “I’m not about to miss a chance to bloody up the Kingsguard in their pretty white gowns.”
Duncan knows it’s no use arguing with the man. Not that he had any room to do so, unfortunately, he needs all the help he can get.
“Who all do we have?”
“We have Ser, Steffon Fossoway,” Duncan answers.
Egg chimes in, “I can bring people, Ser, knights, I can. Ser Beesbury, Ser Hardyng, and Ser Rhysling are ones I have in mind.”
“Hardyng’s leg is broken. The man is in no shape for this.”
“All the more reason for him to join.” Lyonel states, “He has it out for the Targaryen bastard.”
“So does Beesbury. Hardyng’s his brother-in-law, he’ll fight for his kin.” Raymun continues.
“And Ser Rhysling?” Duncan asks.
“He’s a deeply religious man, and ‘The Maddest Knight’ in The Seven Kingdoms. He won’t pass up a chance at a trial of seven.” The boy says excitedly.
“It’s a good start.” Duncan tells the young boy, before kneeling to put a hand on his shoulder, stressing, “Egg, I’ll be fighting against your family. You understand?”
“My father will be well guarded, and you won’t kill Daeron. He told you he’d fall down.”
“And Aerion, you’d see him dead?” Dunk questions.
“When I was little, Aerion used to come into my bed chamber at night, put his knife in between my legs. He had too many brothers, he’d say. Maybe one night, he’d make me his sister. Then he could marry me.”
Raymun stifles a laugh, and Lyonel scoffs, “Incestuous cunt.”
Duncan gives both of them a hard stare.
“Sorry, that was…” Raymun cuts himself off, feeling bad. Lyonel doesn’t so much as bat an eye. Though he does give the boy a hard pat on the back, in a way of comfort.
“Egg has the truth of it, Aerion can be quite the monster,” Daeron affirms.
“And he threw my cat into the well too, he says he didn’t-”
Alright.” Daeron motions for the boy to stop.
“-but he did. He thinks he’s a dragon in human form.”
Duncan nods, “Alright then.”
“Well, that makes six of us,” Lyonel turns to Raymun, “What about you, lad?”
Raymun looks away bashfully, “I’m only a squire, Ser.”
“Then you're to be knighted before the trial tomorrow.”
“What?!” Both Duncan and Egg exclaim.
Raymun's eyes widen before he shakes his head hard and drops to kneel before Lyonel, “I would be honored, My lord.”
The stag groans, “Up! Up! None of that now, wait till you're being knighted, bloody hells.”
“But Lyonel, he shouldn’t-” Dunk begins.
“I’ll stand with you.” Raymun stops him, “I want to Dunk. It’s a shame what those bastards are doing to you. What they’ve done to all of us.”
Lyonel claps his hands together, “So it’s settled, we have seven. Boy, go find knights to help us. Apple boy, prepare yourself for tomorrow. And you-” he motions to Daeron, “Can- I don't know, fuck off.”
“Gladly.” Then he looks toward Dunk, “But I must speak to you first.”
Lyonel groans, “Fine. Fine, hurry up. I need him as well.”
-
Duncan follows Daeron outside to speak. The young man tells him of his dream, “I have seen you Ser, and a fire, and a dead dragon. A great beast with wings so large they could cover this meadow. It had fallen on top of you. But you were alive, and the dragon was dead.”
“Did I kill it?”
“That I could not say. We were dragon masters once, hard to believe. Now they’re all gone, but we remain.” He chokes up a bit, continuing, “I don’t care to die today.”
“I don’t care to die either.”
“It may be that I’ve killed you with my lie. And if so, I’m sorry. I’m doomed to some kind of hell, I know.” He laughs self-deprecatingly, “Likely one without wine.”
Daeron leaves without another word.
-
When Duncan enters Raymun’s pavilion, Raymun is pacing back and forth, and Lyonel is sitting at the table with Duncan’s shield in hand. “Never seen this sigil before.”
“It’s mine.”
“I figured.” The stag smiles, “It suits you.”
Duncan smiles back, “Thank you.”
The man stands, pushing the shield into Duncan's chest before turning him around and directing him out of the tent. “Wait, I didn’t speak or excuse myself from the Fossoways.”
“You’ll see them at the trial, it’s fine.” He laughs lightly, “That boy’s turning to applesauce from nerves. Best to leave him to his own.”
“Where are we going, Se-Lyonel?”
“To my pavilion.”
That wasn’t what Duncan was expecting. He stops his feet hard in the ground, causing Lyonel to bump into his back from behind. “Shouldn’t we be searching for others to help?”
Lyonel let out a deep breath from behind him, moving infront of him, to grab his hand and continue him down the path. Duncan’s feet move again now that he’s being led, “What could you possibly do that your squire isn’t doing for you right now?”
“Well, we could go with him, ask for help and-”
Lyonel turns around, clasping his hand over the large man’s mouth, “Just this once, trust me and stop worrying. Can you do that?”
Duncan stills for a long moment before slowly nodding his head. Lyonel releases his hand over Dunk’s mouth and continues to drag him towards his pavilion.
Once they’ve entered the tent, Lyonel takes his shield from him and places it down before dragging Duncan over to sit on his bench. He pours two cups of wine and hands one to Dunk, “to help the nerves,” he supplies before sitting beside Duncan.
The hedge knight chugs it down, the sweet taste lingering on his tongue. However, it does little to calm him. Duncan’s mind is racing a hundred miles a minute, unable to focus on one thing at a time. Within the next few hours, he might die, his friends might die. Because he protected the innocent, from a prince of all people. Are all Targaryens that bad? Did everyone else know this? It’s unmistakable that Lyonel and Raymun have a deep dislike for the dragons. Yet Lyonel seems to like Egg, and he must have known who the boy was long before Duncan knew. He’s a lord of one of the seven kingdoms, how could he not? Duncan wouldn’t dare think the boy would act as his brother did. So not all Dragons are bad, and Baleor didn’t seem all that bad. Ser Arlan said that one day the kingdoms would be safe in his hands, so maybe-.
Lyonel tugs at the laces of Duncan’s shirt, and every thought abandons him.
“Lyonel, what are you doing?”
“Helping you relax.” He comments casually as if it's supposed to help Duncan understand what’s going on. The man finishes loosening them before moving his hands to grip the hem of his shirt, motioning up, silently asking Duncan to help him remove it over his head.
Duncan does so obediently. Once it’s off, Lyonel throws the garment down. “No offense, but how is that supposed to-” his words get caught in his throat as Lyonel swings a leg over him, straddling his lap, casually placing his hands on Dunk’s shoulders. His hands instinctively move to hold the man’s waist.
“Must I spell it out for you?” Lyonel questions, with a light circle of his hips.
oh.
“Really?” Duncan doesn’t even attempt to hide the excitement and confusion in his voice. “Are you sure?”
Lyonel throws his head back laughing, smiling as he cups the side of Duncan's face, “My dear hedge knight, I’ve wanted to climb you like a tree since the moment I laid eyes on you.”
Dunk’s eyes widen, awestruck, “You couldn’t have.”
Lyonel quirks an eyebrow, “Are you calling me a liar?”
“Your Ser Lyonel, the laughing storm, heir to the Stormlands.” He says, dumbfounded. “And I’m a hedge knight. I suppose I could see how I’d be a bit of fun, but I mean, look at-”
“Duncan.” The use of his name stops him from his rambling. Gaze focused on the man atop him, “Yes, this will be a bit of fun, a lot of fucking fun actually, but that’s not why I’m doing this.”
Lyonel moves his other hand to Duncan’s ear, gently rubbing over it, “I’ve had plenty of fun, bedded more men and women than I can count.” Duncan’s hands involuntarily grip onto Lyonel's hips a bit tighter, but the man pays it no mind, continuing, “-And never have I met someone like you. Anyone I’ve ever known has leeched me for what they could. But you refused to even accept gifts you’ve earned. Even right now, you’re denying yourself what I’m willingly giving you. Time and time again, you’ve shown gentleness and kindness without a hint of falseness. Not only to me, but to everyone around you. Displaying the essence of what it means to be a true knight. I think that is worth much more than any title or land.”
Duncan feels his eye wet slightly. Emotion rushes over him as the words find their way to wrap around his heart. To think that Lyonel thought of him so highly, cared for him for who he was. He does not cry, but he feels like he might. Placing a hand at the base of Lyonel's neck and the other to the small of his back, he surges forward and kisses him.
Lyonel makes a small noise of surprise before hungrily pushing back into the kiss. Moving the hand from his ear to now cup both sides of Duncan’s face, dragging the man as close as he can. Gently pushing his tongue to Duncan’s mouth. The large man allows him access, parting his lips.
A low growl sounded at the back of Duncan’s throat, tasting the wine from early on Lyonel's tongue. His nose fills with the scent of honey and damp earth. The aroma is even more alluring than the first night, as it surrounds him. Now it seems he can almost taste it on the man. He does his best to keep up with Lyonel's ministrations. The feeling overwhelming him in the best kind of way.
Duncan pulls back, wiping his hand across his mouth, trying to catch his breath. Face tingling where Lyonel's beard has roughened the skin. Lyonel’s panting slightly, pupils blown wide with desire and want. The stag moves to unlace Duncan’s trousers, but is stopped with a gentle hand around his wrist.
“You first,” Dunk says timidly, his fingers pulling at the laces of Lyonel’s shirt. The stag nods, allowing the hedge knight room to remove it. He throws it off toward the side, taking in the sight of the man in front of him.
He’s seen Lyonel’s bare chest before, but not like this. Duncan’s allowed to actually look at him.
It’s not a fleeting thing or with an objective. It’s simply because he wants to, and Lyonel is allowing him to.
Duncan runs his hands down Lyonel's sides, feeling the soft skin beneath his fingers, carefully grazing over the remnants of the bruises still healing from the days prior. Feeling compelled to leave kisses along them. He spans his hands on Lyonel’s back, supporting his weight, as he leans the man back to do just that. Gentle grazing his lips over the bruises littering the man’s chest. Working from the bottom up, noting the dark hair that travels below his navel.
Lyonel grinds down lightly on his lap, leaning back on Duncan’s hand supporting him. “Gods your perfect, How are you even holding me like this?”
Duncan doesn’t answer him, continuing to work his way up, eventually pulling the man closer to kiss the bruises on his collarbone and shoulder. Tenderly working the entire time, until suddenly he’s being pushed back half onto the bed behind him. Lyonel's lips crash into his, kissing him deeply before pulling away. “As much as I would love to continue as we were, time is not on our side tonight.”
The man stands removing his boots and unlacing his trousers, “I plan on having many, many more nights after this one, but the gods may have other plans for me on the morrow.”
The same fear from early returns to Duncan, like being dumped into a cold lake. He pales, “I’m sorry that I‘ve brought this upon you.”
Lyonel scoffs, “I’m a stormlander.” He says, content in letting it explain why he chose this path.
“Aye, but-” Duncan, once again, is distracted by the man as he sheds his final piece of clothing. Body covered in the soft glow of candlelight. Standing before him, completely unashamed, it’s downright erotic. The hedge knight's dick twitches. Hardening further in his trousers, if that were even possible.
Lyonel tugs at the hedge knight's trousers, a silent request for them to be removed. Duncan hastily begins to discard his boots and pants as well.
The stag moves to retrieve a small jar of oil from his bedside, motioning for Duncan to get further onto the bed. When he returns, he takes a moment to look at Duncan’s naked form. His gaze makes the hedge knight want to squirm, though he does not.
Lyonel joins him on the bed, spreading Duncan’s legs farther to comfortably place himself between them. Moving his hands up and down the larger man's legs, squeezing the thick muscle of his thighs. Looking up toward the roof of the pavilion, he whispers, “Thank you.” Before bending one of Duncan’s knees slightly to bite and gently suck the muscle of his thigh into his mouth.
Duncan stifles the whine threatening to leave him. Lyonel continues marking up the hedge knight as he pleases. Fumbling for the jar of oil beside him on the bed, he coats his hand before stroking the large man’s cock.
The hedge knight takes in a sharp breath, letting it out shakily as Lyonel continues to stroke him. Duncan can’t stop the low groan that escapes him when the lord bends down to take him in his mouth. Quickly, he slaps a hand over his traitorous mouth.
Lyonel takes him farther before pulling off to remove Duncan’s hand from his face. “Let me hear you.”
Dunk nods shakily, and Lyonel returns to his task. He takes Duncan in his mouth once again, lapping at the head of his cock, before relaxing his throat to take him in further. The larger man moans quietly, legs tensing a bit, clutching at the fur pelt beneath him with one hand.
The other hand finds its way to Lyonel’s head, lacing his fingers into the curls upon his head. He does not push the man down farther, but his fingers clench slightly, pulling the knots in Lyonel’s hair.
The smaller male moans around his cock, the feeling shooting its way through Duncan. “Lyonel. I can't-“
Lyonel pulls off of him, panting, voice raspy, “Not yet.”
Dunk’s dick twitches hard, a bead of precum dripping out. Lyonel grabs the jar of oil again, coating his finger and moving to circle his own entrance.
Duncan's eyes widen, “Lyonel, are we going to-“
“What does it look like?” He asks, bracing himself on one arm as he works a finger into himself.
“Won’t it hurt? You’ll be sore for the trial.”
“Never stopped me before.” The man huffs, “Besides, I’ve found in most instances, a good fuck before battle helps calm the mind.”
Duncan hums as he continues to watch him open himself up, eventually asking, “Can I?”
Lyonel removes his hand, spreading himself further out in front of Duncan, “Whatever you desire, my hedge knight.”
Duncan moves to grab the jar of oil, settling it in his lap, grabbing Lyonel by the hips and pulling him closer. Lyonel lets out a ‘woah’ as Duncan manhandles him to where he wants him. He coats his fingers, then begins circling Lyonel's entrance, mimicking what the man was doing before, “What do I do?”
“Not much different than a woman's. Press in slowly at first.”
Duncan does as he’s told, “I’ve never been with a woman,” he admits, “Or anyone.”
Lyonel lets out a shaky breath, dick twitching, “Fuck, okay- Just do what feels right. I’ll stop you if it isn’t.”
The laughing storm continues to ‘instruct’ him through it, which consists of whispering quiet praises and curses. Duncan keeps his pace light, gently opening the man up one finger at a time. Lyonel groans, irritated, and begins grinding back onto the three fingers Duncan has in him.
“Stay still.” The larger man commands, holding Lyonel's hips to still him.
“I’m not a bloody maiden,” he says, breath sharp, trying and failing to move his hips once again. Duncan gently crooks his fingers, pushing in deeper, causing Lyonel to cry out, body tensing.
Duncan pulls his fingers out. Leaning forward and using his other hand to wipe the hair from Lyonel's sweaty brow, “Are you okay?”
Lyonel whines from the loss of the fingers, about to protest, before seeing the concern in the hedge knight's eyes. He smiles up at Duncan. “I’m quite alright.”
He gently pushes Duncan back, moving to straddle his lap. Taking the jar of oil from Duncan, and absentmindedly stroking their dicks as he kisses Duncan. A few strokes, then he stops. Moving his hands to Duncan’s shoulders to steady himself, kneeling over the man’s lap. Duncan moves his hands to his waist, helping to steady him. Tasting each other's lips once more. “Fine?” The older man questions in their air.
Duncan nods quickly, helping to hold his cock, watching as Lyonel descends on him like he was made for it. Duncan is a little more than halfway in him when Lyonel finally releases a moan, working his hips to take him in farther, “Gods, you’re fucking massive. Bred from the Giants themselves.”
The hedge knight sighs, pleased with the praise, kissing down Lyonel's neck and chest. Finally, the man bottoms out, both of them take in a deep breath, their air mingling with one another. Lyonel takes a moment to adjust to the stretch before raising himself briefly, shallowly thrusting himself on Duncan’s cock. Duncan watches the man work, supporting him with his hands on either side of his waist. “Blessed be the seven.” Duncan praises.
“That reminds me, ngh-” Lyonel sucks in a breath, “You ne-ha never told me in which ways I-mmm- blessed.”
“I can’t think right now.” He says, gripping tighter to the meat under his hands.
Lyonel stops suddenly, “You can try.”
Duncan groans, frustrated, moving the man himself with the hold he has on his sides.”The Warrior.”
“Mhm?”
“Courage and strength.” He says, thrust into the warm heat above him, digging his hands into the hard muscle of Lyonel’s thighs, lifting him more, “And The Smith must have carved you from stone himself. Thick and plentiful,”
“Thick and plentiful?” Lyonel lightly jests, spanning his hands over Duncan’s large chest, “I think you may ha, have us confused.”
Duncan mewls low at the touch, “Who else?” Lyonel questions.
“Lord Lyonel, I can’t,” Duncan says, eyes squeezing shut, trying his best to put the fragmentary pieces of thought together in his mind.
Lyonel huffs, “If only we had mmm-more time, I’d coax every single thought out of your head until there was nothing left except how good I feel, and how much you need me.”
“You’ve already done so, m’lord.”
The stag grabs him harshly by the jaw, “Lyonel.” He corrects in a low rumble.
“Lyonel.” Duncan corrects moaning out.
“Good boy,” the stag praises, the words causing Dunk to pulse hard inside him. He’s never been on the edge like this before. The entire time, he’s felt like he might cum at any moment. Lyonel pulls off Duncan. The larger man makes a disturbed noise, not wanting the man to leave him. Lyonel leans back, placing a hand behind Duncan’s neck to pull him with. “I want you to fuck me like it’s we won’t live to see the morrow.”
Duncan nods, placing feverish kisses on the man’s neck, and reentering him. Lyonel throws his head back on the furs, moaning loudly. Duncan thrust deep and slow into the man under him. Breathless words leave both of them as they bask in the sensation of hearing and feeling one another. Whispers of ‘yours, mine, more, please,’ leave the two, neither knowing who was responsible for what.
Duncan’s patience leaves him, chasing his climax. Thrusting into the man deeper and harder. “Oh, fuck- yes!” The man groans, one hand leaving Duncan’s shoulder to snake its way between their bellies, jerking himself off.
Warmth fills between the two as Lyonel cums. Duncan fucks him through it, chasing his release as well. Finally tipping over the edge when Lyonel clenches around him, letting out an overstimulated cry.
Duncan fills him up, groaning loudly, before falling upon the man. They lie like that for a while, both of them catching their breath. Eventually, Lyonel gently pushes at his chest, “Alright, big man, you’re crushing me.”
“Sorry,” He apologies, moving to pull out of Lyonel to flop beside him on the bed.
The small man turns on his side to look at him, moving in to gently kiss him and run his hand through his hair. Duncan sighs into the kiss, “Gods, I’m the luckiest hedge knight to ever live.”
Lyonel releases a pleased huff, running his hand absentmindedly across Duncan's chest, “Only the morrow will tell, I suppose.”
“Still.”
“Still.” Lyonel agrees, both of them laughing quietly and enjoying one another's presence.
A silence befalls them, the comfortable atmosphere slowly dissipating as reality comes back to the two of them, “Lyonel If something happens-”
“Don’t start with that-"
Duncan clasps a hand over the smaller man's mouth, “Lyonel, I’m serious.”
They stare at one another for a long moment before Lyonel closes his eyes and gives a small nod. A confirmation that he’ll remain quiet until Duncan’s done speaking, “If something happens at the trial, if I’m hurt or die, I need to speak my truth. I want you to know these last few days have been the best of my life. I never thought I’d feast with knights, or dance with lords, but here I am. You were the first within your rank to accept me, and for that I’m eternally grateful. If you wish to withdraw your claim, Lyonel, I will not fault you. You’ve given me much more than I’ve ever dreamed of.”
Lyonel opens his eyes, which are glossy and darker than ever, to look at Dunk’s. Lyonel surges forward to kiss the hedge knight. “You won’t die.” He speaks with absolute certainty, as if he knows what's to happen. “And I will not abandon you.”
Duncan pulls the man to him, holding him as tight as he can, knowing this might be the last time he has the chance.
-
Duncan suits up in the armor Lyonel has gifted him, finding Egg and the men he’s acquired. The boy did manage to convince Ser Beesbury, Ser Hardyng, and Ser Rhysling to fight alongside Duncan.
Ser Steffon, however, retracts his promise to Dunk instead fighting on the side of Aerion.
“You traded your honor for a lordship?” Raymun asks, disgusted with his kin.
“Cousin, I know great men who’ve traded their honor for far less. It was a bargain well struck.” He hits his cousin hard on the shoulder, “Fetch me my horse.”
Raymun spits at him, pushing the man away, “Get him yourself.”
The man pushes him back before stomping away, heated. Raymun turns, making his way towards Duncan, “Knight me.”
“Raymun, I- I shouldn’t.”
Lyonel steps up behind him, “Step aside, Ser Duncan. I proposed it. I’ll give Squire Raymun his knighthood.” Lord Ashford enters the arena, drawing Duncan’s attention, “Go on.”
Duncan retrieves his horse, climbing upon her and making his way to the lord. “Ser Duncan, we cannot delay any further,” Ashord states.
“Seems you only have five champions.” Aerion sneers.
“Six. Ser Lyonel is knighting Raymum Fossoway. We will fight you six against seven.”
“I’m afraid it is not permitted.”
“If you cannot find another knight to join you, Ser, then you must be declared guilty of your crimes.”
Duncan looks around, thinking, “M’lord, I beg a moment, please.”
“You have it.”
Duncan gallops infront of the crowd, asking for an honorable knight to join him. “A knight defends the innocent, that’s- that’s all I did. I am not Ser Arlan’s blood, but I have followed his example. As your sons will follow yours. Who will stand and fight with me?” A long silence follows, Duncan quickly realizing no one in the crowd is going to step up, desperately he yells, “Has courage deserted the noble houses of Westeros? I will not believe it is so! Are there no true knights among you!?”
The large gates of the arena open up, and out comes Baelor Targaryen on his horse. “I will take Ser Duncan’s side.”
Shouting erupts from the crowd. Duncan is fully focused on the prince before him. Ser Arlan was right. The man was truly honorable. Willing to stand against his brother and nephews, to protect Duncan.
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” His brother Maekar asks, “This man attacked my son.”
“This man protected the innocent. As every true knight must.” He looks towards Duncan, “Let the gods decide if he was right or wrong.”
-
Baelor sits upon his horse before the group of seven, “Do not panic. Remain in formation. Keep your mounts as long as you can. These men mean to see you dead. They will fight savagely.”
Raymum leans over his horse, throwing up. Causing a chain reaction as Duncan throws up as well.
“Green fucking boys!” Ser Hardyng exclaims, laughing. Duncan wipes the spits from his mouth.
“What of the Kingsguard?” Ser Beesbury asks.
“Take heart, Beesbury. I will handle the Kingsguard. Their oath forbids them to harm a prince of the blood.” Baelor answers.
“Is that honorable, Your grace?” Ser Rhysling questions.
“The gods will let us know.”
“Mother loved you best, huh?” Lyonel cuts in cheekily, taking a chance to jab at the Targaryen, “Shame. No man fights so fiercely as one neglected by his mother.”
The men all look around at one another, the audacity of the stag to insult a dragon to his face surprising them. Duncan gives Lyonel a hard look, but the man just scoffs.
Baelor ignores him, “Be vigilant, don’t die.”
Egg hands Duncan his lance, and they line up to begin. Duncan looks at the men joining them, eyes landing on Lyonel. He gives the stag a nod, and the stag returns it, already wearing his helmet with the antler adorning it. Duncan takes a shaky breath before sliding his own helmet over his head.
His fate now rests in the hands of The Seven.
-
Duncan lies beneath the Elm tree, which he called his pavilion for the last few nights. He’s severely injured. Holes littering his body and unable to see out of his left eye. They won the battle, but at what cost? Beesbury and Hardyng died for him.
Prince Baelor died because of him.
The back of the man's skull was smashed in. He had no chance of surviving that kind of injury and was dead before he hit the ground. Duncan cried as he asked the man to hold on, to no avail. Crying his apologies to a man who would never hear them.
It takes him a while to even realize that Lyonel is standing before him, looking down at his broken state. Beside him stands a maester. Lyonel says nothing for a long moment before finally offering him his water skin.
Duncan makes no move to take it, so Lyonel decides to sit, propping himself up on the tree beside the man. The maester takes some kind of herb out and begins to burn it.
“Been a wonderful tournament. Shame it's all over. Home is uh- it’s brutally dull.” Lyonel says, trying for some conversation with the unresponsive man beside him. He tries once again to hand the waterskin. This time, Duncan takes it.
“Would you-” Duncan finally looks over at the man, and for the first time, he sees uncertainty written across his face, “Would you come with me? We’ll hunt and hawk and sail and make merry. I’ll sharpen that iron of yours so you don’t make such a grand fool of yourself next time.” He muses, laughing a little.
Duncan looks forward again, stoned-faced and empty.
“The man is dying, my lord.” The maester cuts in.
“Huh, what?”
“His wounds, they have mortified. It’s beyond my abilities.”
Lyonel groans, “Oh, the Others fucking geld me. Beyond you? An itchy arsehole is beyond your abilities, my friend.” He pushes the maester away from Duncan, “Begone, witch! Fuck off with you.”
“Yes, my lord, at once.” The man begins to collect his things to leave.
“No, No. Leave that here.” Lyonel says, motioning to his bag of ailments and bandages.
“Y-yes, my lord.”
“Cunt. It’s fine. You’re fine. He’s a terrible maester.” Lyonel uses his walking stick to help him rise, limping away to relieve himself. Once finished, he turns to look at Duncan. Finally, the words slip from him, “Come with me to Storms Ends.”
Duncan grimaces, “It’s a fine offer, Lyonel. But all I do is bring pain and suffering to those around me.”
Lyonel sighs, limping back toward Duncan, “You’ve done the realm a kindness. You’ll see that one day. The only good dragon is a dead dragon.”
“Fucking gods!” he laments, “Baelor fought for me. He gave his fucking life. Can you speak of him with a little respect, please?”
“Fuck that! And Fuck y-” the man cuts himself off, continuing just as angrily, “I fought for you! Hardyng, Beesbury, the fucking apple boy, we fought for you. Your prince fought for you against men sworn to protect him. He risked nothing! And the gods don’t favor a fraud.”
Duncan asks, voice cracking, “Then why have they favored me?”
Lyonel’s eyes soften as he kneels beside the hedge knight, taking out the bandages and ointments from the maesters bag, “You fought to protect the innocent. To uphold justice, and stand for what the gods deem honorable. Still you turned out like this-” he unseeths his knife motioning towards duncans form, before beginning to cut the mans shirt off, “The gods may have their reason, but even they are fickle.”
Duncan does his best to push back his tears, though some still flow freely. Lyonel, thankful, does not mention them. Working to bandage up Duncan, “I’m no maester, but I’ll do a finer job than that cunt.” He continues trying to fill the silence, “The man’s been in my family’s service for years, and still this is what he provides. You’d do a finer job, have done a finer job. Maybe we can acquire you proper training when you return with me.”
“I can’t go with you, Lyonel.”
Lyonel stops his rambling, but he does not answer. Silence lingers between the two of them. The only sound is their labored breathing from their injuries and the noises as Lyonel applies the poultice on Duncan’s injuries. Continuing to clean and wrap Duncan up. Once he’s finished, he stares down at the ground. Finally, a very, very quiet, “why?” escapes him.
“I don’t belong in a castle.”
“Then we won’t stay in the castle.” He pleads, “We can go anywhere, ride, sail, it does not matter.”
“Lyonel-”
“You ever been to Tarth? The Sapphire Isle-”
“Lyonel.”
“-have the clearest blue water I’ve ever-”
“Lyonel!”
“What?!” The man shouts back.
“What if I’m cursed?” Duncan questions, Lyonel just scoffs, “This is no jest, Lyonel. What if I bring bad tides to you and yours?”
“Then we make do.”
Duncan is responsible for the death of the prince. He’ll have to look over his shoulder for the rest of his life. Now he knows how unhonorable those in power can be, what they might do to find their version of justice. “There are those who want to kill me for what I’ve done.”
“You will have those who protect you.”
“Like the lot of you did today? And how did that turn out for most of them?” Ducan stresses.
“Well, I’m fine, so I’d say that’s not an issue for your truly.”
Duncan's frustration takes over him. “Lyonel, what if they kill me?! What if they kill you!?”
“Then we’ll die together! I’m not abandoning you!” He all but cries, voice rough, echoing his own words from the night before.
Ducan yells out a snarl before pulling Lyonel by the front of his shirt closer, “I only bring problems and pain wherever I go. I love you too much to be the reason you die!”
The man before him stills, before shouting, “So instead you're to leave?! What kind of fucking compromise is that?!”
“The one that keeps you the safest.”
“So you were fine with me risking my life for the trial, but not now? What changed? Have I proven myself unworthy? Incapable?”
He was not fine with it. He had begrudgingly accepted it.
“Lyonel, the fault is not with you.” Duncan stresses using his bandaged hand to stroke the man’s cheek, “What changed is I watched others die for me. You must understand why I cannot go with you.”
Lyonel opens his mouth to argue, but Duncan cuts over him begging, “Lyonel. Please. I will not be the reason you die, too.” He states once again, voice harsh, hoping the repetition might get through the thick skull his lover has.
Finally, it seems understanding dawns on the stag. He will not be winning this one, not now. His dark brown, glossy eyes become glossier, accepting Duncan’s decision. He kisses Duncan briefly on the side of his busted lip, then on his cheek, and stands up.
“I’m to leave after the burning of the dragon's blood.” The Baratheon says. Then leaves without another word.
-
Maekar summons him to his work chambers, not long after the service for Baelor.
“I’m sending Aerion to the east. A few years in the Free cities may change him for the better.” The man says, grief-stricken, “Some men will say I meant to kill my brother. The gods know it is a lie, but I will hear the whispers til the day I die.”
“You swung the mace, m’lord. But it was for me that Prince Baelor died.” Duncan says grimly.
“You will hear them whisper as well. The king is old. When he dies, each time a battle is lost, or a crop fails, the fools will say Baelor would not have let it happen. But the hedge knight killed him.”
Duncan found himself thinking something similar this morning. “If I had not fought, you would have had my hand and foot. I sat under the tree this morning, and I asked could I have spared one? I mean, how can a foot be worth a prince’s life?”
“And what answer did your tree give you?” Maekar spits.
The tree gave him no answer. No solution from its leaves that fell upon him. Though it provided him with much time to think of all that’s happened. Grasping at a reason to feel hope. “Every day at evenfall, Ser Arlan would say, ‘I wonder what the morrow will bring.’ Mightn’t it be that some morrow will come when I’ll have a need of that foot? When the realm will need that foot even more than a prince’s life?”
“Not bloody likely. The realm has as many hedge knights as hedges.” The man stands using his walking stick to pass Duncan. “My youngest son seems to have grown fond of you, Ser. It is time he was a squire. But he tells me he will serve no knight but you. He is an unruly boy, as you will have noticed.”
Duncan smiles, thinking of Egg, “He’s a good lad. Just needs a stern hand, that’s all.”
“Will you have him? There is a place for you at Summerhall.” He supplies, his voice now purely solemn, no longer holding angered laced spite, “You’ll swear your sword to me, and Aegon can squire for you. While you train him, my master-at-arms will finish your own training. Ser Arlan did all he could for you, I have no doubt, but you still have much to learn.”
“I beg your pardon, m’lord, I do, but I think I’m done with princes.” He leaves Maekar quarters, catching Egg spying on their conversation, “I can’t, Egg, I’m sorry.”
The boy looks down at his own lap, “Maybe you’re not the knight I thought you were.”
-
Duncan returns to one of the lord's pavilions with Raymun in hopes of having one last good meal before departing. Lyonel space is already cleared. Nothing adorning antlers can be seen anywhere. Like he was never there in the first place. The hedge knight chugs back some ale, regretting it. The taste was truly disgusting compared to the tastes of Lyonel’s.
Daeron enters the pavilion requesting wine.
“Have you no shame coming here?” The hedge knight asks, “Those men are dead because of you.”
Daeron flips his hands as if it makes no difference to him before asking, “Will you take Egg to squire?”
“I told your father he’s not my concern.”
“You know, my brother wasn’t always such a little monster.”
"Egg is no monster, he’s just a boy.”
“I didn’t mean Egg. But no doubt we’ll make a man of him, too. Perhaps the seeds of madness are sown in the womb, as the maesters say.” Daerion thinks quietly before saying, “But Aerion was quite the glad child once. He liked fishing.”
His statement strikes Duncan straight in the chest. Opening something within he hadn’t been expecting. Here he’s been sitting in his own self-pity, trying to rationalize and reason why he might see the morrow when Baelor had not. But now he saw it, the gods were giving him an opportunity to correct his wrong.
A dragon born within a castle turns to greed. Hoarding and pillaging what they deem theirs.
But a dragon born beneath the stars, well, he may learn to fly.
-
“I’ll take Egg to squire.” Duncan tells Maekar, “But not at Summerhall.”
“I thought you were done with princes.”
“Egg is no prince. Not yet. Might be he’s better served away from castles, and servants, and-”
“His family?”
“If you would consent. I would bring him on the road with me. He’ll learn to squire as I did. We’ll sleep in inns or stables. Now and again, in the halls of some landed knight, or lesser lordling. Maybe under a tree, when we must.”
“I forbid him to live as a peasant.” He sneers, “Aegon is blood of the Dragon. He cannot sleep in ditches and eat hard salt beef.”
“Daeron never slept in a ditch. All the Aerion ever ate was thick and rare and bloody.”
The man steps closer, looking at Duncan’s face, eyes near glossy, “He’s my last son.” He states, ending the conversation there and leaving Duncan to his own.
-
He tacks a penny to the elm tree under which he slept the last few nights. Readying himself to leave with his three horses. “Finally leaving?”
He looks up to see Lyonel leaning against the broken-down stone wall. The man is carrying a small bag packed to the brim. He is the most underdressed Duncan has ever seen him. Wearing a simple long black tunic with brown trousers and black boots, both of which still have antlers patterning them. He adorns no crown or jewels, only his golden earring. The man has a deep bruise above his eye and on the underside of his jaw.
“Lyonel, what are you doing here? Your party departed several hours ago.”
“I tried to leave, I truly did.” He walks over to Duncan, “But I had to try once more, so I could either tell you off or kiss you.”
“Have you made your decision?”
“It depends on your answer.” He pats the bag slung over his waist, “I’ve brought the bare necessities, the lightest possible to not be a burden. I’ve rid myself of my jewelry to not bring us traction. I am also told I’m blessed by The Seven, so I bring myself to balance out your supposed curse. All that is to say, I wish to join your service.”
“I-” He stops trying to find the word to say. The man has never failed to floor Duncan at every opportunity, has he?
“You said you don’t want to see me hurt because of you, but I’ve never hurt as much as when I tried to leave today. If you did not want me, I would have accepted your decision. But you are only denying me because you're afraid, and I will not allow fear to-”
‘There’s no shame in being afraid. Shame comes from letting all that fear control you.’
Cutting Lyonel off, Duncan surges forward, grabbing the man and kissing him hard. It hurts his busted lip, and his eye is still severely swollen, but he can’t seem to give it a sparing thought. Moving his hand to the back of Lyonel’s head and the other to the small of his back, he presses them together.
To think Duncan had been so afraid that morning. So ashamed and frightened by the horrors of the world, he’d almost let someone he cared for slip through his fingers.
If it hadn’t been for the stag's courage to put himself out there again, Duncan would have let another person he loved be taken away from him.
The man has to crane his head to kiss him back, but he doesn’t seem to mind, as he lifts his hands to grab around Duncan’s shoulders. Lyonel pulls back slightly, “Is that a yes?” Duncan just laughs before pulling him in to kiss him once more. Lyonel groans into it, pulling back enough to say, “Gods, I love you.”
“As do I.” Smiling fondly, Dunk brushes his hand over Lyonel’s unbruised cheek. “Won’t they come looking for you?”
“I’m a Baratheon. They’ll either get word that I ran off and await my return, or they won’t, and I’ll be presumed dead.”
“And you're okay with that?”
“Absolutely.”
"Ser Duncan!” He hears a young voice call. Turning to see Egg racing towards him. “My lord father says I am to serve you.”
He releases the man to turn to Egg, “Serv you, Ser.” He corrects absentmindedly.
“You may want to be more careful about your affections, Ser. I could have been anyone. Imagine I had been my father or Lord Ashford.”
Duncan flushes deeply, and Lyonel just laughs loudly, “Gods to see the look on either one of those cock suck-”
“Watch your tongue,” Duncan chastises quietly, motioning toward Egg. Turning to the young boy, he says, “Chestnuts yours, treat her kindly.”
“Will Ser Lyonel be joining us?” Egg questions.
“Yes, but you're to keep the knowing to yourself, the same way you’ve done for yourself.” Duncan says, helping the boy onto his horse.
The boy nods. “Of course, Ser.”
He hands Lyonel Thunder's reins, “He’s yours.”
Lyonel nods, taking them and mounting him. Turning to secure his pack onto the back of the saddle.
“Are you sure you want to join us?” Dunk asks once more, standing beside the horse Lyonel is seated on.
“I traveled all over this world for more than ten years in the prime of my life. I’m no longer that young. I will miss the comfort of warm fur pelts and large gatherings,” He runs a hand through Duncan’s hair, flattening it endearingly. “But I would have missed you far more.”
Duncan smiles up at him, removing the hand from his hair to place a gentle kiss to the back of it. He makes his way to Sweetfoot, giving the large female horse a good scratch and pet on the face before climbing upon her.
“Where are we going, Ser?” Egg asks.
“Don’t know, I suppose we could go anywhere in the seven kingdoms, though I’ve never been-”
“Nine.” Both Egg and Lyonel correct.
“What?”
“There are nine kingdoms, Ser.”
“Of what?”
“The realm.” The boy says, as if it’s a question.
“Are the two of you mad? There are seven kingdoms of the realm.” He scoffs, “Everyone knows that.”
Duncan turns to Lyonel to see the man smiling at him with a raised brow. Egg begins to list off, “Crownlands, Wetlands, Stormlands, Riverlands, The Iron Island, The North, The Reach, The Vale of Arryn, and Dorne.”
It takes a moment for Duncan to respond, “No…but-”
“I’ve never been over the red mountain before. I’ve heard they have good puppet shows in Dorne.” The boy supplies.
Lyonel leans in closer to whisper to Duncan, “Dorne is freer with their affection than the other kingdoms, as is The Reach, though it's not nearly as fun, nor hot.”
Duncan feels heat rise in his face, ears burning, “Have you no shame?”
“Not a drop.” The man replies casually, “And you love it.”
Duncan huffs, “I suppose I do.”
What an odd trio they made. A dragon, a stag, and an elm tree. Sounded like the beginning of a joke told in a weathered tavern
Or maybe a tale in a proper storybook.