Chapter Text
There was a stubborn fawn standing firmly in front of him, feet planted and stance wide, as if ready to wrestle.
Dunk gazed down at the little fawn, fighting hard to keep his face neutral and stern. He felt a smile threaten to slip out at the sheer sweetness before him.
“Ormund, enough is enough. Your Lord Father has declared you too young to come with us,” Dunk gently scolded.
The fawn shook, his tiny body filled with rage. Ormund Baratheon, heir to Ser Lyonel Baratheon, jutted out his lip and crossed his arms.
“Mother, I'm not a baby, I'm five! You and Father get to go!” Ormund cried. Gods, the lungs on this boy, surely even the cooks in the kitchen had heard. Loud and demanding, truly Lyonel's child.
Ormund was delightful as a summer's day when he had his way, all bright smiles and bell-like giggles. And usually, he took denial with a stiff upper lip, but if you denied him something he truly wanted, he became the very storms his ancestors once ruled over.
Dunk put his embroidery ring down on the settee, leaving the dancing stag handkerchief he had been working on for later, and gave his son his full attention.
“Yes, you're up there in age, but your father and I are fully grown, Ormund. You're too young to travel with us, especially when you can't even stay awake in the sept,” Dunk reasoned.
The boy's soft cheeks flushed rosy pink. “That's not fair! It's not my fault, Septon Willem is so boring.”
He wasn't wrong; even the most devout would find themselves weary from Septon Willem's long-winded sermons. Dunk himself was guilty of dozing off once or twice, but he was never a religious man. However, that was besides the point.
“I know, lad, but travel isn't as fun as you'd think. The farthest you've gone is Bronzegate, and even that left you half dead.” Dunk beckoned the boy to sit beside him.
Ormund stomped over, huffing. Yet he all but threw himself across his mother's lap, clinging to Dunk's gold-black robes. Dunk carded his large hand through Ormund's sable curls, smoothing out the nest of hair.
He cooed at the boy, “Besides, you must defend Storm's End while we are away. Your grandfather is old, so he needs Ser Ormund the Even Taller to protect him.”
The boy giggled at the nickname. “Grandfather is really old! His knees crack when he stands.”
Dunk sent a silent apology to his good-father.
He nodded. “And while you hold Storm's End, I will make sure to get you a gift from the tourney. What would you like?”
Ormund peered up at him, thoughtfully. Dunk grinned. Of course, all his outrage disappeared at the mention of a gift. His pup was so predictable.
Ormund rambled on about which toys he would like, his blue eyes sparkling with joy. Dunk took his little hands in his, humming in agreement.
A loud chortle interrupted the pair, “Well, well, well, what do we have here? The little lord of the castle is lazing around, shirking his lessons.”
Ormund gasped, turning towards the voice. “Father!”
The heir to Storm's End cut a handsome figure in his black doublet, detailed in gold. With his dark curls, streaked with white, and his shapely facial hair. And those stormy blue eyes that seemed to see through Dunk.
Lyonel swaggered into the room. “I come back from my boring meeting with those wrinkly lords, to find your maester running around like a headless chicken trying to locate a wayward lordling.”
Ormund sat up. He responded primly, “I was taking a rest, Maester Simon seemed tired. Old age.”
Lyonel grinned, his straight, white teeth on display. “And you just happened to end up in your mother's lap, hmm?”
Ormund puffed out his chest. “I thought Mother might be lonely, so I decided to keep him company.”
“Oh-ho, you've got an answer for everything, huh, lad?” Lyonel raised his brow. “Well, I'll just have to tickle the truth out of you!”
He sprang at the boy, who shrieked and ran away, chasing him around the room.
The boy was slippery, using his smaller body to squeeze into tight spaces, but his father's long strides kept him in pace with the child. Eventually, after a few laps around Dunk's solar, Lyonel caught their son, hefting him up into his arms and spinning him around.
Ormund wiggled in protest, trying to break free as Lyonel began to tickle his sides. Soon, all three of the little family were laughing.
It was in moments like these that Dunk couldn't help but think of how far he'd come. How much his life had changed.
When he and Ser Arlan had set off to the Stormlands six years ago, Dunk hadn't expected much of anything. They would travel through the wind and rain, helping those in need along the way like true hedge knights ought to do. Maybe aid a landed knight in a campaign.
They had stopped at a village plagued by robber bandits, intent on taking care of the rogues, when the pair crossed paths with a band of knights in yellow and black bearing the stag sigil. The knights were Baratheon soldiers who had been sent to end the threat by the Lord Paramount. And at the helm, looking every bit the dashing knight, had been Lyonel Baratheon.
Dunk had been awe-struck, openly staring when the village chief had introduced the wandering pair to the heir to the Stormlands. He had never met a highborn personally. Ser Arlan did all the talking, offering their assistance. Lyonel had readily agreed.
It wasn't until much later, after the rogues had been handled and Dunk was sopping wet with rain, mud, and blood, that he noticed Ser Lyonel's intense gaze on him.
From across the campfire, as the others drunk off ale had howled at the moon and danced around to lusty ballads, Lyonel had called Dunk to him. He had been confused as to what a noble alpha could want with him, but who was he to refuse such a grand lord? And so the storm lord and the hedge knight's squire danced the night away.
After Lyonel had invited them back to Storm's End, the alpha had initiated the most unyielding courtship. Lord Baratheon had not been pleased, his eldest son taking a bride of such low birth. But he relented in the face of Lyonel's great devotion. And no matter how much Dunk protested, Ser Lyonel persisted, ultimately wearing him down with burning passion and heartfelt words.
And when it was finally time for Ser Arlan to move on, never one to stay in one place for long, Dunk remained in Storm's End as Lyonel's bride. And, oh, how Dunk had been torn. His blooming love pitted against his ser and the life he'd known. Ultimately, it had been Ser Arlan who had decided for him.
Without informing anyone, Ser Arlan had set off one early morning, the sunrise painting the world in pretty golden and red hues. Dunk had given chase and found his ser waiting for him under a large oak tree, resting at its base with knowing eyes.
The tense, tear-filled conversation that followed was known only to them and the gods. But in the end, Ser Arlan had ridden off alone, and Dunk had returned to Lyonel as Ser Dunk, later called Ser Duncan the Tall by his husband and his lord vassals.
A childish screech broke Dunk out of his melancholy.
Lyonel was biting Ormund's cheek, growling. “Naughty little children, who skip lessons, get eaten,” he crowed.
Ormund cried out in defeat, “No! I give up! I give up!” He turned to Dunk, joyful tears streaking his little face. “Save me, Mother!”
Alright, if this went on, his son would never learn arithmetic, and then he'd be as thick as Dunk.
“Lyonel, let him go, or he'll never settle. And Ormund, it's time to return to your studies. Maester Simon is too old to be running around looking for you.”
Father and son mirrored each other as they gave twin pouts, and it took all his strength not to give in. Six years and Dunk still wasn't completely immune to those sweet blue eyes.
“Your mother is right. Off with you, my boy. If you tarry any longer, the witch might actually have a heart stroke. A replacement would be too bothersome,” Lyonel lamented. “And the Citadel would send another even less competent.”
Ormund looked between both his parents before he scurried away.
The couple listened as the sound of little feet receded before they shared a look and burst into laughter. Their son truly was a joy.
Lyonel gracelessly plopped down on the settee next to Dunk, narrowly missing the embroidery ring.
“Seven above, those decrepit, old cunts never cease to amaze me with their sheer stupidity. You'd think we're going to fucking war, instead of a girl's nameday tourney the way they're acting.”
Dunk gave a sympathetic noise.
Lord Baratheon's advisors were being very…thorough when it came to preparations for their journey. Dunk pitied his husband, who had been subjected to many discussions about spending and travel logistics.
Lyonel stretched his arms across the back of the settee, taking a strand of Dunk's long, reddish-blonde hair between his fingers.
“This will be your first tourney outside the Stormlands as my consort. And those Reach lords and Crownlanders will finally see the great beauty I wed,” Lyonel smirked,
Dunk fiddled with his fingers, anxious at the reminder. “Can you test me again? On the houses?”
Lyonel eyed him for a moment, then licked his lips.
“House Tyrell?”
“Lord Paramount Leo Tyrell will be attending as lord of the Reach.”
“The Ashfords?”
“Lord Alan Ashford is hosting the tourney in honor of his daughter, Lady Gwin’s thirteenth nameday. His sons, Ser Androw and Ser Robert, are competing as their sister’s defenders.”
“House Targaryen?”
“Prince Baelor Targaryen, the Hand of the King, will be attending alongside his son, Prince Valarr, and his youngest brother, Prince Maekar.”
Lyonel beamed, pride in his eyes. “You're ready. Don't get into your pretty little head about it. And if anyone comments on you, they will answer to House Baratheon.”
Dunk exhaled shakily, “I don't want them to have anything else to whisper about what with me being lowborn and all. I don't wish to be your weakness.”
“You are no weakness, Duncan, you are my strength, my very reason to be. And you are an honorable knight worth more than all of those sissy lords.” His alpha's eyes blazed with affection. “I have no doubt you could take half of them in a joust.”
Dunk flushed at the praise.
Dunk shook his head, “You overestimate my swordsmanship, Lyonel. I've never even jousted before; the most I’ve done is tilt rings.”
Lyonel brushed his fingers against Dunk’s warm cheek. “Aye, you’re green when it comes to tourneys, but I’ve seen you fight against foes and mine own knights in the yard. And a man of your size would topple many wimpy lordlings in the lists.”
The Laughing Storm twirled Dunk’s locks and pressed a fleeting kiss to his hair.
“Though my lord father would rather we not cause too much of a commotion at your debut. We’d have to suit you in mismatching armor and paint a shield, send you out as a mystery knight,” the alpha said, clearly only meaning it in jest.
Lyonel opened his mouth as if to speak again, but hesitated, tilting his head from side to side, causing his curls to bounce. Dunk gulped; his husband was a force of nature, true to his moniker, so usually trouble followed when he stood still as he was now.
Lyonel twirled his beard hair, a smile slowly creeping on his face. “That's not a terrible idea…”
Dunk deadpanned, “No. I will not ride up to a tourney Baelor Targaryen is attending as a mystery knight.”
His husband rolled his eyes. “Who gives a shit about Baelor Targaryen?! You would be a vision!”
“The answer is no, Lyonel. I will watch from the stands as your husband and cheer you on,” Dunk refused, then conceded. “Maybe at the next tourney we attend, I will join the lists.”
The heir paramount gave a long-suffering sigh, waving his hands as he dismissed the idea. “I'll hold you to that.”
Dunk scooted closer, leaning down to rest his head against Lyonel's shoulder. “Besides, you promised to crown me the King of Love and Beauty. How can you do that if I unseat you?”
Lyonel barked out a laugh.
“Aye, right you are, my love. I swore to see your lovely head adorned with flowers by the tourney’s end. And I am no oathbreaker. But first, let me sample my prize.” He pressed a hand to Dunk's chest and pushed him down.
Dunk went down easy, sprawled out on the cushion, sun-kissed hair a halo around him. He laughed, “I don't think that's how it works, husband.”
But he gave no protest as the storm descended upon him.