Archive of Our Own

“Ser?” Egg glanced up through the branches at the ever-darkening sky. “Did you know Storm’s End is not far off?”

“That so?”

“It is.”

The squire said nothing more, though he was obviously trying for a point. Dunk took a piece of hardtack from the satchel and broke it in half, wincing with the effort. Sure, they might sooner have eaten rock than this; would’ve been easier to chew and probably to stomach. Their provisions had run low since entering the Stormlands, and what they had was old and dry even in the way of salt beef and fish. He passed half the hardtack to Egg. The boy attempted a mouthful, wincing as he did so. Dunk managed to break off a piece for himself. They were silent a minute.

“I do believe Storm’s End cannot be even two miles along the coast,” Egg said, as if answering a question none had asked.

“Oh? And why should that interest you?” Dunk tore off another piece of tack, his eyes watering with the effort.

“Well. It is a very grand castle.” Egg looked up again at the sky, where the clouds continued to purple. He pulled up his hood, though there was yet no rain. “Some say finer even than Summerhall.”

“Do they, now? Fancy that.”

Dunk had deliberately chosen to take the long way ‘round out of the Reach and into the Stormlands. Would’ve been quicker to cut across the country, but it would also have taken them straight past Egg’s ancestral home. Dunk wouldn’t have begrudged the lad a stop to see his family, but he didn’t want the princeling to get re-accustomed to living as a highborn. Besides, they said Prince Maekar was still brooding nearly two years after the Ashford tourney; if Egg saw his father in such a state, he might find it hard to leave.

Unfortunately, the long way ‘round meant passing Storm’s End. It had been near two years since he’d laid eyes on Lyonel Baratheon, and Dunk doubted the man would be pleased to see him now or anytime in the future. Their parting had not been on the best terms.

We could be a force, you and I. The older man had smiled, wearing the look of lords and princes who’d always had their own way before. He’d implied he wished to train Dunk at arms, perhaps even install him as a household guard, but the offer had seemed more remarkable than that. He’d wished for company, for merrymaking, for sport. To acquire Dunk as a horse to bridle, a sword to sheath, that was one thing. Acquiring a man for usefulness was natural. To treat him as a doll to pick up at the fair and take away home, though, something with which to play felt quite different. Unnatural, even.

Still, it had been kindly meant. Dunk hadn’t taken pleasure in turning down the generous offer. He certainly hadn’t taken pleasure in Lyonel’s obvious hurt, though neither had he been moved in the face of the man’s anger when he learned Dunk was turning down a life at Storm’s End for…absolutely nothing. Dunk remembered walking away from the Baratheon caravan, his ears burning red as Lyonel shouted a few unsavory words in his wake. Idiotic hedge knight cunt had been some. Addled fucking peasant had been others. Even now, thinking of Lyonel twisted him up inside with discomfort. No. Best to avoid Storm’s End at all costs.

Egg kept glancing at him from the corner of his eye. At last, the boy groaned.

“Ser, might we stop at Storm’s End? We shan’t be anywhere near an inn tonight, and the weather’s turning fast.”

“As if we’d the coin for an inn. What’s wrong with our current accommodations?” Dunk and the boy were sprawled beneath a great tree, their horses tied up securely. They’d sheltered thus through rainstorms before.

“Trees do leak,” the boy drawled. To prove his point, a fat raindrop fell from the sky to splash on Dunk’s forehead. Soon, the heavens opened and the terrain about them started to turn soupy with mud. Damn. The horses blustered and swished their tails in the downpour. Dunk pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders. He’d slept in rainstorms before. Though it was damned cold as well…

No. Not Storm’s End. Ser Lyonel might run me through.

“This is the life of a hedge knight,” Dunk said, clenching his jaw so his teeth didn’t chatter. Seven hells, he could see his breath.

“M-might it also be the death of a hedge knight, s-ser?” Egg muttered. The boy was far too cheeky. Not even twelve and he always had a princely way of demanding things without really asking.

“You won’t freeze to death in rain. This is the Stormlands, and storms are what you get. Tomorrow we’ll be round the coast and headed for Dorne.”

Dunk’s heart contracted at the thought of Dorne. Of the girl he’d hoped to find there once, the girl he hoped luck might reward him with on the second trip. Tallest girl he’d ever seen. Loveliest, too. Dunk hugged his arms and shut his eyes, pictured Tanselle as he most liked to recall her, dressed in that fine, pale green shawl, a basket of flowers in her arms.

If I could but see her again. Just to know she was all right.

He frowned; thought of Tanselle stilled his mind, worked on his body like cool water on a hot day. It had been thus for almost two years now.

But then there was the lady he’d left behind recently. Lady Rohanne. Nothing cool about her. All fire, that one, and the time he’d pulled her into his arms and kissed her on the lips, he’d felt that heat through his body.

Dunk’s mouth went dry as he recalled the feel of her. The agitation he’d felt. He thought of that kiss, the way she’d rubbed against him, breathed against his lips that if he didn’t mind keeping the squire waiting, she could give him a proper ride here in the stables.

He’d been too afraid to do what he wanted most. He’d cut her hair, thanked her, and rushed out with the braid looped around his hand and his cheeks burning.

Rohanne had awoken something in him that would not go back to sleep. And wanting what he couldn’t ask for, not even knowing what it was he wanted to ask or of whom, often left him peevish.

Fuck. Best not to think at all. He was quite good at not thinking. Dunk smiled when the rain began to lessen.

“See now? Brief spring storm,” he said.

That was when the hail began, great pebbles of ice shooting down to batter them and send the horses into a frenzy.

“S-Ser?” Egg chattered. The wind kicked up, and lightning streaked the sky.

“Fine! Storm’s End it is!” Dunk snapped. A hailstone struck his forehead and made him bleed.

#

Lyonel leaned out the window so that the rain torrented upon his face and wetted his hair. Shaking himself like a dog, he laughed. There was nothing he liked so well as a gale. Piddling rainstorms wearied him, but thunder and lightning quickened his blood. When the world was black and violent, that’s when every action seemed possible. He was a fucking Storm Lord, after all. The Storm Lord these past six months. Retreating inside, he chuckled to himself as he headed down the winding stone staircase. Cold water ran in rivulets over his face, seeped down the velvet collar of his doublet, pattered from the tips of his hair onto the stone floor. Alive. He felt alive, and that was good. Silence and stillness were too much like death, and who had time for that fucking nonsense?

He'd spent this afternoon going over accounting books, the worst part of becoming Lord of Storm’s End. Numbers held no charm for him. Well, once he was married that’d be his lady wife’s task. Gods, he looked forward to the wedding. No idea who he’d be marrying yet, but a wedding meant crowds, jousting, and feasting. Company was what he craved. He’d hosted a hunting party of minor stormlords this past fortnight and they’d only just left.

He was alone again. Hated that. Normally his remaining siblings and nieces and nephews would be underfoot, able to provide him with plenty of noise, but most of them were out visiting neighbors or raising armies. He’d Storm’s End to himself, and as the Lord Paramount, Lyonel could no longer take off whenever it pleased him. Fuck it. Perhaps he’d summon his household guard in tonight, roast a boar or two, empty a few barrels of wine. Anything to avoid sitting on his own, listening to the storm.

“M’lord?” A liveried steward awaited Lyonel at the bottom of the stairs. “You’ve two visitors.”

“Visitors? Who the fuck’s been out on the road in this weather?” Lyonel snorted as thunder pealed overhead, practically rocking the castle’s walls.

“A man and a boy, though I’d be shocked if m’lord actually knew them as the man states.” The steward sniffed. “He’s only a hedge knight, if he speaks true.”

“Hedge knight?” Lyonel froze, and his mind turned to fire. Gods, it couldn’t be. “Did he give a name?”

“Ser Duncan the Tall. Aptly called, he’s a giant of a fellow. And the boy—”

Who gives a shit about the boy? Lyonel could scarce breathe. He’d come back. Dunk, the hedge knight, his hedge knight. His heart pounded at the thought; his lips trembled against a smile.

I’m going to fucking kill him.

“Where is he?” Lyonel asked.

“Er. Outside, in the courtyard m’lord.” The steward clearly hadn’t expected such a strong reaction.

“What?? In this weather?” Lyonel started to rush off, paused, returned and gripped the steward’s shoulder. “If you leave a guest of mine outside like that again, I’ll cut off your head. Or at least your balls. Yes?”

Slack-jawed, the fellow nodded. Lyonel smiled and slapped the man on the cheek once, friendly-like, then chuckled and raced off down the hall. He had the front doors flung open and emerged into the downpour, hastily wrapping his cloak about himself.

Two figures stood with horses at the bottom of the stone steps. They were hooded, but the tall one revealed his face.

Gods, he was fucking gorgeous. Two years had given Duncan more muscle than before, reduced the slight softness of baby fat that’d still clung to his cheeks when they first met. The hedge knight’s hair had grown out, spilling to the base of his neck. Lyonel stiffened, made an involuntary fist as he imagined grabbing that hair and just—

“Ser Lyonel?” Dunk called through the rain, having to raise his voice. The winds picked up strength and speed with every moment. “Forgive us, we were passing and needed shelter from the storm. My squire—”

“Lord,” Lyonel said. “Lord Lyonel, ser. My grandsire is finally dead. Storm’s End is mine.”

He made sure to scowl; indeed, now the burst of euphoria had worn off, he could only remember the bitter, choking disappointment he’d felt that day at Ashford. How Dunk had walked away from him, bruised and bloodied, yet so defiant. Lyonel recalled the fury he’d felt at such common ingratitude coming from such an uncommon man. We could be a force, you and I, he’d told the young man. They could’ve been friends. Brothers. And Duncan had said no. No!

Even in the downpour, Lyonel could make out the hedge knight’s unease. He must be remembering that day, too. He’d never have sought shelter here if the world wasn’t about to rip apart around his ears.

That thought hurt, and pain worsened Lyonel’s mood. He sneered, only in half-jest now.

“You say you want shelter.”

“Aye, se—m’lord. We will happily sleep in the stables if m’lord permits.”

The tiny, drenched figure of Dunk’s squire gazed up at his master. Lyonel could almost hear the boy’s prickly thoughts and laughed.

“That won’t do, Ser Duncan. Have your boy see to the horses, and then you shall both be my guests this evening.”

“M’lord. Thank you.” Dunk bowed his head in relief.

There was a time you called me Lyonel.

The boy grabbed the horses by their reins and followed one of Lyonel’s sentries. As Dunk ascended the steps, he kept his shoulders hunched and his eyes to the ground. Still the shy little maid, eh?

“Thank you, m’lord. We’re in your debt,” the hedge knight said once they’d come face-to-face.

“You often are.” When Dunk made to go around him, Lyonel stepped in his path. He jutted his chin forward, lifted his head. It fucking rankled him that this much younger boy was half a foot taller. The stag in him demanded a challenge before another buck entered his territory. Especially one so delectably virile.

“M-m’lord?” Dunk’s eyes widened.

“You demand my hospitality,” Lyonel said, glowering up at the other man. “Yet you haven’t given me even the basest token of respect.”

“I, I could swear I said thank you. M’lord, thank you. Again.” Dunk’s face was greatly obscured in the near-darkness, yet a quick burst of lightning highlighted a look of gawky, sincere perturbation. It was the sort of expression that Lyonel simultaneously wanted to bite and kiss.

“You dare?” Lyonel growled.

“M’lord?”

“My name, cunt. Or have you forgotten it?”

Lyonel smiled, an event some had described as sudden and blinding as lightning, and he winked. Dunk’s shoulders eased. He grinned.

“Lyonel. Might I come in now?”

And there he was again, the sweet, bumbling peasant who didn’t mind treading on a man’s toes when provoked. Lyonel inhaled slowly; he mustn’t become too excited. He’d only fantasized about this opportunity for two fucking years.

“Please.” He stepped aside, made a flourishing gesture with his hand, and laughed as he herded Duncan into Storm’s End. Lyonel quickly gave orders for rooms and dry clothes for his guests—they’d have to find a tent or something if nothing else could dress Ser Duncan. He also demanded a more lavish supper than the kitchens had prepared for, lamprey pie, roast boar, as much as could be made ready on short notice. While his servants scrambled about and Dunk blustered that no trouble should be taken, Lyonel headed for his chambers. He must dress well tonight. He’d a special guest.

Laughing, he swiped a hand through his wet curls. He was fucking drenched! But he’d needed something to cool him down.

#

Dunk stood by the side of Storm’s End’s great dining hall, arms rigid. There was a bloody feast laid upon the table, the likes of which were put down for kings and princes. He half-feared someone would come in at any moment and shoo him out the door like a dog. This wasn’t for his sort.

“Ser?” Egg stood beside him, plainly vibrating with hunger. “I do believe it is permitted to sit down. We must wait for Lord Baratheon before eating, but otherwise—”

“Fine, squire. Fine.” So they sat down near to the head of the table. Lyonel’s chair sported a pair of gilded antlers from the back; the chandelier glowing overhead was made of antlers as well. Baratheons had plenty of time for hunting, it seemed.

Egg’s eyes widened at sight of the spread. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Dunk smiled despite himself.

“Bit better’n salt beef and hardtack, eh?”

“Variety is most agreeable, ser.” Cheeky little bugger.

The hall doors opened, and Lyonel strode inside. Dunk and Egg stood, customary when receiving a welcoming lord…and Dunk nearly sat down again.

Surely hunger and cold had left him light-headed, for why should the sight of another man addle his brains so, even momentarily? Last time he’d properly seen Lyonel had been at Ashford, and there the man had been in various states of dirt and dishevelment. At the castle’s entrance tonight, he’d been wet-haired and wild-eyed as ever. Now, in less than half an hour he’d transformed himself.

Dunk knew little of fashion. The tunic was black satin and gold embroidery, the belt bright yellow silk. The heeled leather boots were gold-buckled, and gold swung from Lyonel’s ear, gleamed on his fingers and wrists, adorned his graying curls in a circlet. The man bloody glowed as he had never done before, and Dunk could not help his fascination.

Back at Ashford, Lyonel had always seemed a bit gaudy. Now he looked regal. Princely, even.

I’m starvin’. That’s the trouble.

“Sit.” Lyonel collapsed cat-like into the chair held out for him by a servant. “Eat.” Egg pounced on the lamprey pie and the game hen. Lyonel chuckled as he had a servant pour him wine. “You’re not feeding your squire, ser? I don’t think he’s grown two inches since I saw him last.”

“I’m small for my age, my lord. I always have been.” The boy tried to seem fearsome with a mouthful of pigeon pie.

“Yes. Still rather bald, too. Well, a shaved head stands out less than Targaryen plumage, wouldn’t you say?”

“Er. Yes,” Dunk said, tongue-tied as ever. He was starving, he’d already had a cup of wine, and for some reason Lyonel Baratheon continued to unnerve him. It wasn’t mere shyness over the memory of their previous parting; the man seemed to draw Dunk’s gaze no matter whereabouts he looked. Was it because of how he was dressed? Or was it because, no matter who Lyonel spoke to, he seemed always to be staring at Dunk?

“I’ll say this for the boy,” Lyonel said, grinning at Dunk while speaking of Egg. “He’s the appetite of one who’s missed a meal or two. Rare for a highborn. No doubt he’s already learned much of real life in your service.”

“Are you acquainted with reality yourself, my lord?” Egg, clearly annoyed that he was being talked past, gave that cheeky, jackanapes grin that clever people knew to be insolent. And Lord Lyonel was clever.

“Only when I’m sober.” Lyonel replied with ease. Egg shrugged.

“Then I daresay it’s an infrequent occurrence. How fortunate.”

That got a laugh out of Lyonel. Meanwhile, Dunk felt his face burn. He leaned forward in his seat.

“Squire. An apology’ll be the last word out of your mouth tonight. If not, you’ll eat my fist and bed down with the horses. Understood?”

“Yes, ser.” Egg’s impish grin vanished, and he tucked his chin to his chest. “I apologize, my lord,” he said to Lyonel, not looking up.

“It’s fine. In fact, this whole exchange has sated my famished curiosity. I’ve spent the past two years wondering what might have become of you, Ser Duncan.” Lyonel’s dark eyes seemed to burn when he glanced at Dunk again. “Now I find you kept your princeling in tow. That takes the sting out of walking away from my offer for a humble life on the road.” Lyonel’s gaze settled upon the center of Dunk’s chest. “Still a fucking shame. A stag’s crest would’ve suited you well.”

“It, er, would’ve been a great honor, Se—Lord Lyonel.” Dunk knew he was blushing again and he hated it. The older man was enjoying his discomfort. Meanwhile, Egg, clearly trying not to be clever, shoveled more pie into his mouth.

“Tell me.” Lyonel steepled his fingers. “How long since you had a bath?”

“Ages,” Egg said at once, then froze with his eyes wide. He’d spoken beyond an apology and seemed to fear Dunk would keep his word and send him to the stables.

“Ser Duncan, allow my steward to show your boy to the baths and then to his chambers. I’m certain he’s tired, and some things are best discussed between men. Alone.”

What things? And why did Dunk’s face flame up at the words “between men” and “alone”? Why did Lyonel have to say simple words as though they held another meaning? Egg had the way of it, too. Highborns were a breed apart.

“Have you any orders, ser?” Egg asked, standing beside his chair.

“No, squire. Only wash all the dirt out your ears.”

“I shall. Gladly. Good night, my lord.” With a respectful little gesture, Egg hurried off after a steward in black-and-yellow. Dunk watched the boy go with some strange fear. What in the seven hells did Lyonel need to discuss without the boy present? Soon, they were alone. Lyonel even dismissed the servants.

Dunk could feel his pulse jump in his neck as the lord of Storm’s End poured him a cup of wine to the brim. He looked up as lightning brightened the hall.

“Wait,” Lyonel said, seeming to count. Soon, a low rumble of thunder sounded. “Fifteen this time. Last time there were sixteen counts between the light and the thunder. That means the storm’s drawing nearer.”

“Yes,” Dunk said, for what the bloody hell else could he say? He’d eaten only half his platter of boar, yet for the first time in his life he couldn’t stomach another morsel. His palms felt damp, and he wiped them on his breeches. Lyonel noticed.

“The clothes fit all right, I see?” He chuckled. “Though that doublet you’re wearing would be a tunic on any other man.”

“Thank you m—Lyonel. Truly.” Dunk didn’t know how to dance about any subject, so he just blurted out what came to his mind. “You didn’t have to put us up, and we’re grateful. Especially after…”

His courage faltered, but Lyonel’s gaze was dark and sharp.

“After what?”

“After…after Ashford. After the trial.” Words sort of spilled out in plashes and dribbles here and there. “That is, you brought your own maester. To see to my wounds. And you were injured yourself, you, that is, with the trial. Um. Which was quite—”

“Quite wonderful of me?” Lyonel took up his cup and swirled its contents about, grinning all the while. Only delight never reached his eyes; they still seemed black. And angry. “To fight for you? To hazard my body and the future of my house for your sake?”

“Y-yes.” Dunk clenched his jaw, felt like he wanted to pull up the stones and bury himself ‘neath the floor. “You were that good. And then—”

“And then fucking Baelor Targaryen rode in on his noble steed and died in your arms.” Lyonel drained his cup. “And you forgot all about gratitude to me. Isn’t that right?”

“No. No.” Dunk kept grasping for words and feeling them slide through his fingers. “That is, I am still grateful to Prince Baelor. I, I know what you said of how he risked nothing…” Dunk squared his jaw. “Only he did, didn’t he? Because he fuckin’ died. And you said the only good dragon was a dead one, but he was different. And so, when I left your service—”

“I didn’t ask you to join my service, did I?” Lyonel tilted his head slightly. “Better to say when you told me to take my friendship and go fuck myself.”

“That’s not so.” Dunk felt a little braver with wine in his belly. “I had to make up for his life. Baelor’s life. Maybe a hedge knight can never matter more than a prince, a future king, but I owed it to him. That’s why I took the boy on. So he won’t grow up like his brothers. So he won’t be a dragon. So he’ll just be…a good man, I suppose.” Dunk swallowed. Lightning flashed. Fourteen counts; the storm drew nearer. Lyonel Baratheon didn’t smile. “That’s why I couldn’t come with you to Storm’s End. It’s not that I wasn’t grateful, or I didn’t enjoy your company. I had business that needed tending. So. That’s that, then.”

It was so quiet Dunk swore he could hear the candle flames burning, a hiss in the air. Lyonel finally placed a heavy, ring-laden hand upon the table.

“And you thought that after two bloody years, I’d simply open the doors and welcome you back in? After the insult you gave my family? The stain you placed upon our reputation?” The man’s black eyes glittered, full of lightning themselves. Dunk swallowed.

“M’lord. I’m not—”

Then he stopped in shock because Lyonel simply slumped over in his seat and laughed. The lord fucking snorted, even, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Oh, fuck boy, don’t be such a gullible cunt.” Lyonel giggled as he slouched boneless in his seat. “That was two years ago! Who gives a shit?”

Dunk really wasn’t certain if this was an act or not. With Lyonel, you could never tell.

“When last I saw you, you were quite angry—”

“Of course I was. I hissed and spat all the way back to Storm’s End. I really wanted to kill you at the time.” Lyonel gestured for Dunk to refill his cup, which Dunk hastily did. “But I don’t like to fixate on things. Life moves too quickly. Besides, here you are now. What’s past is past.”

Lyonel lifted his cup in a toast. Shocked, almost shaking with relief, Dunk did the same.

“So. When you said you needed to speak alone?”

“I don’t want to watch my tongue around a fucking child, and a prince to boot. Besides, I want to hear honest accounts of your adventures thus far.” They drank. Lyonel’s eyebrows lifted. “You know I’m not fond of the dragon house myself, but I must say your squire intrigues me. I can already see surprising changes.”

“Really? How?” Dunk asked.

“Still a cheeky little bugger, but he respects you. Greatly.” Lyonel smirked. “That’s no act. I’ve never seen a Targaryen accept anyone as his master, least of all a hedge knight. You might make a worthwhile man of him yet.”

“No need for that. He’s a good boy,” Dunk said gruffly. “An honest boy.”

For some reason, Lyonel choked back a laugh.

“Is he now?”

Before Dunk could ask after that odd moment, Lyonel pressed him for details of life on the road. And soon, Dunk forgot any fear he’d felt about Storm’s End or its master. It had always been easy to speak with Lyonel, he remembered that now. He’d even missed it, hadn’t he? The man was…loud, and brash, and sometimes fucking irritating. But he was alive, and he was interested in most everything.

Before long, they’d finished the wine, and Dunk had eaten half the roast and most of the potatoes. Servants brought more of the purple wine Lyonel said came from the Summer Isles, and then they were alone again. How many hours had passed? Hard to say. Dunk only knew that the storm was drawing ever nearer; when lightning flashed, they counted aloud together and cheered when the count fell every time.

And, much as he’d done that first night in Lyonel’s tent, Dunk was glad simply to sit and listen to the older man’s stories. Lyonel lay back in his horned chair, one leg slung casually over an armrest, a wine cup dangling from his fingers. His dark eyes were heavy-lidded, his expression relaxed with drink.

He was a handsome man, Dunk thought. It wasn’t something he’d ever thought to himself before. He blinked it away.

They were on the subject of marriage now. Somehow.

“Of course, my brothers and nephews are hoping I’ll never wed. Much nicer to take the family seat from me when I die. But I intend to piss on their wishes.” Lyonel refilled Dunk’s cup even when Dunk tried to refuse. “But first, I need a bride. I’m the lord now, seemed as good a time as any.”

Dunk really had thought Lyonel would already be wed. He was not young.

“Who’s the lady to be?” he asked.

“Still winnowing down candidates. All the minor houses in the Stormlands want me, of course, but I think marrying into the Reach might prove beneficial.” Lyonel rolled his eyes. “It was explained to me, of course, something about trade, agriculture, so on and so on, we need quicker access to fertile soil, and such and such shit. Fuck, I need access to fertile soil. The next Lord Baratheon won’t grow if I simply pleasure myself onto a tilled field. Though it’d be so much fucking easier.”

Dunk, a bit hazy with the drink, felt uncomfortable. Talking about such things just seemed, well, not chivalrous.

“I’m sure the woman will be suitable.”

“You know who’s the top candidate at the moment?” Lyonel chuckled, stuck the tip of his tongue between his teeth. For some reason, Dunk flushed. “Go on, guess. Who’s my bride-to-be to be?”

“Lyonel, I can’t. I don’t know anyone.”

“Oh, you know this one. You couldn’t forget her.” Conspiratorially, Lyonel hissed, “Lady Gwin Ashford. You remember?”

Dunk’s jaw dropped.

“The girl whose nameday it was for the tourney?” He recoiled in horror. “Lyonel, she was all of thirteen!”

“Back then. Fifteen now. I do want to wait at least another year, if possible.”

“Well…well how bloody old are you, anyway?”

“Two-and-forty.” Lyonel sighed, lolled his head back. The gold circlet slipped from his curls and landed on the floor with a clang. “I know, I know. It’s not ideal.”

“You could be her grandsire!”

“I’m old, cunt, but I’m not that old.” Lyonel didn’t seem upset as he drank. He even shrugged. “Believe me, it’s not what I’d prefer.”

“Still. She’s a child.”

“Oh? And you’re not?” Lyonel’s gaze fixed upon Dunk’s face. He seemed to be weighing a question. “You were scarce more than a boy yourself when we met, and it wasn’t long ago.”

“I…I don’t know how old I am, exactly. But I think I should be almost nineteen. Maybe.” Dunk shook his head. “But that’s not the same thing!”

“Oh? How’s it different?”

“Well, you’re not marryin’ me to start!”

“Shame. You’d make a ravishing bride.” Lyonel chuckled, but Dunk felt the hair on his nape prickle a bit. The way a body reacted just before a lightning strike. Unsettled, he took more wine. “If it makes you feel any better, I’d prefer an older girl. But I can’t choose one much older. I can’t ignore duties to my house. I need to produce heirs.”

“I just don’t see how you’ve waited this long to marry.” Dunk accidentally spilled some wine when he poured. Fuck. “What I mean’s, often you highborns wed early.”

“Yes. We do. There’s a story behind that, actually.” Lyonel placed a hand over his cup when Dunk tried to pour for him. First time Dunk had ever seen the man turn down wine. “Back in my idle youth, I was engaged to a Penrose. Seemed like a good match, they’d been marrying their way into the Targaryen family and my grandsire thought we needed stronger alliances. Anyway, we were to wed when I turned eighteen. But first, I was to take my grand tour of the free cities. It’s a tradition in our family, before manhood the heir to Storm’s End goes out into the world and sails around a bit. Sees what there is to see. The voyage is supposed to last six months; I left with the understanding the wedding would take place upon my immediate return.”

“What happened?” Dunk frowned.

“I stayed away ten years.” Lyonel snorted, slapped his knee. “My men, of course, tried to turn me around when time came to go home. So I slipped away from them, boarded a merchant’s vessel in Pentos, and fucked off for a while.”

“What?” Dunk gaped. “You’re not serious.”

“Perfectly. I even spent a couple of years selling my sword in Braavos and Tyrosh. Not that I needed the coin, but the adventure was simply too rich to pass up. This,” he said, flicking the gold earring Dunk had always seen him wear, even in the trial of seven. “Killed a pirate near the Stepstones and took it off his body. It was so pretty, I pierced my ear just to wear it.”

“You’re fooling with me.” Dunk shook his head. “This isn’t the truth.”

“For once in my life, I’m being utterly sincere.” Lyonel scratched his curls, and his eyes with their lazy, half-lidded expression seemed to look underneath Dunk’s clothes and flesh. He shifted in his seat. “Don’t worry, I didn’t spend much time taking orders and swabbing decks. I’m not self-denying. Most of that decade was spent drinking and whoring in Pentos. But I did venture farther to the east. I saw Slaver’s Bay, Yunkai, Astapor.” Lyonel’s expression turned unusually reflective. "Horrible, what some men do to other men. But not surprising.”

Dunk realized this was all true. He leaned his elbows on the table, entranced as a boy at a storyteller’s fire.

“So when I finally got bored and came back home, I found my intended had married my brother. Orlys. Now that was a Baratheon. Stolid as a brick, with the humor to match.” Lyonel snorted, rolled his eyes. “They’d had children. Since I’d been presumed dead, Orlys had taken on the duties as heir for several years. You can imagine he wasn’t pleased to see me when I turned up. Nor was his lady wife.” Lyonel clicked his tongue and finally poured himself some wine. “Nor was my mother. Gods, my mother. She would have hung me from my ankles and left me to the crows if given the choice.”

“Surely not.” Dunk frowned.

“Mmm. She’d always favored Orlys. She said I was too much like my father. I scarce remember the man, so I’ll take her word on it.” Lyonel drank, and he seemed to sink deeper into his reveries. “When I turned up on the doorstep of Storm’s End, she tried to have my grandsire petition the king so I could be stripped of my inheritance. Orlys should have it, she said. He was better suited to the role. He was married with heirs to spare. Put the Baratheon name in my hands, Mother said, and Storm’s End would soon be a brothel.”

There was something underneath Lyonel’s teasing tone that Dunk noticed. The man refused to ever sound pained by anything—even after the trial of seven, he’d insisted on stumping about on a crutch of antlers, drinking and bragging of his skill to any who’d listen. But now, speaking of his lady mother, the lord appeared quite injured, though perhaps he did not know it.

“Fortunately,” Lyonel said, “my grandsire reminded her there was no way to have me removed from the succession. Not unless I was dead, and he wasn’t sufficient annoyed with me for that. In truth, the man liked me. Sometimes I think he was the only one in my fucking family who did.”

Dunk felt he should not be hearing this. He had never seen Lyonel so open before. Even when drinking, dancing, even when he was bloody bare-chested singing before a tent of people, it always seemed the lord had armor on. But not now. Now Dunk realized how human he was. How he could be hurt. Or touched.

He shook his head. Strange thoughts tonight.

“And you decided not to marry after that?” Dunk asked gently.

“Hmm? Oh yes. First, the Blackfyre started his campaign almost the minute I got home, so that kept us busy. Then I was close to thirty and had irritated everyone. I think they assumed I’d be dead in a joust before I took the title. So I was left to fuck about with who I pleased.” Lyonel drained his cup. “Perhaps it’d be good for everyone if I never wed, but now Mother’s gone I rather want to prove myself a capable lord. The things we do for spite.” Lyonel stroked his beard, stared off into the distance as he thought. “I know they were all disgusted with me. But in truth, I was disgusted with them, too. The world, Dunk, is so…” Drink had taken away his words, so Lyonel shrugged and drank more. “Big, I suppose. They’re all so little. I tell you one thing I learned on my travels: doesn’t matter how a man’s born, it’s how he dies. Birth’s a fucking accident, but death’s a choice. I watched perfumed lords shrink from the first sign of battle, and I watched a branded slave pull himself deeper onto the spear in his guts if it meant cutting the throat of the man who’d killed him. You think that wretch wasn’t the equal of a fucking Dondarrion? Most men are just…dirt, grains of sand, whatever. A whole fucking field of base material. But sometimes there’s that gleam, buried amid all the common shit. Something golden. Then you just…”

Lyonel’s gaze met Dunk’s, and Dunk swore the room flooded with lightning once again. Yet no thunder came after it; there was only stillness as the men looked at each other. It seemed the world around them no longer existed as Lyonel looked him right in the eye. Dunk’s heart was beating fast; he knew he was sweating. What was happening to him?

“Mmm. Forgot what I was saying.” Lyonel stretched, and the spell was broken. “But try telling any of that to my mother, she’d just walk away. Shaking her head.” Lyonel rubbed his eyes. “I don’t think I remember her touching me once. That’s for peasants, isn’t it, touching one another.” He yawned, slumped further in his seat as he sank deeper into his thoughts. Dunk was back to being a confessor. “I did love someone, you know. Once.” He said it as though Dunk had challenged him. “Gods, I was thirteen. Walda, my nursemaid. Thrice my age, but the roundest bosom you ever laid eyes on.”

Dunk startled.

“You don’t mean…” he said.

“Oh, I do. She was my first fuck. It was like a tinder struck in the darkness; one day my cock got hard at the sight of her, and I wouldn’t fucking leave her alone. She said it was wrong, she’d fucking raised me, but she wanted it, too.” Lyonel sighed, shut his eyes. “We coupled nine times a day, whenever I could pull her into a room or we could disappear into the forest. She was good to me. Soft. She’d kiss me all during and after, hold me against her and stroke my hair when we’d finished.” Lyonel chuckled as Dunk sat there in dumb horror. “Gods, I wanted to marry her. Then she got with child.”

“Fuck,” Dunk muttered.

“That’s how it goes. My grandsire was indulgent with me, but even he couldn’t be that lenient. Walda was sent away. Never saw her again.” Lyonel frowned. “Sometimes I do wonder if she’s alive. If the child’s alive. Am I a father, I wonder? I’ve often wondered… I thought, you know, that my mother would slap me for such things. But she didn’t. She didn’t even speak to me of it. Or look at me. She just sighed and…turned away. And…”

Lyonel went rigid. Hastily, he shoved from the table and staggered back, knocking over the antlered chair. Dunk got to his feet.

“Lyonel?”

“I’m all right. Cunt. I’m fine. Too much to drink.” Lyonel turned his back on Dunk, held up a hand when Dunk advanced. “I’m fine, fuck you. Go have a bath or something. Sleep well.”

Lyonel stormed out and slammed the door behind him. The sound echoed through the stone hall, in time with the clap of thunder overhead.

Ten counts after the lightning. The storm drew ever nearer.

Dunk stifled a moan of relief when the Baratheon servant led him down the winding stairs and into the underground baths. The rocky soil of the Stormlands might make for poor farming, but natural hot springs were frequent throughout the territory. Water from the springs piped into several large, tiled pools at all hours of day and night. Steam rose from the water as Dunk undressed, blushing and thanking the steward as he poured a perfumed oil into the water before departing.

Dunk stepped into the pool and his thoughts turned to nothing. The pleasure overpowered him as he knelt in the hot water, his sore muscles already loosening. He washed his hair, his face, used a poultice stone to scrub at the dirt on his skin. Soon his flesh stung, and his body felt reborn. He leaned against the side of the pool and shut his eyes. He breathed in the steam, the perfume filling his lungs.

He frowned when his member stirred. It’d been so long since he’d felt this comfortable, not to mention been this private. Dunk touched himself, felt his cock grow rigid with ease. The few times he pleasured himself these past months, he’d started thinking of Tanselle and then stopped immediately. She felt too sacred to him, too pure to be sullied with mere lust.

Rohanne, then. Gods, if he’d only been braver and less stupid he might have had her that day. He remembered the taste of her, the feel of her in his arms as he began to stroke. His brow furrowed and his mouth dropped open as he imagined her atop him, moving and moaning. Though he’d never lain with anyone, he could imagine what it would be like. Her with that red hair, shortened now by his blade, that hair flowing all around her as she called his name and started gasping with pleasure.

His spine stiffened as he felt himself nearing the pinnacle. His jaw clenched; the waters sloshed urgent about him as he started to finish.

He imagined Rohanne kissing him, leaning down and putting her mouth on his. And then, in that moment when he was about to finish, she changed. She became heavier, and bearded. A man. Rougher hands gripped the back of his neck as Lyonel deepened their kiss and—

Fuck. Startled, Dunk stopped and sat up, his cock flagging at once. When in the seven hells had he ever wished for a man like that before? And Lyonel of all men?

“Am I interrupting something?” A voice echoed throughout the cavern. Dunk gave a cry of surprise that was much higher than usually came out of him. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up.”

Lyonel appeared, visible through the bath’s steam. He looked much calmer than he had in the dining hall.

He was also completely naked. After Dunk’s briefly imagined kiss, he was too panicked to look at the man and glanced away as Lyonel stepped into the bath.

“Your face is bright red, man.” The lord relaxed into the water with a deep sigh. Horrified, Dunk realized the sound had made his cock stir again.

“Um. The steam’s, um, hot,” he said at last.

“Mmm. Sorry if I interrupted something.” Lyonel winked one dark eye. “Sounded as if you’d almost finished. It can kill a man, nearing pleasure before it’s denied.”

“I, I didn’t…” But it was clear Lyonel had heard. Maybe had seen. Fuck. “Gods, I’m sorry. I’m so…”

“Please. A life on the road such as yours, you need to take release where you can get it.” Lyonel shut his eyes and smiled, luxuriating in the water. “Recalling a conquest, no doubt. Store up all those memories, young man. They’re the best part of youth.”

“I didn’t, that is, she wasn’t a conquest. Not really.” Dunk kept babbling, and Lyonel’s eyes slid open.

“So there was a lady? My, my.” Why did he sound interested? Why was Dunk’s prick still…jumping about? This was a bloody nightmare.

“There wasn’t. I mean, there hasn’t been.”

Lyonel’s eyebrows lifted.

“What? Ever?” He trailed his fingers through the bath water in a slow circle. “No woman? No one?”

What did he mean by ‘no one’? He’d already said woman, didn’t that cover it? Dunk knew his blush was deepening. Fuck.

“I just, no, not yet. I’m not. Um. I’ve other things to do,” he muttered.

“Yes, trying to tame a dragon. But don’t let duty block desire completely. That’s how a man grows hard and bitter later in life.”

Please, don’t say hard. Dunk nodded, desperate for the conversation to end. Lyonel washed his back and arms, his face, and they fell into blessed silence. Dunk had never known the lord to be this quiet before. It felt like a game, but he didn’t know the rules.

“Sorry about what happened in the dining hall.” Lyonel spoke at last, shutting his eyes once more. “I got quite drunk. Felt it’d be best to sweat out the wine.”

“Yes. That’s wise,” Dunk said.

“I’m sure you think as you did back at Ashford.” Even with Lyonel’s eyes closed, Dunk sensed he was being watched. “That I’m a poor excuse for a highborn.”

Dunk’s mouth fell open.

“What? I never said anything of the sort.”

“You didn’t have to. I saw it in your eyes that day, beneath the tree. After we’d both had the shit kicked out of us. You looked so fucking disappointed.”

Dunk winced, because he knew what Lyonel said was true. He’d been brooding over Baelor’s death, hating himself, and he’d needed the wisdom of an older man. Instead, Lyonel had pissed and spit and waved the tragedy away, spoken ill of the dead, been merry and furious from one instant to the next. The awe with which Dunk had regarded him since that first night in the Baratheon tent had fallen away. The man of noble lineage had seemed little more than a painted fool, and if he lied about it, Lyonel would know.

“You’re not like other lords I’ve met, it’s true. You’re not like other men. But you are…” Lyonel had welcomed and favored Dunk when no one else of his station would’ve deigned to do such a thing. And Rowan, Raymun’s wife, had told Dunk that Lyonel was one of the few highborn men against whom no whore had a word of warning. He was a ridiculous man, perhaps, but not a cruel one. And that, that was impressive for one of his station. “You’re a good man,” he said, meaning it.

“Am I?” Again, Lyonel looked at him with that prodding, quietly bold gaze. “If you knew everything in my head, would you think I’m so good?”

Dunk swallowed.

“I, I don’t know what’s in your head.”

“Would you like to?”

Something was happening, something Dunk did not understand but that he could feel quite clearly. There was a ringing in his ears of a sudden, and it felt as if a cord was trembling between the two men. Dunk’s heart beat faster; he was feeling light-headed.

“Perhaps…bit hot in here, don’t you think?” he asked.

“Mmm. It’s the steam. Works wonders on the body.” So saying, Lyonel stood up. Water trickled along his form, which was still a goodly one despite his increasing age. The bath water gleamed on his chest, dripped between his legs…

Dunk had seen naked men before and never been stirred. Yet now, he couldn’t look. He could only feel his ears burning.

“The servant will see you to your room. Make sure you get out soon; you look a little too flushed.”

Lyonel climbed out and padded from the chamber. Letting out a long, exhausted breath, Dunk clapped a hand over his eyes. The fuck was wrong with him?

Lightning brightened the hall as Dunk followed the liveried servant. He counted to seven before the thunder.

“In here, Ser.” The man gestured to a door, and Dunk entered.

Within seconds, he knew this was not right. There was no way a guest’s chamber would be this large or lavishly done up.

Bolts of yellow silk hung upon the stone walls; in the center of the room stood a canopied bed, its curtains of gold satin, its bedclothes and tasseled pillows of the same material. Fur pelts were also strewn across the bed’s enormity. Dunk’s eyes traveled along the walls of the chamber. In addition to silk wall hangings, he found weapons.

Masses of weapons.

Morningstars, battleaxes, broadswords, daggers, they rested upon shelves or tables. This was an armory as much as it was a bedchamber.

“Fuckin’…” he muttered as he stepped deeper into the room. There was a lush carpet beneath his boots; a table near the window held a flagon of wine. On that same table lay another assortment of daggers, and they were of the strangest design Dunk had ever seen. One of them he couldn’t help but touch.

It was a blade the length of his forearm, one that curved and was sheathed in what appeared to be a kind of blue gold. Diamonds descended along its length, patterned, Dunk realized, like stars in the sky. Constellations, Egg had called them.

“Do you like it?” Lyonel asked, appearing out of bloody nowhere from the back of the chamber. Dunk’s mouth was dry as the older man approached.

He was dressed in a robe of some kind, the material golden. Dunk knew that Lyonel wore nothing else beneath that robe. His heartbeat pounded in his ears as Lyonel stood next to him, took the dagger from him.

“I collected whatever I could on my travels.” Lyonel spoke conversationally. “But everything I keep here has specific memories attached. Usually of men I’ve killed.” He grinned, and the lightning gleamed upon his teeth. Six counts to the thunder. Closer…

“Oh,” Dunk said.

“This one, though. It’s interesting you went straight for it. Do you know who gave this to me?” Lyonel studied the blade as he said, “The first man I ever fucked. A Tyroshi sellsword. I was nineteen, about your age now. After the battle, we drank, and he brought me to a chamber swathed in pale blue silk and taught me all the ways I could take a man, and how a man could take me. I remember that the afternoon sun made the silk glow, so it seemed we were fucking in the sky. We didn’t stop for hours. When it was finally done and our bodies could stand no more, he gave me this to remember him by. You never forget the first man who fucks you. It remains vivid even when memories of your first woman have dimmed.”

Lyonel put the blade on the table and stepped nearer. Dunk was frozen; he could scarce draw breath. He felt he stood at the edge of a cliff, and all he had to do was fall.

Lyonel’s dark eyes met his own.

“Do you understand why I’m telling you this?” He spoke low, that silken whispering tone making Dunk shiver.

“Y-yes.” He understood. Even he was not as thick as that.

“Good.” Lyonel put a hand to his cheek, cupped the back of his neck. “Then you’ll know what comes next.”

He forced his lips to Dunk’s and kissed him. It was an opening parry more than an embrace, the force of that kiss. His mouth claimed Dunk’s, demanded fealty, his tongue forced its way, a low growl sounded in his throat. The man’s skin was hot, as though a fire burned inside of him, and the rasp of his beard against Dunk’s face felt so strange as to make him doubt the reality of this situation. Sure, he had never kissed anyone with a beard. He knew, of course, that men lay with other men. He took it as he took anything else, a fact of life, and so long as no harm was done, he would not think a thing harmful.

There was fear in his body as Lyonel kissed him, but he knew at once there was no harm. The man’s lips pressed his, the kiss deepened, the tongue stroked inside Dunk’s mouth, the kiss went on and on to show the older man’s mastery. And finally, when it seemed that Dunk had been under siege for long enough to fall to his knees and surrender, the kiss broke.

“Well?” Lyonel rasped. He looked at Dunk without fear, without apology. His eyes caught the candlelight and glowed with defiance. Lyonel’s rough hand still cupped the back of Dunk’s neck, but he didn’t attempt another kiss.

Dunk understood: if he wished to leave now, if he rejected all of this, Lyonel would let him go. They’d likely never speak of it again. But there’d be no anger, no blame. And if Dunk remained, he could not say Lyonel had forced or insisted.

If Dunk plunged over the edge of the cliff, it would be his own choice. His and no other man’s.

He did not know if he desired men; he didn’t ask questions about himself in that way. He only knew that here, in this moment, he desired more. The kiss, the hand on his neck, he felt more drunk on it than he had on wine earlier. Leaving Rohanne had set him on a road to endless frustration. Should he continue that lonely journey?

No. Best to stop for the night.

He kissed Lyonel, grabbed the man about his waist and kissed him hard. Lyonel moaned deep in his chest, and now that he’d conquered, he was a more tender master than before. Despite the hard scrape of the beard, despite how demanding he was with his kiss, the lips were gentle. His tongue stroked Dunk’s again, it coaxed him into a similar rhythm. Lyonel hummed in approval when he grabbed Dunk’s long hair in his fist.

“I didn’t know I could want you more than I did at Ashford,” he whispered, his teeth upon Dunk’s jaw. “This was a fine choice. Thank you.”

He tugged, and Dunk groaned. Instinctively, he crushed Lyonel in his arms, and there was some pleasure in feeling the smaller man yield to him. On a tourney field, atop a horse, with a sword in hand, the lord of Storm’s End could kill Dunk. But man to man, body upon body, Dunk was the stronger and they both knew it.

“Fucking cunt,” Lyonel hissed against Dunk’s lips. Shoving away, he gripped the edges of Dunk’s shirt and ripped. Lyonel’s teeth were bared. “Strip. Now.”

Dunk removed the shirt as Lyonel stepped back and undid the belt of his robe. It slipped from his shoulders in a whisper, and then the lord of Storm’s End was naked and in Dunk’s arms. His lips were on Dunk’s, and Dunk’s hand traced along his back, cupped his arse. His pulse jumped in his throat as he squeezed, and realized he’d grown harder still.

Lyonel took Dunk’s other hand and broke off kissing to lick his palm in one long, slow stripe from wrist to fingertip. Then he brought Dunk’s newly wetted grasp to his cock.

“Touch me,” Lyonel rasped. He kissed Dunk but made a discontented noise. “I watched you play with your own cock better than this. Touch me right,” he demanded, that highborn sneer delivered with mocking glee.

Dunk had never touched another man in such a way before. He felt disconnected for a moment as he stroked, quickly finding the proper rhythm. Lyonel moaned, tilting his chin back as Dunk squeezed the base of his cock.

“That’s it. Gods, boy, that’s good.”

Lyonel gripped Dunk’s naked back, and the hedge knight shut his eyes. A momentary weakness overcame him. He’d been touched before, but his history of touch had been pain. The way he pleasured himself, half guilty for it, and Rohanne’s quick embrace and kiss were all he’d truly known in the way of delight.

He had not known what it’d be like to feel another’s naked skin pressed next to his, hands upon the flesh of his back, a chest against his chest, lips and teeth catching at him again and again. He began to shiver as he had not even when he’d first taken Lyonel’s cock in hand. He was being touched. He was being held.

He knew now, for the first time in his life, that he’d a body designed for more than suffering.

“You’re trembling?” Lyonel did something then that surprised: he kissed Dunk upon the jaw and whispered, “Do you want to stop?”

There was no demand. No anger at being thwarted. No hissing or preening. The way Lyonel held Dunk in that moment was almost like a father embracing a son, a protection, and as strange and maybe awful as it might seem that lit a flame inside of Dunk such as he’d never known.

“No,” he said, and kissed Lyonel once more. This time, he thrust his tongue into Lyonel’s mouth, and he stroked the man with renewed purpose. Lyonel wrapped an arm around Dunk’s neck, pressed his fingernails into the younger man’s flesh.

“Gods, I fucking hate how tall you are,” he rasped. Dunk smiled as he worked Lyonel harder; the older man’s cock stiffened to such a degree that the climax was upon him. “Fuck. Fuck, no, stop.” Lyonel shoved him off, and Dunk feared he’d done wrong. But when the lightning flashed again, he saw only pleased lust on the lord’s face. “I’m building myself up for it. I’m not as young as you, after all. I have to save my crises.”

Then he shoved Dunk, hard, and he collapsed backwards onto the bed. His legs hung over the side as Lyonel crawled atop him, kissing his mouth before beginning a slow, heart-stopping journey along his body. The high lord kissed his neck, his chest, sucked and bit down upon his nipple until Dunk’s eyes watered from the sheer pleasure of it all. Lyonel licked him down the line of his stomach, then the lord knelt before him and pulled off his boots before unlacing his trousers. Dunk watched as Lyonel worked like a man possessed, hissing with some delight as he shucked down the trousers and Dunk’s erection sprang free.

He felt himself blush all up the back of his neck and looked away.

“Gods. Fucking hell.” Lyonel leaned upon Dunk’s bare thigh, and…he laughed. His eyes were wide, his hand clasped over his mouth as he fucking giggled at the sight of Dunk’s cock. “You…are you shitting me? It’s a fucking…how am I supposed to…?”

He could not stop laughing, and Dunk winced. Somehow, somehow his body was wrong; it had betrayed him. Any who saw him thus would laugh as well.

“Oh gods. No you don’t,” Lyonel grumbled when Dunk’s desire began to fade away. He crawled onto the bed and lay atop Dunk, kissing his lips and grinding against him. “Don’t get soft on me now, boy. Don’t you dare.”

Dunk clenched his jaw.

“Haven’t had a good enough laugh yet, have you?”

“I laughed, Dunk, because if I didn’t, I’d fucking weep. For sheer joy, for one thing, and also because any man who’s about to scale a cunting mountain would do the same.”

Dunk frowned. Lyonel groaned, kissed him again.

“You’ve the largest cock I’ve ever seen. And certainly the largest I’ve ever put inside me.” Lyonel licked his palm and then squeezed Dunk’s manhood. He began to pump ever so gently, and Dunk’s head lolled back. Fuck, it felt too bloody good. “I’m not letting you go this easily, hedge knight. I’ve wanted this,” Lyonel whispered, kissing his neck, “ever since the moment you entered my tent back in Ashford. It’s a wonder I didn’t take you away from the guests and fuck you senseless then.”

The kissing and the way Lyonel handled him joined in a perfect rhythm, and Dunk’s breathing stuttered.

“After you left me, I tried to find your equal.” Lyonel kept touching him, kept kissing him, licked and nibbled at him as Dunk’s cock grew stiff once more. “Tall men; poor men; honest men; I fucked them, made merry with them, but no one ever replaced you. The only person I ever met whose likeness doesn’t exist anywhere else in this sordid world, and he walks away from me.”

Lyonel lifted himself on his elbows, gazed down upon Dunk. He stopped working Dunk’s cock with his hand. A fine idea, for Dunk was about to finish. Shaking with desire, he gazed into the older man’s eyes.

“So you’re going to fuck me, Ser Duncan. And I’m going to see to it that you spend until you’re dry. Because of all the rarities I’ve collected,” he murmured, kissing once more down Duncan’s body, their eyes still locked together, “you’re the one I like best.”

And with that, Lyonel stopped speaking as he took the tip of Dunk’s cock into his mouth. Dunk put a hand over his eyes, fisted the fur pelt beneath him so he did not spend at once. His eyes squeezed shut, he felt Lyonel’s lips upon the underside of his cock trailing kisses along the length, the man’s tongue tracing him up and down, again and again. He shifted and gave a short, aborted cry when the lord tongued his balls, took them into his mouth one by one.

“Good boy. That’s it,” Lyonel whispered, and then he swallowed Dunk and began to suck. Certain now he’d be able to watch without spending, Dunk removed his hand and saw the lord of Storm’s End kneeling before him, the gray-striped head bobbing up and down as he took Dunk’s member much as he was able. Lyonel pulled back enough to tongue the sensitive spot ‘neath the head. He squeezed the base of Dunk’s cock, his balls, sucked and moaned and tongued again and again as the lightning flashed in the room and this time the thunder rocked the castle after a mere three counts.

Dunk wasn’t going to last. He called to Lyonel, told him, but that only made the lord work him harder with his mouth.

“Fuck,” Dunk whispered as he leaned back upon the bed, stared up at the silken canopy. The fine material and fur beneath his bare skin, the man with his fucking incredible mouth on his cock, it seemed wrong. This much pleasure was wrong for any man, especially a knight.

But just once…gods, just one time…

For one instant when Dunk threw back his head and spent, he did not think of pain or duty. For just one, blissful moment, he thought of nothing at all.

#

Lyonel drank him down, drank him to the dregs. He hadn’t thought one man’s cum could be sweeter than another’s, but he’d been fucking wrong. His green, virgin boy was made of everything marvelous, strange, and pure, and his spend was no different.

When the gargantuan erection began to wilt, Lyonel started his next crusade. Swallowing the last drop, he kissed the young man’s inner thigh, placed his cheek against the rough hair. Men were so much more textured than women. Sometimes he preferred the other sex’s velvet and satin; tonight, though, he wanted friction.

“I’m so fucking jealous of whoever else gets to have you,” he whispered, kissing Dunk’s hipbones as he began his upward encroachment. “At least I can say I was first.”

Dunk lay with his eyes shut, obviously still trying to collect his speech, his mouth open and the noises coming out of him soft and wonderfully submissive. Lyonel hardened with the simple realization that he’d subdued this gentle brute.

You walked away from me once. Stumped away, more like. He kissed the younger man’s wall of a stomach, the endless expanse of chest. You made me weak. You rejected the heir to the fucking Stormlands. You, without a copper to your bloody name. Some bastard hedge knight who never even took his vows.

You’re the most glorious creature I’ve ever seen.

These thoughts played idly about in Lyonel’s head as he skated his fingers along the fine hair dusted upon the young man’s chest, as he nibbled Dunk’s collarbone, suckled at his neck hard enough to leave a bruise. Dunk began to revive and kissed him, gripped him hard by his curls. So demanding, this one. Refusing to yield even when he’d no advantage.

Fucking extraordinary.

“Are you ready to be ridden for the first time?” Lyonel muttered.

“Yes. Yes.”

Lyonel buried his face into the giant’s neck. Mmm, he smelled of the baths, of scented oil, and also of the open air and the grass and the storm. He kissed, he licked, he bit, and he thought suddenly of fucking Baelor Targaryen of all people.

The fucking dragon cunt.

Dunk’s adoration for the royal man had not been like this, not sexual. Yet Lyonel had heard tell from that apple boy later how the instant Baelor, dead but as yet unaware of the fact, came to Dunk after the trial the young man fell to his knees and declared himself the prince’s man.

Just like that. Sworn to another’s service. His sword in another’s hand.

Even though Lyonel knew Dunk had not wanted the prince in this way, he grew hard with envy as he imagined Baelor like this with the youth now, a different older man in Lyonel’s place, someone gentler and more fucking noble guiding this green boy out of innocence.

I am your man, Your Grace, the words reputedly said by Dunk to his perfect prince. Your man.

“My man,” Lyonel growled, biting down so hard on Dunk’s earlobe that the hedge knight flinched.

Lyonel sat up, straddling the youth’s chest. Fucking unbelievable how he felt small around this giant. Before their meeting, Lyonel had been the tallest in any room.

He kept his eyes on Dunk’s as he lifted the young man’s hand to his lips. He took the forefinger into his mouth, sucked it, massaged it with his tongue as he had Dunk’s cock. The knight’s breathing stuttered as Lyonel sucked him down to the knuckle, wetting him thoroughly. Then he did the same to the middle finger, loving every second of the youth’s astonishment.

“Now. Like this.”

The fingers wetted, Lyonel brought them down and sank one into his arsehole. Dunk flinched in shock, and Lyonel chuckled.

“Where else did you think you’d put it, hmm? My fucking cunt?”

“It just feels…odd.”

But Dunk willingly helped Lyonel ease his body around the finger, and Dunk’s mouth fell open when Lyonel began to fuck himself. Slowly, easily, he then forced the second digit inside and moaned as he stretched.

Getting that thing inside’s still going to be a task, he thought, glancing at the ever-stiffening cock. Like a fucking pole. But he relished the challenge.

Lyonel’s breath came ragged as he took Dunk’s fingers deeper, and when the young man curled them on instinct, when they struck that very perfect spot deep inside, Lyonel almost shouted and came. He made Dunk stop, only managing to save his erection through sheer force of will.

“All right.” Climbing off, he moved to a shelf near the bed and plucked a silver flask. Lyonel dribbled a generous portion of oil into the palm of his hand, slicked himself quickly before getting back onto the bed and running his grasp along the knight’s massive fucking cock. Dunk moaned, his eyes rolled back.

“Don’t spend yet, boy. I require more from you.” With that, Lyonel hoisted himself up and readied the tip of the other man’s fucking spear at his entrance. When he began to sink down, it was such an ordeal that he almost had to stop. But fuck, he wanted this. Sometimes he wished to take, and sometimes he wished to be taken. Teeth gritted, he sank down inch by inch as the world appeared to bend around him and he wondered if his fucking body wouldn’t tear itself.

Die of an infection, maybe, with that idiot maester seeing to his ruptured arsehole. But what a way to die.

Lyonel shivered as his body adjusted; thank the gods he’d been sodomized regularly, or this might’ve been too much. When he was finally sheathed and seated atop his knight, he grinned down in triumph. Dunk stared at the man on his cock, his eyes wide with astonishment.

“Do you like how this feels? Mmm?” Lyonel shifted, and the motion made Dunk’s head loll back.

“Fuck. Yes.”

“Sorry your first time’s not with a woman?” Lyonel began the slow, arduous assault on the boy’s senses. He lifted himself almost off, then sank down again. Fuck, his oil-slicked cock began to weep as his climax threatened. Not yet, not fucking yet.

“I’m not sorry,” Dunk muttered, grasping Lyonel by the hips. “I don’t know…anything.”

Didn’t know what he was missing and didn’t agonize about it. Considering how much the boy fretted regularly, Lyonel took it as the highest compliment. Breath hissed out between his teeth as he began to fuck harder. Gods, he’d never felt as full as he did right now. Dunk’s hand went to his cock and slid up and down it with ease; the sensation only tightened the tension in his lower back, made his sex swell, began bursts of light behind his eyeballs that heralded the advent of his orgasm.

Not yet. Not fucking yet.

Lyonel didn’t often force his will power; he liked to avail himself of all indulgences. But he’d strength of mind that some had described as obscene, and when he committed to an action none could unseat him. He would not come until he’d enjoyed this man to the hilt.

With a cry, he leaned forward and rutted on the knight’s cock like an absolute beast as lightning flooded the room once more.

#

Two counts between the light and the noise, and counting was all that kept Dunk from spending again. He didn’t know how much longer he’d hold; he only knew he must be doomed to some dark hell when he died, for no being could enjoy himself this much in life and expect reward after.

But he could not stop. Lyonel fucked him relentlessly, and in the flash of lightning Dunk watched the older man move with lithe grace better suited to a dancer than a warrior. After all, the night they’d met Lyonel had spun himself like a dervish, thrown himself about that tent. Why should he couple other than he danced?

Dunk thrust upwards, giving weak cries as he watched Lyonel’s tangle of hair fly, the swirl and motion of his hips, the way candlelight glistened on his sweating body. Dunk squeezed and stroked the man’s cock, but Lyonel stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

“No more. Fuck. I’m going to—”

At that moment, lightning brightened the room and showed the lord of Storm’s End seated hard upon Dunk’s cock, his dark eyes wide, his mouth open in shock as the climax moved through him with devastating strength and speed. And at that same instant, the storm had centered itself right over the castle and the air erupted with a blast of thunder. Yet even as thunder shook the stone walls and roared all around them, Lyonel’s scream of pleasure was audible. He stiffened, and his seed pattered upon Dunk’s stomach, and the storm lord’s ecstasy came as sudden and forceful as a hurricane.

Trembling, the man fell forward onto Dunk, gasping for air.

Dunk rolled over so that he pinned Lyonel beneath him. The older man had seemed so formidable, had seemed a god of temptation, but now he was mewling and pulsating and wet and spent beneath Dunk. He was so human.

And Dunk was not finished. He thrust into Lyonel, gripping one of his legs and lifting it to his hip so’s he might drive deeper than before.

“Oh, fuck. You…fucking gorgeous cunt, yes.” Lyonel was no longer master; he endured the thrusts with agony and ecstasy both. “No. Oh gods, no, it can’t be. Mmmf.”

Dimly, Dunk realized the older man’s cock was stiff once again despite his momentous climax. And as he fucked the lord of Storm’s End, Dunk felt something build at the base of his spine, tighten in his balls, begin to spread all through his body like ripples in a pond.

He’d cum before, but never inside another. Not like this. Not so close, not with another’s breath against his cheek.

He knew this was different, so different to touching himself. And he kissed Lyonel, absorbing the man’s cries as he sounded almost pained as he came for the second time in as many minutes.

The world flashed bright, but it was not lightning; it was only the feeling of sheer bloody joy as Dunk spent inside the other man. He thrust again and again until at long last he could thrust no more. Then he lay atop Lyonel and felt all the strength give out of him.

“Gods. Fuck. Mmm, far be it for me to deny how sensational you are,” Lyonel rasped, “but you’re also crushing my fucking ribs.”

Sheepish once his pleasure had passed, Dunk rolled off and found that, between the two of them, quite a mess had been made. Instinctively, he tried to get off the bed.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Lyonel growled, forcing Dunk to lie beside him. “Think I’m done?”

“But the bedding. It needs water, don’t it?” Dunk muttered.

“Fuck the bedding. You and I, though, could use a wash.” Lyonel claimed his mouth in a firm kiss. “I’ll get the basin and cloth.”

“You don’t need to,” Dunk said, embarrassed to have a lord serve him. Lyonel snorted.

“No, your root’s been pulled, and I mean to clean the dirt off myself. I’ve earned that right.”

Sounding greedy, Lyonel did as he’d said he would. He returned with water and cloth and cleaned the planes and the valleys of Dunk’s body, said proud, rather filthy things as he worked on the hedge knight’s cock. When it was over, Dunk laved Lyonel at his insistence until, newly cleansed, he lay upon his back and Lyonel laid atop him. The older man kissed Dunk, the kissing growing insistent so that Dunk knew more pleasure was required of him.

He did not worry about any of it. For the first time since Rohanne, maybe for the first time since he knew what life was and where he placed in it, he felt no tension. All that would come back soon enough.

“Think of all the delights you missed, leaving me behind.” Lyonel kissed Dunk’s neck as he started to pump the man’s cock once again.

“Which…it does beg a question, don’t it?” Dunk stopped the lord’s hand a moment. “You said that day in Ashford you’d love me like a brother.”

“Oh. Yes, I did. Well.” Lyonel winked, grinned. “Did you know I’ve some Targaryen ancestry?”

#

Lyonel propped himself on an elbow and enjoyed gloating over his marvelous prize. The morning sun streamed into the chamber, a rare, gorgeous day in the Stormlands. Last night’s gale had led to a moment of extraordinary peace.

Dunk lay asleep still, his head upon a goose down pillow, the satin bedspread covering him up to the waist. His bare chest rose and fell with his breathing; he’d such an innocent expression when he slept. A lie, of course, after last night that innocence was thoroughly demolished. He’d been ready to leave after the first fuck, but Lyonel had made certain he came again, and again, and once more, and twice. Finally, weak with all the crises, Dunk was content to lay there with Lyonel pressed against him telling him stories about Tarth, about the Narrow Sea, about Shipbreaker Bay and all the locations they might sail together.

Gods, he was the most beautiful thing, wasn’t he? Lyonel smirked, congratulating himself on a successful hunt. His spear had found the prey and finally brought it low. His gaze traversed the hedge knight’s body. To have such muscle, such height, and to be not even twenty years old…Lyonel couldn’t imagine how many would wish to taste of such a man. The simple thought of anyone else sucking or riding what belonged to Lyonel couldn’t be borne.

He’s going to stay. He’s my man, and his sword is mine.

He stroked that chest and smiled to watch the lad stir. When this man’s mother had squeezed him out into a puddle or a mess of straw, could she ever have imagined one day her boy would lie in satin splendor upon a high lord’s bed? No. Couldn’t blame the woman, most highborns would look at this exemplary being and see a sword, nothing more. Another mouth to feed, another man to work until he broke.

They didn’t have Lyonel’s taste. Poor fucks. He touched Dunk’s chest and imagined the breastplate he’d have fashioned for him. A tree in silver, perhaps, with a falling star above. New chain mail, of course, and a new shield. He’d train the lad himself, work with him for hours in the yard. And then, after having given him chambers befitting his new station as a sworn sword/brother in arms, Lyonel would visit and they would fuck until dawn. Couldn’t be better, really. A life of endless exertion.

He knew his future lady wife would love Duncan, too. And they could keep the dragon prince on as a squire, why not? The boy had been on the road long enough.

And if Dunk heard these plans and refused? Well. He’d walked into a snare last night without realizing it.

Lyonel kissed him once, surprised even at his own tenderness. The young man’s brow furrowed.

“Sleep as long as you like,” Lyonel muttered. “There’s plenty of time.”

He got up, fetched his robe, and went in search of some fucking breakfast.

#

When Dunk awoke, he knew not where he was, had no clue what time it was. He had never, to his knowledge, slept much past the dawn, not even when he’d been ill. Seeing that the sunlight on the floor slanted in the obvious direction of afternoon, he was horrified.

What’d happened to him? Where was he?

Blinking, the memories returned. The storm. The wine. The bath. And then…the bed.

Lyonel wasn’t there, and Dunk winced when he realized he had slept in the high lord’s chambers. His face heated when he saw his clothes, now dry, had been set out upon a chair. Someone had come in…seen him like this…

“Fuckin’ Lyonel,” he hissed, getting up and getting dressed quickly as he could. He’d tried to leave for his own room last night, but the man had been so greedy for more. And Dunk had been more than happy to give what was asked.

He thought now of how he’d moaned, sweated, how he’d given himself over to his most animal wants. His shoulders hunched; his body was quiet now, but his mind churned anew. There was no shame in coupling, but there was shame in forgetting even for a moment who he was, where he was. Where his vows lay, such as they were.

He needed to find Egg and leave as soon as possible. They’d wasted much of the day on his foolery, and this was fine weather in which to make for Dorne.

Dunk avoided the eyes of any servant who nodded as he passed. Did they all know? That steward who’d brought him to Lyonel’s last night must have told. All the worry he’d abandoned to pleasure heaped back upon him with more to spare.

“Hedge knight. There you are.” Lyonel appeared in the hallway before him, dressed in yellow silk and black velvet. He approached Dunk with a knowing smile, a wink. In the light of day, to look at him and to know that hours earlier he’d had this man naked and riding him like a horse…

Dunk knew he was blushing. He looked to the floor.

“Oh, come, man. I hope you’re not upset.” Lyonel’s glee dimmed. “Do you regret it?”

“N-no.” Dunk felt awful, but he wasn’t lying. He just needed to leave. Maybe it was wrong after all he’d shared with Lyonel, but being here made him want to crawl out of his skin. “Sorry. I need to find my squire. We’d best head out.”

“You’re leaving already?” Lyonel’s brow lifted in disbelief. “You certainly help yourself, don’t you?”

“What’s that mean?” Dunk didn’t want to quarrel. He didn’t want to be ungrateful. But…but he felt so naked, even now. “Why did you not send me back to my chambers last night?” he hissed. “I woke to find I’d slept the whole day, and someone must have seen me.”

“Of course. Everyone should know what we did by now.” Lyonel shrugged. “You think you’re the first man I’ve had at home?”

“Well, as I’m not special then perhaps I might simply go. Where’s Egg?”

“Aegon, you mean?” Lyonel’s expression shifted in a way Dunk couldn’t understand. “Come with me. We’ll talk further.”

“Has something happened to him?” Dunk stood before Lyonel, prepared to strangle the man if need be. If he was plotting to hold the boy hostage—

“My. You really are this excitable all the time, aren’t you? Your boy’s fine. He’s seeing to the horses in the yard; I’ve had the kitchens load you both up with some proper food and other supplies.”

Shamed, Dunk winced.

“My apologies. We don’t need anything, though. Your kindness was enough.”

“My kindness?” The lord scoffed. “I don’t do things because I’m kind.”

“That’s not so. You’ve always been good to me.” The thought of how good made Dunk sweat.

“Because I like you. I always have.” Lyonel stepped nearer, toe to toe in a challenge. “If I hated you, I’d drop you off the fucking cliff into the sea. I like you so much, in fact, that I’m going to help you before you ask.”

“Yes. With the supplies. It’s very good of you.”

“No. More than that. I believe you should stay here, with me. Train with me. Dine with me. Fuck with me.” The corners of his eyes crinkled with merriment. “I see now you were truly made to be at Storm’s End. And with me.”

Dunk blinked. He was not very smart, and he did not have the right words.

“But I have to go,” he said at last.

“You don’t have to. You want to.”

“That’s the same thing, as I am a free man.” Dunk started to bristle. Lyonel didn’t mean all this, did he? It was just one of his moods.

“No man is free, hedge knight. We all end up on our knees to someone at the end.” Lyonel looked at Dunk’s mouth, and the desire was obvious. “I could be very good to you. Better than any king. Better than old Baelor ever would’ve been.”

Lyonel sounded bitter of a sudden.

“I have my duties to Egg and to the realm.”

“Yes, speaking of dear Egg. Let’s talk privately.”

“Let’s talk here,” Dunk said, his temper rising. “What is this?”

“Fine. Are you aware that Prince Maekar’s been searching for his son these past two years?”

Dunk frowned. He didn’t understand.

“Has something happened, then?”

“Yes. What’s happened is that after the Ashford tourney, Prince Aegon went missing. Not a word to his father or anyone else. Simply vanished.”

“No.” Dunk shook his head. “That’s not so. Maekar sent the boy with me to learn the ways of a true knight.”

“And did Aegon tell you that?” Lyonel’s mirth had vanished. “Poor Duncan. Made a fool of by princes yet again.”

Dunk loomed over the man now, answering a challenge with his own. Lyonel’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He knew he stood endangered. Would he attack? He might be wild enough to do so. And Dunk did not have the time or the will to fight.

“Thank you for your hospitality. I’m grateful. But now, if my squire’s in the yard, I must go.” Dunk stepped around the lord, vibrating with anger as he walked away. But Lyonel called after him.

“Of course you don’t understand. You’ve kidnapped a prince of the realm again, hedge knight. Whether you meant to or no, you rode off with Prince Maekar’s favorite son. Now it’s true that the information’s not widely known, as there’s enough chaos in the royal family at present, but Storm’s End is something of a neighbor to Summerhall. Do you see what I’m saying? You can’t possibly be so thick that you don’t.”

Dunk froze. He did understand, now. If this was true, he was once again in grave trouble with Prince Maekar, however unknowingly. And he was at Lyonel’s mercy. The lord approached him.

“My men can subdue you and send word to Summerhall. Even if you leave here, you won’t get far once we’ve set the hounds on you. I know the truth about your little Egg, but that can remain my secret. Summerhall doesn’t have to know you’re with me.”

Dunk could not have understood; it wasn’t possible Lyonel could be suggesting something so dishonorable. He turned to face the lord, his head spinning.

“You mean to say that if I stay with you, Maekar won’t know his son is here?”

“Precisely. And if you try to leave, I can stop you.” Lyonel had always seemed jolly before, drunken, wild, but now there was something cold. Something Dunk had seen at the river that day, when the lord, then only a knight, had said that Baelor was better off dead. There was, in truth, some cruelty in Lyonel. “It doesn’t have to be difficult.” Lyonel softened his voice. “The boy can stay, fuck Maekar. Train him as before, let me train you. Go off on your galivants and then come back to me. You say the boy’s a good dragon; prove it. We can all have exactly what we want, Duncan. Provided you aren’t too proud and pig-headed to accept it.”

Dunk thought then of all the weapons in Lyonel’s bedchamber; did he mean to add another to that arsenal? Would Lyonel shut him up like a bauble to be used until he displeased? Was he really this kind of man?

He might’ve threatened Lyonel. Instead, Dunk felt lost and sadder than he’d been since the trial of seven.

“You would do such a thing as this? Truly?” he asked, looking right into the lord’s eyes.

Lyonel’s face fell. He stepped away, and that warmth, that coziness vanished like the sun in a storm.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped. “Don’t act so noble. It’s like I said, you help yourself and walk away. Don’t you?” His voice began to rise. “At Ashford, I welcomed you in, gave you food and drink. I risked my fucking life for you, and then you acted like you couldn’t wait to see the back of me. Now, what? You come for a night, you take your pleasures where you want, and you leave again for the gods know how many years? You think you’re a good man because you sleep in a ditch? Fuck you. You’re the greediest cunt I’ve ever met.”

Lyonel turned on his heel and stormed off, leaving Dunk to feel, once again, like he’d been spun around in a whirlwind. He’d been ready to fight Lyonel, been shocked at his calculated coldness, and now he just felt sorry for the man.

He wished Egg were here. Egg would be smart enough for this. Though given all that’d passed between the two men last night, perhaps it was better the lad stay ignorant.

#

Cunt, cunt, cunt. Lyonel kept repeating that to himself as he stood before an open window, gazing out to sea. Already, he glimpsed dark clouds gather on the horizon; the sunshine would be gone soon. The blue waters ahead of him were already whitecapped.

No matter what I do, no matter what I give, no matter what I am, it’s never fucking enough.

He didn’t like to think on such things. Bad thoughts led to bad tempers and bad tempers led nowhere. Pointless to torture yourself. But it’d always been his way, hadn’t it? He drew people in, and then sooner rather than later he drove them away again. His mother had never liked him; his brothers hated him; his vassals feared him and flattered him, but if he dropped dead at their feet they’d step over him to get a cup of wine.

It was rare to be liked, but rarer still for him to like anyone. He enjoyed company, but he was always alone in a crowd. Better to be alone with noise and sex available, that was all.

But Dunk had a manner about him, a way of being that was companionable. Lyonel liked him; more than that, he fucking admired him.

And when you liked someone, admired them, and offered them the world if they would only stay with you…to be turned down then, why, it broke you, didn’t it? Imagine, Lyonel thought bitterly, imagine someone choosing poverty and hardship over you.

Didn’t need to imagine it, though. He lived it.

He’d expected Dunk to fight back, but he had not expected to see such disappointment in that handsome, slow face. Quick as the ingenious idea of blackmail had formed, it suddenly looked hateful to Lyonel. He looked petty and selfish even to himself. His mood changed in its entirety because of how Dunk gazed at him, that quiet sincerity, that horrible fucking dignity.

How did a man with nothing have all that? How did Lyonel, with more than he could ever enjoy, lack anything worthwhile?

He shut his eyes when he heard the slow, clumsy footsteps.

“Lyonel?” Dunk said.

“Fuck off. It was all a jest. Thought you’d realize that, but you took me seriously. Dumb cunt.” Lyonel glared at the horizon, waited for the man to leave. He didn’t. “You’d best leave now. Storm’s coming in, and I doubt you want to get stuck here another night. Besides, I’m bored to death with you.”

It would’ve been so much nicer if Dunk had hit him. Instead, he laid a hand upon his shoulder. Bastard.

Lyonel shoved him away.

“Just go. Yes? Leave. I don’t want you here. I’ll toss you off the cliff if you’re not gone in ten minutes.”

To make everything worse, Dunk smiled at him.

“I knew you wouldn’t really do something like that,” he said.

“Oh, why? Because I’m such a good man?” Lyonel sneered, but the younger man nodded.

“Yes. At least you’re not bad enough for that. Not nearly.”

Lyonel wanted to go to sleep. He wanted to hunt. He wanted to kick a servant. He needed privacy for those things.

“Fine. That’s finished, then. Go to Dorne. See you in another two years.” He squared his jaw; the hedge knight’s kindness was starting to rankle. “I understand, you know. If you’re disgusted by what we did. What I am.”

Dunk blinked in confusion. A common sight.

“But…whatever you are, I am too.”

“We are not the same. Not remotely. But if you’re not repulsed by me, well. How magnanimous.”

“I’m not repulsed. You didn’t force me. You couldn’t have.” There was that slight defiance to him now, the spirit that tempered the sweetness. “I’d have broke you in half if you tried.”

“Fuck you.” But Lyonel smiled against his will, almost. Impossible to put it tactfully, if he tried Dunk probably wouldn’t understand, so he just asked, “You liked what we did, then?”

“Yes.” A simple, straight answer. No questions about himself or about Lyonel or about his place in this world. He just liked it and that was that. Probably he’d agonize about whether or not he should like anything, but there was no philosophy or pattern-seeking with Dunk. Sweet, bloody fool.

Lyonel adored that quality.

“You’ll come back, won’t you? As my guest.”

“Well, it may not be wise to stop in the Stormlands. You weren’t lying about Maekar, were you?”

“No, you’d better fuck off to Dorne and stay there a while. But you’re in no danger from me. Fuck the Targaryens, anyway. Bunch of cunts.”

Dunk nodded. He looked serious. Good. It was a serious situation.

“But you can’t intend to have this boy squire for you forever,” Lyonel said.

“No. One day he’ll be a knight. If he’s a good one, that’s all the legacy I’ll require.”

“You might come back, then. Once your duty to the realm is discharged. And if you can keep Maekar from killing you. Then you might come back.”

But he knew it wasn’t possible. Because even after Egg had become Aegon, Dunk would still be Dunk. He’d wander those fucking roads and sleep in those stupid hedges, and he’d serve wherever he was needed. He would not be pampered. He’d just be a fucking knight.

The only true knight Lyonel had ever known.

Fuck. He’d hoped last night that he’d seduce Dunk to stay with him, to indulge himself in all the pleasures life had denied him. Now Lyonel saw quite simply that he’d only confirmed the hedge knight in his austere path.

Any moments they shared in this life would be caught during comings and goings. He couldn’t stay.

“I should be off,” Dunk said. He bowed to Lyonel. “Thank you for everything.”

“Yes. Well. Off with you, then.” Lyonel touched Dunk on the shoulder and made to go.

He almost fell over when the taller man pulled him up and kissed him once, brief but firm upon his mouth. They parted clumsily.

“Oh. Sorry. I thought…” Dunk winced. “I didn’t think that’d be so tricky.”

“Just fuck off with you!” Lyonel pushed him and made a shooing motion. Dunk blushed and strode off down the hall. Lyonel stood before the open window, quite alone.

Alone again and miserable. But he was also smiling.

#

Egg had the horses saddled and ready when Dunk emerged into the bright afternoon.

“Did you sleep well, ser?” the boy asked. “I think I was gone the moment I lay down.”

“That’s the last good sleep you’ll get in a while. We make for Dorne, now.”

They mounted their horses and rode across the rocky bridge to the mainland. As they headed around the coast, Dunk looked back once upon Storm’s End. The sky darkened in the distance, but in the clear light of day the place did not look so formidable. It was old, strange, but really quite beautiful.

His body was quiet, and he was glad. Smiling, he and Egg headed off down the road.

“Lord Baratheon was very good,” the squire said with a huff. “Bit of cheek, though. You know, his ancestor was Aegon the Conqueror’s half-brother? The Baratheon line owes its fortune to the Targaryens. He shouldn’t hold himself so superior.”

“Speaking of Targaryens.” Dunk stopped them both on the road and glared. “Does your father not know you came away with me at Ashford?”

Egg’s mouth dropped open. He gazed at Dunk for several long, slow seconds. Then, wincing, he turned his eyes to the calm, blue sky.

“I do think there will be rain, ser.”

#

Lyonel watched from the balcony as the horses and riders moved off along the road. He scratched the back of his head. He’d likely see Dunk again at some point, but gods knew when.

He decided then that he wasn’t going to marry Gwin Ashford. She was too young, to begin with. And he didn’t want a constant, living, breathing reminder of that tourney in his house. Too many memories.

But he needed to marry someone. Lord Fell, he had a daughter, didn’t he? Almost twenty. Seemed a nice enough girl.

It would be good to get out of Storm’s End for a while. The place was too big to be alone in.

Lyonel summoned his stewards, had his horse and retinue prepared, and readied himself to ride out to see about his potential bride.

He found he didn’t have his usual vigor, though, as he dressed and went to the courtyard. His thoughts still trailed after that tall, simple man. Dunk had stolen all his merriment away.

When Lyonel climbed into the saddle and sat down, he yelped in pain loud enough that he spooked his horse. His arse felt like it’d had another hole bored into it. That fucking hedge knight and his massive fucking cock.

Lyonel laughed so hard that crows flew off the castle battlements and cawed in alarm.