Chapter Text
"[During the Blackfyre Rebellion], Fireball killed Lord Lefford at the gates of Lannisport and sent the Grey Lion running back to hide inside the Rock."
—Egg to Dunk
209 AC
The wine was decent enough—how could it not be, this being Lyonel Baratheon's pavilion—but not as fine as what Damon and Lyonel usually drank in private. Right now, they weren't in private: the Laughing Storm had thrown a celebration in his tent on the eve of tomorrow's Ashford tourney.
Damon stood surrounded by a couple of his bannermen and lesser lords trying to win his favor. Damon listened with half an ear, occasionally sipping from his cup and glancing toward Lyonel, who sat at the high table accepting gifts from guests who'd just arrived.
The day before a tourney, Lyonel Baratheon always looked impeccable. His black curls, now generously threaded with silver, were neatly arranged beneath a golden circlet fashioned like stag antlers—a gift from Damon for his thirty-third nameday. If the world were fair, they'd call him the Grey Stag, just as they called Damon the Grey Lion, but Lyonel's laughter remained louder than the grey in his hair.
In his left ear, a gold earring swayed with each laugh; a gold chain fastened the yellow cloak at his chest; gold rings adorned his fingers, and gold bracelets his wrists. Damon loved how gold looked on Lyonel—how it highlighted his olive skin, how it caught the torchlight with every movement. Black and yellow truly were the Baratheon colors. A pity that tomorrow, after the tourney began, all these ornaments would be hidden in chests, and the black tunic and leather doublet replaced by a plain quilted gambeson.
Damon's contemplation was interrupted by a cough, followed by an uncertain,
"Ser Damon?"
"Ser Damon," not "Lord Lannister"—that alone spoke volumes. Damon lazily turned his head and saw the awkward youth he'd noticed earlier at one of the tables because of his height, which exceeded even Lyonel's. But at the sight of the worn tunic belted with rough rope, the last trace of interest in his green eyes died.
The lords nearby fell silent, also staring at the stranger. Damon took a sip from his cup, letting the silence stretch. The boy's ears—and this was undoubtedly a boy, despite his size—turned red.
"M'lord, might we speak outside?" he asked after clearing his throat.
Damon wondered if he was truly this stupid or just pretending. Why would a lord follow a commoner outside? The fact that he was already listening to him was a mercy.
"Can't you see we're busy?" red-faced Lord Cafferen frowned theatrically. "Say your piece and be gone!"
Damon raised his hand slightly, indicating he'd handle this himself. He didn't want to give Lord Cafferen an extra opportunity to curry favor. Lord Cafferen was up to his ears in debt and hoped to borrow some gold from House Lannister, but they weren't in the business of charity.
Damon looked at the youth again,
"I'm quite comfortable here."
"To enter the tourney, I need a knight to vouch for me," he said, gathering his courage. So he really did need "Ser Damon," not "Lord Lannister." "And I was hopin'..."
"And you were hoping that knight would be me?" Damon raised one eyebrow. "But why would I do that? I don't believe I know you." Not in those clothes. His green eyes traveled over the youth's shabby appearance before returning to his naive face.
"I'm... Dunk. Ser Dunk," he quickly corrected himself. "Maybe you don't know me, but you must remember Ser Arlan of Pennytree. He was my master and knighted me before he died. But there were no witnesses to this act, so I need someone to vouch for me."
"No, I don't remember him," Damon replied dismissively. "Anything else?"
"You must remember him," Dunk insisted. "He told me how he unhorsed you at the tourney in Lannisport in 193 AC."
Damon froze with his cup raised to his thin lips. He remembered that tourney well, but not because some hedge knight had unhorsed him—though other heirs never let him forget it—but because someone had managed to injure Lyonel more seriously than Damon had ever seen. The Laughing Storm, fighting in the neighboring lane, had taken a heavy blow to the head, and the sight had knocked the wind out of young Damon before another's lance knocked him from his saddle.
Damon heard dark-skinned Lord Cole stifle a laugh, and it brought him back to the present. Damon turned his head to look at him, and the sound cut off immediately. The minor lord became very interested in studying the bottom of his cup.
"Ser Arlan of Pennytree, you say?" Damon repeated slowly.
"Yes," Dunk nodded with relief. "He was a good knight. Peaceful and humble, despite all the wars he'd fought in..."
"I don't recall him."
Dunk blinked in confusion.
"But he unhorsed you," he finally repeated.
Damon lowered his head and began examining his rings, turning his hand in different directions to catch the candlelight. This conversation was beginning to tire him.
"Boy, in two decades of riding in tourneys, I've fallen from my horse more than once, including from hedge knights' lances. Such are the realities of tourneys. Do you really think I remember them all?" He lowered his hand and looked Dunk in the face. "But even if you're not lying, and this Ser Arlan really did unhorse me at the tourney in Lannisport sixteen years ago..."
"He did!" Dunk exclaimed hotly.
"Even if so," Damon looked at him intently, displeased at being interrupted, "what makes you think I'd vouch for his former squire?"
"Ser Arlan said you were a man of honor..."
"So I am," the Grey Lion agreed. "And I'm sure I paid him every copper for my defeat. Most likely even more, if it was sixteen years ago: in my youth, I was generous with gold."
Lord Cafferen had such an expression on his face as if he were considering going back in time to borrow money from young Damon.
"Helping you isn't a matter of honor," Lord Lannister continued, tilting his head to the side. Lord Cole nodded in agreement. "It's a question of a favor. And when you ask for something, you need to offer something of equal value in return. What can a barefoot boy offer me?"
"I'm not barefoot," Dunk mumbled.
"No?" Damon cast a brief glance at his old boots. "My mistake. How could I have missed such an important detail?"
The irony in his voice didn't escape Dunk's notice, and he hunched over, finally understanding that by calling him a "barefoot boy," Damon was emphasizing his poverty. The youth mumbled something and left.
Watching Dunk go and listening to the lords' mockery of the hedge knight, Damon felt nothing—neither satisfaction nor guilt. Only a vague unease, but it was connected to the laughing man at the high table, not the awkward youth who wished to play at being a knight.
For more than twenty years now, Damon had competed in tourneys, chasing Lyonel from one field to another. How long could he keep it up? They'd been calling the young lion Grey for ten years already; new wounds didn't heal as quickly as before, and old ones made themselves known more and more often.
Damon's shoulder still ached from the wound Ser Quentyn Ball had given him during the Blackfyre Rebellion. Fireball had wanted to take his life, but had to settle for the ugly scar that now stretched across the Grey Lion's left shoulder. Damon's bannerman, Lord Lefford, had been less fortunate—Ser Quentyn had butchered him there at the gates of Lannisport.
The pain in his shoulder intensified on cold days and after long hours in the saddle. A few more years, and Damon wouldn't be able to hold a lance anymore. And when that day came—when age or injury robbed him of the ability to compete in tourneys—then what? Would Lyonel see it as another act of cowardice and fearlessly continue taking the field himself? Would he deprive Damon of the last remnants of his warmth, no longer coming to his tent at night?
Damon's hand tightened on his cup, and his green eyes once more slid toward Lyonel. After a moment, Damon forced himself to turn his head away and continue his conversation with the other lords.
***
When Lyonel saw a man among the guests as tall as himself, a competitive feeling stirred in him. He straightened in his chair, assessing the stranger's height. Six feet six inches, maybe? No, taller.
The man looked clean, but his light hair was disheveled, and he was dressed in a worn tunic and breeches. Not a lord, not even a squire, judging by the rope serving as a belt. A servant, then? But how poor would a lord have to be for his servant to look like that? Of those present, only Lord Cafferen came to mind.
Lyonel watched with idle curiosity as the young man made his way through the crowd, clearly searching for someone. Finally, the man stopped before a group of lords that included the Grey Lion. Lyonel smirked and took a sip of wine. He almost felt sorry for the young man—he knew all too well how Damon treated people like him.
But the conversation between the young man and Damon went on and on. Lyonel frowned and shifted in his seat. Why hadn't Damon dismissed him yet?
"What do you think about that?" Lord Musgood called to him.
"I think it's all very fascinating," Lyonel replied, having already forgotten what he and Musgood and the other lords had been discussing. It was hard to think clearly with a drunk head, and he'd been drunk most of the time for the past few years. Lyonel gestured with his index and middle fingers, summoning the captain of House Baratheon's guard to lean down to him. "See that big fellow near Lord Lannister? Have him brought before me."
Soon, the young man in rags stood before the high table. Lyonel remained silent, turning over in his hands with a bored expression the dagger Lord Cafferen had given him today—trash compared to what he'd received from Damon. The boy cleared his throat uncertainly but said nothing.
"Have you ever been punched in the face?" Lyonel finally asked without looking up.
"Beg pardon, m'lord?"
"Big men get hit more often than small ones. Did you know that?" Lyonel tossed aside the dagger, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his legs. "Is that why you slouch?"
"I don't slouch, m'lord."
"You do, and you've been doing it all evening," Lyonel stared at him. "And it irritates me. A man taller than me has no right to be so unsure of himself." What irritated him even more was that Damon had spent so much time with the young man before him, and he didn't understand why. "What did you bring me?"
Of course, nothing—Lyonel knew this, he just wanted to take out his irritation on him. The young man predictably couldn't find his words. He should have been satisfied with that and dismissed him, but Lyonel continued, sweeping his hand around the tent,
"Everyone who came to the feast tonight brought something. Ladies brought smiles to men's faces with their beauty, and minstrels brought music and merriment. Even Lord Cafferen, who can barely make ends meet, found this trinket in his castle." He tapped his index finger on the dagger on the table, then tilted his head to the side. Dark blue eyes stared intently into blue ones. "So what did you bring?"
The boy's face reddened, and he lowered his gaze,
"M'lord, I didn't think... Nothing... I didn't bring nothing..."
"Then why the fuck are you in my tent?" Lyonel asked roughly.
This was the moment to name whoever had brought him here, to hide behind them like a shield, but the boy remained silent, and none of those present rushed to help him.
"Supper, m'lord," he finally managed.
"Supper?" Lyonel stared dumbly at the delicacy the young man had been holding in his hand all this time and was now offering to him. At first, Lyonel thought the young man was mocking him, but then he realized no, he was dead serious, and he laughed. "So you're here for the free food? Well, why not? What's your name, lad?"
He had a strange feeling he'd already asked this man that question before, but he quickly dismissed the thought.
"Dunk. Ser Dunk, m'lord."
Lyonel caught Damon's gaze, and an idea formed in his head.
"Do you like dancing?" he asked the hedge knight, stretching his lips into a smile.
***
The tables had been pushed to the edges; Lyonel and the hedge knight danced in the center of the tent with the others, the music far livelier than it had been an hour ago—like the people themselves. Wine had freed their minds from worry, and the music had set their hearts alight.
But not everyone chose to spend their strength. Damon Lannister stood apart, silently watching the host of the feast dance with the hedge knight. Lyonel noticed, with mocking satisfaction, how the knuckles gripping Damon's wine cup had gone white. The impassive expression might have fooled anyone else, but not him. The Grey Lion was furious. He had never approved of Lyonel growing too familiar with commoners—let alone flirting.
Lyonel laughed loudly and kept circling the hedge knight, who danced clumsily but with such open sincerity that he resembled an oversized puppy. At last Damon set his cup—surely empty—upon the table and left the tent.
For a time, Lyonel savored his victory. Then the satisfaction drained away, and he stopped dancing. All of it was pointless—every attempt to wound Damon. Hadn't they both suffered enough already? Why did he keep doing this? No, he knew why. Anger burned inside him, demanding release.
"Enough," Lyonel said, leading the hedge knight back to the high table. They sat and drank. And then Lyonel did what he always did when ears were near—whether willing or not. He began telling stories. He finished with the tale of steering a ship straight into a storm.
"Weren't you afraid, m'lord?" the hedge knight asked. A horned circlet rested crookedly on his head—one Lyonel himself had placed there. Damon would have been livid to see it, Lyonel thought lazily.
"Afraid of what?" he smirked. "Death?"
No—death would have been a release. But Lyonel was too proud to seek it knowingly, and too selfish to let Damon devote himself wholly to his family.
"Well… aye," the boy muttered. "Death's terrible. It's the end."
Lyonel turned his head away.
"Trust me, lad. There are worse things than death."
The music softened, turning slow and intimate. Only couples remained swaying in the center of the tent. The sight was strangely unpleasant.
"What were you speaking about with the Grey Lion?" Lyonel finally asked. "How do you know him?"
"I don't, m'lord. Not proper. I mean to ride in the tourney, but I need a knight to vouch for me. Few remember my master, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. Years ago at Lannisport, he unhorsed Ser Damon, and I hoped he might recall the old man."
"Even if he did, you thought he'd vouch for the former squire of the man who shamed him?" Lyonel laughed. "Gods, what a naive soul."
"He did refuse me—but for another reason," the youth said, flushing as the foolishness of his request dawned on him. "He said I had nothing to offer."
"Ah. Lannister pragmatism," Lyonel murmured. "Perhaps he would have, if you'd had something of value."
"You seem to know Ser Damon well."
"I thought I did," Lyonel corrected.
The young man tilted his head. "But that makes no sense. You either know someone, or you don't."
"I suppose you're right," Lyonel chuckled. He leaned back and started studying the tent's ceiling, his expression turning faintly melancholy. "We met as squires. Watching tourneys is all very well, but what's a boy to do with hot blood after? So we fought on the training grounds. The knights wanted to see stag against lion—and who were we to deny them? And who do you think won?"
"You, m'lord?" the boy ventured.
Lyonel nodded. "I broke his nose. I was ten and he was twelve, but even then I was taller and stronger."
And I broke it again, he thought darkly, remembering the night twenty-two years ago when Damon told him he would wed a Brax girl.
"You broke Lord Lannister's nose?" the youth breathed.
"He wasn't a lord then," Lyonel laughed. "Just another highborn brat full of pride. He was furious—offered five gold dragons to any squire who could beat me. One look at me cured their greed."
"What happened after?"
"Next day he challenged me again. Lannisters always pay their debts—or something like that. I found his stubbornness amusing, so I agreed. Beat him again. And again. Four days I rolled him in the dirt."
"He yielded?"
"So I thought—when he didn't come the fifth day. Pride saved, perhaps. Then I saw three other heirs beating him bloody on a nearby field."
"Why?"
"Because he couldn't defeat a younger boy. Because children are cruel. Because—fuck, what does it matter? Three against one, and he was already bleeding. I stepped in. Broke two noses, gave the third a black eye. When I helped Damon up, he looked at me with those green eyes—calculating even then—and said, 'I suppose we're even now.' Even, the Others take him. As if I'd owed him anything."
The youth smiled despite himself. "It's a good story, m'lord."
"Isn't it?" Lyonel said softly. "After that, we were always together. Training, eating, getting into trouble. We were knighted together. Rode our first tourney side by side. When I stole victory from Longthorn, Damon was so proud. When he lost his final bout, I was the one who—" He cut himself off. The wine had loosened his tongue too far. "The point is… I thought I knew him. Better than anyone. Maybe, for a time, I did. But people change. Or maybe they don't—and that's the problem. You can know someone your whole life and still not know them at all. Do you understand?"
"Not really, my lord. I'm sorry," he added quickly. "My master used to say I'm thick as a cellar wall."
"That's all right," Lyonel said, clapping his shoulder. He never expected anyone to grasp the depth of what lay between him and Damon. Though there had been one man… and the mere thought of him irritated Lyonel. How could someone with the same blood as Prince Baelor be so insufferable?
"Do you think I have a chance, m'lord?" the hedge knight asked after a pause.
"A chance at what?" Lyonel blinked. "Bed me?"
The boy choked on his wine. "No! Gods, no, m'lord!"
"Good," Lyonel nodded. "I already have plans for tonight. And the next. No offense."
"I meant—do I have a chance to win? One victory is all I need."
"Oh. The tourney,"Lyonel said. "No. Not the slightest chance." Ashford had drawn fighters far too strong—delightful for Lyonel, tragic for the boy before him. "But it's an honor to test yourself against worthy foes."
"Easy for you to say," the boy muttered. "You're a lord. You can pay ransom. If I lose, I lose everything."
Lyonel's interest vanished at once. Complaints changed nothing—and steel was blind. He and Damon would risk their lives just the same.
"So what should I do?"
Lyonel could have told him to take the risk. But the boy had already called death the worst fate and was drowning in doubt. Perhaps such a man should forget knighthood and take up farming… or whatever commoners did.
"I've no idea," Lyonel said at last. "I'm drunk enough to leave. You stay. Drink, eat—and don't say Lyonel Baratheon breaks his promises."
The last words clearly confused the youth. Ignoring it, Lyonel took back the crown and stepped out of the tent—too hot, too loud, too crowded, and at the same time far too lonely.
***
Lyonel's feet, as expected, carried him to Damon's tent. By day he could ignore Damon, dance with strangers, pretend to be happy, but from night until dawn, with the tourney drawing near—a tourney where one of them might die—he allowed himself the weakness of being with Damon, of remembering their youth and forgetting his hatred.
The Lannister guards let Lyonel pass without a word. Perhaps Damon was right, and the entire court knew about their relationship. Lyonel adjusted the crown on his head and the dagger at his belt, which clearly made the guards reconsider their lord's orders, and stepped inside. It was warm within. Candlelight threw shifting shadows across the red walls of the tent and the rich carpets spread over the wooden floor.
"You've made yourself comfortable," Lyonel muttered, resisting the urge to grind his muddy boots into the carpets.
Damon sat in a chair reading a book. He wore only a white tunic embroidered with gold and a pair of trousers. A bottle of Arbor gold stood on the table beside him, but there was only a single cup. It seemed Lyonel's stunt earlier had truly angered him. When he saw Lyonel, he set the book aside and leaned back in his chair.
"Did the hedge knight turn you away?"
"You mean the boy whose master knocked you off your horse at the tourney in Lannisport?" Lyonel asked mockingly, pulling off his boots. Damon's green eyes narrowed, and his thin lips pressed into a line. "I suppose I could have dragged him into bed, but he's too young and too inexperienced for my taste," he added with a shrug.
Stopping beside Damon, Lyonel drew the dagger with the stag-horn hilt from his belt and turned it in his hand. The blade's metal gleamed a dark gray.
"Valyrian steel," Damon said casually, giving the dagger a brief glance. His features had already smoothed again. Lyonel could only envy how quickly Damon mastered his emotions.
"A fine gift," Lyonel clicked his tongue. "Nothing to complain about. Though..." He remembered the prophecy of Maekar's eldest son. "How many more stags are you planning to kill and present to me? You're lucky you're courting a Baratheon and not a Targaryen, or you'd have to slay an entire dragon." A quiet laugh slipped from his lips.
"I don't kill stags. I only cut off their antlers—they grow back."
"Tell me, Lord Lannister," Lyonel said with a smirk. The dagger found its way onto the table, and Lyonel's hands settled on the arms of Damon's chair. Now their faces were only inches apart, and Lyonel remembered how beautiful the Grey Lion's eyes were. "Do hearts grow back too? Because I've been waiting twenty-two years for mine to grow back," he murmured and kissed Damon.
For a few moments Damon did not move. His thin lips stayed stubbornly closed. Lyonel thought that perhaps Damon would push him away. That tonight he would finally say "no," would put an end to the torment they called love. Some part of Lyonel even wanted that, because he himself was not capable of ending it.
But then Damon's hand slid into the curls at the back of Lyonel's head, and he returned the kiss, which quickly deepened into something hungry and desperate.
Lyonel could not bear it any longer. He lifted Damon from the chair and pushed him toward the bed. Damon sat obediently, allowing Lyonel to straddle him, but his green eyes were too clear.
"You have to ride tomorrow," Damon reminded him, making Lyonel roll his eyes. Gods, could he stop thinking for even a moment? "Are you sure you want to be on the bottom?"
"I think you're the one on the bottom right now," Lyonel replied lightly and shoved Damon in the chest, forcing him onto his back. After Lyonel's leather doublet and matching tunic hit the floor, he reached for the ties of Damon's clothes. "You have to ride tomorrow too. Or is there something I don't know? Have you decided not to compete after all?"
"Winning the tourney matters less to me than it does to you."
"Maybe you could just fuck me already?" Lyonel cut in. "Or should I go find that hedge knight instead?"
The words worked like magic. Damon's expression darkened. He caught Lyonel by the neck and pulled him down into another kiss. Lyonel chuckled against his lips and closed his eyes. Tomorrow he would be angry again, would ignore Damon, would find new ways to hurt them both. But for now he could pretend that anger was passion, obsession was love, and that the night twenty-two years ago had never happened.