Archive of Our Own

—My lord?

The soft and trembling female voice is almost lost to the sharp groan that escapes his mouth as one of Duncan's hands pushes his head even deeper into the blankets to silence him.

—Give us a moment, Lola.

—Yes, my lord.

Lyonel shudders violently, feeling his heart beat wildly against his body when he hears the husky, breathless groan of his husband against the nape of his neck, followed by his soft, satisfied chuckle as he half-collapses over him after a couple more erratic movements of his hips. He groans and arches, pushing his hips back against Duncan's with his arms stretched beneath his pillow, utterly exhausted and satisfied, and only upon opening his eyes when Duncan brushes the damp curls away from his face does he realize that, in fact, dawn was breaking, for the clarity filtering through the fabrics of the tent was beginning to illuminate the bed and cast soft shadows over the tumbled blankets.

—Come, me lil’ storm-nymph, they need something if they have come looking for you.

He shudders with pure pleasure when he feels the warm, large hands of his soulmate trace down his ribs and then to his waist, rubbing fingers over the skin he had marked with his grip in a gentle massage that relaxes his exhausted muscles and makes Lyonel release his breath slowly to avoid groaning again, keeping his head buried among the blankets while attempting to regain some control over his breathing.

He lets out a discontented noise when Duncan forces him to sit up, encircling his waist with one arm while his other hand, delicately yet firmly, wraps around his neck.

—You have had me all night, me lil’ storm-nymph, we cannot keep playing.

He moves his nose along the pale arm wrapped over his neck to hold his shoulder, feeling beneath his lips the warmth of his skin and the calm pulse beating there, and groans when Duncan’s fingers tug him by his curls to pull him away from the sensitive skin of his wrist after Lyonel bites it hard, rolling his eyes in pure pleasure upon feeling the salty and sharp taste of Duncan's sweat on his tongue.

—Gods, alright, alright —he complains, releasing Duncan's arm.

He drops onto the bed, rolling over with a muffled groan after receiving a sharp smack that likely leaves another mark upon his already reddened and darkened skin, and crosses his arms beneath his head, following Duncan with his gaze as he rises and begins to dress after washing himself, covering the various marks Lyonel had left on him.

He hums with evident approval while watching him dress, enjoying the sight of his long, strong legs wrapped in dark hosen, and though for Lyonel it is a pity to lose the sight of Duncan's broad, bare chest, seeing him covered by a midnight-blue linen tunic compensates for it well enough, especially when the fabric falls over his broad shoulders and follows the firm lines of his back, still damp in some spots from the water with which he has just washed himself.

He moves until he is on his knees upon the bed, despite the protests of his still-trembling body, not only from his last orgasm but also from the hours of torturous pleasure beneath the large hands and mouth of his husband, and waits for him to approach to help him with the laces of the tooled leather doublet bearing the ironmongery of his House, which Lyonel knew was his soulmate's favorite.

A part of Lyonel was certain that he would never quite grow accustomed to the perfect balance Duncan achieved between light fabric and military rigidity, and to the way it embraced the lines of his body without stripping away his freedom of movement, following every muscle of his shoulders and back without ever hindering him when he moved.

—Thank you, my lord husband.

He closes his eyes when Duncan kisses his forehead and then his lips, making Lyonel realize how swollen and sore they are, with the sensitive skin around them, yet he does not pull away, but rather deepens the kiss, moving his fingers to sink them into his hair and pulling him closer, breathing through his nose as Duncan's warm breath brushes his face and mingles with his own.

—Mmm... I love you.

—I love you too, my Doe.

Smiling foolishly, he rises with his thighs trembling slightly and cleans himself enough not to feel uncomfortable or sticky until he can take a bath, and limits himself to putting on hosen while Duncan searches through Lyonel's things for his comb and some leather strips, muttering small curses at Onyx every time the stag thrusts his head into the middle, gently pushing the dark snout away while the animal tries again from the other side.

While Duncan calls for Lola, he begins to work on his soulmate's hair, who allows it patiently, enjoying their small daily ritual just as much as Lyonel, since from the moment Duncan had decided to let his hair grow, Lyonel had forced his mother to teach him every possible way to style it so he could do it for him.

Thus, while his soulmate speaks with Lola about what to do with the men who had arrived with Duncan, he begins to comb it, first untangling with the comb the knots that had formed from their nightly activities and then with his fingers, feeling how the reddish-blonde strands slide like silk between them, despite the hours Lyonel spent pulling it or clinging to it in an attempt not to faint.

He separates three strands near his forehead and begins to cross them, weaving a braid close to the scalp, feeling beneath his fingertips the warmth of the skin as he progresses little by little toward the nape of the neck. As he continues, his temples are left uncovered, revealing the hard line of his jaw and his adorable freckles, which stand out from the persistent flush on his cheekbones.

And upon reaching the back, he joins the two side braids with a braided black leather cord, leaving much of his husband's hair loose, with some strands still falling over his shoulders, and with a gentle touch on his shoulder he steps away to finish dressing himself, despite feeling extremely tired and only wanting to crawl into bed again, though he knows it is impossible.

—Mmm... me lil’ storm-nymph

He shudders with a smile somewhere between sleepy and foolish when he feels the arms of his soulmate wrap around his waist while he finishes buttoning his doublet, tilting his head to make room for Duncan's kisses, which he receives with light sighs, letting his fingers rest for a moment upon the hands that have closed around his abdomen.

—What did Lola want?

—Did you not hear any of that, eh?

Denies with a small laugh at how his husband’s beard tickles the nape of his neck and leans against his chest when Saffron passes by his side, pushing both of them with her large head and purring loudly, although the sound is drowned out by the metallic noise of her armor falling, and Lyonel does not have to look to know that Onyx is to blame.

The clatter of the pieces against the ground makes Duncan close his eyes for a moment and let his head fall back, while Lyonel bites his lip to keep from laughing.

—What did I tell you about sticking that big head of yours into things that aren’t yours?

Lyonel laughs as Duncan walks away while arguing with his deer, and Lyonel had always found it amusing how much they argued, although, if he thought about it a little, Lyonel and Duncan argued with the same frequency and in the same silly ways, with the difference that Lyonel did it because he enjoyed watching his soulmate get angry and Onyx because he was far too curious for his own good.

Unable to do much with his curls, he decides to soak them completely and then untangle them with more impatience and carelessness than he had shown with Duncan, running his fingers between the damp strands as he tries to put them into some semblance of order that will allow him to leave the tent without looking as though he had been struck by lightning.

He whistles to call Saffron as he leaves the tent, leaving Duncan arguing and cleaning behind Onyx, and rubs his eyes tiredly, still feeling the weight of sleep behind them, ignoring the amused smile of two of his guards and looking at Cecil with irritation when she approaches him at a hurried pace.

—My lord!

—What now? —he groans, pulling the edges of his cloak to wrap it around himself as he heads toward one of the campfires to wait for his breakfast instead of going to the main tent, bringing his hands close to the fire for a moment before sitting down.

—A messenger from the Royal House arrived a short while ago, my lord.

He stops looking at the fire to look at his servant, raising his eyebrows as he suddenly feels more awake.

—What?

—He said that the Crown Prince expects them after breakfast to receive a report directly from Ser Duncan.

Only Saffron’s sudden weight pushing against his side keeps Lyonel from beginning to curse violently, and he shudders when he sits back down too abruptly, moving his legs to make room for the jaguar and half reclining against her, letting the warmth of her body take away some of the morning chill. Saffron settles her head on his thigh, and Lyonel lets one hand fall upon her, absently stroking her between the ears while he continues looking at Cecil with an increasingly offended expression.

—Has he already left? When did the damned Targaryens arrive? Never mind, just... bring breakfast for us, please.

He rubs his face against Saffron’s fur, murmuring with satisfaction when a large, warm, heavy hand settles over his curls, the fingers sinking into his still-damp hair, seconds before Duncan’s large body wraps around his back, closing against him with a familiarity that makes Lyonel relax almost immediately.

—What’s wrong?

—Mm?

—You’re already all angry, and I know it has nothing to do with being sleepy, my lord husband.

He sighs deeply, straightening after kissing one of Saffron’s ears, and leans against his husband’s chest, biting his lips until Duncan makes him stop, sliding his thumb over them so he will stop hurting himself, and Lyonel finally releases them with a small grimace of annoyance, more out of habit than true protest.

—The damned lizards are here... They want to see us after we eat.

He grimaces upon feeling his soulmate tense around him and silently rubs his hands over his arms, letting his thumbs move slowly over the fabric, as though he could convince Duncan’s muscles to relax through simple contact.

He had never quite understood why Duncan always became tense and was extremely cautious with anything involving a Targaryen, but part of Lyonel thought that perhaps it had to do with his childhood, with having grown up in absolute misery while they simply lived their best lives without ever looking down.

His husband only makes an affirmative sound and accepts the breakfast plates when Lola brings them, both murmuring a slight thanks before beginning to eat in a comfortable silence that was only interrupted by the occasional impatient growl from Saffron toward Onyx when the deer struck one of them with his antlers or his nose against the plates, looking for something to eat, forcing them to move the food aside each time his dark muzzle appeared too close.

When he finished eating, he curled up against Duncan, settling his head beneath his chin and letting the warmth of his body finish pulling him toward sleep, with one hand resting loosely over his husband’s abdomen while the slow rhythm of his breathing began to fall into step with his, he soon drifted off only to be pulled from his drowsiness by a soft laugh.

—I told you we should sleep.

—I love you, but shut up, Doe.

He pats Duncan’s cheek, who only laughs harder after kissing his fingers, and gives Saffron a light caress, running his fingers through the warm fur of her head before getting up carefully, placing one hand on Duncan’s shoulder when his legs protest the movement.

He hurries back to his tent, where he makes himself presentable enough to look a little more formal, still with the weariness weighing on his eyelids and hampering his movements enough that it takes him a couple of seconds to put on his belt with his sword. He takes Duncan’s, along with his different knives, checking out of habit that each one is in its sheath before finally taking his black-and-gold cloak and leaving, walking slowly back to his husband.

Despite the fact that they had spent the night awake, kissing and caressing each other until one of them ended up making the other start everything all over again, Lyonel felt a small pang of desire rise from his aching hips to his lower belly upon seeing the figure of his husband, who had stretched out with his broad back resting against Onyx and the deer’s head resting over his own, his long legs stretched out so that his feet remained close to the fire, making use of the warmth reaching him through his boots, and his broad chest rising and falling calmly as he ate what was probably his third plate of breakfast.

—Ser? Snow is ready... And we found what he was looking for yesterday.

—Good boy.

He smiles broadly and gently pats his squire’s shoulder, who was clearly still struggling with sleep, his eyes heavy and his hair disheveled from having slept so little. He takes the golden velvet bag the boy offers him and sends him to sleep a little longer, since the first jousts were at night, so he did not need the boy and might as well let him rest.

He resumes his pace until he is beside his soulmate and presses a light kiss to Duncan’s forehead before handing him his weapons. Then he checks the bag until he finds the delicate but sturdy choker that Lyonel had had made for Saffron, so that anyone who saw her far from him would know that she belonged to a Baratheon, and he had done something similar for Onyx with Duncan’s sigil, but the deer rarely wore it because neither of them trusted him not to lose it on purpose, especially because he had a habit of rubbing himself against trees or branches whenever he found the opportunity.

He knew that many considered him extravagant, but everyone knew that Lyonel was a possessive bastard and that he liked to mark what was his.

When Duncan is ready, he allows, though not without protest, for him to put him on Snow, his palfrey, to make the short journey to Lord Ashford’s castle. He knew they made a strange picture, with Duncan holding Snow’s reins, wrapped in his cloak to protect himself from the dampness of the morning that was only just beginning, just like Lyonel, who was wrapped in his favorite golden cloak, with Saffron walking alongside Snow, on Duncan’s opposite side, as if she did not want to leave any vulnerable point of Lyonel unattended, while Onyx went ahead of them.

To anyone who did not know him, he would only seem like a mad deer that leaped from side to side only to stop and look around with strange intensity before resuming his curious leaps, but Lyonel knew him well enough to know that Onyx was half playing bait for any possible attack, but also to show Duncan the boundaries, and he could see how Duncan followed him from the corner of his eye each time the animal strayed too far.

—Any idea what to expect from this meeting, my Doe?

He tilts his head slightly to look at Duncan without the hood of his cloak obstructing his view and bites his lips to keep from smiling when his soulmate turns a little to look at him from beneath the hood of his own cloak, perfectly and proudly wrapped in Baratheon colors. The movement makes a lock of reddish hair fall over his forehead, and Lyonel has to contain the urge to reach out and brush it aside, reminding himself that although it was early, there was already enough movement around them to allow such familiarity.

—Not really, my lord, only assumptions.

He hums with curiosity so that his husband will continue speaking and smiles when Duncan only rolls his eyes, shifting a little to walk beside him instead of going a couple of steps ahead, with Lyonel’s knee brushing his ribs with each movement of Snow, making the fabric of their cloaks brush together with a soft sound each time the palfrey changes pace.

—The incursion into the Yronwoods was by Blackfyre rebels, I suppose they would want to know as soon as possible what is happening with it, being their family —Duncan moves his gloved hand through the air and both murmur their good mornings to the few merchants who are awake and cross their path, some still arranging their stalls while the smell of hot bread and burning firewood mingles with the cool morning air—. I’m not sure how they knew I was here instead of on my way home, but I suppose this... meeting will keep me from having to make a double report, for Lord Symeon and another to send to the capital.

He murmurs his agreement, for he had thought the same as his husband, and shifts a little in the saddle, feeling his hips protest at the movement before rubbing his fingers through his beard, frowning tiredly as Snow’s movement makes the muscles in his back tense again.

—I have a bad feeling about them.

—Mm... Always.

—Always —he murmurs at the same time as his soulmate, and gently rubs his shoulder with a sigh, leaving his hand there for a few seconds before putting it back beneath his cloak—. Quick in and out, my Doe, I want to sleep.

—As my lord husband commands.

He rolls his eyes, snorting lightly when they arrive and are allowed into the castle’s inner courtyard, where a servant in Targaryen colors was already waiting for them. He dismounts with a noise that only Duncan can hear, and the latter smiles at him with enough teasing that Lyonel feels his cheeks burn, just like every patch of skin where his soulmate had left marks on him and that the fabric of his clothes did not quite manage to conceal.

If there was something that irritated Lyonel about no one outside the Stormlands knowing about his marriage and his soulmate, beyond the simple fact that Lyonel had one, it was that when they were together outside the Stormlands, Duncan always walked a couple of steps behind, watching and guarding Lyonel’s back as befitted his position within House Baratheon, and although he knew that for his soulmate it was more comfortable because he preferred to watch Lyonel at all times, being the overprotective threat that he was, it did not make the irritation any easier to handle.

He lets his hand fall onto Saffron’s head as they walk following the young servant, feeling beneath his palm how the short, warm fur moves with each step of the jaguar, who keeps her body close to his leg. The boy does not stop looking at them over his shoulder nervously, but Lyonel could not be sure whether it was because of the reputation each of them had, individually or the one they had formed fighting shoulder to shoulder, or because of the guardian animals accompanying them, especially when Onyx moves a few steps ahead and then returns toward them with his head turning from side to side.

Once, he and Duncan had spoken about how curious, but also sad, it was that within the Targaryen family, besides the king and his wife, there were not many more soulmates, in fact, only two of their children, Baelor and Maekar, had had soulmates and both had lost them after having children, and in Maekar’s case, as far as was known of his six children, so far none had one, although the three youngest were still not old enough to know.

He murmurs something inaudible, but enough for Duncan to know it is a thank-you when he feels him lightly tugging the hood of his cloak from behind to lower it, almost at the same time as they enter the hall where the royal family was finishing their breakfast. The change in temperature makes the air feel warmer against his face and his heart quickens a little, having to fight the urge to frown when he feels his soulmate move a little closer, clearly feeling the same tension as Lyonel.

—Good morning, Prince Baelor, Prince Maekar.

He gives a slight bow, unconsciously coordinated with Duncan, and shifts his feet a little so that Saffron can sit between his boots, in her usual falsely relaxed position, with the jaguar’s enormous body leaning against one of his legs.

—Ser Lyonel, Ser Duncan, welcome.

He moves a hand, rejecting the drinks they offer them, and crosses his arms, ignoring the irritated look this provokes in one of Maekar’s sons, while the sweet smell of spiced wine lingers near him before the servant walks away.

—Can we make this quick? We have things to do.

—Is that so? Rumors say you are a drunkard, Ser, I cannot imagine what you could possibly have to do.

He moves his hand, pressing it against his husband’s chest when Duncan takes a couple of steps forward with a frowning, irritated expression, feeling beneath his palm how tension suddenly appears in the firm muscles of his chest and shoulder, Duncan remains still, although Lyonel can feel the restrained movement of his breathing beneath his hand.

—It’s curious that you say that about me when they say the same about your elder brother, is that not so, Prince Aerion? —He rubs his fingers over Saffron when she begins to growl, feeling how her fur bristles beneath his fingertips—. Shush, my girl, he’s just a little snot who hasn’t yet learned when to speak and when not to.

He looks the young prince up and down, who had risen to his feet with an irritated expression that only made him look even more like a child throwing a tantrum, with his cheeks tense and his hands clenching at his sides.

Lyonel and Duncan spent a great deal of time traveling not only through the Stormlands, but anywhere they could go without it interfering with their responsibilities, so they knew someone everywhere, which meant it was strange for rumors and secrets to reach them, especially because both of them were inclined to listen to servants just as well as they listened to the court, and among what they had heard were all the cruelties Aerion Targaryen committed and that his family tried to keep secret.

He spins one of his rings as he shifts his attention toward Baelor, only to catch him rubbing his face tiredly, pressing his fingers against his eyes before letting them fall.

—I apologize for disturbing you, especially you, Ser Duncan, when you should be resting, but is it possible for you to give us a preview of the report we will receive from Lord Baratheon?

He looks at Duncan over his shoulder with a soft nod and narrows his eyes as he looks attentively at Onyx, for where the deer would normally be circling around them, pushing and sniffing anything that caught his attention, he was now standing half across in front of Duncan, preventing him from advancing more than a couple of steps, with his head lowered and his antlers tilted forward, ready to charge anyone who tried to approach.

As Duncan begins to speak in his deep, measured, calm voice, Lyonel’s gaze drifts toward the rest of the hall. Maekar’s youngest son, who, if Lyonel was not mistaken, was named Aegon and was about ten days of age, was half slumped in a chair beside the window, with an expression of annoyance that Lyonel could identify with, it was clear that the child would rather be anywhere else than there; on the other hand, Prince Valarr was exactly what Lyonel remembered Baelor being when he met him at court, but he could not stop looking at Prince Aerion from the corner of his eye, the hatred in his eyes when he looked at them unsettled him, for it was excessive for it to be the first time they had seen him.

He only looks away when he notices movement in the corner of his eye and finds himself facing the child’s large, curious eyes, which moved from Lyonel to Saffron and then to Onyx. He smiles in amusement and gives him a slight gesture to come closer, accompanied by a soft click of his tongue that gets Saffron to loosen her growl and stop tensing her shoulders, although her ears remain attentive.

—Why are we listening to this knight, uncle, and not the one who is supposed to be Lord Baratheon’s heir?

He gently scratches Saffron’s ear as the child approaches and smiles when the jaguar allows herself to be touched like the giant cat she truly was, closing her eyes with a deep purr that vibrates beneath his fingers, while he speaks calmly after Duncan lightly touches his elbow.

—I didn’t know that when you produced your offspring, Maekar, you forgot to give them a brain.

He ignores Maekar’s bristling look and looks at Prince Aerion again, raising his eyebrows mockingly.

—If I show up here accompanied by a knight who is clearly protected and accompanied by a deer... a deer that, curiously enough, is as black as the one identifying my House’s sigil... doesn’t it occur to you that perhaps you are looking at my soulmate and husband?

He looks at Duncan with an amused, mocking smile when he hears him make a choked sound, clearly trying not to laugh, and leans over to press a kiss to his shoulder before giving his attention to Baelor again.

—Have you had enough? Can we leave? My soulmate needs to rest after months of campaigning, resolving something that you should have resolved, but for some reason the Lords trusted the Stormlands more to resolve it.

He clicks his tongue with false pity and adjusts the sleeves of his shirt, keeping his head lowered to hide his smile somewhat.

—In any case, it is what it is, if the Crown Prince and Hand of the King has anything else he would like to discuss, I would prefer that he wait to do so with my father or me, but at a more appropriate time... There is no need to ruin a girl’s saint with this.

—You are right, Lord Lyonel —Baelor says, the patience in his voice growing increasingly thin—. Just one last thing, thank you for your service, Ser Duncan, the Crown...

—Excuse me, my lord —Duncan’s voice had turned slightly cold as he interrupted the prince, and Lyonel notices how his shoulders tense before he relaxes them again—, but besides being Lyonel’s soulmate and husband, I am a knight of House Baratheon, what I do is because I am asked to do so and because it is the right thing, helping when something like this happens not because the Crown wishes it.

—That is so, my Doe, that is why they turn to us, I suppose.

Lyonel lets out a sigh of false exhaustion and gives Baelor a bow laden with sarcasm before looking at the little prince, who was still playing with Saffron, sliding his fingers with increasingly less caution through her fur.

—It is not difficult to find our camp if you want to come play with her or with Onyx, but make sure your father knows where you are.

He smiles sincerely at the child once more before turning toward the exit, knowing that Duncan follows close behind him, although he does not need to look at him to know it, the sound of Onyx’s hooves as he moves from one side to the other while the deer changes position to better cover both of their blind spots is enough.

For some reason, despite being such a large and massive man, but also clumsy in many ways, his soulmate was strangely silent when tense, almost as elegant and sinuous as Saffron in his steps and movements, and Lyonel could feel him behind him without needing to hear anything more than the metallic sound of his sword.

Lyonel feels the tension in his shoulders only beginning to loosen when they are back in the corridor, although he still cannot fully relax until they reach the courtyard and his husband helps him mount Snow. He settles into the saddle and puts up the hood of his cloak as they cross the inner courtyard, feeling the cold morning air on the few parts of his face that remain uncovered, and when they finally leave the castle he feels the persistent tingling of a fixed gaze on the back of his neck. From the way his soulmate moves behind him, with his shoulders more tense and his head slightly inclined, he knows he is not the only one who has felt it.

—You’re angry, Doe.

He leans slightly over the saddle so he can see his soulmate’s face when they get far enough from the castle while still maintaining a prudent distance from the merchants and camps that were already beginning to fill.

—Why?

He shudders slightly at Duncan’s cold, angry tone, not only because it was rare for his soulmate to become so angry, but because, for some reason, it always provoked a dread in him that filled his body with cold and made his heart race with fear. Throughout his life and all his exploits, the foolish ones and the justified ones, Lyonel had been confronted or scolded in too many tones, voices, and words for such a thing to affect him, but, if he was honest with himself, not even his father’s scoldings could make him feel the same way as Duncan’s anger, much less when he knew exactly what had enraged his husband.

—I’m sorry.

—No, Lyonel, you’re not sorry, because if you were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation again.

He shudders again when Duncan stops walking to look at him, his blue eyes turned to ice, and for an instant Lyonel feels his stomach tighten before forcing himself to breathe calmly despite the knot forming in his throat.

—You know he’s going to do something to get revenge for what you said... You saw it, you saw his face, Lyonel.

He leans over his saddle as far as he can to hug Duncan, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and letting out a sigh against his warm cheek, still carrying the scent of the soap he had used before leaving and his usual masculine scent that always made Lyonel dizzy with desire.

—I know, I really am sorry, Doe.

Something slowly loosens inside him when his husband’s arms surround him, one hand stroking his hip and the other moving up and down his thigh with calm movements, although Lyonel is aware that just because Duncan is soothing him does not mean his anger has disappeared, only that it has diminished enough for him to breathe again without feeling his chest so tight.

He pulls away slightly when one of Duncan’s large hands sinks into his curls, the fingers settling between the still somewhat disheveled strands, and kisses his trembling lips.

—It’s all right, love, truly... Shh... You should have stayed in our bed, me lil’ storm-nymph

He shudders, feeling his eyelashes flutter at the low, hoarse voice of his soulmate, the one that always seemed to melt Lyonel’s brain and turn his body to clay so that Duncan could do whatever he wanted with him. He growls softly and pulls away with his cheeks burning, feeling on the verge of falling back into that blurred state he slipped into when Duncan played with him for hours, and nods slightly, agreeing as he absently rubs his fingers against the fabric of his cloak in an unconscious gesture of nervousness.

—I’m sorry, Doe.

—We already talked about that, me lil’ storm-nymph

He rolls his eyes and squeezes his husband’s wrist, in his usual silent sign that he is fine when he loses his words, and Duncan seems to understand without needing him to say anything more, squeezing his hip one last time before releasing him to resume his walk toward his pavilion. Lyonel is grateful that he keeps one of his hands wrapped around his ankle, his thumb rubbing over the delicate bone because that helps him feel anchored and attentive to what is happening around him instead of letting his mind fly away again or drift back toward that hazy space where everything feels good, free and beautiful, small and precious.

He remains silent as they stroll through the market, letting the noise of the voices and the movement of the stalls fill the space between them, until, suddenly, Onyx moves away at a quick pace, with no concern for everything he bumps into or catches with his antlers along the way, knocking down some fabric and forcing a vendor to step aside with a curse. Saffron soon follows close behind after a click of his tongue, moving with far more elegance among the people.

—Go.

He nods toward his husband when Duncan looks at him with a frown and takes Snow’s reins, winding the leather around one hand while following with his gaze the figure of Duncan moving away with long strides, quickly catching up with the determined pace of his guardians.

Following the pull of his soulmate, he guides Snow behind his husband until they stop in front of the puppeteers’ tent. He frowns when he dismounts and the echo of Duncan’s voice reaches him, somewhat muffled by the entrance fabrics, but filled with sincere joy and an emotion that Lyonel recognizes immediately, and a slight pang of irritation runs through his ribs before he enters.

He relaxes a little when Saffron presses herself against his thighs and hip, her warm fur brushing his cloak while Lyonel absently tangles his fingers in the collar she wears and looks around, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light inside, until he finally finds Duncan, who has his arms wrapped around a young woman more or less his age, with sharp, dark eyes that seem to stand out even more because of the subtle makeup she wears, as well as her golden skin, typical of someone from Dorne.

Duncan’s fingers move with a care that Lyonel had rarely seen in such large hands as they pass through the girl’s long, shiny, well-kept hair, which is braided over one of her shoulders, and upon looking at her more closely Lyonel realizes that her clothing is a mixture of something masculine with the light, airy fabrics typical of a lady.

—Careful.

He groans with a laugh when Onyx suddenly appears at his side and strikes his chest with his antlers, forcing him to take half a step back before he can regain his balance and push his head away with one hand.

—Ly, come, I want you to meet someone.

Careful not to trip over Onyx, who absolutely refuses to move out of his way and seems determined to remain pressed against him, he approaches his soulmate, while Duncan moves far enough away from the girl to be able to wrap an arm around him, settling his hand on his hip.

—Rafe, let me introduce you to my soulmate... Lyonel, this is my Rafe.

He looks from his soulmate to the young woman in front of him, who watches him with her dark, serious, attentive eyes, though just as surprised as his own. Something inside him relaxes as he suddenly understands who she is and what place she had occupied in Duncan’s life before their paths crossed. Ignoring any protocol or decorum, he leans in until he can give her a light hug, feeling beneath his hands the softness of the fabrics she wears as he murmurs only to her:

—Thank you for taking care of him and being his family until I came to him, Rafe.

He pulls away enough for his eyes to meet Rafe’s dark ones, and the young woman smiles broadly and mischievously at him, with an expression that makes Lyonel immediately understand that he has probably just found a kindred soul for mischief.

Do it well.. You’ll do it well.. I know you will 

Duncan knew it, he knew that the idiot Aerion would find a way to take revenge for the attitude Lyonel had shown during the meeting they had had with the royal family, but he had not imagined that the prince would be so foolish as to do it publicly and in such a cruel manner.

As he knew, his lord husband had passed the first round of jousting without any kind of difficulty, even with only a few hours of sleep, but that morning they were both awake at dawn, restless and with their skin prickling from a growing panic that neither of them could explain. Duncan had tried to convince himself that it was only exhaustion, that they had spent too many hours awake the previous day and that the tension of having the Targaryens so close had remained clinging to their bodies, but he had been unable to shake that unpleasant sensation that ran along the back of his neck every time he looked toward where Lyonel and his animals were.

And the answer came with the afternoon jousts.

Duncan had moved away from the arena and the roaring crowd so he could speak with Tadeo, who was organizing a small trip toward the nearest village to obtain some more supplies and replenish what their sudden arrival was consuming, when he heard the screams of horror and one that rose above all the others.

—Attack him! Kill him, Lily!

Prince Aerion’s voice was filled with a fury that filled Duncan’s chest with cold.

For an instant he remained completely still, as if his body needed to confirm what his ears had just heard, and then he ran, searching for any sign of pain in Saffron, but finding nothing to indicate that she had placed herself between Lyonel and any danger. When he finally burst back into the arena, forcing his way through the astonished crowd, the deafening uproar of nobles and commoners was muffled in his ears as his eyes desperately swept the field, searching for Saffron’s reddish fur or the golden gleam of Lyonel’s armor among the horses and men.

Then he saw him.

Lyonel was on the ground, clutching an arm that was clearly broken, his breathing ragged and blood beginning to drip down one of his legs, while his mount, Windstorm, was half on top of him, placing his own body between Lyonel and any horse that might bolt or any man who might try to approach his wounded master. The animal snorted heavily, raising foam around the bit while keeping his legs firmly planted, and Duncan felt his stomach twist at the sight of the way Lyonel tried to sit up despite the pain, his helmet lying a couple of steps away.

—Now, Onyx!

He shouts, giving his deer permission, who had been moving impatiently behind the barrier, snorting and striking the ground with one hoof while waiting for permission, because although Onyx rarely obeyed anyone, that was one of the few orders from Duncan that he respected. As soon as he hears the command, the deer enters the arena with a sharp thud of his hooves against the churned earth and follows Saffron, who had already entered on her own initiative after Lyonel gave her the order when he had seen the enormous dragon of stone scales launch itself toward him from the other side of the arena.

Duncan rarely panicked, for living on the streets he had quickly learned that fear paralyzed and that becoming paralyzed meant dying, but it was not until he reached Storm’s End that he learned to move through fear, to use it as an engine to get through any situation without letting it take control away from him. This time, however, the fear was different, because his soulmate, his sweet love, was in danger, and although Duncan was perfectly aware that Lyonel was more than capable of taking care of and defending himself, probably even better than Duncan could, at that moment the only thing he could think about was that he had to reach him, that he had to protect him at any cost.

As he jumped over the different barriers to enter the arena and ran among the horses and knights, who had interrupted their own clashes to watch what was happening and were now trying to get out of the way, his boots sank into the loose earth with every stride and the dampness of the arena splashed against his leggings, but Duncan barely noticed. The screams of the spectators mingled with the roars of the enormous reptilian creature, above all the noise Duncan could distinguish Saffron’s growls and the deep sound of Onyx as both moved around the beast.

They moved fighting in a brutal, merciless, and precisely efficient tandem, surrounding and preventing Maekar’s imposing stone beast that Aerion had treacherously unleashed from approaching Lyonel. Onyx came in from one side each time the dragon tried to advance, forcing him to turn his body and lift one of his legs so as not to receive the impact of his antlers, while Saffron took advantage of each movement to disappear from his field of vision and reappear from another angle, her body low and her claws digging into the earth each time she changed direction, forcing him to defend himself from two different directions.

And Duncan could not take his eyes off them, but neither could he stop watching Lyonel, who remained on the ground behind Windstorm, and in the midst of all that chaos, among the screams, the dust, and the sound of hooves striking the earth, all he could do was run toward his soulmate while a single certainty began to impose itself over anything else he might think.

He was going to make Aerion pay.

Everyone knew that Prince Aerion did not have a soulmate, but it was also known that, when Prince Maekar’s wife had died, she had left her animal behind to care for her soulmate and the children she had given Maekar, so it was not strange for the princes to be accompanied by a dragon of stone scales that, from what they said, shone with a slight purple hue beneath the sun. But what Aerion was doing... was the greatest brutality he could commit, for he was breaking the laws of gods and men by ordering a treacherous attack in such a manner, but also because he was risking having the last vestige of his mother erased forever.

Upon reaching his husband’s side, he takes the shield that Lyonel kicks toward him and positions himself between him and Aerion on one side while watching Onyx, who was moving a little more slowly than usual, clearly feeling and sharing the pain Lyonel was feeling. The colossal jet-black deer had completely extinguished any trace of his playful vitality, transformed into a mass of protective fury, his enormous antlers tilted forward, gleaming with a ghostly gold beneath the overcast sky, and he charged like a living battering ram into the armored reptile’s flank.

The sharp impact made the dragon’s stone scales crack and drew a harsh roar from the spectators, while the beast tried to turn its jaws to bite him, but Onyx raised his heavy front hooves and delivered a deafening kick directly to its snout, forcing it to retreat and exposing its blind spot.

But it was the only millisecond Saffron needed to complement the attack. The jaguar attacked from the shadows with an alarming lethality for an animal so large and, in an explosive blink, leaped onto the cracked back of the stone dragon, dodging by mere inches a violent lash of its tail that sent earth and mud flying around its legs. Her claws sank between the fractured scales and her body flattened against the creature’s back to keep herself clinging on while the dragon thrashed violently, trying to reach her with its jaws.

—Doe!

At Lyonel’s alarmed cry, Duncan stopped watching his guardian animals just in time to prevent Prince Aerion from striking him with his sword. He raised the shield and, in the same movement with which he deflected the prince’s attack, pushed him with enough force to send him falling backward into the mud, feeling beneath his arm the impact that traveled through the shield and Aerion’s weight as he lost his balance.

The crowd’s choked gasp made him look toward his animals again, just in time to catch sight of Saffron, whose eyes, the same deep blue they shared, gleaming with a cold murderous instinct, kept her claws clinging to the dragon’s cracked scales. Duncan shuddered when he saw her open her jaws and sink her fangs with devastating pressure into the soft joint of the beast’s neck, seeking to crush the base of its skull. The dragon thrashed with a violence that made Saffron’s entire body tremble, but she did not release her prey, clenching her jaws even tighter while the harsh sound of cracking scales was lost among the roars and screams of the arena.

Part of Duncan wanted to feel pity for the destruction his animals were causing, because he knew neither of them would stop until the dragon was dead and gone, and that became even clearer when Onyx broke through the beast’s defense and the feline delivered the killing blow.

The stone dragon collapsed against the beaten earth, its scales losing consistency as its enormous body began to come apart until it became an ethereal mist that rose among them, leaving Aerion trembling with terror at Duncan’s feet while Prince Maekar let out a cry of pure agony from the stands.

Something in Duncan’s chest grows cold with pain but also sympathy upon hearing that cry, because he could imagine what it meant to watch the last vestige of someone he had loved and lost disappear in such a way, compounded by the fact that it had been his own son who had caused it.

Kill him... Peace... Kill him.

Onyx released a triumphant bellow that shook the tournament stands, while Saffron only snorted one last time toward the Targaryens before immediately turning toward Lyonel. She approached at a slow pace, still with her body tense from the fight, the muscles of her shoulders moving beneath her fur and her heavy breathing escaping through her jaws, and began rubbing her large head against her husband’s bearded cheek, checking for herself that he was there and that he remained safe.

Knowing that his husband was safe, Duncan felt comfortable turning his back, and even more so upon noticing that Hardyng had approached together with Dondarrion, watching Lyonel’s back, to give his full attention to Aerion Targaryen, whose face had transformed into a horrible grimace, and Duncan had seen and lived through enough to recognize that it came from pure pain and desperation, from the panic that bloomed when the consequences of your actions began to reveal themselves.

He moved far enough backward to create a little space between the unhinged prince and himself, adjusted the strap of Lyonel’s shield around his hand instead of his arm while retrieving one of the thick-bladed knives he always kept inside his boots. The leather of the strap tightened around his fingers when he closed his fist, and the familiar handle of the knife settled against his palm as he regained his balance on the damp, churned earth of the arena, with no time to search it for his soulmate’s fallen sword or any other lost weapon, not with the way Aerion had begun to move as soon as he was steady on his feet again.

You should have killed him when you had the chance, love... monsters rarely change.

He steadied himself in his position, using all his weight to avoid moving, so when Aerion lunged at him, all he had to do was move the shield enough to stop him and push him several steps backward, reclaiming the space. The blow traveled up his arm from wrist to shoulder and the shield jolted against his forearm, but Duncan kept his feet planted in the earth, feeling his boots slip slightly over the mud before regaining their grip.

—My lord? —he calls softly, feeling seconds away from any restraint that held him back and kept him in place breaking, between the panic that still clawed at his throat alongside the image of his lover on the ground, and the noises coming from the stands where the Targaryens were, where Prince Maekar had been joined by his other sons, he felt the limit drawing closer.

—Your lord gives you permission to do whatever is necessary, Red Doe.

Hearing both the irritation and sincerity in his husband’s voice, he let go of any thought that was not about protecting and caring for his soulmate, for he could see death in the prince’s eyes, he knew that if he fell, Aerion would not hesitate to kill Lyonel as well.

—Watch him, Onyx, protect him at all costs! —he half-shouted when he felt his deer move behind him, and all it took was a brief glance over his shoulder to see him move into position in front of Lyonel, head lowered, ready to charge anyone who tried to approach his protected one.

Half imitating his deer, he bent his knees slightly and prepared himself just in time to receive the prince’s next attack. Aerion lunged at him again with a growl of rage, raising the sword above his head to bring it down with all the strength he could muster, and Duncan waited until the last instant before moving the shield, deflecting the blade to one side while taking a step forward instead of retreating. The blow passed so close that Duncan felt the displacement of air beside his head before the steel struck the edge of the shield, making his entire arm vibrate and drawing a harsh sound from the wood and metal.

The prince’s shoulder collided with his and, for an instant, they were both too close for Aerion to use the sword again, so Duncan took advantage and struck his forearm with the edge of the shield, forcing him to partially release the hilt.

He felt the prince’s body tense beneath the impact and heard the sharp sound the sword made when it struck the earth before Aerion managed to regain his grip, but Duncan was already moving. Before he could fully recover the weapon, Duncan drove his shoulder into his chest, the prince lost his balance and Duncan turned with him, using his own momentum to throw him over his body and send him sprawling onto the arena floor.

Without giving him time to recover, he advanced at a quick pace while the prince tried to get to his feet and slammed the edge of the shield against his chest, forcing him to retreat again. The blow drove the air from Aerion’s lungs with a sharp sound and Duncan saw his boots slip over the churned earth as he tried to regain his balance.

Aerion stumbled, searching for space, and threw a desperate slash toward Duncan’s side when he managed to recover his sword, but he was no longer there, having moved aside so that the prince’s sword blade only grazed his chest, feeling the tug of the fabric beneath the steel before the weapon passed by. He moved into the space the sword had just left and struck, the knife appearing beneath Aerion’s guard and sinking into his thigh, making the prince’s cry of pain echo across the arena.

Duncan withdrew the blade immediately and positioned himself in front of him again, shield raised, forcing him to choose between facing him or continuing to retreat. Aerion looked at him with a mixture of disbelief and hatred that, if Duncan had not been more concerned about his soulmate, would have worried him.

—Damn bastard!

—What in the seven hells is wrong with you? —Duncan half-gasped, readjusting his stance and wiping the blood from his knife on his leggings.

—You and your drunk! Everyone talks about you, about your deeds... —Aerion spat a thread of red saliva, tightening his grip on his sword with white knuckles—. THERE IS NO ONE GREATER THAN A DRAGON!

Without meaning to, Duncan slightly loosened his stance from sheer surprise at the absurd declaration the prince was making, who continued shouting about how no one should stand above the royal family, and he felt something cold rise through his chest as he realized that he had to... he needed to...

The only good dragon is a dead dragon.

He reaffirmed his stance and his grip on the shield as he advanced, cutting off all the prince’s rambling by leaving him no choice but to begin defending himself when Duncan started attacking him, striking him with the shield and with his fist at every opportunity.

He wanted and needed to finish it as quickly as possible, needed the maester to see his soulmate, but above all he wanted to set everything in motion to leave the tournament now that Lyonel could no longer participate, although his husband would probably complain all the way until they reached Storm’s End again, so he did not hold back.

He put as much strength as possible into his blows, careful not to exhaust himself too much and too quickly, and interrupted Aerion’s attempts before they came too close to his unprotected body, but also allowing him to come close enough to build confidence.

Soon, the prince’s helmet fell into the arena, broken, and part of his armor began to come loose, partly from Duncan’s heavy blows and partly from the knife he slid through every gap, cutting the leather straps as he searched for an opening. The sound of sharp blows against metal mingled with the increasingly heavy breathing of both men, while the damp earth clung to Aerion’s boots and knees every time he lost his balance.

Only when Aerion fell once more and struggled to rise did Duncan realize that the prince had managed to reach him a couple of times, if the dampness he felt along his side and on one of his shoulders was any indication, but it was nothing compared to what Duncan had done to him. The prince’s face was practically unrecognizable from the blood and swelling beginning to dominate it, blood dripping from nearly every portion of skin Duncan had left exposed, but he did not seem willing to surrender even when he could barely manage to stand.

He passed the knife to the hand holding Lyonel’s shield and took Aerion’s sword from him, kicking it away to leave it out of his reach. Then he briefly looked over his shoulder to make sure his soulmate was still safe, only to find him surrounded not only by Hardyng and Dondarrion, but also by Beesbury, but above all by most of the men in his company, who had closed ranks around him with tense expressions and weapons at the ready.

His attention shifted toward the stands, from where Prince Maekar’s laments could still be heard, and only the echo of an old pain unknown but also familiar made him shudder and stopped him in his plan to kill Aerion, although he could not let him go so freely.

He turned toward the prince again and approached until he could kick him. He sent him rolling a couple of times across the arena before stopping him with a firm foot on his chest as he spoke.

—I am not going to kill you, although I have the permission and justification to do so. I am going to let you live so that you may live with the knowledge that you have murdered your own mother.

Duncan felt rather than saw the prince shudder, but he paid it little attention. Using Aerion’s own weapon, he cut off one of his hands so that he could never wield a sword again for the rest of his life, and ignoring his screams he kicked one of his legs so he could make a cut along his calf, one he knew would not heal as it should and that would make the prince limp for the rest of his life.

—You should feel shame every time you look at yourself, Aerion Targaryen, because you are not only a murderer, but because, by the fault of your forked tongue, more befitting a serpent than a dragon, your brothers and your father must pay the price.

He was aware that he was letting himself be carried away too much by the cruelty that always lived beneath his ribs and that he had always feared, for he felt that he would lose himself if he allowed it to consume him. He was terrified of letting himself go and becoming something Lyonel would be ashamed of, but... Aerion’s cruelty could only be contained by more cruelty.

Ignoring the prince’s screams and those of the rest of the crowd watching, he undid the straps of the shield from his wrist and knelt so that one of his knees kept the prince pinned against the ground. He forced him to open his mouth and, coldly, cut out his tongue, quickly pushing him onto his side to prevent him from choking on his own blood, for letting him die would be pointless.

—Your father is not to blame because you never learned to keep your forked tongue behind your useless teeth, so no one but you is to blame for this.

He stood and ran his hands over his thighs, wiping away the blood that had remained on his fingers, before putting away the knife as he walked away from the prince with determined steps. He could feel the skin of his neck and cheeks pulled tight from the blood that had splashed over him, some drops still wet against his skin while others were beginning to dry, but all he could focus on was his soulmate when his men moved to allow him to see Lyonel.

—Someone gather my husband’s things and take Windstorm back to camp.

He ordered firmly without stopping his steps, lifting Lyonel with one arm around his back and another beneath his knees. He grunted slightly because, although he was accustomed and more than used to tossing his husband’s weight from one side to another, the armor made it more difficult, though not impossible. The metal struck softly against his chest when he adjusted his grip, searching for a position that would not put pressure on the wounded leg, and he gestured for the squires, who were far too young for Duncan to feel comfortable leaving them out of his sight, to follow them along with Saffron and Onyx, who stayed carefully close as Duncan led them out of the arena with his eyes fixed ahead.

—Doe... Doe... Duncan!

He startled at the sound of Lyonel’s loud voice in his ear and lowered his gaze toward his soulmate, only to see him looking at him with his large eyes darkened, although Duncan could not be certain whether it was from desire or irritation. His curls were disheveled and dirty because he had probably rolled when he fell, with some strands stuck to his forehead from sweat and dirt, but he was neither pale nor trembling, so the wound on his leg must have looked worse than it really was, although he still cradled his arm very carefully, keeping it close to his body to prevent movement from making it hurt more.

—I’m sorry, my love, are you all right? We’ll patch you up in a minute.

He pressed a soft kiss to Lyonel’s curls, still damp with sweat and stuck in places with dirt, feeling something in his chest loosen when the breathing of his soulmate tickled his neck, warm and slightly irregular against his skin.

He kept his steps firm and long to prevent anyone from stopping them, adjusting the arm around Lyonel’s back from time to time when the weight of the armor made his body shift slightly against his own, although from the appearance of both of them, covered in dirt and blood, added to the way Saffron and Onyx were behaving, he doubted anyone would have tried. The jaguar moved close beside them, ears pinned back and eyes scanning the crowd, while Onyx walked a few steps ahead with a slight limp, his enormous hooves sinking into the ground and the remnants of blood still staining part of his muzzle and dripping from his antlers.

—That was hot, Doe, but are you all right? That idiot didn’t do anything to you, did he?

He laughed lightly and shook his head, looking at the squires struggling to keep pace, some still looking over their shoulders toward the arena, and ordered them in a harsher voice than he normally would have used with them.

—Run to camp, have the maester waiting for us in our tent. I want clean water for a bath and then you’re free for the day, all right?

He received several “Yes, Ser” before they ran off like the small pack of nightmares they were, tripping over one another as they tried to quicken their pace, and he lowered his gaze toward Lyonel when he felt his head fall against his shoulder. For a moment, panic stole his breath and his arms tightened around his body, thinking that his husband had lost consciousness.

—Lyonel?

—I’m awake... Just...

—I know, after the maester sees you, you can sleep, all right?

He tightened his hold on his soulmate a little, settling one hand beneath his knees so that the wounded leg would not hang with every step, feeling the warmth of his body through the layers of clothing and the dead weight of the armor against his arms, knowing that he would not calm down until he saw him in clean clothes, with his wounds tended to and sleeping in his bed.

Upon reaching their camp, he carried Lyonel directly toward his personal tent and carefully lowered him into one of the chairs, bending his knees first so as not to drop his weight all at once, and worked with the help of one of the squires to remove his armor quickly. The straps were tight and some had become dirty with sand and dried blood, so his fingers had to search for the fastenings among the hardened leather while the metal struck softly against the ground each time they managed to free a piece, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease as the clothes Lyonel wore beneath the metal were exposed and revealed that they were clean, without any trace of blood.

Duncan ran his fingers over the clean fabric of his chest almost without realizing it, searching for any stain that might have escaped him, and only then let out a little of the air he had been holding since he had entered the arena.

Go back, remember what is necessary and seek out your soulmate, love him, care for him and protect him, be his safe harbor in the storm, be his shield against danger, be his light in the darkness. 

He raised his hands to cradle Lyonel’s face between them and was able to look into his eyes, which were half-hidden behind his curls, but even so Duncan could see how bright they were with sincere joy, even with the slight shadow of pain and exhaustion in them. His smile felt as warm as the summer sun and the warmth of his cheeks against his palms quickened his pulse, the heat of his skin contrasting with the cold dampness he could still feel on his own fingers.

So beautiful, so perfect and so his, his lil’ storm-nymph.

—We are never fucking setting foot in Ashford again for the rest of our lives.

Lyonel’s laughter echoed in his chest, like distant thunder echoing through the Godswood behind the fortress, but above all it warmed his blood with the purest joy, making it impossible for Duncan not to smile as well.

Do it well.. You will do it well.. I know you will