Chapter Text
What would Ser Arlan say if he saw him now? The old man had never been put in any dungeons, not as far as Dunk knew, though if some of his many stories had taken a slightly different turn, he might have seen the inside of a cell as well.
Dunk had walked the length of his confinement too many times by now. His toes knew every bit of unevenness in the stamped dirt floor; the top of his head knew at which point to veer away, avoiding the wet feel of more fetid drips falling from somewhere above him.
He stopped at the far side of the cell. From his small window onto the world, Dunk watched as it started to rain outside. Ashford Meadow had fallen silent. There would be no more games today.
Maybe Ser Arlan would laugh, Dunk thought, that great laugh of his where his eyes disappeared among their wrinkles, and it looked like his face would split in two. Maybe he’d ask Dunk if he at least managed to give the cruel prince a good kicking before they stopped him? Maybe he’d grab hold of the side of Dunk’s head, and give him that rough shake that felt like a cross between a clout in the ear and a kiss on the head. The one that told Dunk that Ser Arlan loved him enough to expect better of him.
When they came for him, the guards were silent and unconcerned, like they were picking up a load of sheets to be washed, and not bringing a man before royals to be judged for the act of treason. None of them looked at him, only gestured for him to fall in among them, their hands on their sword pommels the only message they needed to convey.
The door leading to the room where Dunk’s fate was to be decided was massive. When one of the guards by his side knocked, it sounded like drums announcing an approaching army. But there was nobody here but Dunk, his head bent and clothes smelling of damp dungeon.
The door opened. Dunk drew in a heavy breath and held it, tightening his middle in preparation for whatever was to come at him.
Just hold, he remembered.
Coming to stand in front of the great table, he met the eyes of the men he would have expected to sit in judgment of him: Prince Baelor, his brother Maekar, that Aerion Targaryen, and the lords Ashford and Tyrell. But just as the door shut behind him, and the guards left his side to take up their watchful posts along the walls, a familiar voice called out from somewhere to the right of Dunk.
“My love!”
Lyonel swept up to him, all teeth and curls, absolutely overwhelming Dunk with his sudden attention. He stepped in front of Dunk, doing his best to shield him from his judges. “When I couldn’t find you back at the tent I feared the worst, the absolute worst.” His brown eyes were comforting and warm, inviting Dunk to wrap himself up in their care. “But considering everything that has happened to you since we last parted, it thrills me to see you looking so well.” He reached up and pulled Dunk into an embrace, his lips close to his ear as he whispered, “more than you could possibly know.”
Dunk barely had time to return the hold, even though his arms ached to know the feel of Lyonel’s body, when they were interrupted by a sharp voice.
“No secret conferring!” Prince Maekar called out. “Baelor, tell them.”
Before drawing completely back from him, Lyonel locked their eyes together, sending some indefinable message which struggled to reach Dunk. His hands held onto Dunk’s upper arms for a moment longer, like he was trying to steady and settle Dunk for what was to come. Finally, Lyonel stood back from him with an irritated groan, turning to face the grand table with the air of man too tired to deal with whatever nonsense waited for him there.
As Dunk felt his body next to him, standing closer than mere friendship warranted, he found himself standing taller, bolstered by just the presence of Lyonel. Though his words confused Dunk, it was of little matter to him right now; he was used to falling behind while others understood.
“My brother is in the right,” the smooth voice of Prince Baelor sounded, “if we are to test the veracity of Ser Lyonel’s claim, all of it must be undertaken out in the open, in front of credible witnesses such as have gathered here.”
“Credible? Then why is Aerion still here?” Egg had scuttled forward from some corner or other, finding his way to stand next to Dunk’s left leg, like a loyal guard dog sitting by its master.
“I wonder which of us is the biggest liar, brother,” Aerion replied coolly from his end of the table. “Ask the brute you’re standing next to what your name is, your true name, that is, and we’ll all learn how much you like to bend the truth.”
“I’d rather bend the truth than break fingers!”
“Enough!” Prince Maekar stood up, his beard fairly bristling with anger. “Both of you should be sent to your beds like the mewling infants that you are.”
Lord Ashford and Lord Tyrell shifted uncomfortably in their seats on the other side of the table, both of them wondering how it came to be that they had to spend an evening embroiled in a Targaryen family squabble.
One of Lyonel’s hands had found a secure place on Dunk’s arm, using it to pull him close to his own body. Dunk looked over at him, trying to understand what had been said before he entered this room. But the only answer he got was a fond smile and a firm squeeze of Lyonel’s fingers.
“Ser Duncan.” Prince Baelor levelled a look at him, equally reassuring and measuring. “Do you understand why Ser Lyonel is here?”
“He…” Dunk glanced at Lyonel, still trying to find the answer. “He is a good man, Your Grace, and has treated me kindly. It doesn’t surprise me that a man like Ser Lyonel would lend his support to me when I have landed in such dire straits.”
Lyonel laughed, an odd thing to do when standing next to a man destined for the gallows. “It’s alright, Dunk. I know we wanted to keep it to just ourselves, but I’ve told the princes all about it.” His hand travelled down to Dunk’s forearm and gave a definite rub at the cloth sitting just above Dunk’s soul mark. “It’s alright,” he repeated, painting every word with meaning.
Dunk’s heart sped up, a wildly stuttering motion. He gaped at Lyonel. “Did-did Egg tell--”
“Not me, Ser!” Egg was quick to interrupt. “I never knew that you had found your soulmate in Ser Lyonel.”
“Aegon!” Prince Maekar barked from his seat. “Come sit by me, and don’t speak another word.”
Egg almost hid himself behind Dunk’s legs as he eyed his brother warily. “I’m not sitting next to him.”
“Luckily I’m made up of two sides,” Maekar replied. “Now come here.”
Dunk could do nothing but rub Egg’s shoulder, giving the boy a gentle murmur of encouragement to support him as he shuffled over to his father, head bent in demonstrative protest. The chair squealed over the flagstones as Egg pulled it from the table and sat down.
“I’m sorry, my love, but I’m afraid our secret is out.” Lyonel kept petting at Dunk’s right forearm. “I know you wanted it kept quiet until the end of the tourney, that you wanted to compete under your own name, but I cannot pretend not to be overjoyed at being able to share my happiness. If you had allowed it from the first moment, I would have run naked through Ashford Meadow, proclaiming to all who cared to listen that my soulmate is the most beautiful, the most honourable, and the kindest man in all of the seven kingdoms.”
Lyonel’s fingers brushed down and took hold of Dunk’s hand. He raised it to his lips and pressed a single kiss to its knuckles, his heated eyes never leaving Dunk’s while he did.
And, oh, didn’t those words sound sweet to Dunk’s ears? Wasn’t that gentle kiss something he had dreamed of ever since he was a boy? The words should have been true – In a kinder world where soulmates meet in a whirl of immediate joy, and not doubt and rejection, they would all have been true. But in this world, if Dunk had actually revealed himself to be Lyonel’s soulmate, he knew the man would have run fast in the other direction, away from Dunk and the stranglehold he had on him.
Lyonel was lying: none of that had ever happened. This was the first kiss, the first embrace, they had ever shared, and it was all part of a performance that Dunk had been roped into, like a player shoved onto a stage without being given any lines.
“It’s fine, Lyonel.” He spoke the words slowly, weighing every one as he went. “We were fools for thinking we could keep this just between ourselves.”
Lyonel gave him the faintest nod of approval before turning to the table of judges. “Especially when my one true love has been hauled from my bed and forced to have these fucking falsehoods hurled at him.” The words sounded like they were forced from his chest, contempt dripping from each and every one of them.
“Fucking falsehoods?” Prince Maekar sat forward, casting an expectant glance at his brother before continuing. “There were witnesses to the attack on my son. Just look at him: he still bears the wounds he received by the hand of this fucking hedge knight.”
Aerion’s face was unblemished except a single red cut by his lower lip.
“I’ve had more wounds from petting a cat,” Lyonel sniffed.
Prince Baelor held up a calming hand. “We are not here to debate the truth of what happened in that tent between Prince Aerion and Ser Duncan. That has been established beyond any doubt. What concerns us…” he paused as he leaned forward in his chair, “is the matter of sentencing.”
“You can’t sentence him! Not when he’s just met his soulmate!” Egg cried out.
Aerion scoffed loudly. “Another lie from my dear little brother.”
“If you name Prince Aegon a liar, then you make the same claim for the heir to Storm’s End and the future Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. You’ll mind your tongue, boy, before calling me a liar,” Lyonel bit out. “This man standing beside me is my soulmate, chosen for me by the Seven. To kill a man destined for another on such spurious charges such as these, is pure sacrilege. Nothing further needs to be discussed than that.”
Aerion started forward in his seat, ready to pour scorn on any irrelevant Stormlander who dared to cross the house of the dragon, but his father was there first. Prince Maekar slammed a stilling hand onto his son’s wrist, giving him a look that warned not to stir up any more political trouble.
Dunk could do nothing but stare at the man next to him. How could Lyonel lie like that? Except he wasn’t lying, he was actually telling the truth, but he didn’t know that! Lyonel was standing tall, his voice unwavering, as he swore to something he believed to be an absolute falsehood. Dunk would have sit down and prepare himself with fortifying breaths before even attempting a lie like that – a lie that could either save a man’s life or condemn him even further.
“Ser Duncan.” Prince Baelor’s soft voice floated over the table, his kind eyes fastened on Dunk. The man seemed an island in a storm, a shelter in the middle of all this chaos. “From what little I know of you, you seem an honest man – one who remembers his vows. I believe that your word can be trusted.”
Dunk’s cheeks grew warm at such open praise. “I should hope so, Your Grace.”
“So tell me: when did you first discover that Ser Lyonel was your soulmate?”
“I…” He licked his lips and glanced at Lyonel next to him. “The very first night we met – two nights ago, it was. I had been invited to eat and drink in Lyonel’s pavilion and we-- we spotted each other from across the tent.” Without knowing it, he had turned fully towards Lyonel, the great table with all its princes and lords fading into the background. “I don’t rightly know how soul marks are meant to work. Nobody knew back in Flea Bottom. But there was this pull,” he gestured back and forth between his own middle and Lyonel’s chest, “like we were tied together by an invisible rope.” His gaze fell on Lyonel’s face. Those big, brown eyes were looking up at him, a mix of wonder and intense fondness colouring their depths. Dunk ducked his head, hoping his shyness read as earnest. “And Lyonel – Ser Lyonel, as I knew him then – asked me to come to his table. We talked, we danced, and then we sat and talked some more. That was when he showed me his soul mark.”
“Ser Lyonel was always a very eager man,” Prince Maekar muttered. “Very forward with his dalliances.”
“And what of it? When it has secured me a prize such as this man?” Lyonel pulled Dunk closer to him, his arm coming to rest around the small of his back. “He might have left my pavilion and my life forever if I hadn’t been forward.”
“And after Ser Lyonel had shown you his mark, you showed him yours?” Prince Baelor prompted.
“Y-Yes, Your Grace, I did.”
“Happiest day of my life,” Lyonel said. “You wouldn’t believe the horrors I’ve imagined my soulmate to be and then to be given this,” his grip firmed around Dunk’s back, “well, it’s enough to make a man renounce his name and take up vows to become a septon in pure gratitude to the Seven. Only… that would defeat the purpose of being given a soulmate.” He grinned freely, probably feeling confident now that he and Dunk were working together and looked to be getting away with it.
“And you, Ser Duncan? Are you happy with your soulmate?” Prince Baelor’s stare seemed to look right through Dunk. The lighter eye was cold like a shard of ice, while the darker one promised comfort after forcing hard truths to be spoken.
Lyonel was his soulmate, that was true, but Dunk could never honestly claim to be happy. He knew that all of this was nothing but a mummer’s farce put on to save his neck, that as soon as they left this room, Lyonel would go back to Storm’s End, none the wiser, and Dunk would have to live the rest of his life, knowing he would never feel whole like this again.
He glanced over at Egg. The boy had sat forward in his seat, eyes fixed on Dunk like he was working hard on moving thoughts from his own head and into his. Egg had been a good squire to him, a good boy through and through, and this scheme he had obviously cooked up together with Lyonel to save Dunk’s life was going off without a hitch.
Dunk would not be the reason it failed at the last hurdle.
Lyonel was his soulmate, and if he had accepted Dunk that night… He would take the truth of that if and make it act the part of a lie. The words came easily then.
“I never imagined that such happiness should befall me, Your Grace. I was an orphan boy, living in the foulest slums of King’s Landing. We learned early on not to expect much of anything out of life, not a safe place to sleep nor food to fill our bellies. But my mark always meant a lot to me. It was a promise of something better, a better life waiting for me just beyond the one I knew. And when I saw my mark on Lyonel’s arm, all my hopes came true at once. To be loved by a man who’s exciting and generous and loyal, and to love him right back… I never felt more chosen than when I met Lyonel. I never feel more myself than when I’m with him. It’s as simple as that.”
Dunk could feel the back of his eyes burning. The beautiful idea he was conjuring up of Lyonel and him together was more than he could take. He sniffed once as he tried to relax the muscles of his face, hoping the others would simply believe him overcome with joy.
“Dunk…” Lyonel murmured as he looked up at him. “I never thought…” His mouth was soft and open, like he wanted to surge forward and pull Dunk into a kiss, and probably would have done if there hadn’t been a roomful of princes watching them. “You wonderful man. Thank you.”
A snort of disbelief came from the direction of where Aerion was sitting, but Dunk couldn’t much find it in himself to care what some pampered princeling thought of him. At that moment he was content with just feeling the heat of Lyonel’s body as they swayed closer to each other. He could see the glint in Lyonel’s eyes and the true smile sitting on his lips. He looked like he had just been given the greatest treasure a man could desire. Though Dunk knew it wouldn’t last long, right now it was simply enough.
“I should think that to be sufficient,” Prince Baelor said. “Thank you for your candour, both of you. I understand that these are odd circumstances of having to explain and defend your bond after you’ve so recently found one another.”
“What about the mark?”
His uncle, father, and brother turned as one to give Aerion identical looks of exasperation. He merely raised his eyebrows at this universal condemnation, obviously feeling at home in the role of agitator.
“Words are all well and good, but they’re not exactly proof, are they?” Aerion gave a single challenging lift of his chin towards Dunk and Lyonel. “Let us see your arms, and if your marks match then I withdraw my accusation. But if not…” A cold smile met them. “The brute will stand accused of lying to the Crown, as well as robbing it and assaulting it. Hanging’s too good for a creature like that. Maybe we’ll break every bone in his body and throw him to the pigs instead. Do you keep pigs, Lord Ashford? Or is that something else I’ve been smelling these last couple of days?”
Before Lord Ashford could figure out the right answer, Prince Maekar leaned over his son. “What the fuck do you think you’re playing at? This is the easy way out for you, you do understand that? You’re already universally hated after that dirty business with Hardyng and his horse. Oh yes, your uncle told me all about that. Do you want to have no friends in this world other than the dragons flying around in your mind?”
“And the easy way out for them is to show us their marks,” Aerion replied before sitting back and finding Prince Baelor with a look. “Uncle, do you not think grandfather would ask for definite proof in a case such as this? King Daeron may be Good, but that does not make him witless.”
“Don’t listen to him, Uncle Baelor,” Egg cried out. “Aerion just won’t admit when he’s been beaten at his own rotten game.”
Prince Baelor sighed, something painful pulling at his mouth. He glanced in the direction of Lord Ashford and Lord Tyrell. “But he is right, I’m afraid. In matters such as these, there can be no uncertainty.” He looked up at the two men standing in front of him, assuming the pose of a benevolent but put-upon ruler. “Ser Lyonel, Ser Duncan, please allow us the viewing of your marks.”
“Absolutely fucking not.”
Lyonel shouldn’t have been convinced to leave his men-at-arms behind, shouldn’t have believed this to be a peaceful meeting. “I’ve already been called a liar by that cunt you call a nephew. And now I’m to be doubted by the Hand of the King himself? In front of lords from other great houses?” He gestured towards Ashford and Tyrell, though he couldn’t give a single fuck what those two frog-faced fuckers thought of his good name and honour. All he could think about was the irons they would tighten around Dunk’s wrist, covering whatever it was that made up his soul mark, before hauling him away to the gallows as a liar, a thief, and a brute. “I’ve given you my word as a knight. You should need nothing more.”
“It is a simple request, Ser Lyonel.” Baelor smiled that infuriating smile of his. “Soul marks are not intimate.”
“Depends where they sit on the body,” Maekar muttered.
“And the fact that you react so strongly to granting us a quick display, makes me think that you have something to hide.” Baelor turned that light eye more fully towards Lyonel, clearly thinking he could use its cold brightness to stare him into submission.
“Ser Lyonel doesn’t have to show you if he doesn’t want to!” Egg called out frantically, obviously thinking he was helping.
Lyonel’s jaw tightened. “I am not on trial. No man may compel me.”
Baelor’s lips hinted at something like a smug smile, like he had been the first to solve a difficult puzzle. “No, you are not. But Ser Duncan is still within Lord Ashford’s custody.” He turned to the man with a gentle nod. “If you would ask your men to bring Ser Duncan forward?”
No sooner had his prince delivered his thinly-veiled command, before the lord flapped a hurried hand at his household guards to grab hold of his prisoner. Lyonel was shouldered away from Dunk as four men, one on each side of him and two at his back, moved his dearest one towards his cruel judges.
Aerion sat forward in his chair, keenly ready for any form of entertainment which included the use of force.
Lyonel heard the scrape of chairs and what sounded like Egg shouting before being cut short by his father, but all he could see was the back of Dunk’s head as he bent it in submission in front of the prince.
“What could you possibly hope to achieve, Baelor?” Lyonel hurried to move up next to the huddle of men, able to see nothing but Dunk’s face at the top of it. “What are you going to compare it to? Or will you have Ashford’s men push me to my knees and tear the clothes off my back? What do you say to that, Lord Tyrell? My Lord Father will be surprised to hear that the Stormlands are to declare war against The Reach. An offence such as this will not be--”
“Lyonel.”
Dunk’s voice, low and even, fell on Lyonel’s fire like all the waters of the Rhoyne. He had turned his head, catching hold of Lyonel’s gaze and keeping it fixed on him. “It’s alright, Lyonel.” His face looked resigned, its numb and featureless planes striking Lyonel at his very heart.
And that only made the fire flare up again. “No, it fucking isn’t! They’re treating you like you’re something low and insignificant, and it makes no fucking sense since blessed Baelor can never know what my mark looks like. So this is nothing but a debasement of a good and honourable and fucking perfect man, just to amuse this gaggle of lizards and their toadying lords!”
He wanted to punch Baelor in his cunt face when the prince turned to him in that superior manner of his. “Many years ago, your excellent Lord Father had an image made of his first-born son’s soul mark, and distributed copies of it to all the other houses. I remember when it arrived – soul marks being something strange and intriguing to me as a young man – and I made a thorough study of it before the maesters of the Red Keep secured it for their library. We will not need to rouse Maester Yormwell from his bed nor send a raven to King’s Landing,” Baelor smiled, “because luckily I’ve been blessed with an excellent memory. I will recognise your mark if I see it on Ser Duncan’s arm.”
And there it was. Some random whim of his father’s, which he had submitted to with all the annoyed resignation of a child and completely put out of his head since then, was now the thing that was going to place the noose around Dunk’s neck.
Time seemed to slow down as Lyonel saw Baelor gesture for the guard on Dunk’s right to bring his arm forward. Lyonel wanted to throw himself on top of that arm, threatening blood and destruction if they ever looked one glance at Dunk’s soul mark. But he knew it would be to no avail. There were more men standing at attention along the sides of Lord Ashford’s smaller hall, more hands to hold back Lyonel. He could do nothing. They would discover the lie and Dunk would… The thought was too horrible to even consider.
Baelor learned forward as Dunk’s sleeve was pulled up, Maekar edging in from the side to make his own study, while Egg just stared at the table in front of him, waiting for his artful plan to fall to pieces.
All Lyonel could do was stare at the side of Dunk’s face, wondering at how placidly the man awaited his certain death. Maybe it was a consequence of the sort of childhood Dunk had struggled through – death was surely never far from your thoughts when your life was barely worth living.
Baelor narrowed his eyes slightly as he looked at Dunk’s arm, a short exhale coming from his nose that could be mistaken for either laughter, surprise, or disgust. “That’s…” He pursed his lips, obviously mulling over what to say. “Thank you, Ser Duncan. Please,” he nodded to the four men surrounding Dunk, “unhand him.”
The guards bent their heads to the prince and turned away from Dunk, their bodies parting and revealing the rest of Dunk to Lyonel’s eyes, his left hand busily pulling down the sleeve on his right arm.
“I am sorry for all that you have gone through this evening, Ser Duncan,” Baelor said, “but I’m certain that you have relied on your fortitude as a knight to withstand it. I applaud you for your composure.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“And as for you, Ser Lyonel,” Baelor’s gaze turned steely as he looked over at Lyonel. “I suppose it is only natural that you should be so protective of Ser Duncan. The Crown recognises that this gathering has come at a pivotal time in your life and so will grant you certain… leniencies. We will forget the words that you have spoken this evening, as will, I’m sure, the gracious Lord Ashford and Lord Tyrell.”
Lyonel blinked rapidly, looking from Dunk to Baelor and back again, feeling like he had been dropped and left behind a fast-moving cart, rolling around on the ground like a bruised head of cabbage.
The two other lords were quick to offer their assent. From the other side of Baelor, Maekar only snorted, the kind of sound that spoke clearly that he would never forget, that any possible future meeting between him and Lyonel would be heavily steeped in the kind of language Lyonel had been using this evening.
“Is that it?” Aerion asked from the far side of the table.
“You said you would withdraw your accusation if the marks matched,” Baelor said, barely able to look at his infuriating nephew. “And they match. That is all you need to know. The matter is therefore finished, and we can all go to our beds to seek our rest before enjoying the next days of Lady Gwin’s tourney,” he finished with a polite look to Lord Ashford.
Lyonel felt like his head might fall from his shoulders. He swivelled to Dunk, expecting to see surprise mirroring his own, but Dunk looked impassive, almost resigned at hearing Baelor’s proclamation.
“What?” That was Egg. “Are they soulmates?”
“Why do you sound surprised, you little rat?” Aerion turned his irritation towards his brother. “Did one of your many lies actually come true?”
“Oh, are you crying because you didn’t get to kill someone tonight?” Egg’s tone of voice was mocking. “Maybe we can find a beetle outside, something for you to stomp on to give you some relief.”
“You disgusting little--”
“For fuck’s—” Maekar’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling, wishing for any higher power to offer him guidance in the matter of troublesome sons. “Both of you, with me. Now.” Not only did he have two sides, he also had two hands which were put to use when he pulled both Egg and Aerion from their seats, pushing them in front of him out the room. As he went, Egg eagerly called back to Dunk, telling him how he would come find him again on the morrow to reassume his duties as a squire.
Baelor stood up with a measured air, encompassing both Dunk and Lyonel with a look of diplomatic politeness. “My congratulations to you both.” He walked out the room, Lord Ashford and Lord Tyrell shuffling quickly to follow his heels. Having been given no orders to stay in the room, the assorted guards and servants wasted no time in leaving as well, all of them probably eager for their beds.
Lyonel and Dunk were alone.
Dunk was still fiddling with the worn cloth of his right sleeve, his hand continuously rubbing it to make sure it was smooth and straight.
While Lyonel felt like he had to put himself together, had to pick up every piece scattered all over the floor before he was able speak.
“But…” he finally managed to say, “I showed you my soul mark. Like you said, it was that first night.”
Dunk wasn’t looking at him. Why wasn’t Dunk looking at him?
“Yes.”
“Do you mean to tell me that all this time… you knew?”
“Yes.”
One all dominating thought sat at the forefront of Lyonel’s mind: He doesn’t want me.
But what came out was, “Fuck you!”
Dunk turned away from him, shaking his head.
“No, you don’t fucking walk away from this. Do you mean to tell me that you would have seen this tourney out, got on your horse, and ridden away without ever telling me? That I’d never fucking see you again?”
Dunk still wasn’t looking at him, the coward. “I thought that was what you wanted.”
“How could you possibly think that? I’ve all but dropped to my knees to get your attention every single time we’ve met.”
“You said you didn’t want a soulmate.”
“I never said that.”
“Yes, you did. You said your soulmate was nothing to you.”
“Not when it’s you, you cunt. You’re fucking everything to me.”
“Well, how was I supposed to know that?”
“Because we’re fucking soulmates!”
The whole of Ashford Castle seemed to ring from Lyonel’s shout, like a giant bell struck with a blunt shovel. As they stood facing each other, bodies held like they had readied for a fight which never came, that silence was broken by the sound of a log shifting and sparkles bursting from the fireplace behind them.
Dunk was looking at him now, thank the Gods. “You mean that?” His voice was small, reminding Lyonel of how Dunk had hunched his way through his tent that first night. “About us being soulmates?”
Lyonel sighed. “I don’t know anything more about soulmates than you do. Some boring cunt of a maester once tried to pour that knowledge into me, but I seem to have emptied it all out again. You said it was like an invisible rope, and you must know that I have felt the same pull – ever since I first saw you, I’ve felt it.” Lyonel took one step closer to Dunk, watching how that large body started to relax.
“Lyonel…” Dunk spread his hands wide, opening himself up as truth started to pour out of him. “When I saw my mark on you and listened to how you felt about it...” He hesitated, those blue eyes filling with sorrow at the memory. “It felt like dying. Every hope I’d ever held about that mark was smashed to pieces when I saw how you sneered at the idea of soulmates.”
“Please believe me, Dunk, when I say that I hardly remember any of what I said that night. All I remember is how I felt as you walked away from me. I should have known then, I should have understood. The ache I felt in my chest at the thought of losing you was completely at odds to the few hours we had spent together.” He walked even closer to Dunk, looking up at that beloved face. “And I’d still sneer, loudly and at length, if any other person than you had revealed themselves to be my soulmate. But you…” Lyonel smiled. “Yes, the Seven must have fashioned you for me and me alone. And they knew what they were fucking doing.”
A flush spread over Dunk’s cheeks. He ducked his head before looking back at Lyonel. “Or maybe they created you to suit me?” His eyes flicked from Lyonel’s face and down his body, a small, cheeky grin finally brightening his face. “They must have known I wanted someone handsome.”
Something loosened in his chest, and Lyonel laughed freely. “Oh, is that all I am to you? Here I am, offering you my purest soul, and all you care about is the look of me?”
“Lyonel, when was your soul ever pure?”
“My mother tells me I was a very agreeable babe – when I wasn’t dipping her braids into the inkwell, that is.”
Now Dunk was laughing too, his body relaxing. “Does your mother still live?”
“She’s more alive than most people I know. Storm’s End is her domain. Though not born a Baratheon, the running of it belongs more to her than to my father.” He paused as he considered Dunk. “She’d like you.”
“Do you think so?”
“She always wanted it to be a good person – maybe because her own son can be such a terror. In time she may come to prefer you to me. I mean, it’d be understandable if she did.”
Dunk shook his head with a smile, never dreaming of coming between a mother and her son. “I’d like to meet her, and your father, too. I never… I never had a family. As a boy I had my closest friend; Rafe was her name. Later on there was Ser Arlan, and then Egg, I hope... but nobody else in this world would claim me. I remember waiting for my mother as a child, dreaming that she would come back to me and hold me and love me. Those dreams and my soul mark were all that added even an ounce of brightness to my life back then.”
“And then I spat on that bright hope with my callous words.” Lyonel’s brows dipped over his eyes as he looked at Dunk. “Can you ever forgive me?”
His wonderful Dunk gave a forgiving shake of his head. “You couldn’t have known.”
“No, I’m a self-absorbed man. All I could see in that mark was a limitation to everything I wanted in life. And I wasn’t accustomed to being restrained by anything or anyone. I never could have imagined that it would be like this, that it could be you.” He hoped his eyes showed the honesty of his feelings. “Such wanton selfishness really shouldn’t be rewarded. But since I’ve been given you, I’m going to keep you close and forever, hiding you away before the gods figure out their mistake and hand you over to someone more deserving.”
“I wouldn’t go even if they did,” Dunk replied, the words sounding like the absolute truth.
“Wouldn’t you?” Lyonel breathed out. They were standing very close now, sharing the same warmth. He could see Dunk’s eyes dip to his mouth before looking back at him, the blue of them deep and warm in the dimly lit hall.
Lyonel licked his lips. “Do you think soulmates feel it when they kiss?”
“I dunno.” Dunk’s voice had grown low and slow, like a stretch when you awake from a deep sleep. “Your maester have anything to say ‘bout that?”
“None whatsoever. I don’t think that man thought about kissing for one single moment in his whole life.”
“Maybe we should just try it for ourselves? We can send a raven to your old maester afterwards, telling him what we discovered.”
“He’d only write a weighty tome on the subject: ‘The Lives and Kisses of the Bonded Mates of Westeros.”
“If it’s going to be a big book, we’d better send him many ravens, describing many kisses.”
Lyonel nodded. “We should get started then.”
He was smiling when Dunk’s lips first touched his. He angled his head quickly, needing to press even closer, chasing the warm softness of Dunk’s kiss. He could feel Dunk’s nose bump against his cheekbone and heard the small groans coming from his throat as he discovered what kissing Lyonel felt like. As Lyonel’s fingers came up and skimmed over Dunk’s ears before burrowing themselves in his hair, urging him to delve deeper into their kiss, Dunk responded in kind, his grip on Lyonel’s back strong enough to almost lift him from the ground.
No sparks flew, no winds picked up and whirled around them, and no invisible bonds grew visible, but it was a perfect kiss – the kind that felt both exciting and familiar.
Lyonel fell back slightly, needing to catch his breath as he rested against Dunk’s shoulders. From here, he suddenly became aware of Dunk’s right arm holding him close, his wrist resting against Lyonel’s shoulder blade. “I just realised…” He grinned into Dunk’s shirt, delighting in the ridiculousness of the situation. “We’ve never actually compared our marks.”
Dunk groaned, his forehead falling forward until his face was hidden against Lyonel’s neck. “Oh, gods…”
“I know. We must be the very worst people at this whole soulmate business.” He pushed slightly away from Dunk, his hand coming to rest on the sleeve of his own right arm. “Well? We’re not just going to accept Baelor the Boring’s word on the matter?”
As they stood across from each other and carefully folded their sleeves to their elbows, Lyonel felt something of the same sort of feelings he had felt the very first time he had ever bedded another person: bashfulness tinged with the notion that whatever happened next was going to be significant.
The marks seemed to be lit up on their arms, the colours bright and the lines bold. As they got closer to study each other’s arms, the marks were like two parts of a lock, reaching out to join together. And they were exactly the same. Every leaf on the tree, every knot in its branches, every tip of the antler, all of it had found its perfect match in the other person.
They stood there for a moment, the gravity of all that had been laid at their feet finally pressing down on them.
“You must think me very boring,” Lyonel said, “that all I have to represent me is nothing more but a bit of the sigil of my house.”
“I’ve always loved those antlers. Golden and proud and flashy.” Dunk grinned back at him. “I can think of no better scribble to signify you.”
“And then there’s the elm.” Lyonel reached out and touched his fingertips to the green crown on Dunk’s arm. “Big, strong, and one of great beauties of creation. Just like you.” Lyonel hadn’t always loved that sturdy tree, but now it encompassed all that was perfect about Dunk.
“And,” Dunk replied, “when I first met you, an elm was what made up my home. Still is. You remember me telling you the elm was all the pavilion I needed?”
“I remember you were about to show me that elm before Owain the Cunt forced us to think about fucking soul marks instead.”
Dunk reached out a hand, and Lyonel took hold of it without any further thought. “The tree’s still there if you want to see it?”
Lyonel perked up. “Tonight?”
“Why not? The night air’s pleasant, and I’m sure Egg will be confined to his quarters by his father’s guards until morning. So there’s a spare bedroll, if you don’t want to return to the comforts of your tent?”
“Will we need two bedrolls, do you think?” Lyonel asked with a twinkle in his eyes. “Our souls have only just found each other; it would be a pity to part them so soon.”
“A very great pity,” Dunk agreed with a smile.
How a hedge knight and the scion of a great house were meant to shape their lives together after this night, was a question only the gods could answer. The Seven Who Are One had seven faces and therefore, one would suppose, seven pairs of hands, but they hadn’t used them to fashion what remained of Dunk’s and Lyonel’s lives. That was something they must do for themselves. Between the two of them stood vows to be kept, squires to be trained, ideals to be followed, whims to be obeyed, and families to be satisfied. But through all of it ran their bond of love, laced in and out among all obstacles, never to be broken no matter how far they travelled from each other.
The stag and the elm were of the same forest, and the forest would remain standing forever.